Raggedy Angst

"rest" days are anything but restful

2011-08-29T18:38:00.000-07:00

I hate rest days. They are boring. Not that I desperately want to get out and sweat everyday, but there is a certain amount of smug pointage that comes with exercising, and on rest days, I have to get my smug elsewhere. Fortunately, the cow-woman in the Volvo who nearly hit me this morning is comfortably stupider than I am, so thanks for the smug, you ignorant slut.

So come on, dear readers of whom I have none: how do you get your smug on?

Oops I did it again

2011-08-28T11:27:00.000-07:00

After the misery of the Portland Marathon, I swore left, right, upside-down and sideways (and backwards, since that was the only way I could walk) I would NEVER EVER RUN ANOTHER MARATHON. Apparently I didn't mean it. Come April 2012, I'm going to attempt to run the "challenging" Big Sur marathon. (I love that they call it "challenging," because, you know, other marathons are "easy," "carefree," and "a breeze.")

I suck at documenting stuff (note absence of info about Ragnar, which was awesome, and RSVP, which rocked), but I thought I'd try again. Since I don't officially start training until December, this is the long, dull ramp up to the beginning of the marathon schedule. Lucky you!

So here's an exciting photo to be getting on with: my shoes. And the icky wrap thing I wear around my leg in a somewhat superstitious attempt to ward off shin splints. These will likely NOT be the shoes I wear for the actual race, but they're close enough. Anyone want to follow the schedule with me? I'm doing Hal Higdon's Advanced 1 this go round, I think, so if you're interested in joining along (not on actual runs as I don't much like running with other runners, sorry, but you're welcome to join me here on the blog), you can find the training schedule here.

training by racing?

2011-06-05T07:58:00.000-07:00

I should probably explain that, for me, "racing" is basically "slightly faster training." I don't really race 'cause I'm not fast enough to place anywhere and I live in terror of pushing too hard too soon and not being able to finish. So, if you're at all impressed by the idea of multiple races in a month, by all means go ahead and be impressed! But like your momma once told me: you're easy.

So last weekend I did the Coeur d'Alene 1/2 marathon (you can't cross the finish line until you spell the town name correctly, but I'd done my homework), and today I'm heading out in....8 minutes to run the Mud & Chocolate 1/2. I'm hoping to go light on the former and heavy on the latter.

I have bagels. I've had coffee and done what my friend Rachel insists on referring to as "serious business." I'm already wearing my Garmin and I'm a little queasy. Yep. Must be race day.

This is a trail run at the Redmond Watershed Preserve, an area I've never been to. I'm not expecting a PR here, or even close to it, but staying under 2 is my main goal these days for halfs. I'll let you know. I'm also planning my first "Really Like Ragnar" set of runs for later this month. That's the bit where you run your first leg, wander around feeling nervous for a few hours, run your second leg, try to sleep a little, run your third leg in the middle of the night, all interspersed with peanut butter and fear.

Again, I'll let you know.

If you see me out trotting up hills in the wee hours of o-dark-thirty, please wave. If you must honk or otherwise make a loud noise, could you wait until you're where I can see you? I'm planning on being jumpy and carrying my pepper spray, and that could just be ugly for both of us. I'm also planning on taking video on the AngstCam. I think that could be very amusing. Or deathly dull.

Wish my luck this morning, as you know I'm wishing for you. Two minutes.

Hugs.
RA

No-regrets Ragnar

2011-05-08T08:49:00.000-07:00

I decided for reasons I am yet unclear on that I wanted to run in the Ragnar Relay Northwest Passage race this year. Because I don't have 11 friends foolish enough to do this with me, I submitted my name as "looking for a team," and some women rashly invited me to join them.

Every runner on a 12-person team runs three legs over the course of 187 miles (Blaine to Whidbey Island) over "a day, a night and a day." Legs vary in distance and difficulty, from 5K to over 10K, from "easy" to "very hard." Teams have a limited window to complete the distance, but at this point, I'm having a hard time nailing down exactly how big that window is.

I said I'd be happy to run any leg, so our team captain gave me position 1, with legs 1, 13 and 25. This is perfect: not so hard that I'll end up getting our team swept off the course (I hope), but not so easy that it won't present a real challenge. It also means I get to start with a representative from every team (the only time we'll get to see that) and run from Peace Arch State Park, which sounds pretty frickin' cool.

Especially since the last .75 miles of my final leg looks something like this:

I has a fear.

My race profile is 6.3 miles (hard), 4.4 miles (moderate) and 7.8 miles (very hard) for a grand total of 18.5 miles.

I'm not that concerned about the distance, since I've run farther than that doing marathon training and races. What spooks me slightly is the little-sleep, wow-my-teammates-are-fast aspects. I don't want to be the slowest, and I really don't want to be the grumpiest. I calculate my third leg as happening sometime in the middle of the night, which should be interesting....

I'm going to try to limit my incarnation as the seven dwarves to just four: Bashful (at first, I've never met these women!), then periodic rotations through Sleepy, Happy and Dopey.

So Friday began my somewhat unintentional training for the Ragnar. I went for a run that just happened to be slightly longer than my first leg. So I decided to see if I could do all three legs in 24 hours. Saturday morning I went for a moderate (read: leisurely) 4.4, and Saturday afternoon ran a hilly 8 to, around and back from Discovery Park. It went surprisingly OK.

I'm hoping to do a more realistic trial run as the race day gets closer: an early morning hard run, a late afternoon moderate run, and a middle-of-the-night nasty. If anyone wants to come along for that one, some company sounds just peachy.

I'll keep you posted.

Help with the Hills

2011-04-17T07:15:00.000-07:00

It's 36 degrees out there. Thirty-six?! Rly? Spring is acting like my brother who nearly had to be induced when my mom was a few weeks past the due date. (That's a question: who past the due date, mom or baby?) How does one induce spring artificially, and what are the potential consequences?

Anyway, I'm just about to go on out for a long run, and it has me thinking about the race I did last week. The run itself was fine, but even more interesting were the conversations along the way. Most of the time, I prefer to run the same way I prefer to fly on an airplane--without talking to the strangers around me. But long-distance running can get awfully boring, so runners often move from conversational partner to conversational partner depending on gait and goal time.

One woman was from Canada, but given that we were on Whidbey Island at the time, she was closer to home than I was. We chatted for awhile, she was a runner at about my pace and strength level, so it was reasonably comfortable. All of a sudden, half-way up one of the bigger hills, she said, "Talk to me. I want to walk."

So we talked. About nothing in particular except that we were doing fine, all was well, no one needed to walk, we could see the crest of the hill (never mind that there was snow on it, and Mallory's remains), etc. etc. We got to the top just fine and then got separated at the next water stop.

Many runners invest a lot of ego in being runners: I know I do. So asking for help and admitting you want to walk is a big deal. And she was running really strong at that point; I was surprised when she said she was thinking about walking.

I looked for her at the finish line, but I couldn't find her, so I don't know the end of her story. I'm sure she did well.

This little tale has neither punch line nor happy ending (nor ending at all, really), but it made me wonder if I'd ever be brave enough and strong enough to do what she did and reach out, ego and all, for help getting up the hill.

Clipped, a modern-day fairy tale

2011-04-16T09:31:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you hate your stupid temp job, and an animated--if deeply creepy--icon on your desktop offers to give you the world? Read the story after the jump.

Sarah hated her job. She hated it with that electric passion she normally reserved for people who tossed garbage in the street or for Midnight Karaoke-man, her tuneless, insomniac neighbor across the alley. Her job was poison. It crept into her bloodstream even as early as Saturday afternoons, turning what remained of her weekends into a grim countdown toward doom. Every weekday morning, as she sat down at her desk, her heart sank, her spirits drooped, her eyelids began to swing shut from the unrepentant, soul-shredding boredom of it all.

She wrote letters. Lots and lots of letters. Actually she couldn’t even claim that she “wrote” them, since what she actually did was to “type” them. The letters appeared in her in-tray, heaps and heaps of them, from someone in an upstairs office who clearly believed the best way to get people to buy something was to beat them into submission. She typed letters all day, every day—but they weren’t even called letters, oh no. These were “direct mail pieces,” and she was not a typist, nor a secretary, nor even an administrative assistant. Sarah was a marketeer.

Fancy titles notwithstanding, Sarah was a marketeer with a quota. Like any good itinerant laborer, she was expected to crank out 154 typed letters every day. The number itself was a little mysterious. Why not 150? Or even 155?

With computers and whatnot , the number hadn’t seemed all that daunting when she took the job.

“Crank out 154 letters, and you’re free to go, a whole day’s wages in your pocket, even if you finish by noon,” the recruiter said. He spoke so fast, Sarah expected every sentence to end with a “Hey, hey, hey, step right up and see, little lady.”

One hundred fifty-four. Sarah typed an average of 68 words a minute, though some of those words were unconventionally spelled, and she felt she was up to the challenge, at least until some freelance writing projects came through.

Six weeks later, she was still leaving work every day, last one out the door, rubbing her aching wrists and head. One hundred and fifty-four, it turned out, was a lot.

There were some girls (they were all “girls” here, as if they slipped into the 1950s unexpectedly as they came through the door) who really were out the door by noon, the girls who seemed to spend more time at the coffee machine than at their desks, but who still managed to crank out the letters and were gone by lunchtime. These girls wore bright red lipstick and had bright red lives just beyond the exit sign and didn’t spend their days in a gray haze of hate like Sarah.

The letters themselves contained not a single original or eye-catching thought, not a whit of wit or even an accidentally clever turn of phrase. These phrases did not turn. They lay on the page, flat and panting for air like fish out of water. “You won’t believe!” “New and improved!” “Don’t miss out!” If there were a royalty to be paid to the inventor of the exclamation point, this company would have been bankrupt the first week.

Fortunately for them, there was no such price on punctuation, and they celebrated by scattering exclamation points across the pages thickly and at random, sometimes landing several at the end of the same sentence. A particular favorite: “You’ve got to see it to believe it!!!!!!!” The same could be said of that flatworm that grew in people’s bodies and had to be coaxed out and twirled up on a stick, but still, Sarah reflected, that did not make her anxious to purchase one. So many exclamation points; so little to be genuinely excited about.

This particular Thursday, when Sarah was already beginning to feel crowded by the next Monday in line, she noticed something peculiar. Clippy was back. Clippy, that notoriously annoying animated paperclip so beloved of Microsoft and beloathed by everyone else, wasn’t supposed to be here. Her computer software had been upgraded, and from what she understood, Clippy had been relegated to the has-been pile, there to commiserate with the Budweiser pit-bull and the Taco Bell chihuahua. Yet, here he was, bending and unbending, coiling and uncoiling in a manner Sarah found deeply offputting.

There was a sinuousness that hadn’t been there before. A vaguely hypnotic quality. Sarah stared at him as he pulsed there at the bottom of her screen. Then he winked.

Sarah stared at Clippy for a moment as he drifted like a dust mote from the lower right corner of her screen to the lower left and back again. The magic-carpet-like sheet of animated paper he floated on had developed tassels at each corner. Clippy slowly unwound himself into a straight line with just a hint of a bulge in the middle, then wound himself back up again. He winked a second time, more slowly.

Sarah tried right-clicking on him, but the menu that popped up no longer had “hide assistant” as an option. The choices now were “Stroke assistant” and “Whisper in assistant’s ear” and “Straighten Clippy out, he’s been a naughty assistant.” Sarah would have laughed if she hadn’t been so freaked. Just then, Shift Supervisor Margaret, or “Margie,” as she preferred to be called, bent over Sarah’s desk, her half-exposed bosom nearly swallowing a small desk lamp. Margie had very nice bosoms, or at least Margie was convinced she did. She thought it unfair that only she and a select few lovers got to enjoy them, so she unveiled them as much as she could to give everyone a fair portion.

“What’s happening here?” Margie asked. Sarah moved to blank the screen so the pulsating Clippy wouldn’t show, but Clippy had already vanished.

“I’m typing. A letter,” said Sarah.

“A what?” Margie had that oh-you-naughty-girl look on her face again, a look she clearly and mistakenly believed endeared her to her staff.

“A direct mail piece,” Sarah said, mentally rolling her eyes.

Margie nodded, satisfied, and, activating the reverse thrust on her twin zeppelins, hove out of sight. Sarah turned back to her computer, only to find Clippy uncoiled and inchworming his way up the right side of her monitor screen.

“Stop that,” she told him, then wondered vaguely why she’d always assumed Clippy was a male. If it were female, no doubt someone at Microsoft would have stuck a ribbon on its head. And probably invisible tits that only geeks can see. She went back to typing, committed to ignoring what was almost certainly a hallucination brought on by rampant repetitive injury syndrome.

Fifteen minutes later, Sarah was becoming a little annoyed. Clippy kept disappearing around the back of documents, reappearing somewhere else. It was unnerving, especially since he seemed to have developed a tongue somewhere along the way.

“Quit it.”

“No.”

Clippy’s eyebrows met in the middle. Sarah had never seen an angry paper clip before, but that was definitely what this was. He vanished, and Sarah breathed freely again. She started to type, but suddenly it was all Greek. Literally. The ordinary, Roman alphabet normally on her screen had been replaced by Greek. And some wingdings. Then the letters began running around the page like a firedrill at a kindergarten for challenged students. Sarah gaped at her screen, hands still poised above the keyboard, unable to register what was happening.

Clippy reappeared, looking smug. Sarah wouldn’t have thought that possible, but then lots of impossible things were happening here. He uncoiled, and aimed his tail pointedly at the chaos that was once a neatly typed direct mail piece. He smirked, coiled himself up like a snake, briefly sported a turban, waggled his eyebrows, uncoiled again.

Sarah flicked the screen where Clippy appeared. He didn’t flinch.

“I said no. Now straighten this mess out.” Sarah sat back and waited for her letter to rearrange itself the way she’d arranged it. It did, slowly, each letter ambling back into place, shifting to English, the words jigsawing themselves into something resembling recognizable language. Then the whole letter disappeared.

“Shit.”

This was a bad day. Her hallucinations were going to keep her from hitting her quota, which meant she could be here ‘til midnight sorting it out. She took a paperclip, a real one, from her drawer, and with great ceremony, she showed it to Clippy. Then she twisted it flat, bent it backward and forward, over and over and over until it snapped. She put the halves on the desk in front of the monitor. Clippy failed to look intimidated by this display. Her salutation reappeared, but it said, “Dear Fartwad.” Sarah lay her head on her desk and considered bursting into tears.

“Fine! Fine, goddammit, whatever! Just give me back my screen!” The job just wasn’t worth it. They could quadruple her pay and give her backrubs, it wasn’t worth being bullied by an animated paper clip.

Her letter reappeared. Perfectly typed, as it had been, and complete, as it hadn’t. Sarah leaned forward. It was all there, every word, in place and formatted and beautifully done. It was even slightly better written than the original draft she was working from. Sarah saved the letter, then sat back and stared at the screen. She pulled out the next draft letter from the pile of pages in her inbox. She set it on the little podium thing next to her monitor, went to her computer to draw up a blank Word document, only to find this letter already completed too. A cascade of Windows opened on her monitor, each one matching a document in her to-do pile. Sarah saved them all, quickly, before they disappeared. There were 154 of them. It was 9.30 in the morning.

Sarah got up and went to the breakroom for a truly appalling cup of coffee. She leaned back against a greasy countertop, the cup lukewarm in her hands. She could leave right now, hey hey hey, a full day’s wages hot in her pocket. She took a sip from her cup and instantly regretted it. The scrub brush next to the sink was, supposedly, for scrubbing dishes, but Sarah briefly considered using it on her tongue. She dumped the remaining coffee down the drain and added her cup to the teetering pile of unwashed dish debris in the sink.

Back at her computer, Clippy was still on the screen, pulsing gently in a corner. Margie was bent over Sarah’s desk, rummaging through the pile of letters next to Sarah’s keyboard.

“You’d best get moving, there, little missy,” she said, smiling. “Type each one, take your time, no need to worry about being last one out! You’ve got the rest of your life, you know!”

“Already done.” She shouldn’t have, she knew it, but she couldn’t bear Margie’s implication that Sarah would be here as long as next week, much less the rest of her life.

“What’s that, honey?” Margie was of that class of woman who believed that If she were concerned or confused by something, simply pushing her breasts further toward it would help her regain some measure of control. This strategy was remarkably effective if what she was concerned about was her crying, hungry infant or one of the cocky college freshman boys who lived in the apartment next door. Sarah was neither. She had a pair of breasts of her own and didn’t find Margie’s particularly intimidating.

“I said I’m already done.” She smiled. “Too much coffee this morning, I guess.” She plucked her jacket off the back of her creaking wreck of an office chair and took her backpack from the bottom drawer of the slanted desk. She leaned over her computer to discover that not only had Clippy done her work, he’d saved it all in a file, named with today’s date, right there on her computer desktop. This she emailed to the central file where it would be recorded and her timesheet credited for a full day’s work. Hey hey hey.

“How is that possible? It’s not even 10 a.m.! Sarah-”

“See you tomorrow, Margaret,” said Sarah, and swanned out.

The rest of the day, Sarah spent at home. She read a book, she watched TV, she made herself a hot lunch and later, a very pleasant dinner. She played with her cats and drank a little wine. She didn’t go near her computer, though if pressed, she would not have been able to come up with a reason why. Normally she spent hours on her computer at home, even after spending hours on it at work. Today she didn’t, that was all.

The next day, Clippy was there even before she fired up Microsoft Word. He seemed entirely free to roam around her computer now, and after he banged out her 154 letters in just under eleven seconds, he followed her around the Internet. He even seemed to be reading her emails. She couldn’t remember ever having seen Clippy from the backside before. She went on Google to look up information about the animated icon, but every time she tried to access a website with information, her computer abruptly shut down. When it rebooted, Clippy was there, wagging his tail at her with an “uh uh uh, bad girl,” look in his eyes.

At noon, Sarah was tired of pretending to be working, which was nearly as exhausting as working. Margie could think what she liked, could test Sarah’s pee for steroids if she had to, she certainly wasn’t going to guess the truth. Sarah didn’t bother to say good-bye.

The weekend was remarkably quiet. Sarah cleaned her apartment for the first time in an unthinkably long time, removing from under the couch wads of cat hair so enormous they even scared the cats who had created them. She went for a hike only to remember that she hated hiking but finished the lap up the trail and back anyway. She took herself out to dinner and a couple of movies, briefly considered taking up smoking to stop her hands from twitching, talked to her cats about nothing at all, slept many hours, though none of them soundly. The one thing she did NOT do, didn’t even think about, wasn’t actually avoiding, you couldn’t say that, was to fire up her computer.

This went on for over a month. At work, Sarah pretended to be a dedicated employee, cranking out direct mail pieces at a furious pace, leaving every day just before noon. Clippy always seemed to know when someone was coming, and he’d disappear, leaving a screen with a half-finished letter innocently showing instead of whatever website they’d actually been perusing while all the characters she randomly typed registered nowhere on the machine. At home, her computer gathered dust, as did certain hazy corners of Sarah’s brain.

One Monday morning, for the very first time, Sarah was nearly half an hour late to work. She’d gotten up at the usual time, couldn’t even say where the time had gone, since she’d only done the things she normally did in the mornings, only perhaps rather slower. No one watching her turn on her computer would have noticed the flinch, it was so small.

Clippy was there, of course, in his usual place at the bottom right of the screen. He pulled an oversized pocketwatch out of the pocket he suddenly had, consulted it, frowned, grinned, and stuffed the watch back in his pocket, which then disappeared. He wagged his tail at her in his usual “naughty girl” gesture.

Clippy was more than usually … animated that day. He kept bobbling up and down, coiling his tail into a spring and sproinging back and forth along the bottom of her screen. He turned the right slider bar into a diving board and did silly dives from it, splashing into her taskbar. He seemed excited about something.

“What?” she finally asked him, when he’d turned himself into a fireworks display for the fourth time in an hour. “What is it?”

Uh oh. Sarah’s heart thumped once, loudly, in her chest. She most certainly did not want surprises from the animated … disturbance that haunted the bottom of her monitor.

“What is it?” she asked. Voices shrieked in her head, their messages of warning garbled but their meaning all too apparent. That bit of her brain she’d been ignoring, that bit that knew this was wrong, terribly terribly wrong, though why and how were unclear, was shaking off the dust and sounding the alarm. “What have you done?”

Now she was terrified. He’d never called her by name before. She sat there, shaking. Margie glanced over, and Sarah quickly ducked behind her monitor, sure her shock and fear showed on her face. Clippy had disappeared, but now her Internet browser window was moving, now her email account was opening. He had her password, her user name, everything! He pulled up her inbox and coiled himself into a spring, bouncing up and down on an unopened email.

With trembling fingers, Sarah took hold of the mouse, guided it to the subject line and clicked the email open.

“Congratulations! Your manuscript has been accepted for publication-“

It was all she saw. She woke up in the breakroom, flat on the filthy couch, a phalanx of temporary secretaries crowded around her wearing varying expressions of excitement and concern. Someone shoved a glass of water in her hand, someone else stroked the hair back from her forehead and face. She moved to sit up and found herself surrounded by bright red, smiling lips and hands like feathers fluttering around her, all trying to help her.

“She’s OK,” someone said.

“It’s the miracle couch. No one wants to lie on that couch,” someone else said, and there was a ripple of light, feminine laughter. Sarah looked up in their faces and wanted to cry. Such niceness, such simple kindness. Tears rushed into her eyes, stinging and embarrassing. A tissue found its way into her hand, and slowly, in twos and threes, the girls melted away. Sarah smiled at them all as they patted her knee or her head or winked before going.

Back at her computer, calmer, Sarah was able to read the rest of her email with some measure of poise. She’d written a book, apparently, and had submitted it with success to a reputable publisher who wanted to publish it and make her rich.

Sarah had not, in fact, written a book—she would have remembered. She sat at her computer, not even pretending to be working, and watched Clippy as he danced and boinged happily around on her monitor.

In the time she sat there, he brought up her bank account, her social security file, her credit record, her online dating profile, a collection of every song she’d ever furtively and illegally downloaded, and several emails she’d written—plus several she hadn’t—disparaging people who considered her their friend. He erased her balance on her bank sheet, then doubled it, then tripled it, then donated it all to an organization that Sarah found particularly loathsome before getting it back at the last second. He pulled up all her transcripts, credited her with several foreign languages and a couple of additional degrees, then created an FBI file, a CIA file, and a record of her non-existent drug abuse, police encounters and mental illnesses. He gave her histories of disaster and a future of potential ruin.

He returned everything to the way it had been, then blanked the screen. There he sat, alone against the blue background, pulsing like a heartbeat. Slowly, sinuously, he uncoiled and looped himself into a tiny little noose.

Sarah leaned forward and turned off her monitor, the image of Clippy fading slowly, in the manner of old-fashioned television sets. She stood up, pulled her jacket off the chair and her backpack from its customary drawer. She felt an arm snake around her back, turned to see Margie’s eyes just a few inches away.

“It’s not so bad, really,” Margie whispered in her ear, guiding her in the breakroom where there were no computers. “We’re all learning ways to slowly take ourselves off the grid. We can teach you. You just have to be patient. You’ll be here awhile.”

The End

Eat your heart out, Virginia Woolf

2011-04-16T08:08:00.000-07:00

I'd like to think Virgina Woolf would be proud, and maybe a little envious. I have a room of my own. (And I'm gaining 5 pounds a year, but I don't think that's what she meant by "have five pounds a year.") I am ensconced. There's no other word for it.

The room is nice. It's downstairs in our house and peeks out from under the balcony of the second floor. My bird (squirrel) feeders are outside this window, and once the birds have adjusted, they'll be back. Right now there's one soggy house finch looking miserable and cranky in the bottom branches of the plum tree. It's been a long, wet winter.

My room has, at the moment, two cats (one on my lap, the other staring out the window), two computers and one human. And for writing, that's about the perfect configuration. Toastie, my partner, has set up the computer for me so it gets WiFi. There's an odd-looking thing doing the backstroke on my shelves which he tells me is the antenna.

This is my writing space. My staring-into-space space. I am fortunate, I know, to have this space, so here's my promise not to waste it, squander it, twist, fold or multilate it.

Join me?

Free books to libraries, schools

2011-04-03T18:40:00.000-07:00

Now Marietta has found her way to Kindle, I reckon I can reduce the stock of physical books in my parents' basement. If any school teacher or librarian would like some books, I'm happy to pass them along and get them in the hands of readers. All you pay is postage. If interested, please add a comment below so we can get in touch.

To review the book in advance, www.mariettaandthecreepingnasties.com.

Kindle vs Kindling

2011-04-02T16:12:00.000-07:00

Marietta and the Creeping Nasties is now available on the Kindle! Woot and such! You can buy this "utterly delightful romp of a story" (as Truman Capote once never said) for $3.99 and download it here.

The next book in the series, Marietta and the Giant Mistake, will be trundling along after its older sibling soon, so keep an eye out for that.

While you're waiting for Marietta and the Creeping Nasties to download, here are some more reviews to entertain you:

"Whimsical and wonderful" Kirkusdidn'thappen Reviews

"Marvelous. A tour de force" The New York not in the this lifeTimes Book Review

"I laughed, I cried, I blew my nose and laughed some more." Ohhowyouwishprah Winfrey

If I were to start posting again...

2011-01-02T21:25:00.000-08:00

...would anybody notice?

It might be better to write about runs in here and reduce the boredom on the faces of friends and neighbors.

New Neighbor

2009-02-23T20:27:00.000-08:00

Adam? Hey, Adam? Can you come grab me that apple?

6:10 Monday morning. I go outside to feed my guest cat, and find a thick, colorful scarf rolled in a tight tube, coiled up outside my back door.

Only...it's not a scarf. And I'm going to be very late to work.

This is a corn snake. They are not native to this area; in fact, my friend says when corn snakes are not masquerading as pets, they are to be found slithering through the warm and wet climates of the southeast.

I have no idea how this guy got here or why he chose my back step to curl up on, but there he was at 6:10 this morning, lethargic, far too cold, possibly dying. Several desperate calls to Animal Control (which helpfully opens at 7:10 am, so don't plan on any animal emergencies before that) yield zero results. Finally, as the snake begins to move either away or up into the siding of my building, I break down and call 9-1-1.

At this point, I have no idea if the snake is dangerous. He has made some half-assed strikes in my direction, even temporarily trapping me outside my back door. While he is moving slowly, I have no doubt he could go faster if motivated, like, to grab a chunk of my calf.

The 9-1-1 operator is one of several heroes I will find today. She tries Animal Control--no luck. She says she'll keep looking and call me back.

