I've been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like it's just another post complaining about my mom. I feel like it's something that needs to be said, and, unfortunately, she is being made into an example. Well, that's her problem. Here goes:
Last night as I watched the numbers rise, as the networks, one by one, announced the winner, I had one thought repeating in my head:
"It's over."
Not just the election (though I'm glad to be rid of that as well) but the eight long years of the ignorance and arrogance of the Bush regime. The dark times were over. It's over.
I watched McCain's concession speech with my jaw agape and tears in my eyes. My mom, a staunch Republican, stood in the kitchen, eating her dinner. Of all the places in the kitchen where she could have stood, she made sure to stand where I could see her. Her back was to me. After McCain's speech I was walking through the kitchen, and she moved as I moved - she made sure her back stayed toward me.
When Obama told his daughters that they had earned a puppy, she scoffed, "Oh, geez." All night long she was making sarcastic comments, following each one with, "Oh, I didn't mean that. I'm just in mourning."
Look, this has to stop. Republicans, don't turn your back on this country. Don't turn your back on this president. Don't wallow in your party's loss when you can be celebrating your country's future. I know you don't see it. You see every bad quality, every evil - real or imagined - all packed into one skinny black senator from Hyde Park. You see in him likely what the rest of us saw in McCain. But look beyond that. We need you.
Democrats have a majority in the Senate, in the House, in the voting booths. But we need you, now more than ever, to make sure that another voice is heard. We need to know that when we are out there making a change, you are out there changing with us. Not because we want you to give up your life's philosophies and turn blue, but because we are all Americans and we are all depending on each other to get this country through these tough times.
Don't turn your back on us, Republicans. We are still one nation, we still share one hope. We still have a common dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The nation can't heal and won't thrive without you. It won't get done on any one party's terms, and it won't get done if we can't work together and face the problems of this nation as a nation united against ignorance and hate.
Don't give America the cold shoulder. It's your America, too. Help us make it something to be proud of again.
And to all of you who went out yesterday and make history in the voting booths, you aren't done. You and I everyone else all have a lot of work to do. Your commitment to this country cannot end after the acceptance speech. Get out. Make a better life for us. Democracy is not a spectator sport. It's time to get in the game.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I find guilt in the most ridiculous places
Due to unexpected popular demand, here is a generic picture of the car I got (picture stolen from cars.com):
Except my sister-in-law (who had the car before me) had all the windows tinted, so be sure to keep that in mind. That's the paint color I have, though.
No road trips yet (gas is $4.25 for fuck's sake), though I did take it out for my favorite drive on Sunday night:
Down the highway to Lower Wacker Drive (an underground thoroughfare that has changed quite a bit since it was featured in the big chase scene in "Blues Brothers"), over to Lake Shore Drive (where I get smacked in the face with a stunning view of the lake), up to a kind of up-scale neighborhood, around a waste of space called the Nature Museum ("Here are the types of grass you'll find in Illinois" and they don't mean the fun kind), then racing back down again. There are few things in the world that calm me down as much as that drive does.
My old car, Dox, would die when he was idling so I'd sit at red lights with my foot on the gas. I still find myself doing that. Also, if I found myself driving a nice car in the past 5 years or so, it was a car that I had borrowed that had automatic transmission. Dox was a stick, and so is the Kia (tentatively named Trixie), but I forget that I'm driving a stick with Trixie and sometimes find myself going 35 in second gear.
I'm having to re-learn how to drive stick. Trixie has four working speakers and no broken engine parts, and no dial on the dashboard telling me my current RPMs, so I have to really pay attention to know when to switch gears. Also, Dox's transmission was in such poor shape that I could switch gears with just one finger. Trixie has a good transmission, so I have to actually have my hand free to switch gears.
Trixie doesn't have power steering, so every time I turn I say to myself, "Gun show. GUN SHOW!" trying to really put some muscle in it so I have something to bring to the (you guessed it) gun show.
Trixie is clean, doesn't smell funny, has no rust or dents, has four working doors and five working seat belts, a fancy flip-down stereo, gets a modest 26 miles to the gallon (Dox got 9...that's not a typo, he got nine), and doesn't reek of gas for ten minutes after you kill the engine. There is no cause for embarrassment when I drive her, and people at the bus stop no longer look in my direction with hope and then disappointment after realizing it's not their bus, it's just Dox's muffler. In every way (except air conditioning) she is a vast improvement.
But in my heart of hearts, I miss Dox every damn day. If I didn't have an audience around me when they put him on the junk yard's tow truck, I honestly would have been in tears. He was my trusty steed through some of the most amazing and scary years of my life, and I loved him like an old friend.
Even when he was broken down, even when his expired tags got me arrested, I still loved that car. There have been very few times in my life that I have felt like a completely unredeemable asshole, and selling him to the junk yard for $150 is definitely in the top 5.
The guy who put him on the flat bed didn't understand that his brakes didn't work and that he'd have to pull Dox up the ramp with the chain. When he realized it and brought Dox back down the the street, he scraped Dox's muffler. I wanted to punch him.
Except my sister-in-law (who had the car before me) had all the windows tinted, so be sure to keep that in mind. That's the paint color I have, though.
No road trips yet (gas is $4.25 for fuck's sake), though I did take it out for my favorite drive on Sunday night:
Down the highway to Lower Wacker Drive (an underground thoroughfare that has changed quite a bit since it was featured in the big chase scene in "Blues Brothers"), over to Lake Shore Drive (where I get smacked in the face with a stunning view of the lake), up to a kind of up-scale neighborhood, around a waste of space called the Nature Museum ("Here are the types of grass you'll find in Illinois" and they don't mean the fun kind), then racing back down again. There are few things in the world that calm me down as much as that drive does.
My old car, Dox, would die when he was idling so I'd sit at red lights with my foot on the gas. I still find myself doing that. Also, if I found myself driving a nice car in the past 5 years or so, it was a car that I had borrowed that had automatic transmission. Dox was a stick, and so is the Kia (tentatively named Trixie), but I forget that I'm driving a stick with Trixie and sometimes find myself going 35 in second gear.
I'm having to re-learn how to drive stick. Trixie has four working speakers and no broken engine parts, and no dial on the dashboard telling me my current RPMs, so I have to really pay attention to know when to switch gears. Also, Dox's transmission was in such poor shape that I could switch gears with just one finger. Trixie has a good transmission, so I have to actually have my hand free to switch gears.
Trixie doesn't have power steering, so every time I turn I say to myself, "Gun show. GUN SHOW!" trying to really put some muscle in it so I have something to bring to the (you guessed it) gun show.
Trixie is clean, doesn't smell funny, has no rust or dents, has four working doors and five working seat belts, a fancy flip-down stereo, gets a modest 26 miles to the gallon (Dox got 9...that's not a typo, he got nine), and doesn't reek of gas for ten minutes after you kill the engine. There is no cause for embarrassment when I drive her, and people at the bus stop no longer look in my direction with hope and then disappointment after realizing it's not their bus, it's just Dox's muffler. In every way (except air conditioning) she is a vast improvement.
But in my heart of hearts, I miss Dox every damn day. If I didn't have an audience around me when they put him on the junk yard's tow truck, I honestly would have been in tears. He was my trusty steed through some of the most amazing and scary years of my life, and I loved him like an old friend.
Even when he was broken down, even when his expired tags got me arrested, I still loved that car. There have been very few times in my life that I have felt like a completely unredeemable asshole, and selling him to the junk yard for $150 is definitely in the top 5.
The guy who put him on the flat bed didn't understand that his brakes didn't work and that he'd have to pull Dox up the ramp with the chain. When he realized it and brought Dox back down the the street, he scraped Dox's muffler. I wanted to punch him.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Intro to Introverts
"Introvert" is defined as "a person who tends to shrink from social contacts and to become preoccupied with their own thoughts."
That's what I do. Some people mistake it for being shy, but it's not the same. See, when you're shy, you really want to meet new people and talk to strangers who seem interesting, but you're scared to. With introverts, we don't really want to meet those people or talk to those strangers. Hell, even people we know and like aren't always people we want to talk to.
For introverts, hell is having to talk to people at breakfast. For introverts, small talk is a form of torture that should be covered under the Geneva Convention.
We don't hate you, and we are not being anti-social. We're just a special shade of indifferent. We prefer thoughtful silence to constant yammering.
Yes, we get bored of it and we go out. On occasion we can fake it and make it look like we are not the social retards you've known us to be. And then we run home and spend hours by ourselves doing whatever we please, and reveling in it.
We are not the wallflowers who are wishing people would come over and talk to us, we are the wallflowers who are enjoying watching other people talk. It's not that we have nothing to contribute or nothing to talk about - no, quite the opposite. I will sit and talk about some subjects with total strangers til I'm blue in the face. Chicago history is one of those subjects. So is juicy gossip. But sitting around talking about the weather or stocks or other boring things, well, I tend to tune that out. And if you want to make me hate you, then by all means let's start a deep discussion about spirituality or our feelings.
