My new job requires a lot of phone work. And with phone work comes a lot of spelling via the 'N as in Nancy' method. People l-o-v-e doing this whereas I have always avoided it. I can understand using it to distinguish between similar sounding letters like N and M or S and F. But some people use it for every letter and suddenly a task that should take a few moments ends up taking a few longer moments.
But that isn't the only reason I'm reluctant to join in. The real reason is that I'm afraid I'm going to make a truly bizarre association and the other person is going to have some frightening insight into my inner self.
Its like everyday free association at the office!
To avoid this, I could just stick to the name associations. The 'N as in Nancy, F as in Fred' example. But, for some reason, by brain won't let me.
For instance, today I spelled my name for a particularly hard-of-hearing old lady as follows:
E as in Elongate
R as in Roadrunner
I as in Igloo
N as in Never
And although I am prone to exaggeration, this is not one. The exchange beyond that went something like this:
Old Lady: Did you say Rosemary?
Me: Rosemary?
Old Lady: No my name is Elaine. Is your name Rosemary?
Me: Huh? Oh, no. I said Roadrunner. (pause) R as in Roadrunner.
Old Lady: Rose Runner?
Me: No. ROADRUNNER. R as in ROADRUNNER.
Old Lady: What's a roadrunner?
I honestly didn't know what to say to that. By the time we were finished, I think she thought my name was Eroadrunnern.
Another example occurred when I tried to figure out if a heavily-accented man had a 'J' or a soft 'G' in his name. So, I said:
J as in JellyBelly or G as in Gerrymandering?
That conversation continued to deteriorate until it finally ended, at which point he had learned what gerrymandering meant and I was craving JellyBellies. But I still don't know if it was a J or a soft G.
Like most things, this neurosis of mine goes back to kindergarten.
One day, we had to go around the room and say 'My name is _____ and I am _____' using an adjective that started with the same letter as the first letter in our name.
I said 'My name is Erin and I am Erotic.'
My teacher's eyebrows flew up and she tried to get me to change it to Energetic.
But I stuck to my guns and kept erotic.
Hopefully it won't be as bad as that...but today was bad enough. I'm really worried about the day when I'm just a bit titchy and say something like 'P as in Pneumonia.'
Or just days like today when I inexplicably say 'R as in Roadrunner.'
You know...Roadrunner.
That's R as in River
O as in Ornery
A as in Antelope
D as in Dead
R as in Rope
U as in Ubiquitous
N as in Narcolepsy
N as in Nighttime
E as in Entourage
R as in Rivulets.
8.29.2007
8.26.2007
Such as....
I'm not even sure I believe the premise of this question...that a fifth of Americans cannot locate their own country on a map. I might believe they couldn't find Canada or Mexico but surely we are self-absorbed enough that we can all find our own country?
Secondly, although I am not a fan of beauty pageants, I do have to give credit to the girls up there. Not for their ability to participate in the question/answer segment but for their presence during the bathing suit segment. It takes a special person to strut around, simultaneously on stage and on television, in a bathing suit and live to tell about it.
I, for one, would sooner toss my body into the lion exhibit at the zoo before I squeezed it into a bathing suit in front of thousands of people.
And the worst part of the bathing suit segment is that a huge amount of girls are eliminated following it! Can you imagine putting yourself through that only to be told, 'Sorry! You just aren't as good at walking in a bathing suit as the other girls.'
But the question and answer segment? Come on, that is sooo easy. You can always fall back on the whole 'world peace' bit. For instance:
Question: Why can't a fifth of our population find our country on a map?
Answer: Because we don't have world peace. We've spent so much money on war that we don't have enough left over for education.
With that answer, not only could she have used the world peace phrase but her answer would have been accurate! The answer would have been so short that she could have spent the rest of the time looking pretty for the cameras...which, let's face it, is the point of the whole pageant anyway.
Plus, her answer would have had a personal connection since obviously her parents spent so much money on her pageant career that they didn't have enough left over for her education.
Instead, this girl takes a pretty basic question and runs with it!
She starts off saying that maybe they don't know where our country is located because they don't have maps. Okay, perhaps she meant to comment on the pathetic state of our education system particularly where the extremely poor are concerned.
But from there it just gets muddled. Education in South Africa and Iraq? Isn't Oprah doing something in South Africa? And maybe the Peace Corps?
But Iraq? I was under the impression we were there strictly to kill people, not educate them.
But I feel sorry for this girl. Afterall, she's up there putting herself on the line so that her mom can live vicariously through her. Not all of us have the guts to do that. And, in the end, she has been failed like all those people in the supposed fifth of our population who can't find the United States on a map.
And while I am hesitant to put the blame on any one institution, like a beauty pageant, I feel perfectly fine blaming our government for this problem. Because, when it comes down to it, our government doesn't put a high value on education.
Despite what the politicians say, they always seem to drop education reform (along with health care reform and environmental protection) in the proverbial political landfill when a war is on the smoggy horizon.
And why isn't education valued in this country?
Because we don't have world peace.
And that's my final answer. (Smile. Wave. Pose.)
Secondly, although I am not a fan of beauty pageants, I do have to give credit to the girls up there. Not for their ability to participate in the question/answer segment but for their presence during the bathing suit segment. It takes a special person to strut around, simultaneously on stage and on television, in a bathing suit and live to tell about it.
I, for one, would sooner toss my body into the lion exhibit at the zoo before I squeezed it into a bathing suit in front of thousands of people.