A few minutes later, my phone rings. It's hero number two, a guy who calls himself Sasquatch. He identifies the snake from my description, and assures me (if "assures" is the right word here) that the snake's bite isn't venemous. Note he doesn't say that the snake won't bite, just that the bite won't kill me. He does urge me to bring the snake inside if at all possible. It's too cold, we don't know how long the snake's been out, he has a long drive from Woodinville in morning rush traffic.

I call on heroes three and four: Andrew and Wendy. Wendy, who lives upstairs, is down in a flash. Moments later, Andrew arrives from his home a mile away. He has gloves. I feel like such an idiot--gloves hadn't actually occured to me. I may not be the first person you want to contact if you're having a crisis. I'm just sayin'.

My cats have been closed in the bedroom for most of this drama, as I'm concerned for their safety. The entertainment value of watching Beebs deal with a giant snake just wasn't worth risking her maybe getting hurt. I might get a fake snake, though, just so I won't miss out...

Andrew picks up the snake and muscles it into an empty kitty litter container that I have for no reason I can think of other than that I haven't taken it out to the recycle bin yet. We put the snake in, and I carve a very small hole in the lid. We put the coffee pot on top to provide a little warmth and set the bin near my heater. Andrew and Wendy return to their separate Fortresses of Solitude, and I'm waiting for Sasquatch to show up at my door.

Sasquatch is only slightly less exotic than the animal he's here to claim. Built on the Santa Claus model of burly and bearded, he is clearly extremely fond of snakes and extremely knowledgeable about their care. The snake is no worse for his time outside, Sasquatch tells me, and he'll be fine. I heave so many sighs of relief, I start to hyperventilate. Sasquatch bundles the warmer and much-friskier critter into a pillow case (why is it always a pillow case?), gets back in the truck and drives off into a happy ending.

I'm still looking for the animal's owner, so if anyone in Seattle, particularly in the area of Beacon Hill, finds themselves a corn snake short, leave me a comment. Meanwhile, I have to go do something about that cappebara that just showed up on my back step.

I'm sorry--you're too stupid to eat this.

2009-02-16T18:35:00.000-08:00

I bought a hot-air popcorn popper last weekend. I bought it partly because it fits in with my ongoing effort to save calories and partly because my catsitter seemed so disappointed when I told him I ditched the crappy old one that didn't so much pop popcorn as fling unpopped, sizzling-hot 'granny' missiles around the kitchen. This one's for you, Buck.

This morning, I made a bowl of popcorn. Hey, I had a day off, and popcorn is technically in the 'cereal' family. I completely obviated the machine's calorie-saving function by melting a tablespoon of butter in the little tray on top and dousing the popcorn with it, but to complete my whole "it's a breakfast food" thing, I ate it with a glass of milk. It was delicious--quick, tasty, nutritionally neutral rather than actively bad for me, and simple.

Simple. I've been making popcorn on the stovetop at least once a week for nearly my entire adult life and several of the years before it. I love popcorn. I am a purist, however; strictly oil or butter and liberal cloudings of salt. None of your yeast flakes, bacon salt or garlic salt for me, thanks all the same. And Kettle Korn? Well, if it were real popcorn, they'd spell it right. Popping a bowl of popcorn presents no real challenge for me, even when I do the DIY version. It's not like assembling a German-chocolate cake, for example. And yet...

My new popper, a machine which ostensibly makes this relatively simple task even simpler, came with instructions. There are nine steps to making popcorn in this hot-air popper. The President could launch missles to take out half of Eastern Europe in fewer steps. Ok, before we consult the surprisingly long and detailed how-to manual, let's see if we can even come up with nine steps:

1. Fill little tray on top of popper with unpopped popcorn kernels.
2. Pour the unpopped kernels into the popper proper.
3. Plug the machine in.
4. Wait.
5. Unplug the machine.
6. Eat.

Personally, I'm thinking even six is stretching it. But since Orville Redenbacher clearly has no desire for his popcorn fans to end up gracing the Darwin Awards list, I'll see what I can do to make these directions even simpler and more idiot-proof. Additions in red:

1. Set the popping machine upright on a flat surface. Not a road, more like a kitchen counter.
2. Fill little tray on top of popper with unpopped popcorn kernels.
3. Pour the unpopped popcorn into the popper proper. You should probably take the lid off first.
4. Plug the machine in to an outlet in the wall.
5. Point the popcorn descent ramp at a bowl sufficient in size for all the popped kernels. They will be bigger when they come out than they were on the way in. Prepare for that.
6. Step back. Do not immerse the machine in water at this point. Or any point, really.
7. Wait until all the kernels (or at least all that are going to) pop.
8. Unplug the machine. With your hands. Not your teeth.
9. Eat the popcorn. Breathe normally between bites.

You'd be astonished how closely this resembles the actual instructions. Here are the parts they felt worthy to be bolded:

Do not place salt, butter, margarine, shortening, or microwave popcorn in the popping chamber. ("Shortening"?! Did they forget "lard"? And don't get me started on the extra comma. Positive note: I love that my $2o popper has "chambers.")

Caution: Do not leave unit unattended while popping. Presumably it's OK to back away slowly when it's just sitting there. But never smile at it, or it'll lunge for your throat.

At step seven, which details how to unplug the machine after use (and which comes with a disclaimer footnote blaming unpopped kernels on the quality of the popcorn), there's this gem: "Carefully remove the cover--use hot pads--and pour the remaining popcorn into the bowl, then place the cover back on the unit." Why the bolding here? Are they afraid that hot-air popper neophytes might place the cover in the toilet, for example, or throw it out, figuring they had to use a new one each time like a coffee filter?

And the one that makes me laugh out loud is this wonder at step nine: "Wash the butter melter if it was used to melt butter." Dear god. This is possibly the most cynical statement regarding human intelligence I've ever seen. First, we must tell people to clean dirty things, and second, it's called a "butter melter." It doesn't actually do anything! It's a plastic tray that gets hot, and if you happen to have put butter in it, then the butter will probably melt. You could equally call it a spare change tray, if that's what you planned to use it for, or a hamster thermal spa.

The tragedy of all this is, of course, the poor shmuck with half of the Great American Novel at home in his or her drawer, currently condemned to thinking out all the infinite ways the Great American Idiot could possibly screw up a simple batch of popcorn and how to talk him out of it. As my boyfriend's darling daughter says, "If there weren't a need, there wouldn't be instructions."

In giant letters on the first page of my "manual," it says "SAVE THESE INSTRUCTIONS." Oh, I plan to.

Our Christmas Adventures!

2008-12-29T09:41:00.001-08:00

Our routes--every bit as arduous as they look!

Happy holidays, everyone!

We've been doing some serious traveling this holiday season: first there was the trip to Burlington, which was just amazing. I was worried our flight wouldn't take off, but then I remembered that we were driving, so that was OK. The natives are reasonably friendly, though we had some trouble with the local dialect. The food was good, but getting vegetarian fare proved difficult, as always. We had something called “peet-zah:” apparently a holiday tradition in that area. Foreign culture, foreign customs, I guess.

Then there was the fun but exhausting long-haul to Kirkland and back. Again, the weather provided us with some challenges, but we soldiered through it, eager for what adventures awaited us! We did some shopping at a store there they call "Seifweigh" or possibly "Chafeweigh." It was hard to tell what they were saying to us. We had lots of fun doing a sort of modified charades to "talk" with the locals. Toasty's impression of a cinnamon-raisin bagel in the so-called "bei-ker-ee" department was hilarious! Good times.

Glad you all had a great and festive holiday season. We took lots of photos, which we'll happily share if anyone's interested.

Hugs,
Rags

Aren't you supposed to be in Mexico?

2008-12-18T11:16:00.001-08:00

(This picture taken just down the street.)

I tried to get to work today. You wouldn't know it to look at me now, pajama-clad with a fresh pot of coffee brewing, but at 7.30 this morning, I really tried to go to work. I showered and brushed my teeth, I dressed for survival situations, I had a fully charged cell phone and a day's worth of rations (some dry Frosted Mini-Wheats and a bagel), plus flares, a bear whistle, a tent, a set of crampons, a team of Sherpas and a yak.

Seattle does not do snow well. I used to abuse this city for shutting down every time a few flakes fell (and not out of a sorority window during a drunken rush-week brunch), but really it's a bugger of geography. Seattle is hilly. And hilly cities are hard to drive in when there's hard-packed snow turning to ice on the roads. This situation is not aided by the idiots who think owning a four-wheel vehicle is license to drive like Ricky Bobby.

Anyway, there was no work to go to, as I found out after I'd walked a mile or so. I turned around and went home, ruminating on how, like someone else's inadequately stifled burp during a wedding, snowdays are a great and wonderful thing, no matter how old you are.

Back at home, I've spent most of the morning dealing with some guests who may have overstayed a bit: hummingbirds. I go out periodically to clear the snow and ice away from the feeders so that the wee, winged, migratorily challenged hummers can suck up the gallon or so of sugar water a day they'll need to survive the next week or so. I finally came up with a cunning plan, though. I moved one feeder so it's very near my outside light. It's under the cover of my upstairs neighbor's balcony, so the snow doesn't cover it, plus the little heat generated by the light keeps the ice off the feeding stations and the dumb birds.

I have also posted a map of North America with an arrow pointing south. I'm hoping they figure it out.

Hi-Falutin' Literary Pursuitin'

2008-11-23T22:01:00.000-08:00

Cleared the 40,000 word bar today, like a decathelete with wings on her shoes and lead in her ass. Never mind. Only 10,000 more to go. I have to get them in this week wherever I can--the Seattle half-marathon is this Sunday, and I don't really want to try to run it whilst pushing a cart with my laptop on it, unspooling 13.1 miles of extension cord as I go.

Interesting thing today: at Kaladi Bros., the delightful coffee shop on Pike where they're letting us reserve their back room on Sundays from noon to 3 just for the NaNoMoFo's, we had to chase a guy out because he was using the cafe's computer to look at porn. Now, seriously. There are five or six stellar members of the Word Nerd Herd in there, all zealously typing away at our laptops and occasionally shouting out random numbers like crazed auctioneers (30,000! I just hit 35,000! Do I hear 40,000!), and he sits at the computer, with his back to us, and does his Lolita surfing. Gack. I didn't notice, obliviot that I am, but one of the other NaNos did, and she asked the staff to kick him out.

I didn't realize this, so when the barista came in to tell him that the room was reserved, I, good samaritan that I am, said he wasn't bothering anyone (except himself, I guess) and that he was welcome to stay. Fortunately, the guy had the good grace to get completely pissy and huff off, presumably to find a more welcoming cafe with coin-operated booths and a sticky floor.

Anyway, all's well, and I have just a hair under 10,000 words to crank out this week. Between the shin splints and the carpel tunnel, November has been just spectacular. More to come. Stay tuned.

Button, Button, Where the F#@*'s My Button?

2008-11-19T13:08:00.000-08:00

For the most part, hitting that safe middle ground between dressing like a slut and dressing like a prude is not terribly difficult. There's a lot of room to maneuver there. There is, for example, a lot of possible variations on skirt hem lengths in the safe-zone between peek-a-boo to dragging-on-the-ground-behind-you. There's plenty of differentiation space between clothes so tight the wearer can be safely left in the freezer for up to six months without fear of freezer burn and so loose you risk harboring the homeless in a sort of tent-city of one.

Even in accessories, there's ample safe territory: my grandmother never once reached for her pearls only to find herself later at a ladies luncheon sporting a studded dog collar. Makeup? Easy. Don't apply with a trowel to avoid sluttiness; don't carry a bucket of cold water and a scrub brush made of horse hair to scour the Stain of Whoredom off of other women, and you'll successfully avoid the other extreme.

The only exception to this rule, for me anyway, is the buttons down the front of the average blouse. First of all, the word "blouse" is horrible, like "purse" and "panty"--these are ugly words. OK, maybe that's just me.

But the way that buttons are arranged on your standard blouse-front makes no sense at all. Either you have Strangulation Level (also known as the Jehovah's Witness Come-to-Jesus button) or Sluttastic, the button that generally comes in at just level with the nipples and then gapes open anyway. The expanse of shirt-front between these two buttons is a fastener desert. There are no options here other than application of some gack-worthy brooch you inherited from a maiden aunt. What the hell, people?

For those who know me personally, you know that the only time anyone can properly and without losing an eye refer to me as "conservative" is in the way I dress. I tend to err on the prudish, leaving the sluttery for others more equipped and capable. I cannot wear button-down shirts! I spend the entire day either tugging open the neck so I can breathe, or tugging the shirt down in the back so I can't spend the day watching that freckle next to my bellybutton and worrying if it's a slightly different, pre-melanoma color today and nor can anyone else.

I'm wearing a zipper-front sweater today. Every time I cross my arms, I have to stifle a yip from the cold zipper track inside touching my skin, but at least there's not an actual draft. I have a large pile of turtlenecks for all seasons. Could someone, please, make a button-down shirt for women that has actual buttons on it? You know that one that you put in the little, plastic, Ziplock-type baggie affixed to my price tag? Maybe you could put that on my shirt instead.

Another argument against "Intelligent Design"

2008-11-14T15:30:00.001-08:00

To those who rabidly and with spittle flying defend the notion of “intelligent design,” I add yet another example to the pile of “oh yeah, well, what about this?”-es. Right up there with rednecks, cancer, the Taliban and Sarah Palin, I give you: the bit lip.

Think about it. You’re chewing away at whatever you choose to chew on—fruit leather, popcorn, beef jerky, an underling—and you accidentally bite the inside of your lip. What happens next (after the jumping around and cursing)? The bit you bit swells up, pushing its wounded and tender self closer to your teeth. And you spend the next eleventy-seven days biting the exact same spot over and over and over again. Does this sound like “intelligent design” to you?

I think if I were making the human body, I probably would not put soft, sensitive, vulnerable skin right there in the mouth with all the sharp and pointy parts. I’m just sayin’.

Do these 50,000 words have to be in any particular order?

2008-11-07T06:44:00.000-08:00

So, November is NaNoWriMo month, but of course you all knew that. I found out about this from my friend Pete, who pulled off this very difficult task a few years ago. Basically, during NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth, you hunker down at your computer, bitch at your partner, drink lots of wine, and attempt to crank out 50,000 words of a brand-new novel in 31 days. Ah, crap: 30 days. November has 30 days. I just lost one. Now I have to recalculate the daily word requirement to make it to the finish line: 1,666.666666666etc.

I'm a fifth of the way there.

When I hit the 10,000 mark, I felt pretty good. I'm cruisin', don't want to kill my characters or myself (yet), Toasty claims to still have undampened enthusiasm for spending time with me, all's pretty darn much well, that's what. 10,000 feels good. Then I realize I'm a fifth (a fifth!) of the way there, and everything around me starts deflating: my ego, my confidence, my omelet...

There was a moment on day one (maybe two), when my cat Beebs trotted across the keyboard of my computer and somehow magically shut down Word without stepping on the CTRL + S keys first. I had been saving pretty religiously up until maybe 15 minutes before this point. Beebs was punished by being fed (I'm such a monster) and not petted for the next eleven minutes. That'll learn her.

As I type this now, she's twice brought up some weird Explorer menu by rubbing her head on the corner of my keyboard. NaNoWriMo isn't quite hard enough--I had to make some sort of weird reality show out of it by throwing into the mix a cat that's really a mole, planted by Big Brother to keep throwing hurdles under my feet (fingers). Fine, but I'm not eating maggots or any other gross stuff. NaNoWriMo seems like a great excuse for an all-popcorn month.

Anyway, wish me luck, and any other NaNoWriMos out there, how about a write-in this Sunday somewhere with coffee and Wi-Fi? No cats.

Cue the Hallelujah Chorus

2008-11-05T06:51:00.001-08:00

WWWWHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Dear Diary,

Last night we elected a guy for president who is intelligent, compassionate, educated and SANE. I R so happy.

Go, Gregoire. Clean sweep.

Anyone got a border collie?

2008-10-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

The three women I met the other day when trying to cross an intersection.

On Monday I was riding my bike to work, and I had to wait at the intersection of Minor and Madison. If you don't know this intersection, let me just say that Minor is minor and Madison is major. Madison is one of those very busy Seattle streets, especially early in the morning. It's an access route for both north and south I-5, so lots of folks travel it. All the time.

Minor is wee. It is aptly named. Pedestrians frequently cross it without even checking for traffic. I should know; I have a collection of them wrapped around my handlebars, dying slowly.

This is a long-winded way of saying that the green light for people on Minor Minor to cross Major Madison is awfully short. Short in the same way Herve Villechaise is short. Short like my rope. Which I was at the end of on Monday.

Here's why:

I was on Minor, stopped at the very long red light. Just as the light begins to change (walk sign's been flashing the big red don't-even-think-about-crossing-now hand for awhile), three generously proportioned women decide to go ahead and cross. They are slow. Slow in the same way Sarah Palin is slow--short bus slow. The light turns yellow before they get three steps across. And then, just as the light turns green for me, they stop--STOP--right in front of me so that one of the heifers can light a cigarette.

I say to them, with as much politeness as I can muster at this point, "Ladies, I'd like to get across, please." This sounds polite but was delivered with tone, lemme tell ya.

One of them moos an actual and unexpected apology (-15 points for lack of sincerity, but it was something, anyway), and they move on across, tails swishing flies from their backs as they go.

I don't care if people are slow as long as they don't slow me down just for the entertainment value of it. I don't much mind if they smoke, as long as they don't stop directly in front of me to light their cigarettes. And I have to wonder if they would have done this had I been driving a car instead of riding a bike. I'm generally not a mean person, really, but at that moment I was scouring the surroundings for a border collie to herd them out of my way.

Next time, they get one of these to the backside:

buffalo bill's (not quite) defunct

2008-09-03T06:42:00.000-07:00

It seems Dick Cheney has finally managed to do what Silence of the Lambs' Buffalo Bill couldn't: he's built himself a woman suit. The last piece he needed was the head, and fortunately, Alaska governor Sarah Palin's was conveniently empty.

Four more years of Veep Dick Cheney, this time in a woman-suit. Watch the convention (if you can)--are they ever on stage at the same time?

I has a lol'z

2008-08-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

moar funny pictures

Early Presidential Race

2008-08-22T06:39:00.000-07:00

Looks like McCain's chosen a running mate.
Is that.... Joe Lieberman?

http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hq7FqoGEALMvULiip6DfeR87tZXgD92N8AO00

Even in Seattle

2008-08-13T07:20:00.000-07:00

Abuse of power in action. Rossi's behavior is questionable enough, but when uniformed police start threatening to arrest people because they disagree with their politics, it's time for some citizen protest. Send a note to Gil Kerlikowske that such abuse of authority is unacceptable.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gs0gfs2ZX5w

http://www.seattle.gov/police/contact/

How I got the job and nearly lost it at the very same time.

2008-08-01T15:02:00.000-07:00

Ta da!

It’s not easy. Here are some simple steps to follow if you’re looking at challenging Shorty McCantholdajob for the world’s record in Briefest Employment:

1. Get a job. This is relatively easy and mostly involves showing up on time and leaning forward with a bright-eyed look at meetings, interviews and watercooler chats.

2. Have a higher uppityup person come to your cubicle to congratulate you on your recent hire while you’re downloading some YouTube thing your boyfriend emailed you.

3. Sit, accepting congratulations and kind compliments while behind you, but still in plain sight, the computer grinds away at the download, and the empty page shows the spinning-clock thing that seems to be ticking off the seconds you’ll actually hold this job before some totally workplace-inappropriate video pops up on the screen.

4. Realize your smile of thanks is more rictus-death-grin as you have NO IDEA what the video is he sent you, you just felt cocky and invisible and clicked on it like a fricking idiot, and for all you know it could be nude Wal-Mart shoppers frolicking on a beach before one of them falls bits-first into the firepit and catches his pubes on fire and runs screaming AWAY from the water—it’s just the kind of thing your boyfriend would find hilarious. And your new boss, perched on the end of your desk just now, wouldn’t.

5. Continue to make incredibly awkward conversation as the new boss is being extremely nice to come tell you—at length— what an asset you’ll be, when right now you’re feeling the first three letters of that word are so much more appropriate than the last two. The screen is behind you, you’re dying to turn and see what’s happening on it; the speakers are turned off, and this could be a good thing (avoiding audible inappropriateness to go with visible inappropriateness) or a bad thing (you don’t know what’s happening, goddammit!). Grind teeth. Try not to flinch every time your boss’s eyes flick toward your monitor. It could mean nothing, or it could mean he’s just noticed the Wal-Mart Human Tiki Torch video and is wondering how fast he can get security up here to escort you out.

6. Calculate the number of possessions you’ll have to carry out in that cardboard box that always seems to materialize when people lose their jobs on TV or in the movies. Wonder idly where they always get that one plant that sticks out the top. Realize you could fit your work-place possessions in the box the staples come in—you’ve been here that briefly.

7. Conclude conversation with as much grace and subtlety as possible. Whirl around to check monitor even before boss’s back foot has entirely cleared your cubicle space. See “Page unable to load” error message. Breathe deeply. Thank fates.

8. Repeat.

Is this good news or bad?

2008-07-08T15:34:00.000-07:00

Saw this "inspirational" quote today in the Puget Sound Business Journal: "Leap and the net will appear."

It occured to me that this would be great news if you were, say, a tightrope walker. It's not so great news, however, if you're a fish.

A four-letter word that means "merge"

2008-07-04T08:43:00.001-07:00

I hate mail merge. For a program that ostensibly makes life ever-so-much-easier, it is clumsy, cumbersome and downright mean-spirited. Join it up with a printer that pouts if you try to print a card or envelope on it, and you've got a Very Bad Tuesday.

Let me tell you about my Very Bad Tuesday. I got to work relatively intact, only one minor bike vs auto incident where a woman cut me off in a red-assed hurry to get to a RED stoplight where she sat in the RIGHT HAND TURN LANE, unable to turn, until I calmly pedaled up, prepared to give her a look so nasty it might leave a scar. She was tweezing her chin. Tweezing. Right there at the light, feeling around on her chin with her thumb, looking for that long, curly, wirey one that even scares the cat if left unattended. Maybe she's growing it for Locks of Love, and now that it's long enough, it's time to tweeze and donate it to some pre-menopausal woman or pre-pubescent boy who can't grow chin hairs of their own. Whatever the case, I'm gobsmacked (look it up) that I nearly got clobbered by a woman driving what is apparently a brand new PT Cruiser because she had a tweezing emergency. Then she drives off, and I notice the Hummer insignia on the back of her car. I pull the mini-bazookette out of my backpack and take. the. bitch. out. That'll teach her to tweeze while driving.

Anyway, I arrive at work still a bit grumpy, and find it's time to do the monthly address labels for the birthday cards we send out to clients (presumably those having birthdays). ARGH. In the past, I was strictly the middle-person on this: the labels came to me, formatted by someone who had fought the good fight with Mail Merge and won, and I sent them on to the people who would print them out and send the actual cards. Alas, the person who sent them to me no longer works there. Now I get the list of names and addresses and must somehow produce labels.

So here's what happens: first, the list comes in the wrong form. It is NOT POSSIBLE, I repeat NOT POSSIBLE to generate Mail Merge labels from a PDF. That's the whole point of PDFs--there's very little you can do with them, presumably so that you don't screw up the original document. Fine. I monkey around with that for awhile, try a cut-and-paste into Word, con the intern into helping laboriously retype all the info into spreadsheets until we realize that there are HUNDREDS of names and addresses on the list, blah blah blah, then finally give up and ask the IT guys if they can do any better. They send me back copies of the original files from which the PDFs were made. I don't know what the heck program this is, but it doesn't work either. When I try to cut and paste, it ignores the first line, which then shifts everyone's address up a name. Back to the drawing board.

It's now been a couple of hours, and I'm no closer to generating labels than I was when I sat down. I have, however, received a couple of emails asking how soon they can expect the labels. I opt for discretion, concluding that it's better not to answer than to send a stream of curse words ending with "They'll BE there when they GET there."

I have forgotten to mention the parallel project that's going on while I'm doing this: I'm also printing the monthly anniversary cards. Well, I'm supposed to be printing them... I also have to do a merge for this one, since the card says something along the lines of, "Dear {first name}, Thanks for {number} great years!" After much scheming and end-running around Merge when Microsoft's back is turned, I have gotten this down to "Dear 7, Thanks for Margaret great years!" I feel confident I can crack this one.

I go back to the IT boys and ask if they can give me the birthday list in an Excel document. They can. There is much celebrating. Why we didn't start there, I'm unsure, but we're here now. It's not quite lunchtime, and I've done nothing else this morning. Despair is starting to set in.

I finally get some sort of document sex to happen, but it's kind of like you'd expect a couple of teen-age virgins to do it: sloppy, brief and mostly pleasureless. The Excel document puts its thin little arm around Word, there's a bit of awkward flirtation, they shoo Clippy off the couch, there's a lot of fumbling, and finally we get some sort of beginner's merge. Clearly Excel and Word are brother and sister or some other direct relation because the labels are, sadly, RETARDED. They come out almost normal, but still definitely short-bus. There's no Zip code, and no option to include one.

Much fighting ensues over the retarded children. Word claims it's not her fault, Excel gets all huffy at the notion that he's somehow inadequate, and I have to step in and figure it all out. Finally what happens is the State column has to be absorbed by the City column so that we can call the Zip codes "States" and trick Excel into doing his duty by his stupid children. It works. Labels are created, all accurate and proper, and they get sent off to the next phase of their brief, pointless little lives. I do a little happy dance and receive applause and accolades for both my victory over merge and my creative cursing.

Ah, but it's not over yet. There are still those stupid anniversary cards to do! I have mentally blocked most of the struggle it took to get this to work, but if we go back to the beginner's sex analogy, I'm guessing one or both of these "learned" about sex in one of those abstinence-only education programs because they keep slotting things in the wrong holes. I produce a copy of "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" and a Playboy magazine, and we finally get it figured out. But then there's the printer who, in this rather tortured analogy, must be a nun, because those cards are NOT going in. That door is firmly closed to cardstock, thank you very much. After much cajoling and pleas of "you'll like it after awhile," I give up. This printer is a prude.

I'm told to try the VERY EXPENSIVE printer in the copy room. Lordy, do I not want to. The nun sits behind my desk and is only used by the 3 people in marketing. This other printer is huge, costly, and used by the entire floor. I'm going to call this printer George W. because it won't do anything it's told to do by reasonable people, and no amount of pushing his buttons will get him to change his mind about what God has clearly ordained. This is the Village Idiot of printers.

In the end, it is the humble Admin printer that takes care of it in somewhat robotic fashion, joylessly cranking out the cards in black and white instead of color (which the other two had the capability of, if only they could be convinced). This dutiful housefrau of copiers, indispensable but largely ignored as it goes about its labors, saves the day.

And so it is over. Until next month.

Per-spec-tive. What an odd idea.