Alone is not the same as lonely. If I wanted company, I would call people and go see those people. And I'm not just staring blankly into space when you do corral me into going out, I am pondering things that I don't feel like explaining.
I'm not being uppity or elitist, I just...well, I just don't feel sociable. That's a pretty basic explanation of introversion. I'm not depressed or upset or in need of special attention, I just am not a big talker around people I hardly know, and I have no interest in entertaining people.
I don't go out on Friday nights. By 5:30 Friday afternoon I basically can't stand anybody. I have talked politely to every moron, cheapskate, and lunatic that has walked past my desk. Of course there are nice people who come to my desk, but these respites are brief and only make the slack-jawed morons seem more unbearable. There is a very short list of people I would even bother to pick up the phone for on a Friday night, and most of those people know better than to call me when they get off work.
That's not to say I just sit home and stare at the walls. Sometimes I go downtown, or go for a walk or a drive. I can be okay in a crowd where nobody knows me, because nobody will strike up a banal conversation with me. I can't be out with people I know and like, who know and like me, because they will expect me to be chatty and sociable, and I just don't have that in me by the end of the week.
It's how introverts are.
So don't be offended if we don't come out very often. Don't get huffy when we leave your party early or turn down invitations to just hang out. Don't get all upset when we do come out and we don't have much to say. It's just who we are.
And face it, you wouldn't have us any other way.
That's what I do. Some people mistake it for being shy, but it's not the same. See, when you're shy, you really want to meet new people and talk to strangers who seem interesting, but you're scared to. With introverts, we don't really want to meet those people or talk to those strangers. Hell, even people we know and like aren't always people we want to talk to.
For introverts, hell is having to talk to people at breakfast. For introverts, small talk is a form of torture that should be covered under the Geneva Convention.
We don't hate you, and we are not being anti-social. We're just a special shade of indifferent. We prefer thoughtful silence to constant yammering.
Yes, we get bored of it and we go out. On occasion we can fake it and make it look like we are not the social retards you've known us to be. And then we run home and spend hours by ourselves doing whatever we please, and reveling in it.
We are not the wallflowers who are wishing people would come over and talk to us, we are the wallflowers who are enjoying watching other people talk. It's not that we have nothing to contribute or nothing to talk about - no, quite the opposite. I will sit and talk about some subjects with total strangers til I'm blue in the face. Chicago history is one of those subjects. So is juicy gossip. But sitting around talking about the weather or stocks or other boring things, well, I tend to tune that out. And if you want to make me hate you, then by all means let's start a deep discussion about spirituality or our feelings.
Alone is not the same as lonely. If I wanted company, I would call people and go see those people. And I'm not just staring blankly into space when you do corral me into going out, I am pondering things that I don't feel like explaining.
I'm not being uppity or elitist, I just...well, I just don't feel sociable. That's a pretty basic explanation of introversion. I'm not depressed or upset or in need of special attention, I just am not a big talker around people I hardly know, and I have no interest in entertaining people.
I don't go out on Friday nights. By 5:30 Friday afternoon I basically can't stand anybody. I have talked politely to every moron, cheapskate, and lunatic that has walked past my desk. Of course there are nice people who come to my desk, but these respites are brief and only make the slack-jawed morons seem more unbearable. There is a very short list of people I would even bother to pick up the phone for on a Friday night, and most of those people know better than to call me when they get off work.
That's not to say I just sit home and stare at the walls. Sometimes I go downtown, or go for a walk or a drive. I can be okay in a crowd where nobody knows me, because nobody will strike up a banal conversation with me. I can't be out with people I know and like, who know and like me, because they will expect me to be chatty and sociable, and I just don't have that in me by the end of the week.
It's how introverts are.
So don't be offended if we don't come out very often. Don't get huffy when we leave your party early or turn down invitations to just hang out. Don't get all upset when we do come out and we don't have much to say. It's just who we are.
And face it, you wouldn't have us any other way.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Goodbye, June! Hello, teen angst!
My mom's coming to stay with me June 6-28. This is kind of a big deal. She's in town for a series of three classes she has to take to keep her law license current and it's easier to just stay with me instead of flying back and forth three times. Yeah, she's a lawyer. And that's the least of my problems.
See, my mom's crazy. Now hold on, I know you're thinking, "No, MY mom is crazy!" but seriously, my mom is nuts. Level two borderline personality nuts, according the shrink she used to share with my sister. And she's in a cult. By "cult" I mean group of people who make sure only certain people are allowed in the group, and the group is insane. The cult, among other things, doesn't like the colors red, black, orange, and grey. When one of their flock fell over at a restaurant after Temple, they prayed for his ascension (read: death) as he lay there with his heart attack and his new found faith. They don't eat meat (Mom's a vegan), they don't like "bad" music and movies. By "bad" I'm not talking about Lords of Acid and "Debbie Does Dallas," though those certainly count as well. I mean shit like "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and "Stand by Me." I tried to watch "Stand by Me" with her when I was in high school and she had a panic attack about ten minutes into the movie.
Oh yeah, did I mention the panic attacks? The screaming, crying, throwing things, punching herself in the head panic attacks? The Joan Collins ("no wire hangers!"), gut-wrenching, always-ends-in-suicide-threats-or-a-pity-party panic attacks. She's anemic, too, so when she's hungry these come out in full force.
Oh, her medication? She won't take any. It's against her fucking religion. She also thinks I'm a straight up bitch for asking her to get help. Her current living situation is in my sister's basement that she shares with my sister's eight year old daughter, and the rest of the house is occupied by my sister's other two kids, my sister, and my sister's boyfriend. That house is too small for her drama. She doesn't have a job, though she finally had an inteview last week. It went well.
She still sometimes thinks of me as the lying, mischievous brat I was when I was a kid, when we last lived under the same roof. She didn't get the memo that I grew up, that I know now what I didn't know then, and that I'm well aware of the things that I still don't know. She doesn't say this, she doesn't have to. She's my mom, I know what she's thinking.
She cries at everything. Part of the problem with her coming in is that I have to hide all the stuff that will make her cry. This includes books (Palahniuk, Bukowski, "History of the Devil," etc), music (Lords of Acid, Frank Zappa, Johnny Cash), and DVDs (all the horror movies, the "Arrested Development" set, "Harold and Maude"). I have to hide the red carpet I was going to put by my bed. I already bought a blue comforter for her, since she can't use my orange or red ones.
My siblings don't do this for her. They just do whatever the hell they want and if she can't handle it, it's her problem. We all know she's crazy, and they are always surprised when she acts like she's crazy. Then, when it comes time to have a Serious Talk, she's already wound up and nobody can get through to her.
Me, I like to pick my battles. For the month of June, my battles won't be about "Rocky Horror Picture Show" and "Joe's Garage." I won't come home to find my mother has "accidentally" spilled something on my red rug and threw it out. I won't reach for "Ham on Rye" in mid-July and wonder where it's gone.
We are going to have Serious Talks. We are going to answer the questions "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" and "Why do you think it's appropriate to act like that?"
And that's the part that really gets me down. I don't want to have those talks with my mom. I don't like seeing that look of disappointment that I always brought to her face when I was a kid.
I didn't get the good part of her when I was growing up. I didn't get the carefree era of regular paychecks and a steady boyfriend. I grew up so clenched up and stressed out that I started to just tune her out, tune everybody out. In high school, when my brother was off at college in Alaska and my sister was off married to the wrong man, I got a little bit of Good Mom. She introduced me to classic movies, something I have and will always be grateful for. She showed faith in me, and never once said "Oh, you can't do that," when I wanted to try my hand at anything.
When I was eighteen and my left leg was gripped in unfathomable pain, she held me and cried with me and tried to feel my pain for me, tried to share my burden. She held my hand when we walked down the street and didn't pity me when I was doubled over in pain, walking with my hands down around my ankles because standing up straight was excruciating. She didn't make a big deal about the tears I watched drip off the end of my nose and land - splat - on my oh-so-hip Doc Martens.
I didn't get Good Mom when I was growing up. I got her when I was seventeen, eighteen years old and had her all to myself. I got her when everything was going so wrong in each of our lives, when the world kept hitting each of us separately with the one-two punch of real life and real loss.
My brother and sister didn't get that Mom. They didn't stick around to see how it turned out. That's the Mom I want back, the one who gave me Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, and "The Universe Song." That's the mom I'm packing up my stuff for, that's the mom I want to have here in June. Yes, there will be Serious Talks, and there will be crying and fighting. But for a few days at least (hopefully, most of the days), there will be "Operation Petticoat" and "Meet Me in St. Louis." There will be sewing lessons and family stories and (dare I say?) cooking lessons. There will be my mom, my secret mom that my brother and sister never had the patience to know. All this for a month of doing without some of my favorite things.
