I must've been around 8 or so. I had a fascination with witches. I was reading every book about them that I could find. I loved the idea of magic. I wanted a little of it in my life.
So one day- probably a Saturday when I was bored- I decided that my mom was a witch. I decided this, and determined that it wasn't a good thing. That she would be pulled over to the darker side if I didn't practice some preventative measures.
Now how exactly does one keep one's mother from going to the evil magic? Well, one takes a kitchen chair, pulls it over to the coat closet, and removes all of the gold colored metal hangers. Yup. She was going to use the gold colored wire hangers in her evil magic. So I put them in my closet and replaced them with black ones. Thus defusing the potential problem. With the gold ones safely in my room, she wouldn't have any power to play with, and would keep on the straight and narrow. Not that she would ever notice all of the gold ones in my closet...or the ones in her closet...or my sister's closet...
No- only the ones in the coat closet counted.
I don't get it. Still. But it was important to me once. Seriously important. I stayed awake worrying about it. Probably the silliest and safest thing that's ever kept me awake at night worrying. I think I already told you I was a little odd and bookish.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Gettin stuff done
Got a job interview on Friday. And thus and so. It begins. Have been working at getting everything done. Personal statement. Paying bills. Job applications. Resume.
The list seems to asexually reproduce.
Last night at the Latona pub, there was music. Live music. Swear to god in Himmel that the upright bass player was the bass player for Moonpenny Opera. Without the scary clown makeup. Swear it on Grandma's bible. Swear it on the little fontenelle of someone's precious baby. Swear it on Kenga's socks.
And the beer was delicious.
No chocolate cake for us, though. We had enough of that methamphetamine concoction last week. We just said no. And had quesidillas instead.
The list seems to asexually reproduce.
Last night at the Latona pub, there was music. Live music. Swear to god in Himmel that the upright bass player was the bass player for Moonpenny Opera. Without the scary clown makeup. Swear it on Grandma's bible. Swear it on the little fontenelle of someone's precious baby. Swear it on Kenga's socks.
And the beer was delicious.
No chocolate cake for us, though. We had enough of that methamphetamine concoction last week. We just said no. And had quesidillas instead.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Learning to take one's lumps
Yesterday was the big LSAT score day. Reckoning, if you will. And I'm not jubilant. Not crying too hard, but not jubilant. Let's discuss the bell curve, shall we? Fucking bell curve. This particular one was brutal. I did exactly how I expected. Exactly. However, the curve was lower this time than it has been on past tests. If the curve had been what it was in December 2004, or February 2005, I would be a very happy girl. No such luck. Crap. I cannot throw more resources at that test. I couldn't do better. No way. Just don't have it in me. So now I just hope that it was good enough to get me into school.
And yes, I did substantially better than last time, but not stellar. Just not stellar. Crap. Now I'm gonna go and do my best not to think about it for a while. Kenga took me out for nachos and beer last night to help assuage the pain. Good Kenga.
And yes, I did substantially better than last time, but not stellar. Just not stellar. Crap. Now I'm gonna go and do my best not to think about it for a while. Kenga took me out for nachos and beer last night to help assuage the pain. Good Kenga.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Crazy crap I live with
Update-
These cats in the house are insane. Not like that's a news flash or anything.
The one on Prozac has a thing where he gets all cuddly. Then he has to start licking his nipples. Only the bottom two. They are kind of bald. It's a little disturbing.
The white one- who is a BOY, dammit- has a thing where when the little one is on the bed with me, he has to mount Buddy, grab his neck with his teeth and assert domination. Accompanied by Buddy's vocal protests. It's disturbing.
The large one- who is BIG BONED, dammit- basically lays in one spot all bloody day. Until he gets hungry. Then he paces around and squeaks. It's not a sound you would expect from such a large cat. It's disturbing.
The foster child is very good, but has a tendency to drool when petted. And he likes to get under the covers. The other day I was in bed in my jammies in the morning. He got under the covers and was kneading my tummy. Then he bit me. Really hard. On the stomach. Like he expected milk flow. It was disturbing.
I need a job. I have to get away from these strange little creatures. They're actually kind of creepy, when you get down to it...like the gremlins were creepy. Cute as hell, but if you let them eat after midnight.....
These cats in the house are insane. Not like that's a news flash or anything.
The one on Prozac has a thing where he gets all cuddly. Then he has to start licking his nipples. Only the bottom two. They are kind of bald. It's a little disturbing.
The white one- who is a BOY, dammit- has a thing where when the little one is on the bed with me, he has to mount Buddy, grab his neck with his teeth and assert domination. Accompanied by Buddy's vocal protests. It's disturbing.
The large one- who is BIG BONED, dammit- basically lays in one spot all bloody day. Until he gets hungry. Then he paces around and squeaks. It's not a sound you would expect from such a large cat. It's disturbing.
The foster child is very good, but has a tendency to drool when petted. And he likes to get under the covers. The other day I was in bed in my jammies in the morning. He got under the covers and was kneading my tummy. Then he bit me. Really hard. On the stomach. Like he expected milk flow. It was disturbing.
I need a job. I have to get away from these strange little creatures. They're actually kind of creepy, when you get down to it...like the gremlins were creepy. Cute as hell, but if you let them eat after midnight.....
Tales from the front
There was a boy. A very screwed up boy. He tried to get me fired. Lost his job. Was so sad. (I'm thinking in the tune of one of the songs from Moulin Rouge right now. Sorry- slight digression into sappiness. Couldn't be helped)
He was a mess. I spotted it at 20 paces. Knew he'd be trouble the minute the soft-hearted (headed?) boss hired him. Within days I saw the signs. Smelled like pot after lunch. Had the shakes in the morning, after coming in very late. The sleek veneer wore off within a week. Not a good sign. Started to wear tattered clothes to client meetings. In Montana, that's not done. They still like their bankers to dress up. They like to feel like they are trusting their money to professionals. Artists are one thing, but they have expectations of the people who draw up the papers.