2008-06-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

In reading online discussion threads in varying places, I've come to realize that people are generally kind of hostile towards bicyclists. I'm not sure why this is, really; bikers are sort of the on-road equivalent of a high school marching band. Annoying, but rarely fatal.

I ride my bike to work every day (a round trip of all of 8 miles), and I follow most of the rules, most of the time. I do occasionally run a red light, but that's usually because some dickhead construction company has blocked off the sidewalk, the bike lane (in the rare instance that there is one), and the right-most lane of traffic, leaving me with a partially blockaded single lane to share with the Hummers, the SUVs, the concrete trucks and the FedEx guy who apparently truly believes I'd be fabulous as a hood ornament. If I wait dutifully with the cars, I have to squeeze over into the nine milimeters the construction workers have kindly left me and hope that there's no pothole that will grab my front wheel and send me under the wheels of the car that's about to graze me with its passenger-side rear view mirror anyway. If I jump the light, I can get a head start on the construction zone, and usually, be out of the way before the cars get there. And sometimes I just want to be a scofflaw bastard and jump the light because I can.

Generally, I side with the bikers. We are a fragile bunch, invisible to the women daubing their eyelashes with mascara or the men trying to read terribly important documents laid out on the steering wheel or the drivers of both sexes who mistakenly believe that THEY can drive while talking on the phone. While drivers are rarely actually aiming for us, it can sometimes seem like they are. And drivers who don't ride really don't understand that a bike coming down a hill can reach speeds of 35+ miles an hour. They cut us off, in a hurry to make a right-hand turn, no malice intended, but plenty of ignorance.

HOWEVER. Most of the hostility that I see on the Internet is directed at the crowd of bikers I refer to as "The Jersey Boys." You know the guys: lean haunches like some sort of African impala; brightly colored jerseys that claim the rider is generously sponsored by elite, athletic companies like Nike, PowerBar and Maytag; sunglasses that wrap not only around their heads but halfway down their bodies with a lap around their nearly non-existant buttocks; arrogant expressions of the kind normally worn by Dick Cheney. I gotta side with the non-bikers on this one. I hate these guys.

Their bikes cost as much as three times more than my car. They are very very fast and very very rude about it. They have great disdain for my pathetic peasant-bike that cost a mere $450 and is now *sniff* ooooooold. They pass me with a whooshing sound that I swear is actually haughty, and they don't give me enough room, which makes me want to stick things in their spokes. They like me on their roads even less than they like cars--I give bikers a bad name with my stopping-at-stop-signs and panting-while-biking-up-steep-hills nonsense. I and other commuters are an embarrassment to the biking community. I mean, dear god, my jersey has no names!

I'm sure there are nice Jersey Boys out there. It's probably the $800 sunglasses that make them seem pompous and annoying. But if any of them are reading this post, dude, please reign in the attitude. Or the next tire that crosses your face may just be mine.

Grumble.

"ap irha" to you, "ap irha" to you!

2008-05-16T07:17:00.000-07:00

It was Toasty’s birthday last week. I had promised my folks that we would come see them for Mother’s Day (they live about 2 hours south of here. 1 ½ if I’m driving), and Toasty gets along well with my parents, so he agreed to come along. We had a birthday dinner Friday night here in Seattle (thank you, J and C) with his kid and kid-in-law, then on Saturday morning, headed down to the ‘rents.

Being the thoughtful girlfriend and daughter that I am, I asked my mom to make Toasty a birthday cake (thanks, Mom!). On Mother’s Day. OK, this maybe wasn’t the best course of action, making my mom bake on her special day, but I couldn’t exactly bake one while he was sleeping, smuggle it into his car and have it still be a surprise by the time we got there, now could I?

The weekend was great, we had nice weather for tromping around in the woods, did our usual portion of liberal ranting which had Toasty longing for his “apathy” bracelet, ate too much, the usual. I think the only problem Toasty has with going to the ‘rents house is that it is House O’Naps. Mr. OCD would be fine with that if it were House O’WetNaps, but it isn’t. That house is a giant sleeping pill. You walk in, the fireplace is roaring, there are boring magazines piled six deep on every flat surface, the TV is murmuring in the background, they have something like eleven hundred couches, zzzzzzzzz. Toasty doesn’t nap. My family has medalled in the NapO’Lympics. But I managed to stay awake this time, though dad did go down for one of his sleep apnea’d, gape-mouthed snorefests after lunch on Saturday.

What this is actually all about is the birthday cake. My mom made some chocolate-cherry thing, and if you know my mom at all, you know it gave her some pain to do it. Mom is all about the healthy eating, and she’s been dieting since the mid-70s, I think, so chocolate cake (with no trans fats, btw) isn’t exactly high on her list of Things to Feed My Family. But she made it, bless her low-fat, clog-free, hyperhealthy little heart.

The problem was the candles.

It was my “job” (since I’d done little else) to light the candles in time for the singing and general merriment. My folks have a pantry just off the kitchen where the cake had been stashed in secret. Mom had bought these candles that spell out, conveniently, “Happy Birthday” –each colorful, wax letter attached to a toothpick. After dinner was over and the dishes cleared, I went into the pantry, placed the candles, and started lighting them. And that’s when everything went horribly wrong.

The candles were really little, and they burned like wildfire. By the time I got to “day,” “Hap” was already burned out. So I tried to relight “Hap,” but the candles were burning away like crazy in a giant, multi-colored conflagration. At one point, one of the wicks came away from its candle and stuck to my match. I was desperately trying to keep up, lighting an “r” only to find that both “a”s had gone out, and most of “Happy” was melted in pools on top of the cake. I just wanted a window with all of them lit long enough to leap out of the closet, throw the cake under Toasty’s nose, sing the Birthday song in quadruple time, make wishes, blow out tiny fires, happy frickin’ birthday.

It never happened. By the time I got out, “ap irha” was all he had left. The whole family got in on it, trying to light “candles” that were really just a wee bit of wax clinging to a toothpick by now. Dad tried to light matches and prop them up against the remaining candles, but that made the air a bit acrid and we made him stop. To make matters worse, Mom had festively decorated the top of the cake with pretty little colored sugar things that were the exact same colors as the candles, so distinguishing wax drops from decorations wasn’t easy.

But at least we laughed like the last 30-seconds of a family friendly sitcom, and the cake tasted good despite the wax. Don't know what Toasty wished for if he had time to wish at all, but I wished for sturdier candles next time. And a pony.

See below: (and click on the pic to see the carnage up close)

So Then at Mile Nine, I ...

2008-05-07T09:44:00.000-07:00

Yeah, marathons are hard. I mean, I figured it would be hard, but this was really hard! Even at my slow pace, things hurt. There are depths to your knees you never knew existed, and they hurt.

Here are some tips from a "seasoned" marathoner (if by "seasoned" you mean "doused with Gatorade from a clumsy grab during a water stop at mile 25"):

1. DON'T do the math. Do NOT pass mile marker 8 or 9 or 10 and think to yourself, "only 18, 17, 16 miles to go." This is not an encouraging line of thought. Equally, don't get to mile 20 and think, "only an hour to go." This is “demoralizing” the same way the Grand Canyon is "deep."

2. DON'T look at the runners around you. They resemble the latter half of the Bataan Death March and so do you.

3. DON'T look at the person cheering on the sidelines who is also wearing a marathon runner's bib. Yes, they've already finished and look rested and ready to kick your ass a second time. Acknowledging this will only make you want to hurt them, and you can't raise your leg high enough to nail them in the nards. Save your energy.

4. DO listen to the cheering of the crowds. Even though it may be a mercy cheer, and you know their cries of, "you're doing great, you look strong, you're going to finish this" are optimistic in the extreme, sideline support gives a better energy boost than a bucket of Gu and a trough of Gatorade.

5. DO cheer for the Kenyans as they whoosh blurrily past you. They are a testament to what the human body is capable of, even if it's not your human body.

So, yeah, I finished. It took me 4 hours, 55 minutes and some number of seconds, most of which hurt. But I finished, and even 3 days later, I periodically find myself with an “I finished a marathon” grin that is 50% proud, 40% stunned and only 10% smug.

So here’s how it happened:

On Friday, I drove over to Toasty’s place, and we left from there. We had a fabulous meal at Burger King (2 veggie burgers, a shared fries and small salad—did you say you wanted details?) somewhere south of the border, then crossed into Canada. We were staying at the seedy but reasonably priced Bosman’s Hotel (politeness is extra) in downtown Vancouver, and we rolled in around 9.30 pm.

Toasty had—of course—brought his laptop, so I was able to check in with the Runners World forums. (I’ve been spending way too much time following threads on this forum. Lots of newbies like me and more experienced runners providing much-needed advice, support, stories and laughs.) Many of us were doing our first marys (runners’ slang for “marathons”—I’m entitled to use it now, only not too often), so there was a lot of chatter, and I wanted to hear what everyone else was going through.

Saturday was rainy and cool. We got up and trotted over to the Expo to pick up my bib and info. packet. Toasty bought me a very cool Vancouver Marathon shirt which I will wear until it falls off my body at which point I will make it into decorative handkerchiefs, doilies, lawn ornaments, whatever. I got myself a cool little bauble that very subtly says ***I RAN A MARATHON ONCE!!!*** We ate free pudding and some ghastly tofu-berry thing, got our Power Bars, picked up a lot of literature which was promptly recycled, took some pictures and headed back out again.

One funny thing was looking at the list of people registered: somewhere around 3500 people were scheduled to run the full mary. Something like 5 times that number were running the half. In fact, when we first got there to pick up my bib number, there was a huge line. Then Toasty realized we were standing in the half-mary line. The full had no line at all. That was when the first ice-butterfly took up residence in my stomach: what did all those people know that I didn’t?

We had arranged to meet a good friend of mine who lives in Vancouver, but that wasn’t until 2 pm., so we had some time. We parked ourselves in a nearby Starbucks (you can take the people out of Seattle, but…) and looked through the goody bag for awhile. I stupidly studied the course map again. This is “stupid” because (a) you can’t possibly get lost unless you’re so slow that they’ve picked up the traffic cones and the volunteers have all decamped for the night, and (b) it invites swarms of ice-butterflies to come tango on your intestines.

We spent the day with my friend, even to the point of carbo-loading on some Italian food for supper. Then it was back to the room for a last look at the Runners World forums. I laid out all the stuff I’d need on the bed: shoes with inserts, “lucky” (ie. non-blister-causing) socks, shinsplint wraps (2), shorts, shirt, cap, sunscreen, sunglasses, Gu packets (3), blah blah blah. I spent less time getting ready for my high school prom. By now, the ice-butterflies were performing aerial stunts in my tummy, like tiny, frozen Blue Angels. We were in bed by 10.

Bosman’s Hotel cleverly saves on costs by short-sheeting every bed, so that presented some sleeping challenges, and I was already pretty challenged. I got some sleep that night, but not much. Worst of all, I dreamed that the race was over, and I was excitedly telling my parents all about it. They asked, “How was the bridge?” (The Burrard Bridge is the highest point on the run, and you have to cross it TWICE, thank you.) It was at that point that I realized I hadn’t run it yet, and I woke myself up. Evil evil evil subconscious.

I had set 3 alarms, so it was quite the chorus that woke us up at 5.30 on Sunday morning. We got ready, I stuffed down a bagel with peanut butter and a cold coffee drink. We got to the start line with plenty of time to spare, so I did my stretching thing, and Toasty did his amazingly supportive boyfriend thing (lots of “you can do this, you’re trained, you’re ready, you can do this”). Start lines are always a mixed blessing. It’s fun to be mixed in at the nexus of all the buzzing energy that swirls around big events. There’s a lot of chatter between total strangers (usually of the, “can you believe we paid to do this?” variety), a lot of shivering with nerves and cold, a lot of pictures being taken and shouts of last-minute advice and encouragement from the sidelines. The half started 30 minutes before us, so there were just the 4000 or so full-mary runners, plus a nice-sized crowd of spectators. There were many garbled announcements, I found my pace bunny (the person who runs at the pace you’d like to keep—heroes, every last one of them), I handed off all the clothes I could part with to Toasty, the gun went and we were off.

It took about 2 minutes for me to cross the start line, and I was trying desperately to get keep thoughts like “26.2 miles to go” out of my head. It’s a daunting distance, no matter if you’ve trained for it or not. In my usual way, I had nerved and worried myself into a nauseated tummy that I would haul around with me for the next 14 miles. Boo.

At the half-mary mark I was running my 2nd or 3rd best half-mary pace, so that made me feel good. I was still keeping up with my bunny (I’d lose him at mile 15 or so), and nothing but my stomach was hurting. When I saw the 14-mile mark, finally everything shifted into place. I felt good enough to know that I was probably going to finish. My stomach finally settled down, I relaxed and started to enjoy the experience. Yay!

One cool thing about Vancouver is they print your first name on your bib, so all along the course I was hearing cries of, “Go, Raggs! You look great, Raggs; keep it up!” (OK, confession time: Raggedy Angst is not my real name.) It’s amazing how good it feels to have someone shout encouragement at you by name. There was really good crowd support nearly the whole course. The loneliest time was through Stanley Park where more than once I felt like the bikers and non-racing joggers regarded us as interlopers in “their” park. I still hadn’t eaten anything as I was worried that the nausea dragon would raise its ugly head again, but I did partake of water and/or Gatorade at nearly every water station. And at stations 7 (mile 13.5) and 9 (mile 17), I had stashed some Starbucks Double Shots. I was only able to take a couple of gulps of those, but I think the caffeine helped.

Bored yet?

As I was running at a non-competitive pace (boy, was I), I was able to have conversations with some of the people around me, and that was fun. There were other newbs out there, and we did check-ins to monitor how we were doing: “anything hurt?” “Nothing unusual. You?” “Not yet!” Our discussions were, of necessity, pretty brief, ending with “Good luck! We’re going to do this thing!” before one of us ran on ahead.

After the first crossing of the Bridge, which really wasn’t bad, there’s a loooooooong out-and-back stretch. If you’ve done runs like this, you’ll know how crappy those are: for something like 2 miles, I got to watch people coming back as I was going out. I couldn’t see the turn-around point ahead of me, which is incredibly frustrating. This was by far my least favorite part of the race, despite finally choking down a Gu at mile 21, and having my very Irish name shouted at me by a very Irish volunteer at a water stop. But once you get back and cross the Bridge again, you hit the magical 25-mile marker. On the Vancouver course, once you reach the top of the Burrard Bridge the 2nd time, it’s all downhill to the finish line. I almost choked up when I saw that sign: 1.2 to go.

The last part of the race is awesome. You get to run through town where there are tons of spectators, all of them shouting “Almost there!” –and you finally get to believe them. At .2 miles after the 25-mile marker, there’s a “1 mile to go” sign (thank you, bloody Queen Victoria). In my head, that’s where I started to sprint. My body declined to participate, saying it was more interested in just staying assembled in the right order, but in my head, it was the music from Chariots of Fire from there to the end. That “finish” sign was like winning the lottery. OK, I’d rather win the lottery, but it was still pretty damn cool.

As I approached the finish, my name came over the loudspeaker. They try to get in a little information about everyone, which is just fantastic. It makes you feel like you’ve won the Olympics or something. I crossed the line, got my medal (I almost hugged that woman, and I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the first or the last), and heard my name from above me. Toasty was there; he’d gotten several pictures, and despite a nearly 5 hour wait, was as excited and thrilled as I was.

Then I got stuck in an airlock.

OK, it was only for a couple of minutes, but we didn’t know what was going on or why or how long it’d last. Toasty figured out later that it was because the stadium has an inflatable roof; they have to shut the doors periodically to keep the sky from falling down. My legs have never hurt that badly. I just wanted to keep moving, but I couldn’t, as we were a bit crammed into the airlock space. Toasty, a shower and my reclaimed life were on the other side—that part was a bit eternal, but it at least saved me from the emotional meltdown that had been threatening for the past few weeks.

Toasty got me a massage, which was nothing short of miraculous. This woman worked on my legs for about 30 minutes, and once she was done, I could actually stand and walk pretty reasonably. The deep muscle pain from the finish was gone. I showered in the locker room, changed into my “finisher” t-shirt and some sweat pants, then rejoined Toasty for what he thought was a prolonged celebratory hug but was actually me needing him to prop me upright.

Then we drove home. And stopped every hour or so, so that I could get out and hobble around a bit. I called several people to bore them with my mile-by-mile replay. I slept. We ate some more Burger King.

The end.

In the movie The Spirit of the Marathon, one guy says something like, when you cross the finish line, you’re changed forever. I don’t know if that’s true, being only 3 days from the finish line, which is a far cry from “forever” unless I get hit by a bus this afternoon, but the marathon is an interesting study in introspection. Marathon training made me self-absorbed to a level I would rather not repeat, but it also did teach me some things about myself. In athletic stuff, I’ve always erred on the side of quitting. It was nice, for once, to take on this genuinely hard thing and see it through, literally, to the finish line.

Marathon Update

2008-05-05T10:54:00.001-07:00

I finshed!!!!! Epic and dull details that really matter only to me will follow soon. Thanks for all your support, folks; hugely appreciated.

rags

Is That a Power Bar in Your Pocket, Or ... ?

2008-04-18T14:01:00.000-07:00

It’s April 19th today. That means the marathon is….hang on,….borrow ten, carry the two….15 days away.

Oh. Dear. God.

I’ve done all I can to get ready, I think. I ran the miles, I quaffed the mega-ultra-dynamo power drinks that make you pee out more nutrients than half the world’s population sees in a month; I ate Gu, ShotBloks (carbo gel snacks made by Gatorade), a host of energy bars of varying descriptions; I cramped, chafed, sweated, cursed, rejoiced, and I ran, ran, ran. Mile after thumping bloody mile.

I’m sick to death of running. Depending on how the marathon goes, I will either have my tights bronzed or burnt, but I don’t want to spend any more time actually wearing them. I calculated the number of training miles I will have run by the time I get to the start line—it’s 550. I know. I did the math three times. At my haggard 10-minutes-per-mile average, that’s 5,500 minutes (92 hours) I could have spent on my couch. Or doing pretty much anything else.

There are real runners out there. I see them all the time, wafting past me, the little wings on their shoes flapping furiously. I read their comments on the RunnersWorld forums, how they found peace, lost weight, gained self-confidence, had epiphanies, cruised mile after effortless mile, breezed up hills and over dales, even their blisters are fun! fun! fun! They gave up drugs and cigarettes, they kicked coffee, gambling, and bad marriages, they straightened out troubled kids between miles 11 and 13, solved the mideast crises at mile 18 and found an endless, clean, alternative energy source just before bursting through "the wall" at mile 21. They are slim, confident, happy people who love to run. When I see them, I push them down.

OK, it hasn’t been that bad. Actually, some of the miles have been pretty good. Probably not "good" to the point where someone wants to push me down, but at least there have been miles where I was only soggy with sweat and not with misery and tears. I think there were at least 6 like that.

As race day approaches, I’ve started making lists. I’m in the "tapering" part of the training now, which means my weekly mileage is dropping faster than Wile E. Coyote off an unsuspected cliff. Last week (the biggie), 52 miles. This week, 29. Next week, 21. During marathon week, I’ll run only 9 miles over the course of 5 days. The joy of so little is somewhat ameliorated by the massive sink-hole-of-fear-and-trembling 26.2 at the end of the week, but I’m trying to stay positive here. My lists—and there are many, mostly saying the same stuff over and over and over again—consist almost entirely of items like "socks" and "extra socks." I don’t seem to be able to think about the big stuff, so I get there in baby steps like "socks." But then, that’s how I’m getting to the start line of a marathon, so I guess it makes sense.

I’m looking forward to the race, I really am. There’ll be a big crowd, it’s a pretty part of a pretty city (Vancouver), Toasty will be there (yay!), and on Sunday, May 4, when the race is over and no matter how it turns out, I will have an excuse to eat absolutely and without question of guilt or my mom’s well-intentioned voice in my head anything I want. I’ll be able to chat with other runners at the start. I’ll line up somewhere between the greyhounds and the basset hounds, feeling the charge of all the nervous energy buzzing around me like hummingbirds on crack. I’ll lament my stupidity for signing up (a lot and loudly) and promise the Fates that if they just let me live through this, I’ll never be this ass-ignorant again.

I’m trying to have some measure of confidence. After all, I’m not running to compete, and my only goal, really, is to finish under my own power. But as I sit here, imagining the race day, the start line, crossing—for the first time ever—the 20-mile mark (should I get that far), the length, the hills, the miles stretched end-to-end, and, quite frankly, the portapoddies, my heart is beating faster and I kinda have to pee. I’ve worked hard for this, and I don’t want to choke on the day of because my head is full of I-can’ts despite all the miles I’ve put behind me. I know that race-day adrenaline is a powerful drug and can take you far; I’m hoping that training, plus adrenaline, plus some well-timed ShotBloks will get me far enough.

Thanks, everyone, for support, encouragement and patience beyond the call of duty. Thanks especially to Toasty who volunteered to ride alongside me on several loooooong runs (including 2 ugly 20s). He truly is the new generation of male athletic supporter.

One thing I’d really like to pass along to everyone: if you’re out and about and a runner goes by you, particularly if that runner is a little older or slower or chubbier or more desperate-looking than the über-runners who just need to be pushed down, a sincere "You’re looking great!" or "Keep it up!" or just some well-timed applause is worth gold. Trust me on this.

Getting Your Shit Together™

2008-04-16T06:50:00.000-07:00

One day in the very recent past, I was standing at the water cooler. Now, pardon my digression here, but where did we get this notion that the water cooler is some sort of hub of human social activity? As far as I can tell, people go there to get water, and like animals at an oasis, there's a kind of unspoken free zone that surrounds the Holy Water Cooler. Everyone must be friendly or at least polite. We stand back and wave others to the taps first; people fill up quickly, make--at best--nominal conversation about work-related issues or the recent weekend's weather and get the heck gone. Maybe it's because I was a temp and not there for very long, but I heard NOT ONE thread of gossip that I didn't start myself. It's a gossip-free area. I heard plenty of gossip launched over the tops of cubicles and toilet stalls, but seriously, it's like there's something sacred about the acquisition of water that's too serious for idle chatter, like we all had to walk miles through searing desert carrying goat-bladder canteens or something.

So I'm standing at the water cooler, waiting my turn to make tea, wondering when the alligator that is McBitchy is going to wrap her face around some cute, fuzzy, wee little mammal of an assistant that I know she doesn't like and drag them to a damp and sudden death at the bottom of the pool. I've seen her do similar things in meetings. This girl has no problems at all with lashing out at someone in front of the assembled, drawing blood with a thinly disguised joke. But not at the water cooler. Weird.

Anyway, when it's my turn, I pass the uncomfortable moment of awareness that all these people behind me are wishing--politely--that I would hurry the hell up by looking idly at the bulletin board above my head. There's a poster advertising a program for "overstressed employees." Now, I'll just mention that this poster pre-dates the announcement of layoffs, so we're not talking about especially stressed employees, just the normally stressed variety. The program is called something like LifeEra™ or similar. I didn't have much time to read it, it being first thing in the morning and the line of cordially hostile tea-drinkers behind me increasingly deep, but I went back later when the cooler was less popular as a destination site.

It's a program about all that feel-good Oprahesque crap: finding your bliss, your inner child, your hidden bitch, your childhood dreams, Jesus, your lunch, whatever you might feel you've lost along the troubled path of adulthood. It's "getting on the right track!"™ and "forging your way ahead!"™ and how to "be a fully realized person!"™ That last one always kills me. At some point, will this program provide me with a personal epiphany when I jump up and down and wave my arms and say, "Holy crap, so this is the person I am!"? What if I fully realize who I am, and I turn out to be a bit of a shit? Can I unrealize myself and go back to the foggy haze of thinking I'm generally OK? And more importantly, can I get my money back?

I think that's the part that weirded me out most. The program costs money. It's trademarked. Does that strike anyone else as a bit sinister? Your ability to Get Your Shit Together™ in life has been trademarked. Now I'm worried. This morning I tidied my kitchen -- is that copyright infringement? Will I have to pay royalties on every to-do list? It disturbs me that as a society we are so far removed from our blisses that we have to hire someone else to go out and look for them.

On the other hand, people searching for their blisses in all the wrong places means there's a lot of good second-hand camping, skiing and biking gear available, so that's OK.

Ode to a Small Lump of Silly Putty in Her Armpit

2008-04-10T07:03:00.000-07:00

OK, as promised, stories from my brief-but-meaningful interval in the world of retail marketing. Lemme tell you about the pictures. You know how American women learn the Art of Self-Loathing from pictures of flawless women in catalogs and magazines? I'm here to tell you: those women could have arrived at the photoshoot looking like the Loch Ness Monster herself, but by the time the pictures get in print, they've been Photoshopped and Pre-Pressed, and the Loch Ness Monster has morphed into Naughty Nessie the pouty-lipped, slim-hipped, scale-free fantasy girl next door. At least the Loch Ness Monster might actually be real.

I found this out when I sat down to add copy (the words) to some pages that were due to be printed as a mailer. Most of the photos were in place, but the files weren't complete. Basically, several someones (our art directors, the company selling the clothes) go through the files and circle all the stuff they want removed: moles, birthmarks, tattoos, etc. Now, I can see taking the tattoo off, I guess. It's hard to concentrate on that darling little flouncy blouse when the model has a naked harpy astride a barbed wire snake inked on her bicep. But when they get to the point of circling for removal the invisible freckle on the inside of her left shin, well, that's when I start getting testy.

So my introduction to the wide world of fraud and misrepresentation began when I had to add some very basic copy to a page of bras. It would be bras, wouldn't it? Not socks or sandals or even flouncy blouses, no, it would just have to be bras.

I bring up the page, and there are maybe eight or ten women on the page, all of the shots very typical, just head and upper torso. But every single picture had a circle around both of the model's nipples. The instructions? A very terse, "Remove." Oh, and you're not allowed to have wrinkles at the juncture where your arm hooks to your body. There's a smoothing process to take out the "extra" folds in your skin that keep you from ripping great holes in your outer layer every time you move because those folds are apparently unsightly. And we're not talking about huge flappy winglettes of skin here, folks; we're talking about those wee wrinkles that naturally occur wherever your body has to bend and stretch. The smearing that they do to take out those wrinkles makes every woman look like she's been touched up with Silly Putty. Check it out next time you see a bra catalog. Oh, and obvious cleavage has to go too. I know, I know, it's a bra page, but no nipples and no cleavage allowed. Don't ask me.

It's got to be a relief for the models, though. They can have moles and freckles and tattoos and wrinkles and cleavage and curvy hips in real life, and the questionable magic of Photoshop can air brush them into golden goddesses, flawless in everything but attitude. They can be disassembled and reassembled, parts of their bodies traded for other body parts from a more "appropriate" model. It's like the art people have a bucket of KFC in their computers: a big bunch of breasts, thighs, legs and .... well, not wings probably. And no heads. Huh. Reach into the bucket, pull one out, determine if it's golden and crispy... ok, this is where the analogy falls apart, but you know what I mean.