And to me, that's a bargain.
See, my mom's crazy. Now hold on, I know you're thinking, "No, MY mom is crazy!" but seriously, my mom is nuts. Level two borderline personality nuts, according the shrink she used to share with my sister. And she's in a cult. By "cult" I mean group of people who make sure only certain people are allowed in the group, and the group is insane. The cult, among other things, doesn't like the colors red, black, orange, and grey. When one of their flock fell over at a restaurant after Temple, they prayed for his ascension (read: death) as he lay there with his heart attack and his new found faith. They don't eat meat (Mom's a vegan), they don't like "bad" music and movies. By "bad" I'm not talking about Lords of Acid and "Debbie Does Dallas," though those certainly count as well. I mean shit like "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and "Stand by Me." I tried to watch "Stand by Me" with her when I was in high school and she had a panic attack about ten minutes into the movie.
Oh yeah, did I mention the panic attacks? The screaming, crying, throwing things, punching herself in the head panic attacks? The Joan Collins ("no wire hangers!"), gut-wrenching, always-ends-in-suicide-threats-or-a-pity-party panic attacks. She's anemic, too, so when she's hungry these come out in full force.
Oh, her medication? She won't take any. It's against her fucking religion. She also thinks I'm a straight up bitch for asking her to get help. Her current living situation is in my sister's basement that she shares with my sister's eight year old daughter, and the rest of the house is occupied by my sister's other two kids, my sister, and my sister's boyfriend. That house is too small for her drama. She doesn't have a job, though she finally had an inteview last week. It went well.
She still sometimes thinks of me as the lying, mischievous brat I was when I was a kid, when we last lived under the same roof. She didn't get the memo that I grew up, that I know now what I didn't know then, and that I'm well aware of the things that I still don't know. She doesn't say this, she doesn't have to. She's my mom, I know what she's thinking.
She cries at everything. Part of the problem with her coming in is that I have to hide all the stuff that will make her cry. This includes books (Palahniuk, Bukowski, "History of the Devil," etc), music (Lords of Acid, Frank Zappa, Johnny Cash), and DVDs (all the horror movies, the "Arrested Development" set, "Harold and Maude"). I have to hide the red carpet I was going to put by my bed. I already bought a blue comforter for her, since she can't use my orange or red ones.
My siblings don't do this for her. They just do whatever the hell they want and if she can't handle it, it's her problem. We all know she's crazy, and they are always surprised when she acts like she's crazy. Then, when it comes time to have a Serious Talk, she's already wound up and nobody can get through to her.
Me, I like to pick my battles. For the month of June, my battles won't be about "Rocky Horror Picture Show" and "Joe's Garage." I won't come home to find my mother has "accidentally" spilled something on my red rug and threw it out. I won't reach for "Ham on Rye" in mid-July and wonder where it's gone.
We are going to have Serious Talks. We are going to answer the questions "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" and "Why do you think it's appropriate to act like that?"
And that's the part that really gets me down. I don't want to have those talks with my mom. I don't like seeing that look of disappointment that I always brought to her face when I was a kid.
I didn't get the good part of her when I was growing up. I didn't get the carefree era of regular paychecks and a steady boyfriend. I grew up so clenched up and stressed out that I started to just tune her out, tune everybody out. In high school, when my brother was off at college in Alaska and my sister was off married to the wrong man, I got a little bit of Good Mom. She introduced me to classic movies, something I have and will always be grateful for. She showed faith in me, and never once said "Oh, you can't do that," when I wanted to try my hand at anything.
When I was eighteen and my left leg was gripped in unfathomable pain, she held me and cried with me and tried to feel my pain for me, tried to share my burden. She held my hand when we walked down the street and didn't pity me when I was doubled over in pain, walking with my hands down around my ankles because standing up straight was excruciating. She didn't make a big deal about the tears I watched drip off the end of my nose and land - splat - on my oh-so-hip Doc Martens.
I didn't get Good Mom when I was growing up. I got her when I was seventeen, eighteen years old and had her all to myself. I got her when everything was going so wrong in each of our lives, when the world kept hitting each of us separately with the one-two punch of real life and real loss.
My brother and sister didn't get that Mom. They didn't stick around to see how it turned out. That's the Mom I want back, the one who gave me Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, and "The Universe Song." That's the mom I'm packing up my stuff for, that's the mom I want to have here in June. Yes, there will be Serious Talks, and there will be crying and fighting. But for a few days at least (hopefully, most of the days), there will be "Operation Petticoat" and "Meet Me in St. Louis." There will be sewing lessons and family stories and (dare I say?) cooking lessons. There will be my mom, my secret mom that my brother and sister never had the patience to know. All this for a month of doing without some of my favorite things.
And to me, that's a bargain.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
We all eventually become our mothers
Chicago's temperatures soared into the high 50's today. On the street, everywhere, people were walking around in t-shirts and jeans, smiling and happy. The sun was out. The dawn of spring was nigh. It was the first day of the year that people felt guilty for wasting away hours at their jobs and chores instead of going outside to breathe the seemingly tropical air and feel the sunlight on their arms.
Tonight I pulled into a gas station and some guy was standing around the corner from the front door, skulking in the shadows and looking around expectantly for someone. He kept staring at me. I was going to call my friend Ed, who I always call just so that I'm on the phone if something happens so he can, I don't know, freak out or something. I knew he was on another call (his phone was ringing when I left), so I just got out of the car. The skulker had been peering at the only other person at the pumps, and that person was gone now.
He approached me, this skinny black guy dressed too warmly for a night like this. He started with his pitch. I said, "No," a little too loudly. He backed up. He gave me some story that his car was out of gas. I didn't see any car. I told him I was out of money ("Hey, man, I'm a college student, I'm on my last dollar too. Look at my car," trying to make a joke.) I got inside and told the fella behind the bullet proof glass about the skulker. He walked back out with me, two wary souls out for a fight on the first nice evening of the year.
The skulker was chased off, and the clerk stayed outside with me while I pumped a whopping $10 into my poor car's tank. The clerk was in his 50's and shorter than me by four inches, easily, but his face showed creases that spoke of hard days past. As we watched the skulker flag down people across the street, I thought about my chances of taking on the clerk in a brawl, and the skulker's chances of taking us both. Whether through bizarre curiosity or basic self-defense ("always be aware of your surroundings") I don't know, but this is a question I often ask myself whenever I lay eyes on people. It's just one of those weird tics that makes this monkey different from all the other monkeys crawling around on the planet. The skulker was heading back across to our side of the street, heading for the fast food place next door. (He would fight from his shoulders, lightening fast punches delivered by taut muscles that hugged young bones. His center of gravity would be higher than the clerk's, but he would still be hard to knock down.)
I thanked the clerk (he'd have taken me once he knocked me down; he looked like he fought with his torso, low to the ground and strong like oak, squeezing the life out of his opponent) and I drove off into the shimmering night. I cringed as I pulled up to the only traffic light between me and home, realizing I saw in that guy's eyes was simply worry that some stuck up white lady was going to call the cops when he wasn't doing anything. Maybe the skulker's car was broken down two blocks away and he was really desperate for some cash. We're in a recession, after all. And here I was, being a stereotypical suburban white woman acting a fool because a black man was talking to me. At night. At a deserted gas station.
Maybe some other driver, kinder and richer than I, got him his gas and the skulker made it home safe. Maybe he's still skulking around that fast food joint. Maybe he's given up on this stuck up, predominantly white town and hoofed it home.
If so, he's lucky. It's a nice night for a walk.
Tonight I pulled into a gas station and some guy was standing around the corner from the front door, skulking in the shadows and looking around expectantly for someone. He kept staring at me. I was going to call my friend Ed, who I always call just so that I'm on the phone if something happens so he can, I don't know, freak out or something. I knew he was on another call (his phone was ringing when I left), so I just got out of the car. The skulker had been peering at the only other person at the pumps, and that person was gone now.
He approached me, this skinny black guy dressed too warmly for a night like this. He started with his pitch. I said, "No," a little too loudly. He backed up. He gave me some story that his car was out of gas. I didn't see any car. I told him I was out of money ("Hey, man, I'm a college student, I'm on my last dollar too. Look at my car," trying to make a joke.) I got inside and told the fella behind the bullet proof glass about the skulker. He walked back out with me, two wary souls out for a fight on the first nice evening of the year.