Then he decided to take me out. He was nasty. I knew what he was doing. He wasn't subtle about it. I handled it. I had allies. They knew what I was capable of doing for them. They knew that he was a sinking ship. The boss was still clueless. It was an ugly, painful time. Lots of nasty snipes in my direction. Lots of little tantrums.
Then someone quit. I took on her job. And really owned it. It was such a good fit. Better than anything else. The only bad part was that he was still around poisoning the water supply. But he didn't matter- every day the cracks were showing more clearly than before. The boss couldn't ignore the complaints from clients. He couldn't ignore the missed meetings, and the really poorly executed contracts. And he couldn't ignore that the broken boy was taking the intern out to smoke at lunch. And the boy got cocky. He told me to my face, with a witness present that he had tried to get me fired. He couched it in what he probably saw as complimentary terms- to say that I was doing a good job, and deserved it now. Whatever, dude.
Of course the end was ugly- the boss couldn't handle it, and totally choked. It was drawn out, and we all got involved at his insistence. I told him to never, never put me in a situation like that again. It was probably the most uncomfortable thing I've witnessed- the gutting of a coworker, in front of everyone, with everyone's participation required. As much as I hated the boy then, I didn't have the stomach for watching an eviceration like that. Much less taking part. Finally, after an hour or so of discomfort, I asked the question. "Why are you still here? What are you doing? You don't seem to want the job anymore, what the hell are you trying to accomplish?" I told him that he needed to examine these questions, and decide what was best for himself. Seriously- it's just a fucking job. And if it was that bloody painful, wasn't it time to get the hell out? Especially since he wasn't doing it well at all?
One of the other people there criticized me later for being so blunt. But you know, I stand behind my actions. I was the only one who dared to express it directly. This wasn't the kind of guy who picked up on hints. He just didn't have those receptors. It was fucking sad as hell. I hated to see him self-destruct. It made me sick inside. And no, I didn't have an impulse to save his sorry ass- I've seen that move backfire enough to know better. Besides, I did have a touch of a grudge, and wanted him to leave no matter what. I wanted him somewhere else, and not on my back anymore.
He got out- got a better job making more money (the little fucker) and is still there. I can hope that he's gotten a little straightened out. But I don't really care so much as long as he doesn't kill anyone while driving in the state we saw him in on occasion.
And all of the participants of that meeting, with the exception of the boss are gone now. No one is there to remind him not to hire that kind of guy. No one is there to tell him that those kinds of problems are his sole responsibility to solve. Sigh...
Moving along now...
He was a mess. I spotted it at 20 paces. Knew he'd be trouble the minute the soft-hearted (headed?) boss hired him. Within days I saw the signs. Smelled like pot after lunch. Had the shakes in the morning, after coming in very late. The sleek veneer wore off within a week. Not a good sign. Started to wear tattered clothes to client meetings. In Montana, that's not done. They still like their bankers to dress up. They like to feel like they are trusting their money to professionals. Artists are one thing, but they have expectations of the people who draw up the papers.
Then he decided to take me out. He was nasty. I knew what he was doing. He wasn't subtle about it. I handled it. I had allies. They knew what I was capable of doing for them. They knew that he was a sinking ship. The boss was still clueless. It was an ugly, painful time. Lots of nasty snipes in my direction. Lots of little tantrums.
Then someone quit. I took on her job. And really owned it. It was such a good fit. Better than anything else. The only bad part was that he was still around poisoning the water supply. But he didn't matter- every day the cracks were showing more clearly than before. The boss couldn't ignore the complaints from clients. He couldn't ignore the missed meetings, and the really poorly executed contracts. And he couldn't ignore that the broken boy was taking the intern out to smoke at lunch. And the boy got cocky. He told me to my face, with a witness present that he had tried to get me fired. He couched it in what he probably saw as complimentary terms- to say that I was doing a good job, and deserved it now. Whatever, dude.
Of course the end was ugly- the boss couldn't handle it, and totally choked. It was drawn out, and we all got involved at his insistence. I told him to never, never put me in a situation like that again. It was probably the most uncomfortable thing I've witnessed- the gutting of a coworker, in front of everyone, with everyone's participation required. As much as I hated the boy then, I didn't have the stomach for watching an eviceration like that. Much less taking part. Finally, after an hour or so of discomfort, I asked the question. "Why are you still here? What are you doing? You don't seem to want the job anymore, what the hell are you trying to accomplish?" I told him that he needed to examine these questions, and decide what was best for himself. Seriously- it's just a fucking job. And if it was that bloody painful, wasn't it time to get the hell out? Especially since he wasn't doing it well at all?
One of the other people there criticized me later for being so blunt. But you know, I stand behind my actions. I was the only one who dared to express it directly. This wasn't the kind of guy who picked up on hints. He just didn't have those receptors. It was fucking sad as hell. I hated to see him self-destruct. It made me sick inside. And no, I didn't have an impulse to save his sorry ass- I've seen that move backfire enough to know better. Besides, I did have a touch of a grudge, and wanted him to leave no matter what. I wanted him somewhere else, and not on my back anymore.
He got out- got a better job making more money (the little fucker) and is still there. I can hope that he's gotten a little straightened out. But I don't really care so much as long as he doesn't kill anyone while driving in the state we saw him in on occasion.
And all of the participants of that meeting, with the exception of the boss are gone now. No one is there to remind him not to hire that kind of guy. No one is there to tell him that those kinds of problems are his sole responsibility to solve. Sigh...
Moving along now...
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Magic Mirror
I'm wondering how many people who stumble across the blog remember Romper Room. I sure do. It was the mainstay of my day as a small child. I believe that my particular version of it originated in Salt Lake City- it was on that cable channel. I remember seeing other versions of it on road trips, and being very confused.
I always wanted one of those magic mirrors. I wanted to be able to see my friends and family that way- even though I didn't have many friends as a child. Not a pity play, just reality- not very well socialized. Not at all. Kind of a bookish little freak, I'm afraid. Add artistic, and you might see the dilemna. Downright awkward physically- yes always the last one chosen for teams, and rightfully so. I would've chosen me last too. Very, very clumsy. Broke my arm falling off of the parallel bars in gym in 6th grade. I did score a Star Wars Tshirt out of the incedent, though- light blue with my name on the back in iron-on rainbow letters!