Real women (and men, 'cause they do it to the guys too) are not buckets of chicken. I think I may print that on t-shirts: "real people are not buckets of chicken." I'll make a fortune.

Almost....There.....

2008-04-03T06:56:00.001-07:00

Two more days among the fearlessly fashionable, then it's back to the world of fleece and baggy butt jeans. Have I got stories for you.

Not this year, buckaroo

2008-03-21T09:32:00.000-07:00

Since things are sort of winding down at the place I'm working, there's less and less work to do. So they kindly offered me a day "off" (off their payrolls, but whatever), and since I'm inherently a very lazy person, I took them up on it (translation: leapt at the chance). Plus, some inspector-types are around today and needing access to each condo, so I'm happy to be here to police the kittehs. Beebs, the far twitchier of my two cats, is already aware that there are strangers doing strange, beeping things in the building, and she's hardly left my side all morning. In fact, I have to keep going back and retyping, thanks to her head-butting my right elbow.

When told that I could have a "free" day, I imagined a day of reckless abandon and slovenliness, lying on the couch, unshowered and unconcerned, setting aside the bon bons only when the big strong inspectors arrived. Instead, as I lay in bed this morning, awake even before my alarm clock would normally have gone off, I realized that it's the 2nd day of spring. An unusually warm spring, if the scientists are to be believed (and yes, W, they are to be believed, you flaming dickhead), and spring means ... ants.

Sugar ants. I haven't seen them yet, but it's only a matter of time before I open my kitchen cabinets to find their wriggling little bodies writhing around in my sugar and making wee tiny baby ants in the oatmeal. I hate them. I hate them with the same passion that I normally reserve for Dick Cheney and regard them with almost the same disgust that I would feel if I found him wriggling around in my sugar dispenser. Sorry for that mental picture, folks, but at least now you understand my pain.

As I lay in bed, I could almost hear them coming, an army of tiny, marching feet, six to a soldier, all of them headed toward my syrup, my cinnamon bread, my Kashi stash. So I got up. I cleaned. I cleaned like a cleaning fiend. I stripped the countertops bare and Windexed t'fook out of them. Everything they could possibly get into was signed, sealed, delivered, it's war. There are sunflower seeds in my refrigerator. The seeds don't ordinarily go in the fridge, but just in case the ants get a hankering for some seedy goodness, ha! Take that, you relentless, multi-legged, nasty little kitchen bullies! I'd get a gecko if I didn't think my cats would try to eat it.

It took nearly 3 hours to get my wee little postage stamp condo whipped into anti-ant condition, but I reckon I've got a bit of a head start on them this year. I'm going to the grocery store later to buy those awful little sweet-poison bait ant traps that I festoon my condo with like other people do with Hummel figurines (the saccharine level is actually slightly higher on a Hummel figurine, but I want to kill the ants, not give them Type 2 diabetes). While I am both an animal lover and a green-lifestyle embracer, I will up the toxicity in my condo to Rush Limbaugh on a blind date with Gloria Steinem levels if it means I never have to flip on my kitchen light to find a colony of sugar ants copulating under the lid of the honey jar. (Or Rush Limbaugh, for that matter.)

Now, three hours and a roll of (100% post-consumer content recycled) paper towels later, I have this urge to say, a la that tiny lady in the Poltergeist movie: "This house is clean." But we all know how well that worked out.

Downtown Seattle is Like a Box of Chocolates

2008-03-17T19:17:00.000-07:00

I'm getting hardened to it, I really am, but the guy on the bus this morning caught even jaded little me by surprise. After riding most of the way to the downtown on the OOL (Overheated, Overcrowded and Late) #36 bus standing up, frantically grasping at the slippery overhead bar which the drivers must dust liberally with baby powder each morning to ensure maximum slipperiness, I finally got a seat. (I never take a seat on that bus without a measure of cynicism, because sure as pickles will muck up your plumbing, some incredibly feeble, wobbly, exhausted, ancient person will get on at the next stop, laden until bent nearly double with a month's shopping, coughing, arthritic and 99% of the time too short to reach the be-powdered overhead bar, and I'll have to give up my seat anyway. Beacon Hill must have a wee, elderly person factory that works overtime.) So I sink into my seat, hoping I'll be able to stay there awhile. If you read my most recent blog, you know I'm doing this stupid running thing, and that means I'm terminally fatigued pretty much always. It was cold this morning, and wet, so the overheated bus is quickly degenerating into a swamp of body heat and wet-overcoat smell. Still overcrowded, we're huddled together like sheep on the edge of a cliff. At a downtown stop not too far from my own, the seat next to me is vacated. I enjoy a very brief feeling of space before today's Loony slams his body into the seat.

Uh oh, I think.

Indeed. "Fuck all dem bitches," he says, and looks to me for approval. I look at the window. (I would have looked OUT of it, but it was foggy with passenger-breath and hair oils.) The Loon adds a disclaimer: "No disrespect for wives and dat." Well, that's all right then.

At the next stop, he gets off, presumably to spread the Gospel of Loon to the next group of the unenlightened.

I get to work, ride up in the elevator to my little cubicle on the windowless floor I work on. McBitchy, this pain-in-t'arse (Happy St. Pats) little girl I have to work with, gives me a smug look which means I've screwed up and she knows about it. I stick the tip of her ponytail in the shredder and walk away.

"Fuck all dem bitches," I think.

Have Stress, Will Unravel

2008-03-08T08:39:00.000-08:00

It's odd, working at a company that's basically wrapping up and closing down (well, not the WHOLE company, but the people around me are all getting laid off). The tone varies almost daily, from giddy gallows humor to increasing concern as the number of paychecks left hits single digits, then back to something almost like relief. But the twitch quotient is way up; suddenly colleagues have become potential competitors, and everyone's in a dither about when to jump ship and in what direction. People are re-evaluating their careers, and the "extra day to wear jeans" that was so graciously allotted by corporate, while pleasant, wasn't exactly helpful. I'm sticking it out for as long as I can. I'm getting great experience, building my portfolio, trying to keep my own adrenaline buzz of imminent unemployment at a minimum, at least for now.

So, because life isn't stressful enough, I've decided to add an extra layer: I signed up to run the 08 Vancouver marathon. I've never done this distance before. In fact, until a few weeks ago, my furthest distance run was half that. But I figure I'm right on schedule. I just turned 40, so a few months before my birthday, I changed career paths completely, and now I'm going to (try to) plod through 26.2 miles in one day. I reckon the convertible and trophy boy are weeks away. I resisted telling people for months that I was considering doing this, because I really don't want to tell people I'm going to take a shot at it, only to limp back from Vancouver and admit I got 10 miles along, then purposely shot myself in the foot in order to get Medivac'd back to safety. I will tell you now, odds are 50/50 at best for me crossing that finish line under my own power. I'm only telling now because all the books and articles and discussion groups I've been reading on this topic say that first-timers should definitely tell. It's a commitment thing, like getting married instead of just shacking up. (Tell that to my friends in their double-digit-year relationships, hardly a married pair in the bunch, but whatever.)

One advantage of telling is that now I get to request suggestions for my iPod. I'm looking at some very long, very dull runs ahead, and I NEED MUSIC. Thumping, noisy, energetic music. Suggestions, please.

I will try not to bore everyone with details of the training as it goes along. Poor Toasty already gets the brunt of my new obsession, not just in words but in biking miles alongside me in freezing weather as I rack up the slow miles and he tries to ward off hypothermia and frostbite. He's my hero, and for once, I don't mean this sarcastically.

OK, I'm outta here for today. But I have to add a note to those who know me and who suffered endless discussions of how unhappy I was as an English teacher: yesterday I came across a woman at a coffee shop, elbow deep in a stack of student compositions. I nearly burst into song.

but is it ironic, alanis?

2008-02-28T07:05:00.001-08:00

The "president" is complaining that he doesn't have enough intelligence. As far as I know, this is the first time that idiot has ever told the entire truth about anything.

Observations from my job:

1. Would a man ever wear something called a "shootie"? Would he ever be asked to? It's a real thing -- a cross between a shoe and a boot. The cutsey ending is presumably intended to clue us in that it's for women. I think we should rename all guns "shooties." Would rednecks be so keen to collect them in vast, decorative stockpiles if they had to bring their buddies in to check out the new shooties?

2. Overheard at work: "I went to my parents' church on Sunday. The place was packed and everyone was shouting 'holy jesus' and 'praise the lord.' It was like a hallelujah palooza."

3. (Not at all related to my job, but one day I was bored enough at work to think of it.) The words I want engraved on my tombstone: "Fashionably late."

4. I was down near the photo shop when a man rushed by, absolutely laden with bras. He must have had 10 of them draped all over him, more gripped in his hands. I desperately wanted to tell him, "You're doing it wrong," but he looked unhappy enough.

Wouldja believe it

2008-02-18T12:45:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday I had a job interview at the place I've been temping for the past several weeks. The interview went pretty well; I didn't say anything terribly stupid, and despite being at the start of a nasty cold, I managed not to spray the place with sneezle juice. I wanted the job but not desperately, which helps with the nonchalance. I was marginally witty at key moments, and the atmosphere was one of convivial colleagues rather than sycophantic wanna-be sucks up to potential boss-persons. A pleasant change.

Wednesday the cold could no longer be ignored, and I called in sick. Thursday I made it in, only to be told, "Yes, we likely would have given you the job, but yesterday the entire department got downsized and will be closing in the next few months."

Well, color me crabby.

Did I mention that the place I've been working at is a venerated institution, readying to celebrate an impressive number of years in business (as in "more than a century"); the kind of place your grandmother invested in in 1956 to ensure a comfortable nest egg, a place with decades of steady growth, layer upon layer of successes and quietly impressive gains? It took me less than 24 hours to close it down.

It's a family thing. We have the worst timing since that guy moved his wife and children to Pompeii so they'd "get a good view of that interestingly smoky mountain." Let me explain: for a reasonably bright and educated bunch of people, we have the worst possible luck when it comes to making big decisions at the right time. My brothers spent many years and many dollars and an enormous amount of personal blood, sweat and etc. to make a movie in which dog-fighting 747 airplanes engage in a firefight in New York City, accidentally bombing a couple of towers. When was the movie finished? September 10. 2001. Think about it.

Just about any time my father invests in a company, it’s certain to lose value almost immediately, often long-term, occasionally fatally. Recently, my parents and brothers partnered up for a little speculative property buying. Not a month later we had the crash of the housing market. Well, of course.

Operating on the belief that there’s got to be a way to turn the curse into a blessing, I give you this list of positions for which I plan to apply:

Michael Vick’s lead defense lawyer
Head of Republican National Committee
George W’s Secretary of Defense
Huckabee Hound’s Campaign strategist
Lead NRA congressional lobbyist
Head of Marketing, National Right to Life Organization
Ann Coulter’s publicist
Director, National Cattlemen’s Beef Board

I'm hoping to make appearances on Rush Limbaugh's show and celebrate the return of Don Imus. After that, I'm planning to move to either Afghanistan or Saudi Arabia. It might be pushing it to see if the Raggedy Curse can shut down an entire national government, but it's either that or move to Texas, and I'm NOT moving to Texas.

Notes from the Cubicle Jungle

2008-02-04T21:12:00.000-08:00

Seriously, folks, how have you done this all these years?

I admit it: I wanted to give up teaching. I wanted out of teaching like a butterfly wants out of a chrysalis. I wanted to expand my damp little wings, I wanted to feel the warmth of sunlight, get the antennae moving around, do some stretching, breathe some fresh air, luxuriate in all this new-found student-free SPACE. And now I'm in a four-foot by four-foot beige box with berber carpeting on the walls and not a window for three floors. What happened here?

I knew the transition would be hard. For example, in academia, I never really had anyone I could point to and say, "that's my boss." Instructors don't have "bosses," not in the traditional sense. There's a pecking order, no question, but whenever I referred to the guy that I had to call in sick to as my "boss," I always felt it necessary to qualify the term with "only not really." For many years, I had supervisors, peers-with-power, stuff like that, but no "boss." Now I have three. Huhwhat?

I don't get to dismiss myself 10 minutes early because I behaved "really well that day and worked hard and learned a lot." I can't bring in "guest speakers" and give myself some time off. There's no pop quizzing for a wee little break, no developing lesson plans solely around their time-sucking potential, not anymore, oh nooooooo. Now it's get here at 8.30, stay all day, then come back and do it again tomorrow. Really? Are you serious?

I could have taught in sweat pants. I could have worn slippers, and my students would have thought I was absent-minded, my peers would likely never have known, and I would have been comfy and content. Now I have to dress like I mean it. This sucks. I have never had a profession that encouraged or afforded decent clothes, and suddenly I have to dress like a grown up?! I sit in my beige box all day; my computer couldn't care less if I showed up with my toothbrush caught in my hair and my t-shirt so covered in strawberry jelly I had to fight off the CSI team to get to my desk. So why the dressing up malarky?

But I like it. I have to admit it. I have no idea what I or anyone around me is talking about (I giggled in a meeting the other day because these grown men were talking about "baby dolls" with great seriousness and purpose. They were talking about tops, not toys, but either way it was damn funny), but it's kinda fun. Like, they pay me to be funny. I get paid for word play. I've never gotten paid for that before, not directly. I've gotten away with it before, but it's never actually been encouraged. OK, there are issues, like when Nervous Nellie, hunched and trembling in her corner office lest someone write a joke that's not on the Permitted List from Corporate, hacks and slashes her way through my copy, but I sense that with time and kindness and maybe some snacks, I'll be able to work with her.

But the dressing up has got to stop. I've started whittling away at that: I'm already down from tights and skirts and clicky, fussy little shoes to corduroys and hiking boots and big, chunky sweaters. The other women in my office may wear sleek little tops and silky little blouses, but blue is definitely not my color -- it's frickin' COLD in there. I figure from corduroys and hiking boots, it's a mere hop, skip and wee little leap of the imagination to jeans every day and not just on TGIFridays.

I had a bad day last week in which hardly a word I'd written survived the threshing machine, but it's been better since and a few good lines have slipped past here and there. It's not the perfect job. I'm not making the world a better place -- only, occasionally, a mildly more amusing one for the very few people who actually read the text of a clothing catalog. I'm not helping the environment or setting religious nuts on fire or otherwise improving the world. That's too bad. I'd like to be. One good thing about my former profession was having students tell me that I'd made their lives a little bit easier, a little bit less chaotic, a little more sensible. Helping immigrants and refugees make a life in the strange new world of the U.S. was rewarding, no doubt. And periodically futzing with people whose ideologies conflicted with my own was fun too.

This all leads to the fact that tomorrow I'm supposed to have a "conversation" about the possibility of a permanent position (I'm a temp now). This is that moment when the Big Boss and I sound each other out for a decent fit. The great thing about ambivalence is it's so calming. I wouldn't mind getting the job, I guess; I'm sure the money's good, and the benefits, and best of all is the chance to beef up (tofu up?) the resume and portfolio. And like I said, I do actually like some aspects of the job very much. But if it doesn't happen, then I go back to what I was doing, only with a slightly chewier resume and portfolio for the experience, thank you very much.

I'll keep you posted.

I Miss You. Come Back.

2008-01-24T20:16:00.000-08:00

I hate my keyboard. Until recently, I had a really great keyboard that even had a special button you could push to bring up the computer calculator without having to go to "Start" and scrolling through all that mess because I'm too lazy to work out my checkbook on paper. There were lots of other fancy buttons that did stuff on my old keyboard, but I hadn't had a chance to figure them out yet. I was still honeymooning with the calculator key.

So.

On my birthday, MY BIRTHDAY, I'm balancing out my checkbook and clearing off the (top layer of) debris on my desk. I'm feeding stuff into shredder and feeling good because (a) my shredder is a stripper and not a cross cutter and therefore I can recycle my shreds and (b) Discover, Geico, Clearwire and some sleazy mortgage company won't be getting any love from me. Then I hear a terribly grindy noise. Bad. Things stop working. Now let me preface this by saying that my shredder is under my desk in the dark. It's a cat-hair-lined cave under there, and no one goes there unless something computer-related goes terribly, noisily wrong. And occasionally to dump out the recycling bin which also lurks under there. What I'm saying is, it's dark. And bad things happen in the dark.

I shredded the cable from my keyboard to my computer.

I sat there, dumbfounded, one shredded wirey end of cord in each hand. I poked at the keys on my keyboard thinking perhaps it'd developed some sort of psychic ability and didn't actually need this cable. I considered trying to rejoin the wires like I was a surgeon and my keyboard was a drunken farmer who'd just stuck his hand in the combine. Or, alternatively, some kind of farm machinery that could take off a limb; I don't know a lot about farming. I put the keyboard on ice and wondered what to do.

Hey, that keyboard had sentimental value: Toasty bought it for me. It made the perfect clicky sounds and required exactly the right pressure to register a keystroke. It seemed to understand what I meant, even when I couldn't type the words with my fat manatee fingers. I miss it.

This keyboard, this fourteen dollar craptastic keyboard, is to REAL keyboards what Romper Room fat plastic keys are to the things that start your Jaguar. This is not a great comparison, I know. I blame the crapboard. It misses letters all the time. You have to strike the keys hard enough to cause sparks, and then you get six gggggg's or nnnnnn's in a row. This isn't just a no-frills keyboard, it's the keyboard the gods send you when you've been so foolish as to shred your last one. This one's an "Ativa." That's not even a word. It was probably supposed to be a word like "Activate," only most of the letters didn't register.

I hate this keyboard.

I'd tell you about my temp job, but I really hate this keyboard.

One of these things is not like the others

2008-01-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

So: new temp gig. (Being a freelance writer means you get to use words like "gig." Along with the big bucks, it's one of the perks.) I'm going to be doing some writing for a major retailer. Let me say that again: I'm going to be doing some writing for a major retailer. You know those stores that OTHER people go into and come out $500 lighter but looking fabulous? Yeah, one of those places. I get hives just walking past the place. They don't even deign to spritz me with perfume when I walk past the counter, obviously thinking there's nothing they can do to improve the stench of the poor and fashionless.

I don't get it. Out on the street, Seattle is crowded with fleece and dull colors, like we all live on the Scottish moors or something. But you walk in there, and it's all these gleaming, sleek cat-people. Where do they come from? Where do they go? And how do they lick their own heads to get their hair to shine like that?

I fear for my future. I don't know what this stuff is. I only recently figured out the difference between a turtleneck and a "mock" turtleneck. (One chokes you, the other makes really bad soup). What if they hand me a pair of trousers, and I call them "pleats" when they're really "tucks" or "fat alignment corridors" or something?! I mean, I don't claim to have any expertise in fashion, nor do I really want any, but I'd rather not make a fool of myself.

So wish me luck, dear readers (both of you). If nothing else, I should get some good blog-fodder out of it. But if you walk into a major retailer's in the next few weeks to find my head on a stake and a sign around my neck warning other pretentious, ill-informed and poorly dressed freelancers to stay away, give me a pat, smooth my hair a bit, remember I've gone to a better place.

Things In Life that Make Me LOL When I Shouldn't

2007-12-27T09:31:00.000-08:00

It's almost the end of the year and therefore time for lists. There are lots of lists out there: best ofs and worst ofs and top ten reasons to, and those terribly clever, self-referential Top 10 Lists of Top 10 Lists, blah blah blah. Since I just got to experience one of those moments when you really want to laugh out loud but oughtn't, I thought a list of things that make me LOL at inappropriate times would be good.

These are, in no particular order:

1. When you're a temp and someone comes wheeling around the edge of your cubicle, desperate to tell the funny story of What Happened to Them Over Christmas, and half-way into the first rude revelation, they realize you're not Sara or Becky or Todd or whoever usually sits there.

2. When my stomach growls loudly enough to be heard externally in a job interview because I was too nervous to eat beforehand.

3. Yesterday I was answering the phones at a temp gig, and as I answered the phone I realized I couldn't remember where I was. I was frantically scouring the desk I was at for a piece of letterhead, a business card, anything, but there was nothing, and the person on the other end was waiting for me to identify the business he'd just called, but I couldn't, so I didn't say anything at all while I was scrabbling for a clue. Then I started laughing to myself which undoubtedly came across as heavy breathing to the person at the other end. By the time I'd managed to work out the company name by reading it backwards where it was printed on the glass door in front of me, it was too late, I was laughing too hard, so I just hung up. They never called back. We must have sat in near-silence together for at least 30 seconds. I wonder what he thought?

4. Myself, jogging and falling down at that same gap in the sidewalk near Toasty's house. It wouldn't be nearly as funny if it weren't for those ads on TV for Miss Congeniality where Sandra Bullock wipes out. OK, it was funny the first time I fell. The second time was Christmas morning, and I was pissed off enough to shout curses -- "Santa is dead, you little bastards!" among them.

5. Inadvertently scaring the crap out of my upstairs neighbor (and myself). She was carrying a bunch of Christmas presents to her car and came down to our admittedly creepy parking garage in the elevator. I had a bunch of crap to carry up to my apartment, so I was waiting for the elevator down in the garage. When the door opened, I was standing directly in front of it. It briefly rained Christmas presents. Nothing was broken, so no harm, no foul.

6. This is an oldie but a goodie. Back when I was in graduate school, I had a class taught by the head of the Graduate Dept. He was a guy in his late 50s, I'd guess, and built on the Hemingway scale: big white beard, plus-size belly, generous ego. It was "presentation week," and the Prof was sitting amongst the students as student teams gave their presentations. One day, he was sitting in the back row; my friend Liz was next to him, and I was on the other side of her. During the students' talk, the Prof folded his arms across his belly and fell asleep. Something startled him, and he woke with this outrageous snort, throwing his giant head up and back. His glasses, which had been resting on his forehead, flew off and landed on a shelf behind him. There was a moment of chaos while he looked for his glasses on the floor and tried to pretend he'd been paying attention the whole time. Meanwhile, Liz, who is next to him, is struggling heroically not to laugh. I'm blocked from his line of sight by her thankfully oversized hair, laughing myself sick. The problem was that she could block his vision, but not his ears. My lungs were the size of raisins, but I couldn't re-inflate them without being heard. I thought I was going to pass out before I managed to sip in enough air to live on.

7. Same graduate school Prof., same Liz. We walk into the grad office, and the Prof is there, in one of his more expansive moods. As we walk in, his spreads his arms wide in a fatherly gesture and says, "Liz! Angst! How are things?" And Liz replies, "Great! How are your things?" There is a long, awkward moment of silence while we all evaluate the question and determine whether or not she's just asked the head of graduate studies about the condition of his genitalia. Then we all turn abruptly and flee.

8. Teaching in the Czech Republic. A students confuses "nipples" and "nibbles" and, asked to give an example of a verb in present tense, says, "the squirrel nipples his nuts." No one else hears the mistake. I have to excuse myself long enough to laugh to the point of nausea.

9. Teaching in England. I have a class of 14 students from Taiwan. Though I know nothing of the culture, I think I'm safe to assume that belching is not considered embarrassing or impolite. We met after lunch, and I do not know what they served in the cafeteria that day, but best guess would be Cucumber Deluxe. It was like sitting in a lake full of bullfrogs. Their faces were alternately confused by my inability to stop laughing and stretched wide to allow for the next eruption.

While this is by no means a definitive list, I'll stop here for the moment and ask my commenters to include any occasions where they desperately wanted to laugh but couldn't. And we'll all try hard not to LOL because we're at work and NOT reading blogs.

Why is My Cereal Bossing Me Around?

2007-12-18T10:33:00.000-08:00

Mr. Spock says disobedience
would be irrational.

This morning, as I'm preparing my breakfast, I read the back of the cereal box -- as you do. And I realized that there are instructions on how to save money on the back of the box. Now clearly, the producers of the cereal know their audience. This is the Safeway, store-brand version, a poor (wo)man's Grape Nuts called Crunchy Nuggets. Never mind that this cereal's name makes more sense and is a little less suggestive than Grape Nuts, it's still the dollar-or-two-less-a-box brand, and Safeway has a good idea who's buying it.

On the back it reads, "Saving Money Can Be Easy!" and there's a cartoon depiction of a "typical" American family -- Dad, Mom, one boy, one girl, all white. Dad's wearing a shirt and tie; Mom has on some frumpy housefrau dress. The kids are dressed in clothes that could easily have come from the local second-hand shop or Salvation Army or possibly the "ironic" bin at Old Navy -- hard to tell.

And the advice? Genius stuff, really: stock up on regularly purchased items when you find them on sale. Generate a budget and adhere to it. (They use neither "generate" nor "adhere," but I have more faith in my audience than they do in theirs, apparently.) Get a subscription to your local paper -- not so you can be up-to-date on news, don't be silly, white trash doesn't vote -- but rather so you can clip out the coupons for foods that are probably overpriced by at least that $0.65 anyway. Compare prices when shopping! Save money from your paychecks! Keep a "loose change" jar!

There's nothing inherently wrong with any of these ideas. I just found it a little weird to be getting advice on fiscal responsibility from my breakfast cereal.

Warning: Don't Read this Over Lunch

2007-12-17T07:50:00.000-08:00

So, I really really need to get this article written today. It's not due for another month, but it's kind of a big deal for me, and I figure if I get it done now, I'll have time to rewrite after it's been ruthlessly edited by someone in a visor with those elastic things holding up his sleeves. The problem is, the article's supposed to be funny. And lately, when I sit at my computer, I just don't have t'funny. (some might argue that I never do, but that strikes me as a little cynical) Steve Martin's solution to this problem was to put baloney in his shoes so he could feel funny, but as a vegetarian, I have to protest this practice. Plus it's gross. And it doesn't work. And I don't want to talk about it.

So what's a writer to do? I mean, I haven't worked on my on-line novel for, like, over a month or something, and I fear losing both of my readers to frustration. Ideas are at a low ebb just now. I trust that they will come back; they always have in the past. But right now, I need a little Lewis and Clarke, a little Stanley and Livingstone of the brain to go on a trek for the source of inspiration, maybe roust up the natives a little bit, introduce gunpowder and firewater, spread a little syphillis... no. Hang on.

Fortunately, there is one huge source of inspiration that I can tap into from time to time: weird stuff that happens to me. So let me relate to you a recent-ish experience.

I rock climb at a local gym. I'm not terribly good at it, but I love it, and I'll quite happily spend an afternoon climbing up walls and occasionally falling down them. Now that BF Toasty and his kid and her husband are into the climbing thing, I have fun, safe people to climb with on a regular basis, and I've started rebuilding Tim. (For those who don't know, Tim is the name of my one muscle. Since I only have one, I named it. I thought it might encourage others.)