The skulker was chased off, and the clerk stayed outside with me while I pumped a whopping $10 into my poor car's tank. The clerk was in his 50's and shorter than me by four inches, easily, but his face showed creases that spoke of hard days past. As we watched the skulker flag down people across the street, I thought about my chances of taking on the clerk in a brawl, and the skulker's chances of taking us both. Whether through bizarre curiosity or basic self-defense ("always be aware of your surroundings") I don't know, but this is a question I often ask myself whenever I lay eyes on people. It's just one of those weird tics that makes this monkey different from all the other monkeys crawling around on the planet. The skulker was heading back across to our side of the street, heading for the fast food place next door. (He would fight from his shoulders, lightening fast punches delivered by taut muscles that hugged young bones. His center of gravity would be higher than the clerk's, but he would still be hard to knock down.)
I thanked the clerk (he'd have taken me once he knocked me down; he looked like he fought with his torso, low to the ground and strong like oak, squeezing the life out of his opponent) and I drove off into the shimmering night. I cringed as I pulled up to the only traffic light between me and home, realizing I saw in that guy's eyes was simply worry that some stuck up white lady was going to call the cops when he wasn't doing anything. Maybe the skulker's car was broken down two blocks away and he was really desperate for some cash. We're in a recession, after all. And here I was, being a stereotypical suburban white woman acting a fool because a black man was talking to me. At night. At a deserted gas station.
Maybe some other driver, kinder and richer than I, got him his gas and the skulker made it home safe. Maybe he's still skulking around that fast food joint. Maybe he's given up on this stuck up, predominantly white town and hoofed it home.
If so, he's lucky. It's a nice night for a walk.
The times they are a-changin'
As in daylight savings time. What, you wanted something deep? Try the Pacific.
I got new hours at my new gig, but since they started the same week as daylight savings, it's still a lot like getting up at 5. The new job is very strange, all of the freedoms and restrictions have been swapped. I can now wear whatever I want (as opposed to those ratty old uniforms), get up whenever I want to go get some water, state my opinion without being treated like a moron, and actually enjoy talking to my co-workers.
I can't surf the net, do most of my homework (because of the net restriction), have free reign over the Business Center, or really do my job. I used to be able to quote a price for a job, create and print all kinds of useful cards (business cards, name tags, post cards, place cards for tables), and be a back-up hand for the hotel's office staff. Everything is run on credit cards now, so the prices are already set and I can't do anything about it. My printer is just a little black and white printer that can't make all the fancy cards and can only make half-decent non-fancy cards at a very slow rate. Three times today I let the hotel staff down because of the credit card situation or because of equipment problems. I am redundant. But at least I'm employed.
I got new hours at my new gig, but since they started the same week as daylight savings, it's still a lot like getting up at 5. The new job is very strange, all of the freedoms and restrictions have been swapped. I can now wear whatever I want (as opposed to those ratty old uniforms), get up whenever I want to go get some water, state my opinion without being treated like a moron, and actually enjoy talking to my co-workers.
I can't surf the net, do most of my homework (because of the net restriction), have free reign over the Business Center, or really do my job. I used to be able to quote a price for a job, create and print all kinds of useful cards (business cards, name tags, post cards, place cards for tables), and be a back-up hand for the hotel's office staff. Everything is run on credit cards now, so the prices are already set and I can't do anything about it. My printer is just a little black and white printer that can't make all the fancy cards and can only make half-decent non-fancy cards at a very slow rate. Three times today I let the hotel staff down because of the credit card situation or because of equipment problems. I am redundant. But at least I'm employed.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Carbonite.com
About a year ago, I was introduced to Carbonite.com via bzzagent.com. It cheaply and efficiently backs up your files. It does this automatically in the background, so you don't have to spend time doing it manually. I got a free trial through bzzagent.com, and when I heard back from other "agents" I decided to pay up for a whole year - about $50.
Everything was going great. I knew I had to go through and specially set it to backup my video files. This isn't written in bold red print, but I found it in the fine print and set it up to backup videos. No biggie.
Then I got a virus. It wiped my whole hard drive. Pictures, music, video, word documents, notes for class - all of it, gone.
I was more irritated than worried because I have the Carbonite backup and I knew all my files were fine.
I re-installed my hard drive and went to log into carbonite.com. It didn't accept my password. I clicked "forgot password," and was told to fill out a form to send to their customer service department with basic information. They asked for the last four digits of th credit card that I used to buy my subscription. I couldn't remember which card I put it on, and told them so. I submitted the form and got an email auto-response. Apparently it was going to take 72 hours to get back to me.
72 hours. To recover a password.
So I called their support line. Nobody was there, they only support people between 9 am and 5 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Because everybody knows that's the only time computers crash, right?
So I called back today. The recorded voice said I could get something like preferred customer service for just $20. It said I was 9th in line for regular service. I kept my $20 and waited. Every minute, the recorded voice interrupted the horrible elevator music to tell me I could also contact customer service via email. It gave me the email. After 45 minutes, I got really pissed.
I wrote:
"Hi,
I have been on hold with your company for 46 minutes. You have my $50 and all of my backup files. I would like to get back either my $50 or my files. I refuse to pay an extra $20 just so you will pick up the phone. You keep asking me to hold. I guess you think I am going to hang up.
You are wrong.
Meg"
Half an hour later, it was a similar email. When I hit the 90 minute mark, another. I wrote to their CEO (his email is listed on the site) as well. Still nothing.
At one hour and 45 minutes, someone finally got on the phone. His name is Chris. He had an email sent out within minutes.
When I went to check for that email, I saw that I got a reply from someone named Roseanne. This was in response to the email I'd sent to the CEO. She sent a link to reset my password and apologized for my hassle. I clicked the link while I was on hold (very briefly) with Chris. It didn't work. I'm guessing that's because it was being re-reset by Chris. I clicked on the link from Chris's email and it worked perfectly.
I won't be using this service again. I'm going to get my files back, put them on removable storage, and get that McAfee program that backs up my stuff.
Yes, it was my fault for not writing down the password and keeping it in a safe place. However, the customer service at this company is so ridiculously difficult to access that it would be stupid to keep trusting them with my files. It shouldn't take five angry emails and two full hours of my daytime minutes to get access to a program that I've already paid $50 for.
Everything was going great. I knew I had to go through and specially set it to backup my video files. This isn't written in bold red print, but I found it in the fine print and set it up to backup videos. No biggie.
Then I got a virus. It wiped my whole hard drive. Pictures, music, video, word documents, notes for class - all of it, gone.
I was more irritated than worried because I have the Carbonite backup and I knew all my files were fine.
I re-installed my hard drive and went to log into carbonite.com. It didn't accept my password. I clicked "forgot password," and was told to fill out a form to send to their customer service department with basic information. They asked for the last four digits of th credit card that I used to buy my subscription. I couldn't remember which card I put it on, and told them so. I submitted the form and got an email auto-response. Apparently it was going to take 72 hours to get back to me.
72 hours. To recover a password.
So I called their support line. Nobody was there, they only support people between 9 am and 5 pm, Eastern Standard Time. Because everybody knows that's the only time computers crash, right?
So I called back today. The recorded voice said I could get something like preferred customer service for just $20. It said I was 9th in line for regular service. I kept my $20 and waited. Every minute, the recorded voice interrupted the horrible elevator music to tell me I could also contact customer service via email. It gave me the email. After 45 minutes, I got really pissed.
I wrote:
"Hi,
I have been on hold with your company for 46 minutes. You have my $50 and all of my backup files. I would like to get back either my $50 or my files. I refuse to pay an extra $20 just so you will pick up the phone. You keep asking me to hold. I guess you think I am going to hang up.
You are wrong.
Meg"
Half an hour later, it was a similar email. When I hit the 90 minute mark, another. I wrote to their CEO (his email is listed on the site) as well. Still nothing.
At one hour and 45 minutes, someone finally got on the phone. His name is Chris. He had an email sent out within minutes.
When I went to check for that email, I saw that I got a reply from someone named Roseanne. This was in response to the email I'd sent to the CEO. She sent a link to reset my password and apologized for my hassle. I clicked the link while I was on hold (very briefly) with Chris. It didn't work. I'm guessing that's because it was being re-reset by Chris. I clicked on the link from Chris's email and it worked perfectly.
I won't be using this service again. I'm going to get my files back, put them on removable storage, and get that McAfee program that backs up my stuff.
Yes, it was my fault for not writing down the password and keeping it in a safe place. However, the customer service at this company is so ridiculously difficult to access that it would be stupid to keep trusting them with my files. It shouldn't take five angry emails and two full hours of my daytime minutes to get access to a program that I've already paid $50 for.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Ukulele Lady
I have a friend back east. She and I met when we were working a shitty job together, and she's one of the few friends kept in touch with after a move. I've known her five years and I'm reminded fairly often how glad I am that she held on to me after I left Maryland.
She's one of those friends that makes you get out and live your life, who makes you feel like a better person when you're around her. You know the type. She glows, and it makes you glow. She makes a person feel like there's more to life, whatever your life might be.