There was a point here...ahhh...that's right. Anyway, I was very dramatic at a young age. I would dress up in my mom's old bridesmaid's dresses (lots of tulle) and wear a towel on my head that represented a veil of some kind, and prance around the house putting on plays, and imagining many adventures. When Charlie's Angels came along, my friend Connie and I would trade off being a particular angel for the day, and we would fight imaginary crime. Neither of us ever wanted to be Sabrina. Poor Kate Jackson.
Once I hit High School, I decided to try out for the drama team. I competed for 3 years, and decided to quit in my senior year. By that time I had figured out that the coaches were a touch politically inclined, and that the public didn't properly appreciate my art. I always competed in either serious solo of serious duo, with my likewise ever so serious best friend. I was going to be an actor. An ACTOR. Capital A. Not actress. Never. That's just not a serious moniker.
A friend of mine in college was also inclined to be an ACTOR. She was funny, very talented (better than me- I can admit it now) and was chock full o aspirations of grandeur. She quit college and went to LA. She is in IMDB. As are the other two real standouts from my drama team. (I get to see one of them in movies from time to time, and am very proud of her) She hasn't done anything in quite a while, though. She never took the world by storm and became a star. Sad, actually. I never took the gamble. I just kind of knew that I didn't have the staying power. I didn't have the total faith in my own abilities. Not at that age. I was so full of self-loathing and mistrust that it would've probably yielded very bad consequences. And I didn't really want to work very hard at it. I also thought that the actors who I knew who were all full of "the craft" and "method approaches", etc. were silly. I am very glad that there aren't any tapes in existence of my performances- betcha they were horribly cringeworthy.
Anyhew, I would love to see if they are still involved. I hope so. They were good at it, and despite some of them being heartily annoying in real life, I enjoyed watching them perform.
I did always want to play the part of Portia in Merchant of Venice though...
I always wanted one of those magic mirrors. I wanted to be able to see my friends and family that way- even though I didn't have many friends as a child. Not a pity play, just reality- not very well socialized. Not at all. Kind of a bookish little freak, I'm afraid. Add artistic, and you might see the dilemna. Downright awkward physically- yes always the last one chosen for teams, and rightfully so. I would've chosen me last too. Very, very clumsy. Broke my arm falling off of the parallel bars in gym in 6th grade. I did score a Star Wars Tshirt out of the incedent, though- light blue with my name on the back in iron-on rainbow letters!
There was a point here...ahhh...that's right. Anyway, I was very dramatic at a young age. I would dress up in my mom's old bridesmaid's dresses (lots of tulle) and wear a towel on my head that represented a veil of some kind, and prance around the house putting on plays, and imagining many adventures. When Charlie's Angels came along, my friend Connie and I would trade off being a particular angel for the day, and we would fight imaginary crime. Neither of us ever wanted to be Sabrina. Poor Kate Jackson.
Once I hit High School, I decided to try out for the drama team. I competed for 3 years, and decided to quit in my senior year. By that time I had figured out that the coaches were a touch politically inclined, and that the public didn't properly appreciate my art. I always competed in either serious solo of serious duo, with my likewise ever so serious best friend. I was going to be an actor. An ACTOR. Capital A. Not actress. Never. That's just not a serious moniker.
A friend of mine in college was also inclined to be an ACTOR. She was funny, very talented (better than me- I can admit it now) and was chock full o aspirations of grandeur. She quit college and went to LA. She is in IMDB. As are the other two real standouts from my drama team. (I get to see one of them in movies from time to time, and am very proud of her) She hasn't done anything in quite a while, though. She never took the world by storm and became a star. Sad, actually. I never took the gamble. I just kind of knew that I didn't have the staying power. I didn't have the total faith in my own abilities. Not at that age. I was so full of self-loathing and mistrust that it would've probably yielded very bad consequences. And I didn't really want to work very hard at it. I also thought that the actors who I knew who were all full of "the craft" and "method approaches", etc. were silly. I am very glad that there aren't any tapes in existence of my performances- betcha they were horribly cringeworthy.
Anyhew, I would love to see if they are still involved. I hope so. They were good at it, and despite some of them being heartily annoying in real life, I enjoyed watching them perform.
I did always want to play the part of Portia in Merchant of Venice though...
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Damned chocolate cake
Chocolate cake seems to have contained a large amount of Crystal meth. We didn't sleep. Maybe 1-2 hours tops. Fine for me, but Kenga's gonna suffer. Not even the magic sleep bullet provided by Sigur Ros did the trick.
Stoopid chocolate cake. A friend of ours from AZ wrote a song called, Gluttony is next to Godlessness. Guess he was right. We're both sleepy Godless Gluttons.
I'm gonna slouch over to the couch (hey, that rhymed- cool!) and sit and let CNN wash over me like a tepid, semi-stinky bath.
Then I have a ton of movies Tivoed to watch. I got halfway through On the Waterfront before having to go to the interview yesterday. It's one of those misty, coldish October days here, and I'm feeling distinctly jammy-ish. With slippers even. That oughta make the cats happy.
Stoopid chocolate cake. A friend of ours from AZ wrote a song called, Gluttony is next to Godlessness. Guess he was right. We're both sleepy Godless Gluttons.
I'm gonna slouch over to the couch (hey, that rhymed- cool!) and sit and let CNN wash over me like a tepid, semi-stinky bath.
Then I have a ton of movies Tivoed to watch. I got halfway through On the Waterfront before having to go to the interview yesterday. It's one of those misty, coldish October days here, and I'm feeling distinctly jammy-ish. With slippers even. That oughta make the cats happy.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Someone upstairs is fond of me
Won't send me a job, but did save my ass today.
Interview went well. I felt really good. Will know in a day or two. Now for a tale of mystery and divine intervention. Also, let it be said, I am a dumbass on occasion. Like this one.