Rock climbing is not the hyper-macho sport some might think it is, at least not at the level I do it. There are as many women as men, and some of the best climbers are these weedy, 98-pound scrawny-chickens of both sexes who appear to be made of twine and barbed wire. They dance up the wall, all grace and monkey-skill and perfect balance, and I stand at the bottom, more manatee than monkey but still loving the sport.

Except for that stinky guy.

Seriously, this guy walks around in his own funk like PigPen from Charlie Brown. It's so bad, it's visible, you know? He wears t-shirts with the arms cut off, so there's nothing, no layer of protection, not even a thin wall of cotton between him and us, and I swear the only time I can cross my eyes is when he walks by.

One time Toasty and I were in the gym when he was there, and you couldn't walk into any section of the gym where there was no outlet like a door or window. His odor would creep into corners and lurk there, fetid and giggling, bad enough to make a German shepherd gag. It was so bad I considered asking a staff member to take him out back and either hose him down or shoot him.

But it gets worse. You know the whole Close Encounters thing, how there are different levels of interaction with aliens -- first there's the sighting, then there's physical evidence of alien existence, and then there's actual face-to-face contact? Well, here's my Close Encounters with the Stench that Should Be Forbidden by the Geneva Conventions.

I was in climbing with my friend Tom one time. We had already concluded that Stinky Guy was there, as we had had the first close encounter: the smell. It rolled like banks of fog through the gym, leaving a residue that made the holds slippery. Through teary eyes, we had the second encounter -- a visual sighting (is there any other kind?). He was climbing on the rope right next to me. You know how in movies the guy exercising has that exaggerated V of sweat on the front and back of his shirt, extending from the base of his neck in an upside-down triangle to his waist? He had that. Bits of him were glistening. Not Disney glistening with little radiant stars coming off him, but, like, Karo syrup glistening.

Just as I realized how close he was, there was one of those unfortunate series of events where everything inevitably comes together in the worst possible way. I had finished my climb, and my partner began lowering me. When I got to about the half-way point down the wall, Stinky Guy missed a move and popped off his neighboring climb. I saw it happening, I knew what was coming, I tried to holler at Tom to just drop me and to hell with the consequences, but it was too late. With a wet slap akin to a dead fish being flopped down on the butcher's block, he swung right into me.

After that, events unfolded in sickening slo-mo: first the collision (at this point, his smell was streaming mercifully out behind him) with all the sticky horror of hitting an underclothed sweaty guy. Then, the ropes tangle around each other in defiance of the laws of physics and simple decency. Then the smell catches up with its source, and I'm hit with the full tsunami of eye-watering, death-would-be-better-than-this body fug from a man who clearly hasn't showered since Kennedy was shot. John, not Bobby. Frantically, I'm trying to get myself untethered from this guy, from this wall, from this life if necessary, scrabbling at the ropes, while my lunch is threatening to untether itself from my stomach. Finally, an eternity later, we get unknotted, Tom lowers me the rest of the way, and I escape to the bathroom to breathe deeply and scour my flesh with giant, soapy wads of paper towel.

I mean, come on, does the guy have rabies or something? What makes water with a little soap such a bad idea?

What kills me is that the guy obviously doesn't think his smell is a problem, or he'd do something about it. So my reaction to being in contact with him must have seemed really inappropriate and hysterical to him. I mean, I wasn't panicking and flailing (much), but probably more than a simple bump would merit. I wonder what he thinks caused all the fuss?

The worst of it? Our mid-air (mid-fetid-air) encounter apparently makes us "buddies," so now when he sees me in the gym, he waves hello.

Waves.

I had a temp job today.....

2007-12-13T23:08:00.000-08:00

The temp jobs do help me to support my freelancing habit, so that's a good thing, right? Yes. And the fact that I don't have to go back again tomorrow is even better. But for you in positions of leadership and authority in the corporate world, I'd like to make a few suggestions for the next time you drag in a temp:

Instructions on the Proper Care and Feeding of Your Temp:

1.) Have shit ready. I realize that I still get paid even as I sit there and watch you tear your hair out because there's no network connection for the computer and the IT guy is off trying to button his shirt up correctly, but seriously, this is 45 minutes I could have spent in bed.

2.) Don't put me in a closet. I realize I'm an embarrassing temp with bad hair and that blank look of incomprehension, but if you stick me in a cold, windowless storage space, crammed in between file cabinets and boxes so covered in dust they will require carbon dating to determine their age and piles of paperwork dating back to the Carter administration, I'm going to spend the day trying to make monster faces by applying Scotch tape to my nose and adding Post-It eyeballs to the staple remover so it looks like a viper. That's just what temps do when left alone.

3.) Choose ONE PERSON to tell me what to do. Six people trying to load me down with all their crap jobs that suck the will to live right out of a person means I spend most of the afternoon trying to flush eight months of back-filing down the toilet.

4.) I require a lunch break. A real one. Not the kind where I try to eat a furtive sandwich at the piece of old plasterboard laid across an open filing cabinet drawer that you call a desk while you stare at me like every second I spend eating is stealing money right out of your kids' college fund. Give me space and time and some privacy, please. I don't want to make conversation with you. You earn a lot more money than I do, but believe me when I say that I pity you a lot more than you pity me, and I really don't want to try to explain my lifestyle choices to you. And yes, the "meat" on my sandwich looks odd because it's a veggie-tofu-fungus-wheat gluten thingy, and yes, it tastes very nice, thank you. Feel free to fuck off back to your own desk now.

5.) I leave at 5. I will not work until 5 and then spend 15 minutes "tidying up," chasing your ass down to get you to sign my timesheet, locking up file cabinets and running last-minute errands. The "last minute" that you'll get from me is the one between 4.59 and 5.00. Use it wisely; when it's gone, so am I.

6.) Yes, I am competent! I know, you're stunned that I've managed to master my own native alphabet to the level of being able to file without moving my lips, but please, try to rein in the surprise. Not all temps have an IQ equivalent to, say, a sock or the President. Applauding when I manage to accomplish a simple task like answering a phone will only succeed in pissing me off. And that's when I suddenly forget how.

7.) You are not doing me a favor. I'm doing one for you. I'm helping you out of a tight situation with grace and ability and for less pay than the guy who stocks the snack machine. Expect professionalism and competence -- not gratitude. "Letting" me come back tomorrow to do some other mindless task for little money is why I drink.

I have to say that, by and large, the people I've worked with have been extremely nice and very gracious and almost apologetic when they give me something really awful to do. But there is that odd person now and again who mourns the end of the feudal age and really just wants a scullery maid to terrify and occasionally throw down the back stairs. That's why I keep a guillotine in my car. I'm just saying.

Drama in Real Life (Someone Else's)

2007-12-06T08:10:00.000-08:00

OK, so lately I've re-read Into Thin Air (a bunch of people get trapped and die on Everest), Into the Wild (a kid gets trapped in the Alaskan bush and dies) and Deep Survival (a bunch of people get trapped in a bunch of different situations -- most die). I'm beginning to suspect I may have a ghoulish streak.

Personally, I blame Reader's Digest. My parents used to get their wee magazine when I was a kid, and I would grab it first and squirrel it away until I could read the story about "Man Falls into River from Life Raft, Nearly Dies, Finds God, Survives" or the one where "Woman is in Exploding Airplane, Falls Thousands of Feet, Nearly Dies, Lands in Remote Desert/Jungle/Mountain, Finds God, Survives" or even "Boy Goes Hiking with Family, Gets Lost Finding Place to Pee, Falls from Cliff, Nearly Dies, Finds Dog and God, Survives." Reader's Digest taught me to be ghoulish. It's not my fault.

I don't read a lot of non-fiction, but the stuff I do read (for fun) can pretty much be separated into two camps: (1) survival or lack thereof stories and (2) when a good brain goes bad. Give me a story of someone high on a mountain in a snowstorm with no food, no water, only Panama shorts, a t-shirt and a pair of Converse tennis shoes and incipient frostbite nipping at his nose, and I'll happily curl up on my couch with some popcorn, root beer and a blanket. Tell me about a stroke victim who only eats from the right half of his plate to the middle in a perfectly straight line, and I'm into that book like a survivor into a sleeping bag. Synesthesia, echolalia, hemisphere neglect: bring it on!

So for the last few weeks on the Discover channel (10 pm Tuesdays), they've been showing a group of guys trying to shuffle their way up Everest. Some of the same people tried to make it up last year. They're being guided by a man named Russell Brice -- an experienced mountaineer and guide. Russell, who I believe is from New Zealand, is that odd mixture of ex-Brit Empire polite and restrained and This Is Everest, So Get Your Shit Together old-fashioned tyrant.

Last year, one guy on his team who actually seems a bit of a jackass refused to come down even though he was running too late and too low on oxygen to summit and make it down safely. Russell kept up this running commentary on the radio: "Time to come down now, please turn around, think about coming down, perhaps you ought to consider that whole coming-down-and-not-dying option," blah blah blah. I kept shouting at the TV for him to stop being so polite, for crap's sake. The guy's seriously hypoxic and not able to make rational decisions (his decision-making even when fully oxygenated seems a bit limited, actually) -- it's time to talk to him like a parent to a child. "Turn your ass around and get down here. Now." At one point, Russell even points out the dead guy just to the right of the obstinant climber. Right there. Just to your right. Frozen to the rock and left up there forever or until an avalanche brings him down. Seriously, how much more persuading do you need? Finally, after an hour or more of arguing, the guy turns around and lives to try again in '07. I won't know if he was successful until next Tuesday, dammit!

I can't stand horror movies with all the gore and grossness, and frankly last week's episode of Everest, where there's a dead body at Camp 4, loosely covered with a sleeping pad and his own backpack, was pushing even my limits pretty hard. But I'm fascinated by people who can force themselves to do these things despite all reason, despite the fact that the human body is entirely wrong for this place. Frostbite, HAPE, heart attacks, hypoxia, the fact that your brain cells are exploding like tiny little firecrackers inside your head for every minute you spend above 26,000 feet -- what compels someone to keep going in such a hostile environment? Seriously, people, we have survival instincts for a reason. Your brain cells are dying. You don't replace those, you know. You come off Everest stupider than you were when you got there. You could stay warm at home and binge on alcohol if headaches, nausea and near-death experiences are that important to you.

Anyway, I guess I'm glad people are willing to struggle to hang on to a thin thread of life 120 feet under the surface of the ocean or 29,000 feet above it, and then write about it later so I can be entertained from the comfort of my couch. Human beings have gotten rather arrogant about their ability to survive, forgetting that that survival has a lot more to do with access to things like heat, drinking water and couches with comfy afghans than with our own cleverness or resourcefulness. Maybe that's why I like to read about people who really do test the limits in hostile places: if humans win, then hooray, look how smart and crafty you are (and, by extension, me). If nature wins, then hooray, look how powerful nature is and how it'll triumph even over our concrete, our toxic fumes, our pesticides and smog long after we're gone.

Or maybe I'm just ghoulish. Yeah, that's probably it.

Am I a Writer Yet?

2007-12-06T08:05:00.000-08:00

Must just do a quick plug for myself -- I got a story published in a new literary ezine, woo hoo! If you're interested in reading it (it was briefly published here, so some of you have already seen it: "Boat Weather"), you can check it out here. You have to download a PDF version, then scroll through quite a lot of other stuff (or read it -- that's also an option) to get to mine. Yay!

Obfuscation, Obfuscation, Obfuscation

2007-11-27T08:35:00.000-08:00

I've been doing my fair share of job hunting recently. Except that there's nothing "fair" about it, not in the meaning of "fair" as in "equitable" or "fair" as in "she's a fair lass." Life, we are told from that first slap on the ass onwards, isn't fair. It's not even-steven, and it's not pretty. Lately, I've been thinking about how job hunters (or anyone else aiming to impress) try to even up the score.

We lie.

Really. I tell people all the time that I'm "detail-oriented and highly organized." Please. I'm thinking of having one of those nose-ring things done, just to carry my keys around on. I lose those suckers a minimum of once a day, and I even have a special nifty dragonfly hook next to my door to hang them on. I just can't be bothered to take the 9.7 nanoseconds required to actually hook them on there when my arms are full of groceries, there are hungry cats twisting themselves into knots around my ankles, and I'm already doing the gotta-pee jiggy dance of too much coffee and too little time to off-load it. Highly organized I am not.

But I'll quite happily claim to be organized. I can even fake it, in the short term, as long as no one looks too closely. When I was teaching (ahhhhhhhhh past tense ahhhhhhhhh), I had these massive three-ring binders, several for each level of ESL I taught. They were (ostensibly) separated by themes: health and body, emergencies, the house, school, looking for work, etc. As long as the binder remained closed, I could haul it around, little plastic tags prominently and smugly displayed. Inside, it was a different story. Hell, there could have been anything in there: lost works by Jackson Pollock, Amelia Earhart's final flight plan, that 18 1/2 minutes from the Nixon tapes. Actual, usable lesson plan fodder? Not so much.

I just spent the last hour, for example, trying to find pictures to use for my bio on my NEW WRITING THINGY (warning: shameless self-promotion ahead) at Sustainable Style Foundation. I know I have tons of nifty pictures of me in the blurry distance -- where they are is anyone's guess. I fear I may have to embark on a journey to THE STORAGE CLOSET. I have a storage closet that's been divided in half -- an upper and a lower -- and I have the lower half. It's a great place to put camping gear and the like, as that way my tent and sleeping bag get acclimated to dank, smelly, wet places. It's a graveyard of old spiderwebs full of the bodies of formerly juicy moths, flies, small children, etc.; it is also a hiding place for the spiders who built them and who still scurry around there, looking multi-legged and threatening. I can't stick my hand in any of the boxes without images of gangrenous spider bites spreading up my arm until the doctors tell me they're going to have to remove my neck and just balance my head between my shoulders and whatever you do, don't untie the ribbon!

But I've exhausted all the possible hiding places in my house (and at 450 sq. ft., that doesn't take long), so I'm left with the ridiculous places (that little gullwing-door butter nook in the fridge; under a cat; wrapped in plastic and duct tape and suspended in the toilet tank) or THE STORAGE CLOSET.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Being organized and more into the details than the devil hisself. About that? I lied.

Calling All Bikers

2007-11-15T07:45:00.000-08:00

Unbelievable. I mean, I know Seattle is, by and large, a very polite town. We do things in subtle, quiet ways, we don't make much of a fuss (we leave that to out-of-town visitors to do for us), even our earthquakes do minimal damage.

Now, it seems, even our gang members are trying to "get made" using BBs.

I do not mean to take this lightly. One man, Peter McKay, has a bullet in his lung, and another narrowly missed his aorta and spinal cord. He could have died. The bullets (call them "pellets" if you must, but they were fired from a gun, and in my mind, that makes them bullets) remain in his body -- though he may eventually cough up the one in his lung. Which would be a cool party trick if you could time it right.

Since Mr. McKay's shooting, others have also become targets of, seriously, the lamest couple of sad-act gang-banger wannabe's this side of Comedy Central. Now, I'm not suggesting the red Ford Escort (ride of choice for pimps and bad asses everywhere) boys go out and buy a bazooka or something; I'm saying that there are adequacy issues here that no amount of firepower can cure. I get ads every day on my email for increasing your "size" and "potency." You boys let me know your email addresses, and I'll pass a few along.

Would-be bad boys want us to be afraid of them. Our fear makes them feel powerful. Laughing at their Keystone Cop-esque antics deflates them to their proper size, leaving them flaccid and impotent. Fortunately, these boys provide us with plenty to make fun of.

I think we here in Seattle should organize a "Take Back the Middle of the Afternoon-Slash-Early Evening" walk/jog/ride. Let's all head over to West Seattle, see if we can't locate the BB-gun-toting Rambos. Wouldn't it be rich if a bunch of skinny, no-ass bikers in eye-rattling jerseys of pink and biker yellow got ahold of the tired little fuckers and turned them over to the cops? Before they accidentally ('cause they obviously can't do it on purpose) kill someone.

The Lycra-clad ass you save may be your own.

"North" Means "Up," Right?

2007-11-12T08:25:00.000-08:00

So I'm re-reading this book Deep Survival by Laurence Gonzales. It's really fascinating, actually: stories of people who get into life-and-death situations and why some people freak out and die of hypothermia 20 minutes after wandering too far from the cocktail tent on a beach in Kauai while other people are found 168 days later in an ice cave in the Himalayas under a tent constructed of braided yak hair and coconut fibers, happily gnawing on the shinbone of the pilot.

The thing about reading this book is it's incredibly humbling. Much as I like to think I'm clever enough to survive in the wilds on my own, and as much as I come from a heritage of jerry-rigging (my father once went out to get rid of a break-away bee hive wearing a pie pan on his head and a full-length cheesecloth sari. not one sting), I am a wimp. I freak out when the toilet backs up and I have to pee in the park for three days. Fifteen minutes after sauntering off the path and no more than a holler away from rescue, I'd likely walk through a spider web and, batting furiously at the imagined spider in my hair, blunder over a cliff. My survival skills are limited to knowing how to curl up and cry.

For one thing, I have no sense of direction. As I sit in my apartment now, I know that, sitting at my desk, I am facing roughly south. I know this only because I know that the street outside my window runs north-south, and since Mt. Rainier is that way and not that way, then that way must be south. I require 14,400+ foot-tall landmarks, and they'd better be distinctive. Stand-alone mountains like Rainier work best.

So I can just imagine myself lost in the wilderness, wandering in circles, wondering how long it will be before I have to start brushing my teeth with a twig and learning to like mushrooms and vomiting. And, as those familiar with this blog will know, I'm a wee bit afraid of the dark. At the first sight of lengthening shadows, my mind would automatically start running through every single Stephen King book I've ever read, testing out the scariest scenarios. My brain hates me and would gleefully use every tiny noise of the forest settling in for the night to convince me that I was in the sequel to the Blair Witch Project.

According to Mr. Gonzales, the Australian aborigines have a technique for not getting lost when in unfamiliar territory: they create songlines. They basically make a song out of the directions they take and the landmarks they come across, and in this way, they can go back the same way they came and pass along the directions to others. Singing the forest (or outback or whatever) forces you to be hyper-aware of the world around you. In the Pacific Northwest, for example, a song about "turn left at the Douglas fir and head straight on til the madrona -- the one with the peeling bark" probably isn't going to prove terribly helpful.

In fact, in an environment that grows and changes as quickly as this one, I'm not entirely sure how this sort of mapping would work. "Turn left at the unfurling maidenhair ferns that are growing on the dead log" is only helpful if you make it back while they are still unfurled. And if you don't confuse it with the exactly identical bunches of unfurled maidenhair ferns all over the bleedin' forest. Let's face it. Mother Nature wants you to return what Gonzales calls your "borrowed materials" to the soil ASAP so she can build something new out of you. Preferably something that doesn't drive a car and use a new Ziploc storage bag for each sandwich. So, no help there.

One guy survived 76 days at sea on a rubber raft. When finally "rescued" by a fishing boat, he had fresh water and plenty of strips of dried fish and insisted that the fishing boat go ahead and fish and take him to the hospital at their leisure. Another guy in a similar situation was desperate for water, drank a fair portion of the ocean, went a little nuts and decided to go buy cigarettes at the 7-11. He was understandably surprised when the trip to the corner store ended in his getting eaten by sharks.

I know enough to know that Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs were a stupid idea. Beyond that, I'll be the one trying to make a fire by focusing sunlight through my glasses and onto a small pile of kindling and wood fibers and promptly burning the forest down.

Driver, Move That Bus!

2007-11-07T13:07:00.000-08:00

I think I really freaked someone out today.

So, I was taking the bus from home to the downtown public library (that's where Seattleites go to dribble and shout at dustmotes in the air, if my carrel neighbors are any indication). My bus driver was of the persuasion that thinks the only way his passengers will know he's really making the effort is to drive like Tarzan on crack -- taking corners tire-squealingly fast, aiming for the potholes that are biggest and approaching red lights like a man with a grudge, stomping so hard on the brakes that the back end of the bus accordions up into the front end and the delinquents in the back practically end up on the driver's lap.

To begin with, the driver was eight minutes late to my stop, and when I got on, he hit the gas before I'd had the chance to find a seat. Normally, this doesn't bother me; I have reasonable balance and can find a seat even while moving and chewing gum. Normally, the bus driver isn't trying to set some kind of 0 to 60 record for diesel-powered public transit either. He hit the gas so hard, I pinballed my way down the aisle at break-neck speed and ended up smooshed against the back window like one of those Garfield dolls with the suction feet. Ha bloody frickin' ha.

I unpeeled myself from the inside back window and managed to crawl to a seat next to a nervous-looking little old lady. She was white-knuckling the metal support bar in front of her with one hand while death-gripping her oversized granny purse with the other. I smiled at her as I went to sit down, but of course the driver was aiming for a biker just then, veered to hit him, and dumped me in the old lady's lap. She helpfully bony-elbowed me into the proper position, scowled politely and stared straight ahead in a neighborly we're-all-in-this-together sort of manner.

The bus careened and swooned its way down Jackson towards the downtown, scattering pigeons and elderly Asians as it went. Bags were vibrating themselves off people's laps as we hit crap road surface at teeth-jangling speeds. One guy tried to have a cell-phone conversation, but his head and the hand holding his cell phone were moving at such variable speeds, he looked more like he was trying to shave.

After a particularly jarring thump off a pothole big enough to go spelunking in, I was thoroughly pissed off that this Nascar reject was in control of the bus. "I am going to kill this driver!" I hissed, out loud. (It's hard to hiss silently -- you end up sounding asthmatic.)

Just after I said this and just as I registered my seatmate's intensified look of alarm, I realized I really didn't know the best stop to get off the bus. I banged and clattered my way to the front of the bus, leaping from support pole to handhold, desperately gripping anything that might keep me upright as we slalomed through the city. I really didn't want to distract the driver from his murderous intentions, but I leaned down and asked him the best stop for the library. It appeared we were at it. In fact, we might have been slightly past it. He slammed on his brakes (it required him actually standing up to bring the bus to a stop -- I could just hear him shouting 'Whoa, Nelly!' in his fat, redneck-banded head), and I got off.

As I was stepping down off the bus, I realized how that must have looked to the nervous lady I'd been sitting next to: I make a threat on the driver's life, then immediately head to the front of the bus, whisper something in his ear that causes him to slam on the brakes, and get off. She must have thought she'd narrowly averted being part of some kind of attack. And seriously, considering the depth her bony elbow penetrated my sternum, she really had.

So, Who's Got All the Tat?

2007-11-05T07:28:00.000-08:00

On Saturday night, Toasty and I drove up north to attend the birthday party of his daughter. It was at a martini bar in a hotel -- good food, great cake, excellent company -- and a good time was had by all. We got there at 8 pm (on time; a fact that did not go unnoticed or unremarked) and left around 10 or 10.30, according to Toasty.

The bar wasn't particularly full when we got there, but as the evening progressed, it started to fill up with young people ordering the kind of martinis that would have James Bond projectile vomiting off the side of his yacht. I'm sure they tasted wonderful -- especially the one with the gummy bears on the toothpick where the onion or olives would normally hang out -- but let's just say that these are not your boozy uncle's kind of martini. I generally really dislike gender stereotyping, but these martinis were downright girly. They came in lots of pastel pinks and blues and light yellows and greens, and so many had bits of candy floating in them, I was starting to wonder if perhaps someone had leftover Halloween treats lying around and decided to plunk a handful in with some Malibu and "SoCo" and call it a martini.

The birthday girl chose the place because she used to hang out there when she lived in the area, and the tables were big enough to put a party around, and the food and drink and service were definitely above par. But it was without question the sort of place that would attract a certain kind of sorority girl in droves: "viewing booth" type seating where one could arrange oneself for maximum displayage (not that they needed help, but more on that in a moment), and drinks so pretty they'd look just as colorful and feminine on the way back up as they did in the glass.

And where one finds young, preening girls, one often as not finds young, gawping boys.

So at some point later in the evening, I looked around and noticed that there was an awful lot of ... there's no polite way to say this. But there is a French way: decolletage. In good old, Anglo-Saxon: boobs. They were everywhere. Shirts were cut so low and involved so little material that they were more swatches than actual clothing. At one point someone made mention of the "girl in the red blouse." Toasty turned to look at her and said, "I see some red around the edges. Is that the girl you mean?" Yes, shirts operated as little more than parentheses that night.

And of course, the boys at the bar were being happily pulled in by the sheer gravitational weight of all that abundance. Every time a woman reached down to pick up her purse or retreive a napkin that had fallen on the floor, the swivelling of male heads actually produced a breeze sufficient to blow out the candles on C's birthday cake. Those boys were kids in a mammary shop, trying to figure out how to spend their allowance.

Just behind our table were two of the viewing booths (I swear that the booth backrests actually leaned backward for unnecessary emphasis). One booth was entirely populated by women, each one sporting the kind of rack that gets a moose shot. The other booth was entirely populated by men who must have had blinding headaches the next day from the strain of sneaking peeks and then pretending not to -- all without moving their heads. A line of small clouds was forming at the front where the testosterone and estrogen met.

A friend later said that such display was to be expected at a college bar, but really, this place was less about college and more about collagen. I was in college once, and I really don't remember the sheer volume of cleavage. That's not to say it wasn't there, but I think perhaps it wasn't as gleefully on show.

All I can say is, if it truly is an even exchange of tit for tat, then somewhere in the world there's a bar with enormous piles of tat.

Why is this Book in Your Freezer?

2007-10-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

I think I got eleven minutes of sleep last night. Don't expect this blog to be coherent. Hell, don't even expect me to finish it. At any moment, this text could disintegrate into a line of bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb when my forehead hits the keyboard. You have been disclaimered.

I don't know what's going on, but lately I've turned into the twitchiest would-be sleeper this side of an eleven-year-old staying home alone for the first time on Halloween after an 8-hour Freddie Kruegerathon and a dinner of Ho Hos. Every wee weird noise has me flipping over to turn on the light. This is bad for a couple of reasons: first, I have two cats and therefore quite a few weird noises on any given night, and two, the light on my bedside table has a short in its wiring and is likely to suddenly, heart-stoppingly turn itself off. Which it did twice last night.

The worst, though, is hearing some odd little noise in the house, assuming it was a cat, getting up to check and finding both cats sound asleep on their respective couches, miles from whence the strange sound cometh. I hate that. What's the point of having cats if you can't blame spooky night noises on them? (and yes, Aa., there are plenty of other reasons, so shaddup)

I've lived alone a lot of my adult life, and while I do have an overactive imagination at the best of times, I've mostly been able to stifle it when I need to sleep. I don't watch scary movies unless Toasty's going to be around for awhile, and scary books go in the freezer to stop them oozing out their bad characters like ectoplasm. But it's like I've suddenly regressed into the eight-year-old me who would wake up in the middle of the night, parents and brothers mere feet away, and be certain if I rolled over, a face would be at the side of my bed, looking back at me. (did I mention that overactive imagination?) I used to call for my dad and ask him something banal like what time it was (crucial information for an 8-year-old at 3 in the morning). My dad has always been a light sleeper and could be counted on for comfort, even if it was just to hear a familiar voice say, "It's 3.30. Go back to sleep." Instead of the expected, "It's time for you to die, little girl! hahahahhaahahaha!"