We trade text messages throughout the day, small notes that often mean nothing more than "I'm thinking of you, I miss you, I wish you were here." We play games with song titles, or word games that I can't explain. I'll think of her laugh, or consider what she might think of an outfit I'm buying, and I'll text her with our inside joke: "What's he building in there?" If I'm melancholy, it will be another inside phrase: "How does it end?"
I'm proud of her. We've had our differences, and they are sometimes big differences, and I'm proud of the woman she's become in this short time I've known her. I'm proud of the mother that she is becoming, and the grace with which she bears the crosses in her life.
We frustrate each other in small ways. I frustrate her, anyhow. I'm a stick in the mud, a fuddy duddy, and I try not to wonder why she talks to me at all. She has good friends who treat her better than I can, both in tangible gifts and sheer entertainment value. I try not to think of these things and just be grateful, but there are days when it's hard.
Like tonight. I got a call from her, and in her slightly southern accent (which tells me she's in a wonderful mood) she told me she was in Hawaii. I asked her if she was physically in Hawaii, or if it was just her imagination running west. These are the questions I have to ask her, because either could always be true. She was in Hawaii, physically, with a girlfriend who works for an airline. The friend had gotten free tickets to a wild blue heaven in the middle of a dreary and droning winter. My friend was calling because she had become aware of how little she knew about ukuleles and she wanted to send me one straight from Hawaii.
I, in my stuck-in-the mud, let's-be-rational mode that I'm sure drives her up a wall, took five pictures and a short video on my cell phone. I sent them to her, a 1.3 megapixel crash course in ukulele buying. In her infinite, wonderful patience, she refrained from heaving an exasperated sigh or laughing at my thorough descriptions. I offered to find a good uke store on her island so she wouldn't have to keep going from shop to shop.
I had given up on finding anything when she sent me this:
The one on the left will soon be in my clutches. She even had the guy working at the shop play me a tune on it. I sat in my favorite rocking chair in Chicago, listening to the dulcet sounds of a bored shop keeper playing a uke for a tourist, as he likely often does. I was thinking about how much she was doing for me, as she always does.
I can't wait to play a concert for her. Maybe a jumping flea boogie, or some old tune that warms her heart and sounds perfect on a ukulele. I want to give her back some of the joy she's given me through all these years. I hope she likes it.
I'd better start practicing.
She's one of those friends that makes you get out and live your life, who makes you feel like a better person when you're around her. You know the type. She glows, and it makes you glow. She makes a person feel like there's more to life, whatever your life might be.
We trade text messages throughout the day, small notes that often mean nothing more than "I'm thinking of you, I miss you, I wish you were here." We play games with song titles, or word games that I can't explain. I'll think of her laugh, or consider what she might think of an outfit I'm buying, and I'll text her with our inside joke: "What's he building in there?" If I'm melancholy, it will be another inside phrase: "How does it end?"
I'm proud of her. We've had our differences, and they are sometimes big differences, and I'm proud of the woman she's become in this short time I've known her. I'm proud of the mother that she is becoming, and the grace with which she bears the crosses in her life.
We frustrate each other in small ways. I frustrate her, anyhow. I'm a stick in the mud, a fuddy duddy, and I try not to wonder why she talks to me at all. She has good friends who treat her better than I can, both in tangible gifts and sheer entertainment value. I try not to think of these things and just be grateful, but there are days when it's hard.
Like tonight. I got a call from her, and in her slightly southern accent (which tells me she's in a wonderful mood) she told me she was in Hawaii. I asked her if she was physically in Hawaii, or if it was just her imagination running west. These are the questions I have to ask her, because either could always be true. She was in Hawaii, physically, with a girlfriend who works for an airline. The friend had gotten free tickets to a wild blue heaven in the middle of a dreary and droning winter. My friend was calling because she had become aware of how little she knew about ukuleles and she wanted to send me one straight from Hawaii.
I, in my stuck-in-the mud, let's-be-rational mode that I'm sure drives her up a wall, took five pictures and a short video on my cell phone. I sent them to her, a 1.3 megapixel crash course in ukulele buying. In her infinite, wonderful patience, she refrained from heaving an exasperated sigh or laughing at my thorough descriptions. I offered to find a good uke store on her island so she wouldn't have to keep going from shop to shop.
I had given up on finding anything when she sent me this:
The one on the left will soon be in my clutches. She even had the guy working at the shop play me a tune on it. I sat in my favorite rocking chair in Chicago, listening to the dulcet sounds of a bored shop keeper playing a uke for a tourist, as he likely often does. I was thinking about how much she was doing for me, as she always does.
I can't wait to play a concert for her. Maybe a jumping flea boogie, or some old tune that warms her heart and sounds perfect on a ukulele. I want to give her back some of the joy she's given me through all these years. I hope she likes it.
I'd better start practicing.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Snow!
Enough already! GEEZ!
I know this is a fact of life in Chicago, but damn! Enough!
*sigh*
Maybe I'm just getting too old.
I know this is a fact of life in Chicago, but damn! Enough!
*sigh*
Maybe I'm just getting too old.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Four eyes!
So you know how you go to the pharmacy or other places where they have those spinning racks of barely prescription glasses?
I was bored today and I tried some on. And I could see better. Well, to read, anyhow. So this is being thirty, eh? The joke is on me, I guess. I digress. I got the frames for free (long story), and I think they're a little too wide. Maybe I could use that optometry insurance I have and go get some decent specs.
I was bored today and I tried some on. And I could see better. Well, to read, anyhow. So this is being thirty, eh? The joke is on me, I guess. I digress. I got the frames for free (long story), and I think they're a little too wide. Maybe I could use that optometry insurance I have and go get some decent specs.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Happy anniversary!
Last January first, I was walking home from a friend's party. It was after midnight, I was drunk and happy, walking down the street with my headphones on. Somebody behind me started shouting, I took an earbud out and turned around. It was some shady looking guy, he wanted a cigarette. I told him I was out and promptly put my earbud back in my ear. I turned off the mp3 player, though, so I could hear where he was and what he was up to.
I ran into the same guy two more times, each time asking for a cigarette. Once I was trying to get on the el to get to work, and he was standing there asking for a smoke.
I: You know, it seems every time I walk down the street you're there asking for a cigarette.
He: You want some of my donut?
I: No, I don't want your donut.
He (shrugging and smirking): Well, whaddya want me to do? I'm homeless.
I: You look pretty smug for a homeless guy.
So the year went on, and I see him up and down the street begging for change and bothering people. He's in his late twenties or early thirties, though his cockiness hints that he's a young guy who just looks like he's lived every day twice. He wearns nicer clothes than I, and he always has a haircut and a trimmed beard. His clothes aren't filthy and he doesn't smell, but there's an air of the homeless life on him. A quiet, carefree desperation that comes with a life where you don't have to stress over work and bills, but you do have to wonder where your next meal is coming from.
He met up with another regular guy on our street who always claims to be collecting for an AIDS walk. Well, really, they met each other one day when they were both hitting up my block for money, and they shook hands and introduced themselves. I haven't seen the AIDS walk guy since.
Today at the laundromat, a woman walked up to me (there were two other people there) and said, "Do you have a cell phone?" Turns out there was some guy who had been in the bathroom for about an hour. He looked, in her words, "Homeless. Matted hair. Dirty clothes."
I said, "He's probably getting high, or he passed out or something." I went back to taking my laundry out of the washer, unconcerned.
She seemed pretty pissed that I wasn't leaping up to take care of the guy in the bathroom. She insisted that we should call someone. "Who do you suggest we call?" I asked. She had no answer. She was getting quietly upset that I was so nonchalant. My good deed for the day was not telling her about the incredible amount of coke being snorted in the bars nearby.
She kept buzzing around, flapping her mouth about the situation. I asked where the employee was for the place. She said the employees had left. I shrugged. I didn't care. If I needed to pee, my apartment wasn't too far away. I went back to my laundry.
She said something to the effect of, "I live in this area and if there's someone shooting up in the bathroom I want something done about it." I don't know why I didn't tell her to go home and call the cops if she was so fucking concerned. I didn't point out that it was dumb to say she lived in the area, it's not like she's going to drive her clothes two miles to go wash them at this shitty laundromat. I'm off my game today, I guess. A bad way to start the new year.
I don't know why this woman walked up to me to solve her problem. As you might have heard, I'm sick of calling the police. I guess she didn't get the memo. I ignored her, decided to let her and the other lady sort it out. I didn't care. I am that kind of person now, it seems.
So half an hour goes by, and surprise, surprise - there's my old friend with the donut. He can barely stand. I'm on the phone with a friend who knows all about this guy and the situation at the laundromat, and I start laughing at the guy while I'm telling my friend who it is. The donut guy is swaying, his eyes are rolling in his head and his day seems to be off to a good start. Well, in his definition of good.