Am driving around downtown looking for cheap parking. Yeah. Didn't want to pay through the nose for any stupid garage parking, no not me. Too smart for that. So. I find a spot. Pay for my time and hoof it to the interview. Plenty of time. All is well. The interview ends around 4:45. I get to the car in about 5 minutes. And the tow truck is there, hooking up the car next to mine. They were getting ready to tow mine too. Seems like I was in a spot that needs to be vacated at 4. I got a ticket, but got out of there before they tagged my car. Like I said, the timing was very, very good.
Went to Latona Pub for dinner- I can recommend them highly. Especially their specials. Only downside is that every meal comes with a lavish helping of mixed greens salad. Now there is a saga to share. Mixed greens salads give me a distinctly adverse reaction. Violently so. From every direction. And no, I've never figured out exactly which specific green is responsible. It's just too damned disagreeable to be heaving and otherwise occupied for several days. No exaggerating, either. I discovered that this was more than one food poisoning incedent after an abrupt exit from a business lunch a couple of years ago. Since then, I leave most salads alone. Which is a pity, since I have a fondness for salad.
There. I have unburdened myself about the salad problem. Feel much better.
Now if I just get the job, all will be better in the world. And Friday I'm supposed to get the LSAT scores...
Interview went well. I felt really good. Will know in a day or two. Now for a tale of mystery and divine intervention. Also, let it be said, I am a dumbass on occasion. Like this one.
Am driving around downtown looking for cheap parking. Yeah. Didn't want to pay through the nose for any stupid garage parking, no not me. Too smart for that. So. I find a spot. Pay for my time and hoof it to the interview. Plenty of time. All is well. The interview ends around 4:45. I get to the car in about 5 minutes. And the tow truck is there, hooking up the car next to mine. They were getting ready to tow mine too. Seems like I was in a spot that needs to be vacated at 4. I got a ticket, but got out of there before they tagged my car. Like I said, the timing was very, very good.
Went to Latona Pub for dinner- I can recommend them highly. Especially their specials. Only downside is that every meal comes with a lavish helping of mixed greens salad. Now there is a saga to share. Mixed greens salads give me a distinctly adverse reaction. Violently so. From every direction. And no, I've never figured out exactly which specific green is responsible. It's just too damned disagreeable to be heaving and otherwise occupied for several days. No exaggerating, either. I discovered that this was more than one food poisoning incedent after an abrupt exit from a business lunch a couple of years ago. Since then, I leave most salads alone. Which is a pity, since I have a fondness for salad.
There. I have unburdened myself about the salad problem. Feel much better.
Now if I just get the job, all will be better in the world. And Friday I'm supposed to get the LSAT scores...
Make it quick
Like pulling off a bandaid- quick. Not painless, but quick.
Just heard. Didn't get the job I interviewed for 3 weeks ago. Nothing like making me wait a bit...seems that their needs changed in 3 weeks. Figures.
Got an interview this afternoon. Also at the bank. Gotta get dressed up. Crap. Feels better to pout in my jammies, with my Ferrari/Michael Schumacher shirt on. Michael and I, we got troubles, yes we do. He didn't do well in his last race of the season- the car pretty much sucked all year. Me, well, I'm unemployed. And getting to the state of boredom that only spells trouble. Gonna start sewing those Halloween costumes for the kitties pretty soon...
And news from home isn't the best. It seems to be a Fall of lowered expectations and sinking spirits. Best not to dwell on that thought for long- don't want it to rub off on my bright and shiny attitude.
Time to go get all prettied up. Crap. I think I'll even wear nylons. I hate nylons. I better get the damned job!
Just heard. Didn't get the job I interviewed for 3 weeks ago. Nothing like making me wait a bit...seems that their needs changed in 3 weeks. Figures.
Got an interview this afternoon. Also at the bank. Gotta get dressed up. Crap. Feels better to pout in my jammies, with my Ferrari/Michael Schumacher shirt on. Michael and I, we got troubles, yes we do. He didn't do well in his last race of the season- the car pretty much sucked all year. Me, well, I'm unemployed. And getting to the state of boredom that only spells trouble. Gonna start sewing those Halloween costumes for the kitties pretty soon...
And news from home isn't the best. It seems to be a Fall of lowered expectations and sinking spirits. Best not to dwell on that thought for long- don't want it to rub off on my bright and shiny attitude.
Time to go get all prettied up. Crap. I think I'll even wear nylons. I hate nylons. I better get the damned job!
Thursday, October 13, 2005
God help Lowe's
I just got back from a shopping foray. Not my favorite thing to do, mind you, but with endless seeming time stretching out in front of me, what else was I to do?
I went to Lowe's. And looked at bargain plants. For those of you who don't already know, I am a total plant freak. I have literally hundreds of orchids. Most of them were carted from Montana to Seattle when we moved. Love them all.
The bargain plants have bloomed, and are relatively healthy. And priced well. Home Depot sucks- they must just throw the bloomed out ones away. The bastards.
I found a couple. Priced well, pest free, and joy of joys, starting new blooms (no one must've noticed).
I go to check out and pay. The old lady at the register rang up the old man in front of me. His ant killer rang up incorrectly. Rather than deal with it, she got defensive that he didn't want to spend $78 on ant killer. She fixed it, but had to make a production of blaming the register. I should've known then...
It was my turn. Seems that Lowe's can't empower the cashiers with the ablility to enter sale prices on their own. They need manager overrides. If a Lowe's supervisor sees this, mark my words- THIS IS RETARDED!!!
Plant #1 rings up ok. Plant #2 rings up $10 more than marked. She seemed surprised when I protested, and stated categorically that I wasn't paying $10 more than the price listed. Then she said, "It rang up that way, I didn't do it." Like I was blaming her or something. I wanted to reply, "What, are you fucking 16 years old, lady?" But didn't. She got confused, tried to call the manager for another override, said, "the phone's busy."
I said, "I'll go to the main registers, there ought to be a manager there." It was just too bloody pitiful. I left her to her confusion.
Damn.