I'm off in a moment to take my asthmatic cat to the vet. I wonder what her inhaler will look like?

Sorry -- bit of a tangent there. Anyway, if you get a phone call at 3.30 in the morning, and a tremulous but rather familiar voice on the other end asks what time it is, just tell me it's OK, there's no such thing as the bogeyman, and that noise I just heard came from one of the cats, don't bother to go check.

Meanwhile, I'm going to buy a new lamp today. Possibly some earplugs.

Less a Street Walker, More a Street Stander

2007-10-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

So in my on-going quest to do every weird job in Seattle, I recently accepted a one-time, please-can-you-bail-me-out-I-need-one-more-body temp gig. My instructions were: "wear a black jacket, black pants (no jeans) a white shirt with a collar and black shoes. Meet this guy at this place and do what he tells you." Ooooookaaaaay.... "Oh, and wear a watch." First off, doesn't everybody know that as soon as they tell you "white shirt, black pants, black jacket" that the job is going to be (a) tedious, (b) uncomfortable and (c) low pay?

Well, I'd just lent my only working watch to my mom, so I left early for the gig (clad in the proper I'm-one-pair-of-sunglasses-short-of-killing-aliens attire) in order to stop at Rite Aid and buy a fancy timepiece. Said $16 timepiece strapped to wrist, I went to the address, only to find that there is no such address. I wandered around for awhile, carrying my little sheet of paper of woefully inadequate instructions (I would soon find out just how inadequate they were) until I happened to ask directions of a guy who knew the guy I was supposed to be meeting. The place where I was sent to isn't exactly a "place" as such. It's actually a wide spot in a tunnel. So, more of an absence of a place than an actual building. As I'm standing awaiting instructions, I see more Men and Women in Black, looking confused and waving inadequate bits of paper at people, so I gesture them over.

Once there are six of us, we are led upstairs. I got a walkie talkie, a clicker-counter thingy, a clipboard and a pen. My job, it seems, will be to stand outside for the next six hours, directing people onto and off of buses.

Hooray.

There's a convention in town, and the convention-goers have a party to go to. Shuttle buses will pick them up at their hotels and take them to the party. My job is to get them onto the right buses and presumably to tame the savage beasts with some singing and tap dancing when the shuttle buses are behind schedule. Then after awhile I'll go to the party and shove the same people --only slightly drunker now-- back onto the buses and send them home.

Six hours. Outside. In late October. Did I mention the inadequate instructions? Yeah, the whole "you'll be outside the whole time" bit was missing. Fortunately, I had worn a jacket. It wasn't warm enough, but it'd prove to be the difference between doing the job with good humor or telling everyone to f*ck off, get on the bus or I'd attach my clipboard to their left nipple and spin it. My black shoes were completely wrong, having high-ish heels and a thin sole, and I would have worn gloves if I had known, but I was in better shape than some of the rest of the Temporary Six who hadn't worn overcoats at all.

The party people were, by and large, in a good humor and didn't mind waiting a bit, the bus drivers were very nice and very professional, and the people I was working with (though I only saw them for a few minutes here and there) regarded the whole thing with the same horrified humor that I did. It was an education conference, so I had some fears of ushering one of my former colleagues onto a bus and having to answer questions like, "So, how's that whole freelance-writer thing working out for you?" but fortunately that didn't happen. There was one woman who just seemed mad at the world and who got a bit mouthy, but I stuffed a passing homeless person in her mouth and that calmed her down.

All in all, it really wasn't a bad evening. It was actually quite good fun most of the time. I got to talk to people and be chatty, which I can do for short periods, especially if I know I'm getting paid at least a little. The people running the event were organized and on the ball and genuinely appreciated having temps with brains and a decent work ethic. And when I headed home at midnight, I got my bus after waiting in no-hoperville (in front of the Benaroya, for those of you who know what I mean) for less than a minute. All in all, a reasonable evening, even though it meant I missed this week's Office.

I wish they'd let me keep the red vest, though. And the clicker.

Press the 9 and I'll Kill You.

2007-10-18T07:02:00.000-07:00

It's Nuclear Toast's fault that I even noticed this. His post about the things that annoy him got me thinking about the things that annoy me, and I came to two conclusions: (1) my list is a whole lot longer than his, and (2) dragging into the light the things that annoy me, annoys me. Add that to your list, bucko.

So yesterday I was in Seattle's interesting but rather unfriendly new downtown library, doing research for some articles I hope someone somewhere will want to pay me for, when I had to make a few photocopies. Why photocopies? Because I was on the 10th floor, in the Seattle history section, and you can't take books out of that area. Fair enough. There's a copy machine right there, I can do that. Except I can't. I have no change, just a $10 bill, and the machine takes only fives and ones. Natch.

"Where can I get change?" I whisper to the librarian.

"First floor," she barks back. Why don't librarians have to whisper? Is it one of the perks of the job that we all have to be quiet but they don't? Damn. Another thing to add to my list.

First floor. I'm on the 10th. This is a busy, big-city library. To do this, I must pack up my laptop, because she's already warned me to take it with me with that "I'm not going to watch it for you, don't even ask" look in her eye. I can't take the book with me to photocopy down there because the books in this section are sacred, and like that episode of Twilight Zone where everyone lives forever as long as they don't leave the town, the book will crumble to dust the moment I go beyond the perimeters of sacred Seattle space. Right.

I close up my many windows (sorry, Windows), shut down my computer, dismantle the whole thing (seriously, shuttle launches involve fewer plugs and pieces), pack it up in my bag and head to the elevator.

When it finally arrives, it's packed. There are at least eight people in there already, but there aren't many elevators in this very large, very busy library, so I shove my way in there, laptop in front of me like a battering ram. I prepare for a lengthy descent. We pass floor 9 without stopping, then 8, then 7. Then it's floor 6, and people are starting to notice. Then it's 5, and someone breaks the cardinal rule of "don't hex a good thing" by saying, "Are we going to make it all the way?" We punch him in the head, gag him and shove him in a corner.

Then it's floor 4, then 3, and the excitement in the elevator is almost too much to take. Are we going to make it? We've all been holding our breath and we let it out and grin at each other as we whiz past floor 2 like we're too good for it.

It's amazing, and put this on my list of "miracles that made my moment," but we went all the way to one without a single stop. Like Willy Wonka's factory, no one got on, and no one got off. Everyone was so excited, that when the doors opened on floor one, we all hesitated a moment, then broke into applause. I doubt any floor of the library has seen a more congenial group of elevator riders as we get off, whooping victoriously and high fiving each other. One guy suggested having t-shirts made that read "I dropped from the 10th floor and didn't die." We traded phone numbers, swore to write often and went our separate ways.

I got my $10 bill transformed into a bunch of smaller bills, then took the elevator back up to 10 for my photocopies. Never again (in the 2 more elevator rides that day) did I make it all the way without stopping. No, that would be asking too much of ThyssenoeusKrupptophanes, ancient Greek god of vertical lifting devices.

But I never will forget that for one shining moment, the gods grinned at me in my puny mission to get change for the photocopier. And all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

Oh, I Don't Think So

2007-10-16T07:11:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a job interview where you knew the job wasn't right, you knew you wouldn't take it if it were offered unless there were some seriously astronomical money attached to it, and still you had to sit there and gut out the interview? No? Well, lemme tell you what it's like.

It's a bad blind date without the benefit of alcohol.

Now, I've had bad blind dates. It is the nature of Internet dating that until you find a Toasty, you have to work through a lot of Milquetoasts. There was the guy who brought along a manila folder full of pictures of his cats. There was the other guy who only wanted to impress me (and not necessarily me, anybody in a girl suit would've worked) with the fact that his play was about to be published, win a Tony, resurrect the dead, whatever. One guy chewed me out for cutting tomatoes (for HIS party!) on his sacred stone kitchen countertops, though I was using a cutting board. (I think he slaughters goats there for his rituals and, to his credit, he was worried about cross-contamination.)

I KNOW from bad dates. But all of these, without exception, involved a drink. Not that I drink a lot, I really don't. Alcohol impairs judgement. Now granted, in order to do anything with these guys, I'd have to have my judgement impaired with a two-by-four, and a couple of cocktails isn't going to turn them into anything more than dry, tasteless, mystery-nugget-laden British Christmas puddings without benefit of being set on fire, but still, I prefer to keep my wits about me.

What was I talking about? Oh right, job interviews.

So I go on one. As ever, on paper, the job sounds pretty good. It has the title I'm looking for, and while it's more of a commute than I want, I'm willing to live with it for the right gig. I get the call at 3.45 on a Friday afternoon. Can I get 25 miles away in fourteen minutes? (I'm kind of a lead-foot, so that wasn't as impossible as it might sound.) I'm actually having lunch with my parents at the opposite end of the world right now, but yes, I can make it. I choke down another forkful of salad, grab the key from my dad and race to their car.

I made it by 4. The interview, which lasted until 5.20, is a bit hazy. The guy I was talking to was so desperately dull, I glazed over like a donut. I remember him rattling on and on about something, but as I sit here, I can't bring up a single topic we discussed. And the office? Plague wards have happier, livelier people in them. I wanted to grab a shovel and start banging heads before they realized they had a warm body in the office and started coming for my brains. The interviewers (there were two) showed me a sample of the "writing" they wanted me to do, and it was like a potential date showing me a photo of the baby deer he'd shot with his nine-ought and skinned himself with a letter opener. There would be no happily-ever-afters here.

I don't know about you, but I get, like, indignant when bad dates think I might want to see them again or even see them until the bottom of this beer. I'm actually insulted that they would think my taste is this bad or I'm this desperate. Now I realize this is ridiculous -- these guys don't think they're so awful that it's insulting to their date to ask to see her again -- but I do get this reaction and I have to struggle to keep it off my face.

It was the same with the interview. They gave me homework for the weekend. Homework! "Take this material and try to duplicate what it is we do; I want it on my desk Monday morning, or it's detention for you, Missy." I acted thrilled to have homework on the last sunny weekend until June. I grasped the papers in my hot little hand like someone might want to snatch them away from me, trilled some goodbyes, and ran the zombie gauntlet out of the office to the safety of my parents' car.

Had this been a Hollywood horror, the car would not have started, and in fact, it didn't. I cursed at it for awhile, sure that the door of the building would open and the walking-dead contents would spill out (slowly, but still . . .) and surround my car, smearing their hands on my window until one of them figured out how to break it, and then they'd drag me out and into the building where I would become one of the shuffling undead. What actually happened was I realized that I was driving my parents' automatic, not my stick shift, and the car was not in park. It took me almost a mile before I stopped saying, "no no no no no way huh uh no" under my breath.

Now, I exaggerate, perhaps. The job likely isn't the horror slick it appeared on the surface, and give me a few more weeks or months of trying to eke out a living as a freelancer, and I'll probably be going around there with my little begging bowl asking for another chance. But I took this leap of faith in order to find work that works for me, if that makes sense. I'm not counting on the "perfect" job, and I'm willing to accept less-than-ideal, just not that much less than ideal.

Somewhere in the ideal-ballpark would be nice.

Hell Temp

2007-10-11T09:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my last day in the shoe section of the Crap Factory. For the past few days, I've been going from meeting to meeting, trying to explain to people the work I've been doing and what next steps they need to take after I'm gone. (They always look terribly sorrowful when they hear I'm leaving; I always act distraught and ready to rend my clothes with grief that I have to go.) So for the last few days I've been the Temp With Nothing To Lose.

It's fun when there are no worries about being fired. I'm the temp who's been there for two whole weeks, and I'm totally running roughshod over the meetings and everyone in them. They graciously allot me an hour to sum up the last two weeks' of extensive work and the next three months' of stuff they'll need to do, and then try to spend the next 54 minutes of my time yakking about bullshit. You wanna yak? Go to Tibet. Hell Temp says work now, babble when I'm gone.

It was great. Everytime someone went off topic, I beat them with information, grabbed them by the hair and dragged them back to the Pertinent Cave. Socialize with someone who likes you, we've got work to do. I was all over the projector, whipping up screens full of necessary information like a crazed shoe-zealot who went to prison and found Sneaker Jesus or something. (Oh Mary, Mother of Espadrilles, hear our prayer). I was Donald Trump minus the comb-over and the penis envy.

Maybe it's working with Junior High School Students, but I suddenly lost all patience for diplomacy in the face of immaturity. I realize that these people must continue working together, and so for them, being polite, reaching for consensus, avoiding conflict -- these things have value. When you've already packed the contents of your desk in your backpack and can literally count the minutes till final departure, then it's hell bent for leather and Katie, bar the doors. "This is what you're going to do," I told them, on the strength of two-weeks' knowledge and experience. "Not that. This. This is what you've been doing wrong all along. This is how I've set you on the path to rightness. Don't screw it up; I'm not coming back to fix it again."

Even the Shoe Fairy couldn't keep up. Now, he was a challenge, but Hell Temp never shirks a good fight. Shoe Fairy is well over 6 feet and has a voice that manages to be simultaneously shrill and booming. That boy goes to 11. That's OK -- Hell Temp goes to 13. We had those flimsy cubicle walls rattling with the sheer force of our dedication to each being louder than the other. Shoe Fairy thinks it's OK to have unisex shoes. Hell Temp disagrees. Hell Temp says it makes sense to have men's shoes in the men's section and women's shoes in the women's section, even if you have to list some shoes twice or thrice, even. Hell Temp doesn't like the "industry convention" of listing men's sizes as the standard and women's as the deviation. It's messy to have a "size 9" and a "women's size 9" in the same size listing, but Hell Temp graciously accedes to having a "Men's 9, Women's 11" which is what she was shooting for in the first place.

I whirlwinded through my last few days like the Tasmanian Devil on meth. I cut through meeting-babble like a hot knife through tofurkey, leaving bodies and bruised egos in my wake. I wasn't deliberately unkind (except for treading on the Shoe Fairy's Weejuns, smoked hickory, Men's size 11), but I brooked no bullshit. And when my replacement arrived, I dumped it all in her lap, apologized for the remaining chaos and headed for the door like Sneaker Jesus himself had ordained it. Hallelujah!

Nothing More Humbling than a How-To

2007-10-11T08:47:00.000-07:00

I was perusing some sites this morning that offer great advice on how to become a professional blogger (don't worry -- I'm not going to ask you to pay for this crap), and one bit of advice I came across over and over again was that One Must Build One's Portfolio. Very well. My portfolio is a little lean on acceptable blogs for job hunting, so, I thought to myself, I'll just quickly cobble together an article or two, toss them into the old 'folio and fling them at target blogjobs.

One sample article should be a "how-to," according to the advice-givers. Fine, I thought. I can do stuff. I'll just sit right down and write myself a set of snazzy instructions on something fun, worthwhile, low-fat and environmentally friendly. It took me almost a full minute before I asked Toasty for help.

Turns out, I don't know how to do ANYTHING. Seriously. I have somehow bumbled along to nearly-40 without mastering a single skill. Now that's impressive. (How-To Survive on the Kindness of Others? No . . . )

I'll write a how-to on climbing! Yes! I refuel my brain juice (coffee), flex my fingers, crack my knuckles, and . . . hmmmm. OK, where to start? Gear? Technique? Terms? I decide to dive in and figure it out later. "So you want to start rock climbing," I type. Ugh. But I soldier on, thoughts of job offers dancing in my head. "First, you'll need a partner." How do you get one of those? "Try posting a notice at your local gym, or failing that, hang out at popular local crags. Unless, of course, you live in a crag-free area like vast portions of the midwest in which case, you're on your own." Not terribly helpful.

I witter on like this for another 150 words or so before giving up. What I really know about climbing is that singing helps when you're scared and never do a double rappel with Ed.

As ever, Toasty comes through in a pinch. He gave me a great idea for a post (which I'm not going to share as I may post it here later), and while it'll require fairly extensive research in order for me to look like I knew how to do this all along, it is at least an idea that'll work.

How to Pick a Fabulous Boyfriend and then Exploit Him for All He's Worth. by me.

Habits

2007-10-05T15:53:00.000-07:00

I've decided to start smoking and tell people I'm trying to give up chewing gum.

Bye Bye, Crap Factory

2007-10-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

Well, so much for my perfect arrangement of "freelance in the morning, work part-time at soul-snatching, life-sucking Crap Factory in the afternoon." The glorious arrangement that allowed me to (pretend to) be an artist without the starving part lasted a total of . . . one day. The Crap Factory giveth and it taketh away. Apparently it was just kiddingeth. They gave me the old "40 Hours or Else" ultimatum, and I told them where they could dunk it. Ok, I actually pretended to hem and haw for 24 hours, I "thought about it," I "gave it serious consideration," and then I sadly, with great reluctance and a private happy dance in the disabled stall, chose "or else."

The decision actually took about 24 nano-seconds, but I wanted to let them down easy.

Seriously, the junior high kids are nice. They offer me bubble gum and candy necklaces and they invite me to sleep-overs and try to trade my veggie burger for the pb&js their moms made them for lunch, and my boss says we're "like, best friends forever!" but as soon as I finish signing all the year books tomorrow, I'm outta there.

There have been great things about the job. Like, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a paycheck soon. And as I'm culling their on-line catalog (that's what I do -- I cull the catalog) I occasionally come across things like the Disney 4-pk High School Musical Panties which cracked me right the heck up there at my stupid desk. Or today's Friggin' Pants. Not just any pants, mind you, but Friggin Chino Pants! Or the Prissy Sandals! Seriously, is no one paying attention but me? Am I alone on this, or are these fucking hilarious?!

But, as Toasty mentioned and DK seconded, the job has been a gold mine for bloggable moments. The other day I decided to take the bus to work. As usual, I was running pretty late, so I quickly made myself a scrambled egg sandwich and raced out the door. I hurried several blocks to the bus (nearly having to do a self-Heimlich at one point when a chunk of egg tried to wrestle its way down my windpipe), jumped on the bus and thought to myself, "Did I turn the stove off?"

I dithered. I called my upstairs neighbor to go check for me, but she wasn't home. I'd have to get off now or the bus would carry me away. No one was around that could help and I wasn't about to enlist poor E. to save me AGAIN. So I got off the bus and hoofed several blocks back to my apartment. (Hey, I have cats. If I leave the stove on, the next thing I know, they'll be stir-frying a tufted tit-mouse in there or something.) I race in the door only to discover that yes, I did actually leave the stove on. I shut off the stove, lock the back door which I've just discovered is open and offer up gratitude to the universe. But now I'm going to be late for work. It's my first day of working part-time, and I REALLY don't want to discuss the fact that I'm running this late to be at work at NOON, just shaddup about it, I know, I know.

Anyway.

The only option now is to ride my bike. It's raining, I don't have time to locate my rain gear and change clothes and pack up the good clothes, blah blah blah, so I just change into my bike shoes, loop one of those goofy velcro thingies around one ankle and take off. Halfway down that giant hill by PacMed/Amazon.com, I discover that my brakes aren't really working very well (translation: not at all) on this wet day, so I do a semi-truck-style-escape-route and duck into the Amazon driveway which is mercifully free of traffic. I scoot up their drive (speed dropping now from world-is-giant-blur to world-is-hazy-plus-my-glasses-are-foggy-and-covered-in-raindrops-which-might-explain-some-of-the-haze), zoom across the front of their building, and rocket out the other side. OK, not the greatest strategy, but I did slow down a little bit, at least. I manage not to broadside any of their shuttle buses, and I'm off and racing down the hill again, this time on the east side. My brakes still aren't gripping too well, but I'm late and don't care anymore. After all, the Crap Factory awaits!

I was 3 minutes late to work. I was dripping, sweaty, red-faced and incoherent, but I was (nearly) on time. Never mind that I nearly splattered myself against the far side of the parking garage because it's a pretty steep ramp to get down there and my brakes STILL haven't dried out. Never mind that I'm soaking from the knees down and my bike shoes make squealing sounds like maybe I store cat toys in them. Never mind that I still have to navigate the three elevators and two escalators it takes me to get to my desk in this building that's more paranoid than a pot addict in a room full of mirrors. As I grumbled and squeaked and dripped my way to my desk, I comforted myself that this was great blog fodder.

I won't miss the job. But I will have to go back to making shit up.

Tea Badging

2007-10-01T07:22:00.000-07:00

So, there I am, first day at my brand-spanking-new temp. job. I'm already feeling those stomach quakes of, "dear god, this is going to suck, what did I let myself in for," but I'm gamely ignoring them for the moment.

After staring at the same spreadsheet for a couple of hours, I decide to wander to the kitchenette area for a cup of tea. (I love how companies give you lousy jobs at crap pay, but the "free tea!" and "free hot water!" are always enthusiastically pointed out on the introductory tour.) I have on my proper plastic ID badge, suspended around my neck by a neon purple string, so that I can move about the company at will, unchallenged. The color of the badge identifies me as a temp, so I can almost feel the smug as I move through the endless, twisty corridors.

After fruitlessly consulting the map on the wall and finally asking directions, I locate the kitchenette and, shortly thereafter, the Free Tea! and Free Hot Water! I make my tea and wander back to my desk. This takes some time. I wish they had Free Sherpas! to guide us around the bloody place -- the layout was apparently designed by an agoraphobe with a grudge.

Back in the office, I stand taking orders from the junior high school student who is nominally my "boss" and will be, until I throw myself off the building. We've been chatting for several minutes before I realize my fingertips have stopped sweating and I can probably take a sip from my tea now. I raise the cup to my lips, only to discover that my badge has been resting in my tea for god-knows-how-long. There is a neon purple bridge between my neck and my cup. Embarrassed, I dunk my badge in and out of my tea a few times and then pretend to squeeze it, trying to make a joke of the stupid thing I've just done.

The junior high school student is horrified.

I am clearly damaging precious company property. I apologetically dab the plastic badge with a napkin (the JHSS has handed me several, plus she's trying to shove an entire box of Kleenex down my shirt) and go test it on the nearest door. No harm done.

It's not like I poured my tea into the DVD slot on my computer or dunked my laptop in it. It's a cheap, plastic badge with an appallingly bad picture on it. I guess it's too much to ask that these people develop an even rudimentary sense of humor about such things. My first thought when I realized my badge was soaking in my tea? This is so going in my blog.

This Cubicle Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us. So I'll Leave.

2007-09-27T22:27:00.001-07:00

OK, I've been in the corporate world for a grand total of . . . . carry the 9 . . . two days. And already there's a major brouhaha a'brewin', and I'm just to the left of the thick of it.

Actually, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me, except that I was sitting at the "temp's desk" (the one with cigarette burns and the drawer that only fits on its runners upside down) waiting to be given an order by someone 2/3rds my age and desperately trying to keep the "I have a Master's Degree so fuck off with your photocopies, thank you" off my face.

I've been in the office for about 11 minutes when in storms a man who embodies every single gay male stereotype we all love to hate, right down to the be-tassled loafers and the lisp. He liberally doused the office with indigation-fueled spittle, literally put his foot down (I've never actually seen anyone do that before, it's an oddly precise gesture), made several squealing noises and hit someone with his purse before storming back out again.

I work in shoes.

Not literally in shoes, although I am wearing a pair at work, but I mean I'm working in the shoe department. I had to sheepishly admit today that I have no idea what "espadrilles" are and whether or not a Croc (sp?) qualifies as a "loafer" or a "slide." When I was 10, I knew what a slide was. Now I come to find out I was mistaken. My world fails to crumble.

But back to the drama. There was some hissing of the sort that tells you that somewhere nearby there's a Japanese person who's very very angry. Office drama is kind of funny, though, because the normal weapons of conflict are missing or inappropriate. You can't slam a door when you're exiting a cubicle, or you're liable to bring the entire rabbit warren down in a sort of cheap, tweedy domino effect, cubicle walls bouncing off the shiny, sweaty heads of middle management. You can't shout because then other people will know the actual terms of the debate rather than the hastily whispered, hugely apocryphal water-cooler version. You can't throw things because, hey, we're all professionals here; I'll just bad-mouth you to Suzy during recess instead.

I've been in academia a long time. I don't want anyone to get the idea that there are no dramas there; there are plenty of dramas. It's just that teachers, particularly part-time college teachers, rarely see each other except when our breaks happen to coincide or at once-a-quarter staff meetings where we all ignore the boss and pass notes about each other. Our dramas always happened, therefore, in super slo-mo, and by the time we got around to the next opportunity to snipe at each other, we'd all forgotten what the incident was about and whose turn it was.

So what will I do for drama if I actually manage to get this freelance writer career thing going? I suppose I could tell one cat lies about the other, but that has limited traction. They usually gang up on me, playing turd football in the living room while I'm trying to concentrate. I suck at turd football, and they know it. They always pick me last.

In case you're wondering how the story of the livid shoe fairy turned out, well, it's not over yet. Like a daytime soap opera, story lines at the office rarely come to a conclusion, they just morph into new story lines. By tomorrow he'll likely be falsely accused of murder shortly before discovering that he's really a prince of some tiny island nation which is actually filmed on a back lot somewhere in Hollywood, and his despotic twin brother will come to the office to kill him but he'll accidentally kill some nameless, innocent bystander who's incidental to the soap opera and therefore disposable. Someone like. . . .

Shit. The temp.

Sugar and Spice and Sensible Shoes

2007-09-24T07:37:00.000-07:00

So some very good friends of mine lent me the DVDs of The L Word. Toasty and I curled up on the couch this weekend and watched the pilot episode (1 & 2) and episode 3. So far I like it, although there are so many women in it that we're going through that whole "getting to know you phase" of having to ask each other, "now, is that the one who's trying to get pregnant?" and "hang on, I thought the curly haired one was the sister of the dark-haired one?" And it's a bit like coming in on a conversation in progress. There are already dramas and histories in play here, and I have to figure out why the sisters are mad at each other and the tennis player is such a flaming neurotic. Obviously, I don't have their names mastered yet (except Shane, whose name comes up about every eleven seconds), but it's refreshing not to be able to designate any particular woman just by saying that "she's the lesbian."

So in episode 3 (and watch out -- spoiler coming) the neurotic tennis player finds herself attracted to the sous chef at her club. The sous chef is a woman, naturally, and so begins the mystery: is she or isn't she?

(A little side note here on generational differences: I can't imagine my mom asking herself, now, before I get into all this, is George straight or gay?)

Friends of the tennis player agree to help and secretly put the suspect sous chef through a whole range of tests, checking her fingernails, her shoes, her walk. Said sous chef comes down pretty firmly . . . on the fence. She's not androgynous or secretive or anything like that, she's simply not giving anything away. It was pretty funny hearing them run through the list of things I would assume were sort of offensive stereotypes: short hair, trimmed fingernails, the ever-popular sensible shoes. So I couldn't help but wonder where I'd fall on the Straight <----->Lesbian spectrum of social clues.