The other woman who had also bristled at my disinterest had decided to sit out in the car rather than stand around listening to me talk on my cell phone, asking what the fuck they expected me to do about it. Right now the only people there are a woman who won't stop using her speaker phone, the donut guy, and yours truly. I look him right in the eye and laugh low enough that he knows it's at him, but not enough to get him too riled up. In his drugged out haze he knows I'm there, and he knows I'm laughing at him. He gives me a sneer, lights a cigarette, and leaves.
Half an hour later, waiting for the last ten minutes to pass on my dryer, I'm standing by the back door to the place watching the snow fall. I'm right by the bathroom and I nearly choke on the stench of cigarettes. (I'm a smoke snob now, it seems.) I turn, and the donut guy has left his arm tie on the floor, with some wet toilet paper. I go back and stand by my dryer, and it occurs to me that today is January first again, and I met the donut guy a year ago today.
I get home and hear sirens. Maybe they've found him in an alley, splayed out in the snow, overdosed and done for. I doubt it, though. Guys like him don't get off that lucky.
I ran into the same guy two more times, each time asking for a cigarette. Once I was trying to get on the el to get to work, and he was standing there asking for a smoke.
I: You know, it seems every time I walk down the street you're there asking for a cigarette.
He: You want some of my donut?
I: No, I don't want your donut.
He (shrugging and smirking): Well, whaddya want me to do? I'm homeless.
I: You look pretty smug for a homeless guy.
So the year went on, and I see him up and down the street begging for change and bothering people. He's in his late twenties or early thirties, though his cockiness hints that he's a young guy who just looks like he's lived every day twice. He wearns nicer clothes than I, and he always has a haircut and a trimmed beard. His clothes aren't filthy and he doesn't smell, but there's an air of the homeless life on him. A quiet, carefree desperation that comes with a life where you don't have to stress over work and bills, but you do have to wonder where your next meal is coming from.
He met up with another regular guy on our street who always claims to be collecting for an AIDS walk. Well, really, they met each other one day when they were both hitting up my block for money, and they shook hands and introduced themselves. I haven't seen the AIDS walk guy since.
Today at the laundromat, a woman walked up to me (there were two other people there) and said, "Do you have a cell phone?" Turns out there was some guy who had been in the bathroom for about an hour. He looked, in her words, "Homeless. Matted hair. Dirty clothes."
I said, "He's probably getting high, or he passed out or something." I went back to taking my laundry out of the washer, unconcerned.
She seemed pretty pissed that I wasn't leaping up to take care of the guy in the bathroom. She insisted that we should call someone. "Who do you suggest we call?" I asked. She had no answer. She was getting quietly upset that I was so nonchalant. My good deed for the day was not telling her about the incredible amount of coke being snorted in the bars nearby.
She kept buzzing around, flapping her mouth about the situation. I asked where the employee was for the place. She said the employees had left. I shrugged. I didn't care. If I needed to pee, my apartment wasn't too far away. I went back to my laundry.
She said something to the effect of, "I live in this area and if there's someone shooting up in the bathroom I want something done about it." I don't know why I didn't tell her to go home and call the cops if she was so fucking concerned. I didn't point out that it was dumb to say she lived in the area, it's not like she's going to drive her clothes two miles to go wash them at this shitty laundromat. I'm off my game today, I guess. A bad way to start the new year.
I don't know why this woman walked up to me to solve her problem. As you might have heard, I'm sick of calling the police. I guess she didn't get the memo. I ignored her, decided to let her and the other lady sort it out. I didn't care. I am that kind of person now, it seems.
So half an hour goes by, and surprise, surprise - there's my old friend with the donut. He can barely stand. I'm on the phone with a friend who knows all about this guy and the situation at the laundromat, and I start laughing at the guy while I'm telling my friend who it is. The donut guy is swaying, his eyes are rolling in his head and his day seems to be off to a good start. Well, in his definition of good.
The other woman who had also bristled at my disinterest had decided to sit out in the car rather than stand around listening to me talk on my cell phone, asking what the fuck they expected me to do about it. Right now the only people there are a woman who won't stop using her speaker phone, the donut guy, and yours truly. I look him right in the eye and laugh low enough that he knows it's at him, but not enough to get him too riled up. In his drugged out haze he knows I'm there, and he knows I'm laughing at him. He gives me a sneer, lights a cigarette, and leaves.
Half an hour later, waiting for the last ten minutes to pass on my dryer, I'm standing by the back door to the place watching the snow fall. I'm right by the bathroom and I nearly choke on the stench of cigarettes. (I'm a smoke snob now, it seems.) I turn, and the donut guy has left his arm tie on the floor, with some wet toilet paper. I go back and stand by my dryer, and it occurs to me that today is January first again, and I met the donut guy a year ago today.
I get home and hear sirens. Maybe they've found him in an alley, splayed out in the snow, overdosed and done for. I doubt it, though. Guys like him don't get off that lucky.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Signs of desperation
I love getting gift cards. I fucking love them. Unless it's to someplace shitty, like the Hallmark store or something. I'd rather get a $15 gift certificate to Borders than have you spend $15 on some shitty wall decoration that I'll hate but have to display because it's manners.
Gift cards are awesome because you're giving people want they really want - a shopping spree. Sometimes food gift cards are a great idea, such as cards for Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts, if you happen to know that the recipient likes those places. But here is where you cross the line between "Something you might find useful and fun to treat yourself with" to "I have completely given up":
That's kind of trashy, FYI. And even if you're giving it to someone who LOVES Burger King, you're doing more harm than good. "Yes, tubby, go eat a big juicy burger. Have some greasy fries, too, that's right. Ask for extra mayo on that burger, because it's a gift card and what better gift can I give you than a fucking coronary?"
Do both of you a favor and just give a Wal-Mart gift card. Same level of trashy, but you're not responsible when the recipient (after having spent the card on donuts and soda) has a myocardial infarction.
Gift cards are awesome because you're giving people want they really want - a shopping spree. Sometimes food gift cards are a great idea, such as cards for Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts, if you happen to know that the recipient likes those places. But here is where you cross the line between "Something you might find useful and fun to treat yourself with" to "I have completely given up":
That's kind of trashy, FYI. And even if you're giving it to someone who LOVES Burger King, you're doing more harm than good. "Yes, tubby, go eat a big juicy burger. Have some greasy fries, too, that's right. Ask for extra mayo on that burger, because it's a gift card and what better gift can I give you than a fucking coronary?"
Do both of you a favor and just give a Wal-Mart gift card. Same level of trashy, but you're not responsible when the recipient (after having spent the card on donuts and soda) has a myocardial infarction.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
911
In the past year, I've had to call 911 three times. The first time, last December, some lady followed me into my apartment building and tried to fight with me. She thought my neighbor had stolen her coat and wanted me to move so she could go, I don't know, fight with my neighbor or something. She was drunk and wouldn't leave, so I called the cops.
The second time was a few months ago, I was at a friend's house. His neighbors were fighting, which wasn't a big deal, but I heard the lady scream (in answer to her live-in boyfriend's question, which I couldn't hear), "Because you fucking BEAT ME. THAT'S WHY." Then there were a series of thuds and bangs that basically sounded like someone was getting their ass kicked. My friend didn't want to call the cops, I never really understood why, but he asked me to, so I did.
Just now, I was turning from Madison onto Oak Park Avenue behind a big white van. I was in the middle of turning when the van stopped and the driver opened the door to puke. Or something like puke. I could only see his head and then see something splat on the ground. He started driving again, weaving all over the road, going 17-25 in a 30 MPH zone, and when we pulled up to a red light he leaned out to puke again. The he started to drive but stopped because nobody else was going (the light was still red). When the light changed, he didn't go. Then he swerved his way another half block before I just pulled over to call 911 to report him as a drunk driver.
A few years ago, I thought some girl was dead behind the wheel of an older mini van. She wasn't responding, her van looked fucked up, I called 911 after asking her repeatedly if she was okay. It wasn't until after I was giving the operator our location that I hear, "I'm fine. Jesus Christ!" And I looked up and she's staring at me with eyes that certain shade of blue that look creepy no matter where you see them.
Earlier that year, I called 911 because a semi had run over a minivan in its blind spot and kept going. A few years before that because I got mugged.
I guess the whole point of this list is, you'd think a life with this much police activity would be a lot more interesting, but here I am, just loading up my MP3 player, eating raisins, and wondering if "Pushing Daisies" is new this week
The second time was a few months ago, I was at a friend's house. His neighbors were fighting, which wasn't a big deal, but I heard the lady scream (in answer to her live-in boyfriend's question, which I couldn't hear), "Because you fucking BEAT ME. THAT'S WHY." Then there were a series of thuds and bangs that basically sounded like someone was getting their ass kicked. My friend didn't want to call the cops, I never really understood why, but he asked me to, so I did.