As Kenga's coworker Ryan said, you can expect this kind of thing at McDonalds. There it's a crapshoot whether or not you'll get what you order. You're lucky at the drive through to get kind of what you want. If it's in the meat family, and you ordered a chicken sandwich, it's a successful trip. And if you ordered a soda and fries, and actually got both, well, you're one hell of a lucky one!
I'll just know for future reference that this particular woman isn't very gifted at cashiering. Her gifts must just lie elsewhere.
I went to Lowe's. And looked at bargain plants. For those of you who don't already know, I am a total plant freak. I have literally hundreds of orchids. Most of them were carted from Montana to Seattle when we moved. Love them all.
The bargain plants have bloomed, and are relatively healthy. And priced well. Home Depot sucks- they must just throw the bloomed out ones away. The bastards.
I found a couple. Priced well, pest free, and joy of joys, starting new blooms (no one must've noticed).
I go to check out and pay. The old lady at the register rang up the old man in front of me. His ant killer rang up incorrectly. Rather than deal with it, she got defensive that he didn't want to spend $78 on ant killer. She fixed it, but had to make a production of blaming the register. I should've known then...
It was my turn. Seems that Lowe's can't empower the cashiers with the ablility to enter sale prices on their own. They need manager overrides. If a Lowe's supervisor sees this, mark my words- THIS IS RETARDED!!!
Plant #1 rings up ok. Plant #2 rings up $10 more than marked. She seemed surprised when I protested, and stated categorically that I wasn't paying $10 more than the price listed. Then she said, "It rang up that way, I didn't do it." Like I was blaming her or something. I wanted to reply, "What, are you fucking 16 years old, lady?" But didn't. She got confused, tried to call the manager for another override, said, "the phone's busy."
I said, "I'll go to the main registers, there ought to be a manager there." It was just too bloody pitiful. I left her to her confusion.
Damn.
As Kenga's coworker Ryan said, you can expect this kind of thing at McDonalds. There it's a crapshoot whether or not you'll get what you order. You're lucky at the drive through to get kind of what you want. If it's in the meat family, and you ordered a chicken sandwich, it's a successful trip. And if you ordered a soda and fries, and actually got both, well, you're one hell of a lucky one!
I'll just know for future reference that this particular woman isn't very gifted at cashiering. Her gifts must just lie elsewhere.
Stories I wish I could tell
I wish I knew the stories behind the following- only the principals are either dead or so dotty that the answers are gone.
What did Grandma think of California during the war, when Grandpa moved them there from East Helena? Did she miss her family? Did she make a lot of friends there? Was it an adventure, or was it just lonely?
What was her favorite color? Song? Food?
Why aren't there any photos of my other Grandparents' wedding? Or of Grandma pregnant?
Why was Grandpa so angry at life? What happened to him to turn him into such a bitter, mean man? And why did he hate my father and me so ardently?
Then there are the silly little incedentals- how tall was my Grandmother? What color were her eyes? I just don't remember.
These might seem trivial, and probably are, but I would love the chance to get the answers. Barring psychic intervention, I'll probably have to make up the answers myself, and be satisfied.
What did Grandma think of California during the war, when Grandpa moved them there from East Helena? Did she miss her family? Did she make a lot of friends there? Was it an adventure, or was it just lonely?
What was her favorite color? Song? Food?
Why aren't there any photos of my other Grandparents' wedding? Or of Grandma pregnant?
Why was Grandpa so angry at life? What happened to him to turn him into such a bitter, mean man? And why did he hate my father and me so ardently?
Then there are the silly little incedentals- how tall was my Grandmother? What color were her eyes? I just don't remember.
These might seem trivial, and probably are, but I would love the chance to get the answers. Barring psychic intervention, I'll probably have to make up the answers myself, and be satisfied.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
The Syrian
Back in the 80s, when the world and I was young, I was in the Bay Area for a summer. Call it the summer of love- I was there for that purpose alone. The boyfriend at the time was the scion of a wealthy doctor and his scary, crazy wife.
One night, doctor dad brought an intern home for dinner. Dinners were quite the event. Expensive food, expensive wine, and plenty of pretentions. I wasn't in my element, and felt like I was an exhibit at the zoo.
Intern brought current girlfriend. He also bought gifts for the hostess. These were a very large box filled with tins of black Russian caviar. And an exquisite fillagree silver box in a larger velvet box. Expensive, expensive.
Intern was pretty nice, girlfriend was cute, and a magician to boot. It was one of the more relaxed dinners with the parents.
Afterwards, I found out that intern was the son of the head of the Syrian military. And then I found out what that entailed. Scary, scary. That was the summer I got to meet drug dealers (coke, not the usual MT stuff) for the first time. Also scary. Boogie Nights brings back some not too pleasant memories. Fucking Night Ranger...
So which was scarier? The son of the scariest guy in town, or the dealers? It was a draw at the time, but with hindsight, the intern by several miles.
One night, doctor dad brought an intern home for dinner. Dinners were quite the event. Expensive food, expensive wine, and plenty of pretentions. I wasn't in my element, and felt like I was an exhibit at the zoo.
Intern brought current girlfriend. He also bought gifts for the hostess. These were a very large box filled with tins of black Russian caviar. And an exquisite fillagree silver box in a larger velvet box. Expensive, expensive.
Intern was pretty nice, girlfriend was cute, and a magician to boot. It was one of the more relaxed dinners with the parents.
Afterwards, I found out that intern was the son of the head of the Syrian military. And then I found out what that entailed. Scary, scary. That was the summer I got to meet drug dealers (coke, not the usual MT stuff) for the first time. Also scary. Boogie Nights brings back some not too pleasant memories. Fucking Night Ranger...
So which was scarier? The son of the scariest guy in town, or the dealers? It was a draw at the time, but with hindsight, the intern by several miles.
Notes from the battlefield
It's going well. The enemy is on the run. We might have them vanquished. That's not a bad thing. But rather than bask in perceived glory, I'll just express cautious optimism. It's never let me down before.