I realize that Toasty is a bit of a give-away, but without him in the picture, how good would I be at deflecting gaydar?

I have short, often ragged fingernails (I'm a rock climber, and I wear contacts and don't enjoy poking my own stupid eye out). I rarely wear skirts or dresses, mostly because my lifestyle and my job don't require them. I have long hair (one for the "straight" column). On the show, they "tested" the sous chef by kissing in front of her. She didn't flinch, but neither did she stare. Now, this one I kind of object to. I find all excessive PDA uncomfortable, straight or gay. I don't flinch (usually), but neither do I stare. It seems unfair to me to assume that anyone who flinches is doing so from homophobia rather than just from being -- like so many of us -- awkward around tongue-wrestling couples of any description. Anyway, I am not polished or fashionable or particularly concerned about my hair or my makeup. Sorry, Toasty. If we're speaking in stereotypes here, I'm looking a little lezzy.

But I'm really interested in what this says about straight women and lesbian women. We're very quick to categorize, mainly, I think, because we're too lazy or scared to find out the truth through, oh, I don't know, actual human interaction. If you're really so desperate to find out information about a person -- straight or gay, liberal or fatheaded, rich, poor, smart or stupid -- it is possible to do this novel thing called "getting to know someone." If I'm that curious about a person, then I should ask. It's time to stop being so sensitive about labels. It's not an insult to call someone a lesbian, so why should it be awkward to ask them if they are?

And yet it is. Asking a stranger outright about their sexual orientation (I love that -- it makes it sound like we're all running around in the woods looking for flags that say "straight" or "gay") would brand me instantly suspicious. What are my motives for asking? Do I want to eliminate them as a friend, employee, partner, living human being?

I liked the way the show dealt with the question. The sous chef knew she was under scrutiny, so she put all doubts to rest by shoving the tennis player against the lockers and giving her a kiss that ended the debate. (Of course she was a lesbian -- in this section of LA, they're all lesbians, and the straight women are a little thin on the ground.) While I prefer my own "getting to know you" activities to involve a little more conversation prior to the locker-shoving, lip-chapping tongue-lock (and FYI, folks, not all my getting-to-know-you conversations lead to that), it was cute and funny and sweet in a rather aggressive sort of way.

So, there you go. When it comes right down to it, we're all still using the same old set of tired social cues to determine whether or not someone's worth getting to know. But at least we're now aware of our tired social cues and looking to expand the lists a little.

And speaking of gaydar, I knew she was a lesbian back when she was still excited about her yogurt.

I Don't Care What Color My *&#%ing Parachute Is

2007-09-18T20:12:00.000-07:00

As long as the damn thing opens.

So, last week I did one of those half-brave, half-stupid things about which epic ballads are never written. I quit my jobs. All of them.

On the strength of several people telling me I have a modicum of writing talent (not all of them related to me or friends with me or owing me money), I gave up both my day jobs and my night job. It's Wednesday of the first week of being gainfully unemployed, and I'm starting to panic.

While being without a steady source of income is something of a family tradition, I'm not terribly comfortable with it. I make fun of my wee little cave, but that doesn't mean I want to lose it. I'd suck as a homeless person. Remember the toilet incident and the subsequent I-can't-believe-I-have-to-pee-in-the-park meltdown? Now try to imagine me carrying around all my earthly belongings, my two fat cats, and trying to find a place to plug in my electric toothbrush that also has WiFi. It just wouldn't work. And what would Chase Manhattan do with my cave, anyway? Open up a very tiny, very dark, very cramped Beacon Hill branch?

So I'm feeling a bit stressed. Stress is a funny thing. It's a bit like having an annoying roommate of the kind that sneaks up behind you and jabs you in the ribs when you were having an otherwise very nice afternoon. It lurks around dark corners and hides in the "balance" column of my checking account keeping-track thingy. It makes me hungry, then totally puts me off my food, and it turns me into a snapping turtle every time poor Toasty fails to be appropriately sympathetic.

Tonight stress made me go for a run. Actually, I made me go for a run, because I like to think of myself as the kind of person who, when stressed, does something like jogging. This fantasy version of myself is at constant war with my real self who wants to put on her jim jams and fold up on the couch, weeping into a mutantly oversized bowl of popcorn.

But, if I tally up the pros and cons, the yays and the boos, in the end I'm still coming out ahead. I won't be commuting this fall, which means I can put my rabid, mouth-frothing, screaming, cursing but still admirably articulate driver-self on hold for the time being. I won't be teaching, which means I'll probably like people generally a whole lot better. I'll be able to spend more time with the people I care about, maybe even go jogging from time to time.

And who knows? I might just end up with the job that was worth getting all stressed out for.

Putting the Tic in Domestic

2007-09-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

My cousin and his girlfriend are coming up for a weekend visit. You can tell that I like these people because I'm cleaning my apartment.

I don't clean. Occasionally I get these mad fits of tidying where I scurry around tucking the debris of my life into convenient holes, but mostly I live in a fairly generous mess. I don't mind it too much; it's the nature of living a rather over-sized life in an under-sized space. (By "over-sized" I mean that I have enough gear to outfit the 2010 Olympics, if they don't mind sharing.) But sometimes the mess gets to me.

When I have to move my ski boots and the huge Tupperware container that holds my scuba gear in order to clean out the cat box (oh yeah, and roll the bike over to the other side of the room), I start to get annoyed. As puffs of cat hair waft up around me, leaving me the center of a swirl of tiny, black, furry clouds, I contemplate getting the girls laminated. I do not understand the mute attraction of toothpaste and reflective surfaces and how my bathroom mirror can be clean one moment and look like the ground at Madison Square Garden after New Year's the next. Why do furballs congregate under the table legs? Why are cats only sick on absorbent surfaces?

Every time I have to shove several somethings out of the way to get to the something I was going for, I contemplate moving. I have to fight my way to the shoe section of my closet each morning, not because I have so many clothes, but because it is very nearly the only storage space I have. It becomes easier to just leave the shoes out of the closet: running shoes in the bathtub (they're dirty, it make sense), bike shoes to the right of the couch; boots to the left. My flip flops near the back door for easy access when feeding the guest cat. Slippers wherever I last left them. My living room is a shoe slalom.

The worst is the paperwork. I bloody hate paper. Piles of the stuff are heaped up everywhere. I never know when it's OK to throw something away. I've had this light bill since 1997; I've moved four times since then. Am I allowed to throw it away? Must I shred it, since it has my name and my address-four-times-removed on it? I have a shredder, but it's "home style," which means it can just about hack its way through a receipt from Safeway, but ask it to shred actual paper and it chokes and whines and coughs through it before spitting out a paper that's not so much shredded as neatly creased along vertical lines.

And don't get me started on "environmentally friendly" cleaning products. Now, I'm a dedicated greenie with the bike scabs to prove it, but seriously, people, this stuff is crap. It's "environmentally safe" because it's water. Yes, it is "safe:" grit, goo, sticky patches, unidentifiable bits of crunchy matter have nothing to fear from this stuff. I spray it on, liberally dousing whatever alien substance has landed on my countertop, give it a second or two, then pass a rag right over the top of it. The cleaner doesn't even penetrate the top layer. I douse it again, thinking, generously, that perhaps I missed. Perhaps I was unable to spray accurately from a three-inch distance. The goo is not only undaunted, it is downright smug. It's a barnacle that I'm trying to loosen with Silly Putty. I keep the green products around only to maintain my environmentalist credentials, but when no one's looking, I bring out the stuff with the skulls and crossbones, the stuff that smokes a little when you open the lid, the stuff that requires gloves and a mask, if not a full-on hazmat suit, the stuff that says "use only in an adequately ventilated space." It cuts a wide, vicious swath through the dirt (and possibly the top layer of the surface I'm cleaning). It is the scorched-earth policy in the domestic War on Counter Nubbins.

My cousin just called and is on his way. This is unfortunate. When I clean, I take breaks. I have to. The label on the cleaning fluid says so. My last break was about 30 minutes, meaning I'm 30 minutes behind in my cleaning. So please excuse me while I find some empty places to shove shit into.

"Cultural Traditions" We Can All Do Without

2007-09-11T06:47:00.000-07:00

1. harpooning whales
2. infanticide of females
3. ritual circumcision of either gender
4. suttee
5. burkhas
6. hazing

Why do we have this idea that because something has been done for hundreds or thousands of years, that that automatically makes it acceptable? There are so many bad behaviors that hide under the title of "tradition," safe from scrutiny and utterly immune to change.

This is by no means a complete list, it's just what I can think of right now, a few minutes after an NPR report on five testosterone-poisoned sons of bitches who went out and tortured and killed a gray whale, calling it their "cultural tradition," as if that somehow made it worthy of our respect or at least our tolerance.

Fat chance, fuckers. There are lots of evil behaviors in every culture that must be wiped out. Cultural blindspots happen, but when they are finally nudged into our line of vision, it's time to look closely and see what it is we're thoughtlessly preserving. Is it worthy of our efforts to hold onto it? If not, it's time to let it go.

To contact the responsible tribe and make your anger known, here's the contact information.

Makah Tribal Council
PO Box 115
Neah Bay, Wa
(360) 645-2201
makah@centurytel.net

Even My Mother Thinks I Should Sell Myself

2007-09-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I've been job-hunting, pretty seriously, since about mid-January. I've written dozens of cover letters, each intended to be the definitive statement on Me and Why I'm Wonderful, each more an apologetic "sorry to make you read this, but I'm looking for a job would you mind reading it, so sorry, thank you." Obviously, I have yet to master the fine art of Selling Myself.

If these were the old, pre-tech days, I'd have a trash can full and overflowing with wadded-up rejects. I tried the humorous approach ("I am an editor who can ferret out mistakes like a pet up a pantleg"); I tried the ultra-professional angle ("I am highly intolerant of errors and vigilant in maintaining voice and message"). I went with conversational and friendly ("I'd love to join the staff of your nature magazine and be a writer of environmental wrongs!") And I briefly considered employing guilt ("I went to school for six years and all I got was this lousy temp job.") I am now bordering on the desperate ("My mother thinks I'm smart.") The whole thing has me so stressed out, I'm actually dreaming about zombies. Zombies. Who dreams about zombies, for crying out loud? It's not like anyone actually wants my brain, for eating or otherwise.

It's not that I truly think I'm pathetic and have nothing to offer. On the contrary, I probably have a little too much faith in myself (blame my most excellent friends who give me so much praise I'm lucky I can lever my bloated head through the front door of the Pub). Perhaps I am aiming a bit high, jobwise. But I also witness sub-standard writing a million times a day: poor grammar, terrible spelling, a complete inability to put a cohesive sentence together. And that's from the president!

So it's back to the drawing board for me. Back to lists of "power words!" (developed rather than did; facilitated over helped; consolidated in place of put together in a big pile; allocated instead of stuck an underling with because I'm too lazy to do myself). Back to deciding between the assertive "Thank you for your time; I'll call next week to arrange an interview" and the modest, "Thank you for your time; I look forward to hearing from you soon" when in fact what I really mean is, "I can do the effing writing job, note the accurate use of semi-colons; call me as soon as you get this, and let's talk compensation" (rather than money).

Wish me luck. Or advocate an expedited, successful resolution. Whatever.

Silent Knight Wholly Crappy Night

2007-09-06T19:03:00.000-07:00

My fire alarm is trying to kill me. Or at least it's trying to get me fired.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the fire alarm supposed to help people? I mean, at the very least, isn't it supposed to sit there quietly, minding its own business, until there's something to get worked up about, like, say, a fire? Either the fire alarm system in this building has been planted by nefarious Republican sympathizers who don't like me blog-sniping at Bush et al, or it really thinks firemen are cute.

Three times last week my fire alarm system got lonely and bored and called the fire department to entertain itself. It did this Victorian romance-heroine swooning thing, all helpless and save-me, save-me. If it had eyelashes, it would be batting them; if it had a bosom, it would be heaving. My fire alarm has a thing for men in uniform, and it knows how to bring them around in numbers.

So, as the firemen got crabbier and crabbier about being dragged over in full battle-regalia just to push the "reset" button, we called in the alarm people, and they fixed it. . . . .

Or did they?

This morning, 3.30 a.m., the beast awakens again. And this is where it's really clever: it doesn't do the full-on klaxons blaring, lights flashing, we're-all-going-to-die floor show, it just starts beeping. Shrilly. Just beyond my bedroom door.

I am a bad sleeper. I've never been good at it. It's fortunate I didn't go to kindergarten because I would have flunked Napping for sure. I wake up easily and frequently and can count on one hand the number of times in my adult life that I've slept clear through the night. I fall asleep easily, but staying there is the hard part.

So when the fire alarm starts bitching, I leap from bed and race to my front door. (Beebee, the dumber of my cats, does her usual self-preservation thing of diving under the bed and heading for the center.) The fire alarm box is in the front hallway, just beyond my bedroom wall. There's no smoke, no heat, no flames, no nothing, just a screeching alarm box. The words flashing across its screen are "failure . . . . information lost." Well, hell, I forget things too, but that doesn't mean I call in the cavalry.

I stand at the front door, waiting for the firemen to arrive. They don't. No one is disturbed by the alarm but me -- no heads poke out of doors, no one comes out, rubbing sleep from their eyes, ready to leap into action and help me shut the bloody thing up. I am alone with this shrill, beeping, Alzheimer'd horror of an alarm system.

After half an hour of wrapping a pillow around my head (right up there with writing a protest letter to the government and sending out my resume for favorite acts of futility), I get fed up and go back out to get a phone number so I can call the alarm people. There are no phone numbers. There are no names. Nothing. But, in a great burst of unintended irony, I discover that the brand name of the system is . . . wait for it . . . "Silent Knight." This makes me laugh out loud, though my upper lip is so curled with disgust I nearly sprain something.

Back inside, I look up Silent Knight in the phonebook. There's a number, so I call it. It takes a couple of tries for the call to go through, but finally I reach this poor guy who was obviously asleep. I feel bad, but it passes. He patches me through to the monitoring service who put me on hold for about fifteen minutes and then hang up on me. I feel much safer: I have an alarm that goes off for no apparent reason and a monitoring service that can't be bothered to monitor. This happens twice. I give up and wrap the pillow around my head again.

Finally, at 4.45 a.m., the fire department shows up. It's the whole dog-and-pony show again as they pull up with two (2) trucks, trudge in with all their gear and oxygen tanks, and almost immediately trudge back out again. This alarm malfunction, they say, is beyond their control. Even pressing the almighty, all-powerful Reset Button is not going to work. Not this time. To bring back the peace and restore sanity to the land of Condominiuma, we must seek to find . . . the Code. Seven digits which, when typed in in proper order, will save us all. The tromping of pissed-off firefighters has finally alerted the rest of the building to the fact that Something Is Going On (though it's really Nothing At All), and the guy from the top floor arrives.

He is the Keeper of the Code.

But -- he doesn't know where It is.

In a move similar to ducking under a desk during a nuclear attack, I wrap my pillow around my head again and try to survive. Ok, that's really nothing at all like desk + holocaust, but at 5 a.m., it kinda feels like it. I now have a gonzo whopper of a headache, and I'm supposed to be at a new job in Bellevue by 8.15 (don't get excited, it was just a temp. job). The top floor guy apparently undertakes a Quest for the Code, because about 45 minutes later, the beeping mercifully stops. I manage to drop off to sleep a full and restful 45 minutes before my alarm is due to go off. The alarm I set. The one that goes off when it's told to. I'm considering taking my bedside alarm out into the hallway and having it give the fire alarm a good talking-to.

I made it to the temp. job on time and managed to ingest enough liquid sleep in the form of coffee to survive the day. But the next time the firemen show up for no other reason than because my fire alarm is bored, I'm gonna have to borrow the ax.

Another One Bites the Dust

2007-08-27T07:30:00.001-07:00

(Thanks to All Hat No Cattle for this unauthorized use of their picture.)

It's bye bye, Bertie, and it couldn't happen to a more deserving guy. With Karl Rove also exiting, one gets the mental image of rats scurrying off a ship that is not only sinking but making that giant sucking sound as it goes under.

The Life Outside My Door

2007-08-16T09:23:00.001-07:00

Those who know me at all know I'm a critter person. Finned, feathered or furry, I love 'em all. (I'm not crazy about the multi-legged, antennae'd crowd, but I'm working on it.) My friend E. calls me "Jim" from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, and to a certain extent, she's right. It can have fangs flashing, hackles raised, deep-throated growling going on, but if it's furry, finned or feathered, I'll likely try to make friends with it. And since I still have all my fingers (attached -- not, like, in a jar next to the bed), I reckon I've been pretty successful so far.

I dig critters. I can't help it. Some people are addicted to gambling. Some people have this deep biological need to spawn. Some people live in Springfield, Illinois. There are lots of inexplicable behaviors out there -- this is mine.

When I was 19, I gave up eating critters because I just couldn't do it anymore. The Donner party may have started in my home town, but I, for one, don't eat my friends.

But everything, and I mean everything, eats cat food. Who knew? It must be like manna from heaven, this stuff, because it's rare that I walk by my backdoor and there isn't something out there, face down in the bowl I leave out for my "guest cat," Siam. And after dark, it's even crazier. I have now learned to recognize the different crunching sounds made by cats, raccoons and opossums. (The stellar jays don't chew, so them I recognize when I hear what sounds like a herd of old ladies bitching about the service.)

My cats -- the indoor-only ones -- love to sit, perfectly safe, inside the gated back door and stick their perfectly safe tongues out at the raccoons. The raccoons, when finished with all the cat food, wrap their tiny little hands around my gate like prisoners who have been extraordinarily rendered to my back door. They can usually wheedle a second scoop of Purina for their efforts.

I try not to feed the critters too much. I don't want them to get dependent on me (except for Siam, who has a disability and can eat at my door as long as she needs), and I don't know if cat food fulfills all their nutritional needs. It's a little like Halloween, actually; they come around with their masks and knock politely, and I give them some treats and warn them to be careful and look both ways if they're planning to cross a street any time soon.

Hey, if you were that cute, I'd give you cat food too.

Rove Goes!

2007-08-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

Karl Rove is set to resign by the end of August, so the race to destroy what little of America's democracy is left is on.

Apparently, and I know this is going to come as a shock, Rove is resigning to spend more time with his family. As excuses go, this one is thinner and less credible than Posh Spice. I realize it sounds better than, "I'm hoping the Democrats won't try to indict me on my many crimes, so I'm hightailing it to some island with an inbred, drooling, monkey-faced monarch I can manipulate and without an extradition treaty," and since when has Karl Rove ever opted for the truth? He leaves office as his entered it: with a smug smile on his face, a ready lie on his lips, and George W. Bush's testicles still firmly gripped in his white, doughy, fat little hands.

I'll celebrate anyway.

I'll celebrate even though his resignation will be as meaningless as his pledge to support the Constitution. I'll celebrate despite the fact that he'll still have a white-knuckled grip on the reins of power, and the Dems in Congress have so far proved unable or unwilling to undo the vast damage he has done. Why the yippees and the confetti?

Executive privelege. Civilians don't have it.

It'll be interesting to see if the Dems. have the will to go after Rove. Everybody knows the man is evil and his plan to attack Iraq was probably hatched over a bubbling cauldren of boiled virgins. Just because the "architect" of this murderous, misbegotten house of cards is resigning doesn't mean he's no longer responsible for what he set in motion.

Rove isn't going to sit quietly in Ingram, Texas, after all; he'll be on the phone daily, issuing orders, making threats, leaking names. It's time to hold the man accountable, and if he won't obey subpoenas, then we send an officer of the law to go get him. Yes, he's going to stick his tongue out and go "nyah nyah nyah" and try to hide behind the White House and executive privelege, but he's an ordinary citizen, despite the horns and pointy tail. Go get the bastard and put him in jail, if he won't comply. We have the power and the authority. If you have to wait until September 1st to get him out from behind Cheney's skirts, then fine. We've waited through 6 1/2 endless years; we can do another 18 days standing on our heads.

So, as Karl Rove emerges from the White House, head covered to avoid direct sunlight, we will begin hearing the voices which will no doubt be raised in nauseating praise of his commitment, his loyalty, his unwavering determination to support George W. in all his nefarious schemes. As he joins the swelling ranks of former Bush MisAdministration officials, he will be lauded by the last remaining neocons as a true patriot, a genius, a warrior.

Stomach-churning though that praise will be, we'll get through it with our eyes on the prize: he's leaving. And that's got to be good.

Now, who has Dog the Bounty Hunter's phone number?

Smoked by an Angel

2007-08-07T22:14:00.000-07:00

OK, so have you ever pointed to a thick trail of smoke in the sky and said, "That's my smoke right there. That smoke's for me"? I'll bet not. I have. And here's why:

On Saturday, BF Toasty and I had planned to ride our bikes to the I-90 bridge to watch the Blue Angels do their annual thing of buzzing around noisily and generally being REALLY FRICKIN' COOL. Now, I'm as anti-militaristic as they come, and generally people in uniform had better be bringing me my mail or otherwise effing off, but I love the Angels. Can't help it. The noise, the speed, I love it. I would love it less if they were dropping bombs on my house rather than flying really really close together to impress me with how really really close they can get without whacking each other out of the sky, but there you are. So far so good.

Anyway, Toasty had stuffed his oversized bike into his car, and now the two were more thoroughly joined than a pair of amorous weimaraners.(fahrfegnugen!) He did a lot of tugging, I considered throwing a bucket of cold water on them, and by the time he got them apart, the Angels were already in the air. Too late to bike to our usual vantage point, we opted for cold drinks on the roof of my building.

I live on Beacon Hill, and my building has a sweet open rooftop deck from whence one might at least see the Blue Angels turn around. (It has to be a pretty nifty piece of machinery for me to be excited to see it turn around, for crying out loud.) So we stood and watched the Angels make a cul-de-sac out of a bit of sky over our heads.

At one point, the formation of four looped out from the lake, made a giant U-ey out of Elliot Bay, then headed back, my building dead ahead. They were coming straight at us, and me being the major Angel-hag, I started jumping up and down and waving. And then. Oh, then. Just as they came at us, the number four guy at the bottom of the diamond shot us a second's worth of smoke.

There's no smoke like Angel smoke, baby.

So, to the pilot in jet #4, the guy who would be playing 2nd base if this were a baseball diamond tipped up at home plate, thanks for the hello, Blue Angel style. You have no idea how you made my day.

Pen Snob

2007-08-03T08:21:00.000-07:00

a Westminster Teal by Conway Stewart. One of only 100 made in the model of the original pen.

OK, and I don't really want an answer to this question, but what does it say about me that I have a "loaner" pen? I realized this the other day when one of my students asked to borrow a pen. I brought out my cheap Japanese pencil case (which I NEED -- it keeps the pens from stabbing holes in my pricey, posey, Timbuktu I'm-a-biker bag so just shut the heck up), dug through the pens in there, and was genuinely relieved to discover that I had a loaner.

The loaner, just like at the auto shop, is the crappy one. It's your basic narrow-barrelled ballpoint snoozer pen. It has no character, no vibrancy, it's just a pen, and I likely stole it from some place dull like a bank or one of my many schools. It may write perfectly well for years and years, or it may inexplicably stop writing in the middle of the next sentence. "Inexplicably" because you can't see the ink cartridge inside it, and you can't exchange it for another. It is, above all else, disposable.

The other pens in my case are these: a fabulous ultra-fine-tip marker bought at a Japanese store in Alderwood Mall. (My Japanese students always have the best pens.) I have a disposable fountain pen which I use only sparingly because of its transient nature. I have a mechanical pencil that uses the finest lead. You know the kind -- you look at it too hard and the lead snaps and puts out the eye of a boy across the room. These are not loaners, so don't even ask.

OK, even I acknowledge that my attachment to my writing instruments borders on the obsessive, but let me ask you this: what do you have that you won't loan out? Bloggers, let me hear it. Commentors, you too.

Incidentally, my loaner pen, the one I handed over to the kid in my class on Monday, never came back. Today's Friday. Having a spare loaner means I don't have to hunt the kid down and snap pencil lead in his eye.

Butt of Course

2007-07-20T11:47:00.000-07:00

Bush to have colonoscopy at Camp David

Millions plead with doctors to locate and remove:

1. Bush's brain
2. John McCain's nose

Open Letter to Michael Vick

2007-07-18T10:27:00.000-07:00

You don't just deserve suspension from the NFL. You don't just deserve jail time in the decades and fees in the 7 digits. You deserve a baseball bat to the side of the head. Repeatedly.

I'm not ordinarily an advocate of violence, but your behavior puts you right at the top of my People Who Desperately Need Six Kinds of Shit Kicked Out of Them, momentarily displacing Dick Cheney, which is a feat.

I sincerely hope that your professional life is over and that one day I see snaking pickles out of my toilet. I've got a bathtub and a toaster with your name on them.

For No Particular Reason

2007-07-18T09:31:00.000-07:00

Was reading on Bladio Blogio a list of things which make her feel better on a slow-moving Monday. As I'm having a drag-your-feet Wednesday, I thought I might post up a picture that makes me laugh.

This is Beebs. Her name is actually Blackberry, but I doubt she's ever heard anyone call her that. She's always been Beebee or The Beebs. I call her my cheerleader cat -- cute, but a little ditsy and not the sharpest claw on the paw. If she had gone to high school, she would likely have been voted Most Likely to Be Startled by Sunrise. But she knows the value of a sunlit belly, and that's no small thing. (and neither is her belly, but she is on a diet)

Too Much Sex

2007-07-16T07:30:00.000-07:00

in the City.

I told myself that I would never watch that show. Much as I like SJP, Sex is all about shopping and being fabulous, and I'm just not that kind of girl. The most expensive pair of shoes in my closet is by far my rock climbing shoes, and when shopping, I'm far more likely to resemble cartoon Cathy than glamorous Carrie, minus the shrieking. I'm more of a whimperer.

But I'm on NetFlix now (where all the cool kids hang out), and as my very dear friend E. is a big fan, I thought I'd give the show a shot. And in time, I did get hooked. I don't know these women or anyone like them, so it was a bit like watching gorgeous, exotic, tropical fish in a swanky, Manhattanesque aquarium: I stared from the outside, fascinated and a little seasick.

I suppose it's inevitable that just about any woman watching is going to wonder where she fits into the line-up. Am I most like wild and crazy Samantha? romantic and prudish Charlotte? silly and self-destructive Carrie? Sadly, I think I most resemble driven, cynical Miranda, only without her optimism and zest for life.