Just now, I was turning from Madison onto Oak Park Avenue behind a big white van. I was in the middle of turning when the van stopped and the driver opened the door to puke. Or something like puke. I could only see his head and then see something splat on the ground. He started driving again, weaving all over the road, going 17-25 in a 30 MPH zone, and when we pulled up to a red light he leaned out to puke again. The he started to drive but stopped because nobody else was going (the light was still red). When the light changed, he didn't go. Then he swerved his way another half block before I just pulled over to call 911 to report him as a drunk driver.
A few years ago, I thought some girl was dead behind the wheel of an older mini van. She wasn't responding, her van looked fucked up, I called 911 after asking her repeatedly if she was okay. It wasn't until after I was giving the operator our location that I hear, "I'm fine. Jesus Christ!" And I looked up and she's staring at me with eyes that certain shade of blue that look creepy no matter where you see them.
Earlier that year, I called 911 because a semi had run over a minivan in its blind spot and kept going. A few years before that because I got mugged.
I guess the whole point of this list is, you'd think a life with this much police activity would be a lot more interesting, but here I am, just loading up my MP3 player, eating raisins, and wondering if "Pushing Daisies" is new this week
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Oh Mickey You're so Fine, You're So...WTF
I was getting ready for work today and I noticed the throw rug by my bed was kind of folded. No big deal, it slides around a lot. I went to straighten it out and I see something odd on it. I reach down to see wtf is on my rug, and it moves. It was a mouse. A fucking mouse snoozing in the folds of the rug by my bed.
I yelped and ran into the kitchen, emptied out a Pringles can and put it over the mouse. He wasn't moving much, but he was moving, and I was freaking out. I slid a DVD case under the rug and wrestled with the problem of throwing him off the balcony. The problem wasn't throwing the mouse - the further the better - the problem was that I wasn't fully dressed yet. I had on my blouse and skirt, but the skirt wasn't zipped up or anything. I was looking down to zip up the skirt when I noticed the rug/mouse situation. I didn't want to take my hand off the Pringles can because the mouse could easily knock it over and run.
I finally decided, fuck it - it was 5:50 in the morning, anybody on the street at that hour can't focus their eyes well enough to even notice me on the balcony, so I went for it. I threw the thing off the balcony and heard it land one story down on the sidewalk. I didn't stop to see if it scampered off, I just ran back inside and into the kitchen.
I pulled things off the shelves of the pantry at random, seeing what had been chewed into, looking for signs of droppings or a nest. There was nothing. Cereal, pasta, sugar, cake and bread mixes - all that stuff was completely intact. I think it ran in the door when the door was open last night - my hands were full and I was standing in the open doorway for a bit while I tried to put down the stuff I was carrying. Really, the only sign I could find that a mouse was in my apartment was the mouse in my apartment.
So anyway, I initially touched the mouse with the index and middle finger of my right hand. I washed my hands after I threw the mouse out, and again after I checked the pantry. And again at work. I can see now what Lady Macbeth was going on about - the feel of that mouse is still on my fingers.
Given that the mouse hardly moved when I touched it and didn't run when I ran to the kitchen for something to catch it in, I think it was injured. But I stepped right over it three times today when I went to hit the snooze button on the cell phone's alarm. And I wouldn't have noticed it if I had been putting on my skirt anywhere else in the room. I'm lucky it didn't turn and bite me, I'd be having to drag it in for rabies testing and shit.
And then on the way to work it sounded like someone threw a rock at my car, and it bounced off the roof and down the back window. I checked it when I got to work, and there are marks in the rubber seal above the back window, very uniform looking marks. I don't know if that's related to the sound I heard, but damn, what the fuck is with today?
I yelped and ran into the kitchen, emptied out a Pringles can and put it over the mouse. He wasn't moving much, but he was moving, and I was freaking out. I slid a DVD case under the rug and wrestled with the problem of throwing him off the balcony. The problem wasn't throwing the mouse - the further the better - the problem was that I wasn't fully dressed yet. I had on my blouse and skirt, but the skirt wasn't zipped up or anything. I was looking down to zip up the skirt when I noticed the rug/mouse situation. I didn't want to take my hand off the Pringles can because the mouse could easily knock it over and run.
I finally decided, fuck it - it was 5:50 in the morning, anybody on the street at that hour can't focus their eyes well enough to even notice me on the balcony, so I went for it. I threw the thing off the balcony and heard it land one story down on the sidewalk. I didn't stop to see if it scampered off, I just ran back inside and into the kitchen.
I pulled things off the shelves of the pantry at random, seeing what had been chewed into, looking for signs of droppings or a nest. There was nothing. Cereal, pasta, sugar, cake and bread mixes - all that stuff was completely intact. I think it ran in the door when the door was open last night - my hands were full and I was standing in the open doorway for a bit while I tried to put down the stuff I was carrying. Really, the only sign I could find that a mouse was in my apartment was the mouse in my apartment.
So anyway, I initially touched the mouse with the index and middle finger of my right hand. I washed my hands after I threw the mouse out, and again after I checked the pantry. And again at work. I can see now what Lady Macbeth was going on about - the feel of that mouse is still on my fingers.
Given that the mouse hardly moved when I touched it and didn't run when I ran to the kitchen for something to catch it in, I think it was injured. But I stepped right over it three times today when I went to hit the snooze button on the cell phone's alarm. And I wouldn't have noticed it if I had been putting on my skirt anywhere else in the room. I'm lucky it didn't turn and bite me, I'd be having to drag it in for rabies testing and shit.
And then on the way to work it sounded like someone threw a rock at my car, and it bounced off the roof and down the back window. I checked it when I got to work, and there are marks in the rubber seal above the back window, very uniform looking marks. I don't know if that's related to the sound I heard, but damn, what the fuck is with today?
Friday, October 12, 2007
Disgusting
So I got yelled at - again - for being rude to the guests. I thought some lady was asking me my name, and I said, "It's Meg." Apparently that's not what she was saying. I don't speak mumble-ese so I got written up.
My district manager - the tool with the goatee - says that I come off as mean and rude. So I smile more at people. Sometimes it's a maniacal smile because the guests do shit like walk off when I'm trying to give them directions, or ask me where the bathroom is and then act like "Straight ahead, it's on the left" is the stupidest answer they've ever heard. But I smile, so whatever.
This morning this lady comes in - obviously a crazy cat lady, with the pet products show across the street - and she wants to use the code to get into the computer room. I explain to her (with a smile on my face) that the code is only for after hours, and from 7-5 I'll let her in, she can check in at my desk and I'll walk her down there.
She comes out of the computer room to get a note pad and pen (not a big deal at all), and I get up to walk her back down to let her back in (not a big deal at all), and she says "Oh, well, I know the code, I can use that," and rattles off the code. I said, "That doesn't work during the day. From 7-5 I'm happy to let you in there." And then she says that she thinks I'm mad at her. She seems to take it as a personal affront that I stand in the doorway a second to make sure her computer is logged in and ready to go.
What the fuck? What the fuck did I do to this fucking bitch to piss her off? I apologize profusely, not because I'm actually sorry but because I don't want her to complain about me. She's the kind of bitch with nothing better to do than write mother fucking complaint letters. Fuck.
So she comes out of the computer room, and I apologize again. I said, "If I seem a little rude, I apologize, please let me know what I did or said so I can improve my customer service." And then she sees that I have my human genetics book out, and suddenly she wants to dote all over me with, "Oh, you're going back to school! Oh, isn't that wonderful? I'm so impressed! Oh, you're getting your degree!"
I would put up with this shit from my mom, because I love my mom and I know this is how she talks, even if it gets on my nerves. This lady was way over-doing it, and she was actually kind of doing it like you would talk to a child: "Oh, you put your shoes on the right feet today! It's that wonderful? I'm so impressed! Oh, you're growing up!"
And I had to sit here and be patronized by this stupid bitch for seven or eight minutes like this. She was cutting into my Friday morning appointment with Kathryn Tucker Windham, and I really wanted to quit talking about going back to school for some shitty associate degree that won't mean much more than my 10-year-old GED when it comes time to find a new job in February.
I was disgusted with myself. It made me feel gross and dirty, sitting here letting her speak to me that way instead of sending her off with my usual firm but polite, "You're all set. Let me know if you need anything else, here's my card. Have a great day!" And the more she talked the more I felt bad for her. I was getting paid to talk to her, I wasn't really interested in anything she had to say. And sitting here acting like I did give a shit was basically lying to her, but I had to do it so I could keep this shitty, thankless job until February.
I'm disgusted with myself now. If my shitty fucking bank decides that I can actually have the money I deposited last week, I think I'll take a cab after work to pick up my car instead of waiting til Tuesday. I could use a nice, relaxing drive right now.
My district manager - the tool with the goatee - says that I come off as mean and rude. So I smile more at people. Sometimes it's a maniacal smile because the guests do shit like walk off when I'm trying to give them directions, or ask me where the bathroom is and then act like "Straight ahead, it's on the left" is the stupidest answer they've ever heard. But I smile, so whatever.