Basically the struggle has been one of primarily control. Who exercised it, who was inappropriate, and who ultimately bears responsibility for what happened when the whole bloody scheme collapsed on the kitchen floor. And even though I get to play the movie over and over again in my head, I am ultimately NOT the one to blame. That's it in a nutshell. I wasn't the adult in charge. Nope. Might've been pretending to be, but wasn't. So, I need to wrap my head around letting the adults own the blame, letting myself give it up and release control. And that might defuse some of the endless percolating font of anger in my belly. Then my quest for justice for past wrongs (never, never to be fulfilled, btw- very Sisphean) might just abate.
And wouldn't that be a pip? It has driven me for longer than I care to remember. I wouldn't be who I am today without it. But it no longer serves a totally good purpose, and has turned on the mistress, so to speak.
I keep remembering with regret. But I am thinking on this. If I were truly the monster of my despair, I wouldn't care about any of this. I would be remorseless and righteous. I wouldn't cringe when I remember these things. It wouldn't phase me for an instant. So, I can be pleased that I have humanity, compassion and love. That my gentleness was impaired at the time, and wouldn't be so today. That still is hard to say out loud. It's hard to give up on a game where I consistently lose, and can depend on that losing.
Now to tackle the anger...and all that entails- which in this case is a big ball o' stuff. Ugly, ugly. Scary, scary. Without that armor to gird me, what will I do? How will I keep the world at a distance? How will I approach situations that would ordinarily demand a reaction? We're entering uncharted territory, and I'm afraid that the scouts were picked off by the enemy a while back.
Into the breach, brave hearts! (Ok- belaboring the battle metaphor a touch? Should I switch to pirates? ARRRRGGGGG!)
Apologies, and reqest for indulgence are in order.
Basically the struggle has been one of primarily control. Who exercised it, who was inappropriate, and who ultimately bears responsibility for what happened when the whole bloody scheme collapsed on the kitchen floor. And even though I get to play the movie over and over again in my head, I am ultimately NOT the one to blame. That's it in a nutshell. I wasn't the adult in charge. Nope. Might've been pretending to be, but wasn't. So, I need to wrap my head around letting the adults own the blame, letting myself give it up and release control. And that might defuse some of the endless percolating font of anger in my belly. Then my quest for justice for past wrongs (never, never to be fulfilled, btw- very Sisphean) might just abate.
And wouldn't that be a pip? It has driven me for longer than I care to remember. I wouldn't be who I am today without it. But it no longer serves a totally good purpose, and has turned on the mistress, so to speak.
I keep remembering with regret. But I am thinking on this. If I were truly the monster of my despair, I wouldn't care about any of this. I would be remorseless and righteous. I wouldn't cringe when I remember these things. It wouldn't phase me for an instant. So, I can be pleased that I have humanity, compassion and love. That my gentleness was impaired at the time, and wouldn't be so today. That still is hard to say out loud. It's hard to give up on a game where I consistently lose, and can depend on that losing.
Now to tackle the anger...and all that entails- which in this case is a big ball o' stuff. Ugly, ugly. Scary, scary. Without that armor to gird me, what will I do? How will I keep the world at a distance? How will I approach situations that would ordinarily demand a reaction? We're entering uncharted territory, and I'm afraid that the scouts were picked off by the enemy a while back.
Into the breach, brave hearts! (Ok- belaboring the battle metaphor a touch? Should I switch to pirates? ARRRRGGGGG!)
Apologies, and reqest for indulgence are in order.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Shuddering in my shoes
I'm sitting here listening to Matt Lauer lob softballs (soft, soft- made of rolled up socks) to the President and First Lady. Pretty little photo-op, Matt. Nothing rough or tough. Civilized and sweet.
Not that I expect anything else.
Certain thoughts have been milling around in my head for a couple of days. These aren't happy thoughts. These are things that I have had in there and boxed away, taped up, catalogued under unmentionable for a very long time. Dammit. And now, some spring cleaning appears to have been done, and the boxes are out of storage. Open even. Ready to be accounted for. Dammit. I would rather lick the cat's ass than deal with all of this. But licking the cat's ass wouldn't make all of it go away. So, I won't subject myself to that particular horror.
I keep reliving a very bad day. Very, very bad. I did something pretty much unforgivable in my book. And I've never gotten to the point where I could cooly appraise my actions and deal with the guilt. Better to wrap it in bubble wrap and put it in the box. So much tidier. If I get into it fully, will it ever end?
This is an evil thing. Memory. Maybe my Grandmother is the lucky one- as she loses hers, she has plenty of the good ones left. And she seems to have forgotten lots of the bad. I have lots of the good ones, but the bad ones appear in a flash once in a while. And I have to deal with them. It's pretty rough going, and I would do anything to get out of my own head. Guess that's not really an option. Neither is a week-long drunk. Because once I sober up, it's all still in there. I'm OCD enough (really, I am) that fixating on this kind of shit is part of the chemistry.
So, I'm putting on my helmet, flack jacket and picking up my trusty AK 47 and gonna wade into the breach. Fuckin A. Maybe after the battle, I'll get a tattoo. Betty Grable or Rita Hayworth? Or in my case, Gable or Grant? Hmmmmm.
And then there's the debate- do I bare my soul to the world, and achieve the absolution gained when making a confession? I think not. Gotta keep some secrets closely held. Just gotta. Besides, I can't think of any good that would come of exposing some of this stuff- it's just my own hard-earned personal little hell. Probably wouldn't phase another person.
Enough. I'm putting off the inevitable. Gotta go think.
Not that I expect anything else.
Certain thoughts have been milling around in my head for a couple of days. These aren't happy thoughts. These are things that I have had in there and boxed away, taped up, catalogued under unmentionable for a very long time. Dammit. And now, some spring cleaning appears to have been done, and the boxes are out of storage. Open even. Ready to be accounted for. Dammit. I would rather lick the cat's ass than deal with all of this. But licking the cat's ass wouldn't make all of it go away. So, I won't subject myself to that particular horror.
I keep reliving a very bad day. Very, very bad. I did something pretty much unforgivable in my book. And I've never gotten to the point where I could cooly appraise my actions and deal with the guilt. Better to wrap it in bubble wrap and put it in the box. So much tidier. If I get into it fully, will it ever end?