Ultimately, I am none of these women, nor would I want to spend much time with them in real life. If I had an extra $500, I'm about as likely to spend it on a donation to the Republican National Committee as I am to spend it on a pair of Manolo Blahniks (seriously, WTF? I don't get the idea of miniature boas for my feet -- my toes just aren't campy and fabulous enough to get away with it). $500 is most of the way to plane tickets for two to San Fran. or a dive computer.

So as I'm watching the umpty-umpth episode and trying NOT to see anyone's tits (was that just a ruse to get boyfriends to watch quietly with their girlfriends, 'cause I can't think of a good reason to make a predominantly female audience stare down yet another pair of tits every episode), I couldn't help but wonder:

Are they ever going to bring Arrested Development back?

Oh. My. God.

2007-07-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

So, this was family reunion weekend. My father's family does this massive hug-eat-chat-eat-play games-eat-chat-eat-repeat thing once every three years or so. Now some of you may be flinching already, but I actually have a really fun family, and I look forward to these reunion things. My dad has six brothers and sisters, so I have lots of cousins and second cousins and etceteras that are very fun to hang out with, provided we steer clear of discussions involving politics and religion. If you've read my blog, you may realize that these are topics I find interesting and engaging, so steering clear is tricky. However, feeling obliged to bitchslap my otherwise-much-loved uncle across the potato salad is an impulse I could do without. So we play round after round of Oh Heck and throw horseshoes and go for walks and overeat with our kith and kin (well, maybe not our kith – we don’t like them) and generally have a merry ol' time. There are, unfortunately, a few bugs in this system.

And I mean bugs. We were staying at a very nifty YMCA camp in Montana, sleeping in bunks either in the main lodge (where I was) or in cabins. Sometime in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I felt a weird scrabbling sort of something going on in the left ear-ish area. I had the very unpleasant feeling that something had just taken up lodgings in my ear. There were thrummings and drummings and possibly the cast of RiverDance in rehearsal, but I put it down to swimmers' ear (despite my not having been near water except to shower) and tried to go back to sleep.

The next morning, there were still periods of vibration against my left ear drum. I kept shaking my head, feeling that watery feeling, but nothing was coming out. My dad tried to shove an entire Kleenex in there, but nothing grabbed hold. We looked with a flashlight, but couldn't see anything, so again I took refuge in denial and went about my business, periodically shaking my head like a demented spaniel. Happily, one of my aunts has been through a similar experience with a miller moth (well, not happily for her, but hang on, I'll get to the happily part), and even better, she has a son who is a physician's assistant. AND he carries his gear with him wherever he goes (smart, for a guy with two young sons and a cousin who potentially forgot to remove the 'for rent' sign when she moved into her own head).

My aunt wasn't about to let me go on denying the possibility of critters squatting uninvited in my head, so she asked her son to take a look. He got out one of those proper ear-looking-in machines, poked around for about a half a nanosecond, then said, "Yeah, there's something in there. We should get that out." Ugh. We filled a glass with warm tap water, and he used a syringe to flush out my ear. It took three squirts to dislodge my lodger (a spider affectionately known as "Craig" because naming him kept me from freaking out), who came out soaked but very much alive. The several cousins who were observing this whole event took off running (and so did Craig), but Doctor Cousin calmly sent Craig to his Eternal Reward via a very heavy boot. Another quick look-see determined that Craig had been in there alone. And that Craig wasn't actually a Craigette looking for a warm place to hatch a brood. I got the all-clear and a very clean ear. (And that's the "happily" part.) That night I slept -- sort of -- with my head swathed in more layers of gauze than Tutankhamen.

Moral: Kay the Anti-Camper may have a point.

So Very . . . . Seattle

2007-06-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

Having been unceremoniously tossed from my condo, I'm now enjoying a quintessentially Seattle experience. I'm in a coffee shop on Capitol Hill, latte by one side, plate decorated with scone crumbs on the other, typing away on my laptop while listening to an mp3 player. It's break week (sort of, since I'm still teaching one class), so I could be at home right now, luxuriating in patches of sunlight with my cats, but the construction on my building continues. Today they're sealing some cement (last chance to ditch those bodies, kids!) on the first floor of the building, and since I live on the first floor, I can either hole up for the day or get out. As I do have to go to work, I opted for out. So here I am. Out, but taking all my accessories with me.

I was just having a humorous exchange with BF Toasty on Messenger, and I discovered a serious flaw in the whole latte experience: if you snort-laugh while preparing to take a sip, the foam covering disguises any accidental snubbling. (To snubble: to snort, accidentally, a snot bubble out the nose due to uncontrolled laughter) This latte foam-cover is both a good thing (I'd rather not know) and a bad (what if?). I have been reassured that coffee is a sterilizing medium, and I'm opting to believe that, since it's a fairly recent cup of coffee for which I paid a Nicaraguan's annual wage.

Several very good friends offered me crash space at their homes for the time when I'm not able to be at home, and while I appreciate this hugely, I'm looking on my involuntary ouster as an opportunity to eat scones and drink overpriced, hopefully snubble-free lattes.

PS My fat cats are officially On Diets (from 1/2 cup of food daily to 1/3), and I'm suddenly afraid to fall asleep at night. I fear waking up to find bits chewed off in the night. If I don't show up for an appointment within an hour of the appointed time (oh come on; I'm never more than AN HOUR late), someone come find me. Bring kibble.

Rags.

Hey, Who Pardoned Paris? (And Other Rantings)

2007-06-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

Rant the First: So she had her fifteen minutes of fame, followed by her fifteen minutes in prison. I think we're sending the right message when spoiled little rich girls can drive around more tanked than the entire US armed forces in Iraq and get what amounts to a rap on the snoot in punishment. Yes, that's what this country is all about: the rich elude accountability and the poor vote Republican.

Rant the Second: I have a theory about all this immigration nonsense that everyone's spouting these days. Send them back, people cry! No amnesty for lawbreakers! And yet, not one of the hundreds of immigrants (legal and less so) that I've taught in my ESL classes has ever tried to pass off a measles-laden blanket on me. Not one has ever tried to shove firewater down my throat (though they do occasionally try to pass off meat-laden dishes at the potlucks), nor have they hustled me down a trail of tears onto a crap piece of lifeless desert. Not one has tried to sterilize me against my will. They haven't shuffled me off to prison or put my grinning idiot face on their baseball jerseys. All in all, I'd say these immigrants are a fair sight better than the last crop.

So here's my theory: Bush and Co. are to blame for a crap economy in which everyone below a six-figure income per annum is heading steadily down the slippery slope of economic depression and most of us are a single bad accident or illness away from serious financial difficulties; however! however! if they can just get us to believe it's ALL THE IMMIGRANTS' FAULT, well, come next election season we might just vote for the guys with the really big fence over the guys and gals with the actual ideas.

Don't fall for it. The people cleaning your hotel rooms and building your homes and picking your fruit and tending your gardens are not The Problem. They aren't terrorists or drug smugglers or even drains on the economy. Instead, they are people who work hard, really hard, for eight or more hours a day, then come to classes like mine for another three hours every evening. They send money home so that their families can afford to buy tortillas despite the insidious effects of NAFTA and our panhandling farmers. Bush and his disastrous regime are the ones responsible for the dire state of our economy. He can wave and point his hairy little fat fingers all he wants, but we won't be fooled, will we?

And they've all come to look for America

2007-05-18T08:38:00.000-07:00

The Bus Ride by Hieronymous Bosch

Thanks to a fortuitous schedule and good weather, for the last few weeks I've been able to commute to work by a bus/bike combo. It's been really nice, actually: from one school to the other, I ride on three different trails, and I'm starting to develop nodding acquaintances with the commuters riding the other direction. One trail is apparently being used by the government to conduct wind-tunnel experiments, but apart from that, the riding part is cool.

The bad bit? The bus. Oy. What a collection of heavy-weight no-hopers. It's a bit like being picked up by the cops because I bear a distant resemblance to someone who once did something naughty, and now I'm spending my evenings slouched in my seat, trying not to be noticed or to shout out: "I don't belong here! I'm not one of you!" I wear my bike helmet the whole time which makes me look like one of the crazies, I suppose, but which also protects me from loogies, high-lobbed crack pipes, and the aliens which are apparently drilling holes in the head of the woman across from me. It's a sea of insanity, and me without my water wings.

Not everyone on the bus is nuts, of course, and the few of us who don't think we're Harry S. Truman (or Harriet Tubman, I can't tell; they mumble) cower in the front, practically sitting on the driver's lap for protection. As the shouting and animal noises continue in the back, we catch each other's eyes sympathetically, give tiny "we're all in this together" smiles and clutch our transfers -- tickets from this eighteen-wheeled Bosch painting to another one.

And naturally, buses in this area being what they are, the bus ride home is a mere 30 minutes shorter than the bike ride going the other direction. I would ride home, but it's late and dark by the time I leave class, and one of the trails is the Green River Trail, and that just seems like asking for it.

So to all the crazies and to the just plain bullying and rude: I see you. You have been seen. You may now stop acting like a performing monkey on crack just to get the attention of total strangers. We're all very impressed. Now shut up and sit down; the head-drilling aliens can't see you if you don't move.

Spittin' Distance

2007-05-01T10:32:00.000-07:00

So there I am at the bus stop, all kitted out in my bike gear complete with smugface, and there's this totally gross guy who simply cannot quit spitting. After the first incident, which landed directly on the sidewalk in front of the bus stop, I gave him my Petrifying Gaze, and he managed to direct his phlegm to the gutter from then on out, but seriously, it was like every few seconds. Is this evidence of a glandular disorder, or what?

OK, I realize in the grand scheme of things, I rate pretty low on the Squeam Scale of Tolerance for All Things Gross, but this was beyond the pale. So I tackled him, rubbed his nose in it and said, "bad trashy bus-stop boy!" I think he got the point.

Huh, whut?

2007-04-26T19:58:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Michael Oreal for photo of the original stud muffin.

Phone conversation with good friend (M) who happens to have a fairly thick Egyptian accent:

M: So, what are you reading now?
RA: Tales of the City
M: Ah! I'm a stud muffin.
RA: (long pause) What?
M: I'm a stud muffin.
RA: Er. . . . congratulations?
M: What?
(confusion)
RA: Congratulations. Very pleased for you.
M: What?
(light dawns)
RA: Ohhhhhhhhh! You said 'Armistead Maupin!'
M: Of course. What did you think I said?
RA: I thought you said you were a stud muffin.
M: Why would I say that?
RA: I don't know. Hence the confusion.

Peeing in the Park

2007-04-24T10:12:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Guzer, for the photo. (media3.guzer.com)

My toilet broke. I don't want to talk about why, except to say that I thought I was saving my garbage disposal from overload, and now my toilet is broken. Let's just say that Vlasic has a lot of explaining to do.

Two days of peeing in the public restrooms at a nearby park later, the plumbers have arrived, and I'm trying to ignore comments like, "Yeah, Miss, looks like we're going to have to snake ya."

It's going to cost me $285.05 to "stop freakin'." That's a good thing, 'cause I actually was. Freakin'. Minus the "g," with the apostrophe, full-on FREAKIN'. I do not like icky things, and toilets fall into that category with a resounding thump. (PS. So do the toilets at the park, but there you go.) All my pretentions of being a self-sufficient, independent, go-it-alone type gal melt and so do I. Several desperate phone calls to actual self-sufficient people later (and a few tears to mommy), I finally realize that there is one very independent, self-sufficient thing I can do: I can call a plumber.

Update: Just heard a very happy flushing sound, but it appears that the snake has his wee head caught. Hmmmm.

Update update: snake's free. Plumber isn't, but worth every penny. Thanks, boys, and not a butt crack in sight!

--Rags

Some of My Best Friends are Women

2007-04-20T10:49:00.000-07:00

I can't believe that in the 21st Century, we still have to convince some people that women are autonomous beings with the right to determine what happens to their own bodies. OK, once more for the in-bred, in simple terms:

If you truly believed in saving babies, you'd be vegetarian (eliminating meat consumption would mean sufficient food supplies for all). You'd donate your money to provide vaccinations for 3rd world children, you'd fight against malaria, HIV, abuse and neglect, global warming, war, famine and despotism. You'd adopt children -- even the "flawed" children that you've fought so hard to "save." Do you do these things? All of these? Or do you wave misspelled signs at Planned Parenthood clinics, do you harass women confronting a decision that is never easy, do you shoot doctors, bomb medical facilities, cheer for a "president" and a pope who do everything they can to ensure that women can't exert any measure of control over avoiding unwanted pregnancies in the first place?

Anti-Choice is Anti-Women. There is no other debate to be had here. You don't love babies. If you did, you wouldn't force them to be born into lives of misery and want. If you did, you wouldn't force them to be born, then attempt to cut off money and aid to their parents. You wouldn't force them to be born, then leave them, helpless, to their own devices.

"I got you here, kid. I saved you. Now you're on your own." Yeah, you're a big fucking hero.

Remember this: Government by the religious extremists is the philosophy of the Taliban.

Remember this: Forcing women to submit to your control over their bodies is rape. So what does that make you?

Climb back into your Bibles and back into the 15th Century. Your kind is not needed here.

Meaningless

2007-04-19T14:01:00.000-07:00

The enormously disHonorable Alberto Gonzales. Latest fatuous dickhead fall-guy for the clown some still insist on calling "President."

The most meaningless words in the English language have got to be, "I take full responsibility." Alberto Gonzales said them today, Bush-ites -- sorry, that should read "Bu-shites" -- have been saying them over and over and over for the past six years. "Mistakes were made," they say. "I take full responsibility."

Big fucking deal. If there are no repercussions, no punishment or penalty, if absolutely nothing changes, these words are as meaningless as any other lie put forward for political efficacy.

The Bush administration has made perfectly clear that honesty is not a priority. So how about these words:

"Impeachment. Trial. Prison."

You want to "take responsibility," then do it. But let's make sure it actually means something for a change.

What day is it?

2007-04-13T13:27:00.000-07:00

The Mr. Incredible band-aid makes almost anything better.

Oh right. It's Friday the 13th. Any day that you wake up to discover a note reading "625-5011 Seattle Police, Non-Emergency" hastily scribbled on a sheet of paper and taped to your door is likely not going to be a good day. I called the cops (my immediate thought is that I'm in trouble for something; from whence did I come by this guilt-ridden conscience?), they put me on hold, transferred me around, did the dial-tone jig, traced my name and address, blah dee blah, nothing. So I'm thinking whew, dodged that bullet, when I suddenly wonder if there could be something amiss with my car.

I head down to the "secure" parking garage, only to find that MacArthur's driver's side, back-seat wing mirror has been bashed in. Nothing's missing -- likely my alarm (or lack of interesting-slash-valuable property) has sent them packing. Back inside to call the police again. The police, as ever in genuine emergencies, snap into action. They bravely take down my name and number and heroically offer to call me back sometime today. Breathless at the selflessness of these, Seattle's finest, I retreat to the couch to wait them out. In due time they call me back, take a bunch more information, and then -- you won't believe it . . . wait for it . . . . they ASSIGN ME AN INCIDENT NUMBER! I know! It's incredible, isn't it? They don't pay these people enough!

All kidding aside, the police officer I talked to was extremely nice and sweetly apologetic that writing all this down was as much as they could do. I didn't actually expect to have Horatio and the Miami CSI crawling all over my car, finding hair (plenty of that in my car), torn off Press-On nails, tooth fragments, cigarette butts with epithelials clinging to the filter, all the usual detritus that criminals can't seem to hold on to when actually committing crimes (honestly, on TV those guys are like PigPen, with stuff just dripping off of them all over the crime scene), but I thought, you know, come lift a print (besides mine), poke around, you never know. I thought maybe Horatio could say something pithy like, "They realized this garage is not so secure. Well now, neither are they," and put on his sun glasses and dramatically walk away to that high-pitched yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaah from the Who song. Hey, a girl can dream.

Instead, I spent 20 minutes picking glass out of my Jetta. Did you know that bumblebees don't biodegrade? I swear that thing was knocking around in there two summers ago, and he looked just as fat and jolly (and dead) as ever when I plucked him from under some debris in the back seat. Weird.

Well, at least they didn't steal my impressive empty-Diet-Pepsi-can collection. Those are going to be worth serious bucks someday.

--R

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

2007-04-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. died yesterday, age 84. Although he probably wouldn't agree, it was much too soon. I got to see Vonnegut speak once at the UW. It was wonderful, but once is not nearly enough.

One of my favorite bits is from Deadeye Dick in which the title character is lured out of hibernation and into an opera. The heroine of the opera, trapped in a glass case from which the oxygen is slowly being sucked, opens her mouth to begin her death-aria. At this point, Dick stands up and shouts, "You'd last a lot longer if you don't try to sing." I love that.

My other favorite Vonnegut moment is the story he told about the world's greatest practical joke. A couple of guys bought a park bench exactly like the benches in Central Park in NYC. They walked around the park, periodically being stopped by cops who thought they were stealing the bench. Each time, they produced their receipt and graciously accepted the apologies. After they'd seen and been stopped by every cop in the park, they stole all the benches. They made a big pile of them somewhere in the park, carrying them to a sort of elephant graveyard for benches right under the nose of the law. This story is likely totally apocryphal, but it's so plausible as to be almost believeable, and I love it anyway.

He also told about the world's dirtiest limerick. It's awful. I'll tell you the story, but you have to promise not to tell my mother. Or yours.

I like to think that Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams are in some sort of Writers' Heaven right now, drunk, presumably trying to cheer up Spalding Gray and talk Hunter S. Thompson down off the ceiling.

Poo tee weet.

A-Job Hunting We Will Go!

2007-04-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been job hunting with Dick Cheney -- there I am, rummaging around in the bushes, trying to scare out a decent career with future prospects that doesn't involve speaking. . . . really . . . . slowly, and suddenly I've got a faceful of buckshot.

Job hunting sucks. I particularly like one place that I've applied to three times, where, when I go back to check my "status," there's this list of NO MATCH NO MATCH NO MATCH. Always a pleasure. Why don't they just say, "Status: BIG FAT LOSER WE POSTED YOUR RESUME IN THE LUNCHROOM SO EVERYONE COULD HAVE A GOOD GIGGLE." Hey, if I wanted this kind of impersonal rejection, I'd try to publish my book again.

Actually, it's been interesting. I haven't done any for-serious job hunting in quite a while, and I'm finding the process intriguing if teeth-grindingly, stomach-churningly, blood-pressure-raisingly frustrating. I even practiced interview questions with BF Toasty who's a hell of a lot better at answering the questions than I am. I considered doing some sort of Cyrano-type thing, stashing Toasty under the conference table for all interviews and letting him answer the questions while I lip-sync and smile, but then I remembered that the guy who had Cyrano talk for him got married, got shot and got dead, and frankly I just couldn't handle the potential parallels.

So: in short, 30+ resumes sent out like soldiers in a war, never to be seen again. Three interviews, one solid job offer that would be a great job if only I liked government-issue free cheese. *sigh*

Still, it was fun watching my Mom try to make sense of the statement, "This morning I posted on Monster."

--Rags

And they all go marching, down in the under ground.

2007-03-13T22:40:00.000-07:00

Tragically, the "under ground" is my kitchen. Specifically, the cabinet just south of the microwave.

I hate ants. I couldn't hate them more if they marched around my kitchen with tiny little Bush/Cheney '04 signs stuck to their butts. Well, possibly a tiny bit more, but the difference would be negligible. That's how much I hate them. I hate them like I hate that I, English teacher, had to look up how to spell "negligible" because it just didn't look right. Every spring I must do battle with sugar ants who invade my tiny home and tromp their horrible, wee feet around in my raisin stash.

I am a vegetarian. I buy plastic shoes and eschew (as opposed to just plain chew) meat and gently escort spiders outside rather than kill them if they're just too big and hairy-legged to share my space, and I feed a pair of hungry guest cats out my back door, and doesn't nature owe me just this one tiny dispensation of NOT BEING INVADED BY ANTS? Come on!

So, critter-loving, tree-hugging, no-kill goodie that I am, I mash those tiny ant bodies bare-fingered if I must. Spring sees me turn from Buddhist to Bad-Ass as I open that cabinet door to be greeted by a mad scurry of tiny, brown, antennae'd horrors. Now I'm on the hunt. I buy fistfuls of bait traps, giant cans of aerosol-propelled death, and I wade in. Windex? I scoff at such wimpy weapons. Leave your boy scout troops at home; I'm bringing in the Big Boys. If it hasn't got a skull and crossbones on the label, I don't want it.

Just went into my kitchen to find only one ant, and he was coughing up blood. First round to me.

Nip Wits

2007-03-07T15:45:00.000-08:00

Clio sez: "Touch the blankie, lose an eye."

From the Animal Rescue Site, I purchased a catnip "bed" and cat toy. Both are filled with organic cat nip, and they arrived today. The cats are going nutz out there, flinging the furniture around and generally making a mess. Nippity doo dah.

Chills! Hills! Thrills! No Spills! (which puts us one up on last year)

2007-02-26T09:07:00.000-08:00

The Notorious Toe Jam Hill -- where many an ego goes to die.

So yesterday, BF Toasty and I did the Chilly Hilly bike ride. It's a 33 mile bike ride around Bainbridge Island, with a total elevation gain of 2,675 ft. (or so it says on my t-shirt). That's, like, a fifth of the way up Mt. Rainier! OK, so it doesn't sound that impressive when put that way, but it was the steep bit, right at the very top, that's what. Seriously, when I go up inclines like that, I'm usually wearing a rope.

There was some variety of precipitation (not including the 'air hankies,' which made parts of the ride like a Mucus Slalom) nearly the entire way, and I think the temp. topped out around the mid-40s, so the ride definitely lived up to its name. It also lived up to the name Wet Bloody Misery Ye Gods Not Another F&%#ing Hill, which is what I dubbed it at about mile 11.

Last year, the day before the Chilly Hilly, BF Toasty managed to break his wrist. Conveeeeeeeeenient. I think he might have sacrificed another bone or two, had he known how very very long the CH was. At one point, topping out on infamous Toe Jam Hill, he rode past me and wheezed, "Soul . . . Crushed" which had several panting riders snorting out their noses, myself included. The ferry ride back was a festival of hot chocolate and trail mix and cookies and brownies, hundreds of riders on board wearing sugar-encrusted smiles and dribbling crumbs down their jerseys. The few passengers on the ferry that weren't decked out in spandex and Gore-tex and didn't make that little clicking sound as they walked were undoubtedly thrilled to have damp, sweaty, chili-fed riders everywhere, desperate for seats big enough to put their entire bottoms on.

There is a cheery camaraderie in sharing a semi-miserable experience with others. I had several breathless conversations with strangers, all of us lamenting the witlessness of not only doing this silly thing we were doing, but of having paid for the privelege. I watched (and was the beneficiary of) lots of really strong riders cheering on the less strong as we wrestled our bikes up the hills. I saw riders stop in the cold and wet and help others change tires or fix chains. One particularly jovial team alternated their calls of "On your left" with "Up your ass!" which was funnier and much less offensive than it sounds here. The people in cars, who had ample reason to be cranky about waiting and waiting and waiting to be allowed to use their streets, were cooperative and cautious.

So, as I pop another dose of Ibuprofen and try to decide where I'll wear my new Chilly Hilly t-shirt for maximum exposure and bragging rights, the question inevitably arises: Will I do this ride again?

Yeah, no.

0.6 of a Good Deed

2007-02-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

Just a reminder to everyone to hit The Animal Rescue Site every day. By clicking on the button, you provide some wee critter in a shelter somewhere with 0.6 of a bowl of food. And it's free. You just have to pretend to glance at the advertising.

OK, these people failed to hire me to work for them (CharityUSA.com), but we're talking Animals In Need here, so I'm willing to put our differences aside. Also, you can, like, feed people and help fight breast cancer and teach kids to read and blah blah blah whatnot, but don't forget the critters! Puppies! Kitties! Hungry and wee ones! Just hit the %$#@*&! button and don't argue with me.

http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/cgi-bin/WebObjects/CTDSites.woa

Paws for Reflection

2007-02-15T15:57:00.000-08:00

<---------- Note very large dictionary in background; quiet
symbol of the terribly literary.

So, half-a-dozen chapters into Compass Jones, I'm thinking it's time to, you know, stop, take stock, try to figure out if this story has an actual plot, or if that's just an optimistic rumor. The smart money's on rumor.

I've been asked a few (OK, a couple of) times now, "What's in the box?" (Compass Jones, Chapter 5). To be honest, I don't know yet. I'm just hoping it's not a puppy. But I'm soliciting guesses (read: ideas) from my audience, so both of you, get crackin'! Let's hear what you think is in the box, and then I'll tell you why you're wrong. Or I'll steal your idea, delete your comment, and take all the credit for it myself. Hey, fiction isn't pretty.

Soggy Moggy

2007-02-09T08:34:00.000-08:00

I hate towel-washing day. I wander around the house, dripping, because I have nothing to wipe my wet hands on. Then I remember that I have cats.

My Car is an Academic Underachiever

2007-02-02T15:47:00.000-08:00

My car failed its emissions test the other day, and I felt incredibly embarrassed when the guy passed me the sheet with the word "fail" in at least six places on it. (It failed not because it emits anything more noxious than any other American car, but because the speedometer doesn't work which makes the "check engine" light go on, which makes for a fail.) We stayed up all night studying, and today my car passed. I was stupidly proud of her for passing this time and wished that my new tabs had wee little gold stars on them.

Musings On the Job Hunt

2007-01-31T10:02:00.000-08:00

If a Bachelor's degree in English literature means I am entitled to ask, "Do you want fries with that," I can only assume that my Master's degree entitles me to offer curly fries. Perhaps if I ever get my PhD, I'll be able to proffer the super-size option. One lives in hope.

Jesus Sends Me Stock Tips

2007-01-23T08:02:00.000-08:00

A Shy Deity at the NYSE

I don't know about y'all, but lately Jesus has been sending me hot stock tips on my email. Now, He's pretty aggressive about it, for a god, but I guess you don't get to be one of the reigning deities by being dainty. Anyway, I get these Holy Hot Stocks!™ pretty much every day and to pretty much every one of my several thousand email addresses. BF Toasty (the BF means "boyfriend," for future reference) says they aren't real, but I'm not willing to mess with the edicts of the Lord, so I'm investing like a newly defrocked priest in an untended school yard. I know His tips when I see them: they usually start out with a somewhat mangled Bible quote (I'm guessing that's a test for the truly faithful) in the subject line, something akin to, "Sayeth then Judith raise eyes unto donkeys, your salvation covets your neighbor's wife." When I see something like that, I know I'm going to have some trouble getting that camel through the eye of that needle, and that's all part of the Big Plan™.

I have heard that Jesus has a soft spot for lepers, and while I'm not actually one myself, it's possible that the title of this blog has mistakenly gotten me into the Stock Talk Shop of the Gods. Hallelujah and pass me the phone.