This morning this lady comes in - obviously a crazy cat lady, with the pet products show across the street - and she wants to use the code to get into the computer room. I explain to her (with a smile on my face) that the code is only for after hours, and from 7-5 I'll let her in, she can check in at my desk and I'll walk her down there.
She comes out of the computer room to get a note pad and pen (not a big deal at all), and I get up to walk her back down to let her back in (not a big deal at all), and she says "Oh, well, I know the code, I can use that," and rattles off the code. I said, "That doesn't work during the day. From 7-5 I'm happy to let you in there." And then she says that she thinks I'm mad at her. She seems to take it as a personal affront that I stand in the doorway a second to make sure her computer is logged in and ready to go.
What the fuck? What the fuck did I do to this fucking bitch to piss her off? I apologize profusely, not because I'm actually sorry but because I don't want her to complain about me. She's the kind of bitch with nothing better to do than write mother fucking complaint letters. Fuck.
So she comes out of the computer room, and I apologize again. I said, "If I seem a little rude, I apologize, please let me know what I did or said so I can improve my customer service." And then she sees that I have my human genetics book out, and suddenly she wants to dote all over me with, "Oh, you're going back to school! Oh, isn't that wonderful? I'm so impressed! Oh, you're getting your degree!"
I would put up with this shit from my mom, because I love my mom and I know this is how she talks, even if it gets on my nerves. This lady was way over-doing it, and she was actually kind of doing it like you would talk to a child: "Oh, you put your shoes on the right feet today! It's that wonderful? I'm so impressed! Oh, you're growing up!"
And I had to sit here and be patronized by this stupid bitch for seven or eight minutes like this. She was cutting into my Friday morning appointment with Kathryn Tucker Windham, and I really wanted to quit talking about going back to school for some shitty associate degree that won't mean much more than my 10-year-old GED when it comes time to find a new job in February.
I was disgusted with myself. It made me feel gross and dirty, sitting here letting her speak to me that way instead of sending her off with my usual firm but polite, "You're all set. Let me know if you need anything else, here's my card. Have a great day!" And the more she talked the more I felt bad for her. I was getting paid to talk to her, I wasn't really interested in anything she had to say. And sitting here acting like I did give a shit was basically lying to her, but I had to do it so I could keep this shitty, thankless job until February.
I'm disgusted with myself now. If my shitty fucking bank decides that I can actually have the money I deposited last week, I think I'll take a cab after work to pick up my car instead of waiting til Tuesday. I could use a nice, relaxing drive right now.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Book fair
I went to a book fair today at my old high school. I haven't stepped foot in this place in eleven years. I expected to have old, fond memories rush back to me as I stepped foot in the door. Old drama, old love, old friends were supposed to fill my nostalgia deprived mind as I made my way through the glass doors and sauntered through the entry hall.
But it wasn't there. None of it. Not a lick. I was with two friends who I didn't know when we were students here. It was a big school. We pointed out some differences in the place, but nothing really sat with me and said, "I remember seeing Rob F. over by those doors every day at lunch," or "Isn't this where Amy punched Jody because of Adam?"
This was no longer a brick-and-mortar harbinger of my youth. This place held no solace for me, no great inspiration of what it means to have gone out in the world and live a life of my own for ten years. My youth is now held in my mind, and in random messages on MySpace from old schoolmates who track me down from time to time. The friends I had when I was in high school have blown to the four winds. Even the ones I kept in touch with regularly are no longer a part of my life. I let the last one go down his alcohol-induced rabbit hole six months ago.
But the books! Oh, the books brought back memories. "Yellow Raft in Blue Water" was on every table in the room. It was required reading for sophomores at the school. Other titles from English class peered at me between broken spines of less nostalgic tomes to remind me of this teacher or that class, or that fight I was in where I lost this book.
The smell of the old books brought back years and years of memories, from books handed down to me from my mom or libraries where I spent my time with books that didn't harass or make fun of me like my siblings and classmates. Most people describe it as a musty smell. To me, it smells like youth and weary happiness. Flipping through an old hardcover with a spine that always makes that old hardcover noise that's half-squeak, half-pop - that's where my youth lives. In Dicey's Song and Behind the Attic Wall and myriad other stories that swept me out of my humdrum life and took me everywhere I needed to go, that's where my solace lives.
Spending an hour in that old cafeteria among the yellowed pages of homeless books was like my own little Saturday afternoon heaven in the adolescent hell that I've too many grudges against.
No, you can't go home again. But sometimes, unexpectedly, your home - and your youth - can find you all too easily.
But it wasn't there. None of it. Not a lick. I was with two friends who I didn't know when we were students here. It was a big school. We pointed out some differences in the place, but nothing really sat with me and said, "I remember seeing Rob F. over by those doors every day at lunch," or "Isn't this where Amy punched Jody because of Adam?"
This was no longer a brick-and-mortar harbinger of my youth. This place held no solace for me, no great inspiration of what it means to have gone out in the world and live a life of my own for ten years. My youth is now held in my mind, and in random messages on MySpace from old schoolmates who track me down from time to time. The friends I had when I was in high school have blown to the four winds. Even the ones I kept in touch with regularly are no longer a part of my life. I let the last one go down his alcohol-induced rabbit hole six months ago.
But the books! Oh, the books brought back memories. "Yellow Raft in Blue Water" was on every table in the room. It was required reading for sophomores at the school. Other titles from English class peered at me between broken spines of less nostalgic tomes to remind me of this teacher or that class, or that fight I was in where I lost this book.
The smell of the old books brought back years and years of memories, from books handed down to me from my mom or libraries where I spent my time with books that didn't harass or make fun of me like my siblings and classmates. Most people describe it as a musty smell. To me, it smells like youth and weary happiness. Flipping through an old hardcover with a spine that always makes that old hardcover noise that's half-squeak, half-pop - that's where my youth lives. In Dicey's Song and Behind the Attic Wall and myriad other stories that swept me out of my humdrum life and took me everywhere I needed to go, that's where my solace lives.
Spending an hour in that old cafeteria among the yellowed pages of homeless books was like my own little Saturday afternoon heaven in the adolescent hell that I've too many grudges against.
No, you can't go home again. But sometimes, unexpectedly, your home - and your youth - can find you all too easily.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Venetian Night & Updated Chicago Album
I'm sure you're all glad to know that I went to Venetian Night on Saturday and got some interesting shots:
I also added to the Chicago album:
Please try to contain yourselves!
Venetian night flash show:
Updated Chicago flash show:
In non-digital news, I've started the book that I've been meaning to write for about 20 years now. It seems to be going okay as there are myriad resources at my disposal via the internet and other writers. It's my non-writer friends, the ones I've known ten years who don't seem to understand (or maybe they don't care) what a chore writing a book is. They don't seem concerned with the fact that my lifelong dream is suddenly in my grasp. They just want to know why I wasn't there for dinner on Friday.
And it's a good sign, it shows that my friends find no excuse acceptable when it means I'm not spending quality time with them. But to hear the absolute lack of interest when I say, "Well, I've been writing. I've finally started that book I've been meaning to write since I was 8." Said it to four people last night, not one of those people even asked what it was about. Maybe it's egotistical to think anybody would - or should - care, but damn...I've known these people ten years, they could ask least ask, if only for the sake of being polite.
I also added to the Chicago album:
Please try to contain yourselves!
Venetian night flash show:
Updated Chicago flash show:
In non-digital news, I've started the book that I've been meaning to write for about 20 years now. It seems to be going okay as there are myriad resources at my disposal via the internet and other writers. It's my non-writer friends, the ones I've known ten years who don't seem to understand (or maybe they don't care) what a chore writing a book is. They don't seem concerned with the fact that my lifelong dream is suddenly in my grasp. They just want to know why I wasn't there for dinner on Friday.
And it's a good sign, it shows that my friends find no excuse acceptable when it means I'm not spending quality time with them. But to hear the absolute lack of interest when I say, "Well, I've been writing. I've finally started that book I've been meaning to write since I was 8." Said it to four people last night, not one of those people even asked what it was about. Maybe it's egotistical to think anybody would - or should - care, but damn...I've known these people ten years, they could ask least ask, if only for the sake of being polite.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Ugh
So, last time I quit smoking the first step I took was to not have a smoke before 10:00 a.m. It was something a former co-worker had told me that helped him keep his smoking under control.
So, today, I wait til 10:00 for my first smoke. Usually there is a nice head rush. It was kind of there this time, but mostly I just want to puke now. Ugh. I think I'm done for good.
So, today, I wait til 10:00 for my first smoke. Usually there is a nice head rush. It was kind of there this time, but mostly I just want to puke now. Ugh. I think I'm done for good.
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