This is an evil thing. Memory. Maybe my Grandmother is the lucky one- as she loses hers, she has plenty of the good ones left. And she seems to have forgotten lots of the bad. I have lots of the good ones, but the bad ones appear in a flash once in a while. And I have to deal with them. It's pretty rough going, and I would do anything to get out of my own head. Guess that's not really an option. Neither is a week-long drunk. Because once I sober up, it's all still in there. I'm OCD enough (really, I am) that fixating on this kind of shit is part of the chemistry.
So, I'm putting on my helmet, flack jacket and picking up my trusty AK 47 and gonna wade into the breach. Fuckin A. Maybe after the battle, I'll get a tattoo. Betty Grable or Rita Hayworth? Or in my case, Gable or Grant? Hmmmmm.
And then there's the debate- do I bare my soul to the world, and achieve the absolution gained when making a confession? I think not. Gotta keep some secrets closely held. Just gotta. Besides, I can't think of any good that would come of exposing some of this stuff- it's just my own hard-earned personal little hell. Probably wouldn't phase another person.
Enough. I'm putting off the inevitable. Gotta go think.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Story to share
A friend told us this one.
Three year old son of a friend. We'll call him Jimmy. Friend thought it would be funny to tell Jimmy the following.
"Leave the apple butter alone, son." "Why?" "It makes your meat grow."
Mom starts to notice the apple butter disappearing from the fridge.
One day, she notices Jimmy with the apple butter jar in his hands, and his pants undone. "What are you doing with the apple butter, Jimmy?"
"Putting it on my meat. It makes it grow."
Now, I'm only hoping that since this was over 10 years ago, Jimmy isn't still putting his pecker in the apple butter. Or if he is, he keeps a separate, non-consumed jar.
Three year old son of a friend. We'll call him Jimmy. Friend thought it would be funny to tell Jimmy the following.
"Leave the apple butter alone, son." "Why?" "It makes your meat grow."
Mom starts to notice the apple butter disappearing from the fridge.
One day, she notices Jimmy with the apple butter jar in his hands, and his pants undone. "What are you doing with the apple butter, Jimmy?"
"Putting it on my meat. It makes it grow."
Now, I'm only hoping that since this was over 10 years ago, Jimmy isn't still putting his pecker in the apple butter. Or if he is, he keeps a separate, non-consumed jar.
Coasting to a stop
It's day one of my time off. No job. Some very promising prospects, but at least a week before anything tangible gets me out of the house.
I'm up at a relatively normal hour. No sense falling into bad habits- they will only make getting up and going to work difficult, nay, painful.
Swilling my tea at the computer...almost poetic.
I have long lists of things to accomplish this week. And a long list of Tivoed movies to watch, including Double Indemnity, and some stuff from the 30s.
There are books to be read, and I plan to keep up the writing for a few hours every day. I am wondering if the writing will flow as well when I'm not stealing the hours from da man. I'm hoping. It'll say a lot if not.
Funny- it's been exactly one year, 9 days since I quit my job in Bozeman. And in that time I've had a job for only 3 months. Not exactly the gamble I had anticipated when we made the plunge.
Saddest of all is that there will probably be less for me to write about here now that I'm not exposed to the world and all of its silly people on a daily basis. I'll have to get inventive. I can totally DO this. I just know it.
Anyway, I think I'll run along and start by actually getting dressed before noon. All in the retention of good habits and all- no need to slouch around in a bathrobe all day. That's no way to attract the UPS guy! Nor is it a good way to keep the husband from straying. There are plenty of lovely young things in the big city just hankering for a piece of him! (Actually, he works in an office with one other guy, and doesn't seem to notice any other females with the sole exception of Kirsten Dunst. And I don't think she's in play here. If she was, I would respect her power and step aside. It would be the only sporting thing to do.)
I've also gotta think of better nomenclature for Spouse. that kind of has always grated on me. I have just tried so hard to retain his privacy, and his privates. So, I'll work on that too. The privacy thing- I'll not be sharing racy tales here, my friends.
So, mes amies, I'll be back later, no doubt, with fanciful tales of talking squirrels and neighborhood quarrels. We'll see what I can dredge up.
I'm up at a relatively normal hour. No sense falling into bad habits- they will only make getting up and going to work difficult, nay, painful.
Swilling my tea at the computer...almost poetic.
I have long lists of things to accomplish this week. And a long list of Tivoed movies to watch, including Double Indemnity, and some stuff from the 30s.
There are books to be read, and I plan to keep up the writing for a few hours every day. I am wondering if the writing will flow as well when I'm not stealing the hours from da man. I'm hoping. It'll say a lot if not.
Funny- it's been exactly one year, 9 days since I quit my job in Bozeman. And in that time I've had a job for only 3 months. Not exactly the gamble I had anticipated when we made the plunge.
Saddest of all is that there will probably be less for me to write about here now that I'm not exposed to the world and all of its silly people on a daily basis. I'll have to get inventive. I can totally DO this. I just know it.
Anyway, I think I'll run along and start by actually getting dressed before noon. All in the retention of good habits and all- no need to slouch around in a bathrobe all day. That's no way to attract the UPS guy! Nor is it a good way to keep the husband from straying. There are plenty of lovely young things in the big city just hankering for a piece of him! (Actually, he works in an office with one other guy, and doesn't seem to notice any other females with the sole exception of Kirsten Dunst. And I don't think she's in play here. If she was, I would respect her power and step aside. It would be the only sporting thing to do.)
I've also gotta think of better nomenclature for Spouse. that kind of has always grated on me. I have just tried so hard to retain his privacy, and his privates. So, I'll work on that too. The privacy thing- I'll not be sharing racy tales here, my friends.
So, mes amies, I'll be back later, no doubt, with fanciful tales of talking squirrels and neighborhood quarrels. We'll see what I can dredge up.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Realizations-
I am not good at sitting in an office all day doing nothing and communicating with no one. That's all. Counting the hours left...
The women's restroom on this floor smells like a fucking cat box. And it's NOT my fault! It was like that when I went in there.
I think I'm going to let my subscription to Vanity Fair lapse. It bores me. Seriously. I've really gotten over the preoccupation with the rich and fabulous. It kind of grates on my nerves now. I'm SO much above all of that...smirk...
Throwing away my favorite red shoes last night was liberating. I will not wear shoes that make my feet hurt any more. Too old for that shit. And I don't want bent toes like my Grandma. They hurt.
Kitties who tread on the stove while it's hot learn difficult lessons very quickly. But thier little pink paws stink afterwards. And they're a little jumpy.
I can recommend The Dawn Patrol, 1938. Interesting anti-war movie with a surprisingly nuanced performance by Errol Flynn. And a lovely young David Niven (makes Jude Law seem like such the rip off artist).
I am memorizing the names of the shipping container companies at the docks. Scary. I can recite them if I want. Does that make me an official Seattleite? Or a wanna-be teamster?
I am officially a Yenta. What can I say- it's all done with love.
Wikipedia is really cool. Someday I might even try to write an entry. If you haven't gone there yet, check it out.
Corporate silliness
Yeah. So my job ends on Friday. I'll be re-assigned in a week or so, so I'm not panicking about a return to the summer of my discontent. But it's kind of goofy the way this all turned out.
I'm also waiting to hear back from the group I interviewed with almost 2 weeks ago. I am pretty solid about feeling that I am in the running- I just think that since they travel a lot, and the department is very shor-handed, the new hire got pushed into the background. I just get to chill about it for a while. I have left the appropriate messages, and don't think it's cool to pester at this point. And I'm getting a downright que sera sera attitude about the whole thing.
So I did really like this job. The manager I had has left the company- he was pretty cool- but not a great manager on some levels. He threw me into some really stressful situations without any background. Luckily I am like cat- land on feet. He is an ardent member of the "managment under duress" school. Like it or not. And it ate him up. He was always under the gun. No calm center. I wish him well at his next job. It sounds like a very different baliwick.
According to the internal website, I report to a guy who has yet to speak to me. Oh- I take that back- he has said, "excuse me" when he almost bumped into me. Twice. And I said hello to him a couple of days ago, and he responded in kind. I just find it ironic that I'm supposed (on paper at least) to be a direct reportee. Silly.
For the rest of the week I sit in an office (with walls!), my usual cubicle has been re-allocated. I wait for the 2 women who I am supposed to train to get the chance to come and see me about stuff. So far it's been pretty sparse. I don't think it's a priority for them. I dunno. But their clock of having me as a resource is ticking. I'll expound further sometime about the personalities. Not yet, my little dumplings. I'm not out the door yet, so it's not the smartest thing to do.
Anyway, I'm trying really hard not to surf the web too much, not to spend any money on the web while surfing, and not to seem too obviously detached from actual work. Lookin busy!
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Questions du jour-
Why does my cat have poodle/brown tears? It's icky.
Has the scary lady at the bus stop who bitches about the lateness of every bus, every fucking day, know that I am avoiding her? (I can only have that discussion once. Then I want to tell her to shut the hell up and drive, already. I don't fucking give a damn if her boss dislikes her being late because of the bus. Deal with it! It's fucking mass transit!)
Will I ever have time to watch the HBO Rome miniseries? Sure would be nice...sigh...
How long will it take me to get in proper shape if I start today?
Does Kombucha tea make you stay awake at night?
Why must all 4 kitties sleep on top of me? Is this the "stealing your breath" plot?
Would they remember and hate me for life if I dress them up for Halloween? I do have perfect costume ideas...it would be cute...and maybe only a little disturbed...
And why did that man follow me home from the bus stop today? Should I pack heat?
And why did that man follow me home from the bus stop today? Should I pack heat?
Just getting by.
There was a discussion last week about evil. The nature of evil people, specifically. And whether or not redemption is possible. One of the people in the discussion was a self-proclaimed misanthrope. She claims to hate people. Just all of them. I personally think it's kind of sad for a 19 year old to have that kind of jaundiced view, but don't know her experiences, life story, nor do I want to spend much time analyzing it. I have my own issues to contend with, thanks anyway.
It made me think a bit. The most evil person I've ever met was a relative. I hated him. Honestly. I'm not exaggerating. And believe me, he really earned it. He tried his best to be nasty, brutish, and very unpleasant on numerous occasions. Yes, demon rum played a distinct role, but it was still a contentious relationship. I dreaded seeing him. I avoided holidays with him when I could. It was all difficult.
When he died, I felt a palpable sense of relief. I demanded to see his body at the funeral home, mostly to confirm that he was dead. He wouldn't be mean to me ever again. He would keep his racist crap to himself, and not insult Spouse. He wouldn't insult my Dad. He wouldn't verbally attack me. It was over.
Then I watched the decline of his wife. I have always loved her very much. I am the closest to her in my generation. She was wonderful. She is becoming lost. We have basically discovered that she was losing herself before he died. It is horrible to watch.
Now for the redemption. I'm not the person to rattle off about forgiveness. I can hold the world's longest grudge, given the proper motivation. Just ask me about my 20 year high school reunion and the bitterness that runneth over, still. But now I re-evaluate my position on this most difficult man. Seems that he was operating at the end of his life on 20% blood flow to his brain. He was suffering, sick and old. He did all of the cleaning, cooking and laundry for them both. We didn't know. His logic synapses weren't functioning, or he might've said something to one of us about needing help. But he cared for her. We didn't know. It hurts me inside to think of how frightened he must've been for her. To think of how hard it was for him. And for her. But to see her mind disintegrate by degree. I cannot go there for very long.
Do I love him? Hell no. He lost that long ago. Around my 12th year, to be precise. But he did teach me how to fish. He did show me how to build a house. He did take care of her as best as he could. Redemption? Let's call it a softening of attitude. An active adoption of forgiveness for many faults. A recognition that evil can change, given the proper motivation. In the meantime, I'll keep sending her postcards to remind her that I exist. Until she can't read them anymore. Which seems like the inevitable. Which kills something inside me.
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