And the worst part of the bathing suit segment is that a huge amount of girls are eliminated following it! Can you imagine putting yourself through that only to be told, 'Sorry! You just aren't as good at walking in a bathing suit as the other girls.'
But the question and answer segment? Come on, that is sooo easy. You can always fall back on the whole 'world peace' bit. For instance:
Question: Why can't a fifth of our population find our country on a map?
Answer: Because we don't have world peace. We've spent so much money on war that we don't have enough left over for education.
With that answer, not only could she have used the world peace phrase but her answer would have been accurate! The answer would have been so short that she could have spent the rest of the time looking pretty for the cameras...which, let's face it, is the point of the whole pageant anyway.
Plus, her answer would have had a personal connection since obviously her parents spent so much money on her pageant career that they didn't have enough left over for her education.
Instead, this girl takes a pretty basic question and runs with it!
She starts off saying that maybe they don't know where our country is located because they don't have maps. Okay, perhaps she meant to comment on the pathetic state of our education system particularly where the extremely poor are concerned.
But from there it just gets muddled. Education in South Africa and Iraq? Isn't Oprah doing something in South Africa? And maybe the Peace Corps?
But Iraq? I was under the impression we were there strictly to kill people, not educate them.
But I feel sorry for this girl. Afterall, she's up there putting herself on the line so that her mom can live vicariously through her. Not all of us have the guts to do that. And, in the end, she has been failed like all those people in the supposed fifth of our population who can't find the United States on a map.
And while I am hesitant to put the blame on any one institution, like a beauty pageant, I feel perfectly fine blaming our government for this problem. Because, when it comes down to it, our government doesn't put a high value on education.
Despite what the politicians say, they always seem to drop education reform (along with health care reform and environmental protection) in the proverbial political landfill when a war is on the smoggy horizon.
And why isn't education valued in this country?
Because we don't have world peace.
And that's my final answer. (Smile. Wave. Pose.)
8.22.2007
No Blue Balls
I watched the Democratic debate on Sunday and let's just say....I was a little less than enthused. It was, well, boring.
I am not the type of person who needs political intrigue or drama to keep me interested. But when everyone is so damn cautious about stepping on everyone else's toes, it drives me to drink.
Okay, so I'd drink anyway. But that is hardly the point.
If I have to hear one more 'my opponent said it best' or 'I agree with everything my opponent just said' or 'I think anyone of us could do a good job' I think I may become an emotional eater.
Okay, I am already that as well. But again, not the point.
Maybe I'm so disappointed because I was really excited about this upcoming election. We finally get rid of Bush. We could have a black man, or a Latino man, or a woman as the next president. We could finally put an end to global warming, create a universal health care system and figure out the quagmire that is Iraq.
I don't like any one candidate though. I like bits and pieces of all of them (especially that crazy guy from Alaska) but not one of them is perfect.
Which would be okay with me. If they could admit that.
For once, I'd like someone to say that they don't have all the answers. That they are bound to make mistakes. But that, when they do make those mistakes, they will own up to them. And they will fix them.
If there is one thing we've learned in the Bush Presidency, it is that the willingness to be accountable should be a big factor to consider when choosing a leader. Because, when you get someone who isn't willing to take responsibility, you get situations like Iraq.
Obviously, mistakes were made.
Obviously, Bush made those mistakes.
But instead of saying 'I was wrong' he says 'Stay the course' and the problem just grows and grows.
To be honest, Hillary almost has me. If she'd just say that she was wrong to vote for the war in Iraq, I might consider her. Until she does, however, I don't think I can trust her. Because I can't trust someone who has no regrets.
And don't even get me started on Obama. He keeps ragging on everyone else for voting for the war and pumping up the fact that he did not vote for the war.
That's all well and good, except that he was elected to the Senate in 2004. We went to war with Iraq in 2003. You can't take credit for a vote you didn't even have the opportunity to cast. (Or, in this case, not cast.) It doesn't work that way. Or at least it shouldn't.
And then his wife goes and makes this remark and he starts backpedaling for her.
I've had it with all of them.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really wish Al Gore were running. I don't think I need to go into his environmental credentials. Whatever else the man has done, he has done a world of good with An Inconvenient Truth and its subsequent dialogue.
And when Michael Moore, while promoting his amazing movie Sicko, said that Gore was the only politician with a legitimate plan for universal health care, I began to actually consider him as President.
Gore, not Moore.
(Although...)
And since he 'lost' the 2000 election, he has grown more confident. He isn't afraid to make people angry or uncomfortable. And, more importantly, he has admitted his failures!
But it doesn't look like Gore will enter, so I guess I'll just wait until one of the other candidates grows a pair.
And hold my breath that Giuliani doesn't swoop in and take it from under our noses.
(I refuse to put a link to his page. You can Google him if you must...)
I am not the type of person who needs political intrigue or drama to keep me interested. But when everyone is so damn cautious about stepping on everyone else's toes, it drives me to drink.
Okay, so I'd drink anyway. But that is hardly the point.
If I have to hear one more 'my opponent said it best' or 'I agree with everything my opponent just said' or 'I think anyone of us could do a good job' I think I may become an emotional eater.
Okay, I am already that as well. But again, not the point.
Maybe I'm so disappointed because I was really excited about this upcoming election. We finally get rid of Bush. We could have a black man, or a Latino man, or a woman as the next president. We could finally put an end to global warming, create a universal health care system and figure out the quagmire that is Iraq.
I don't like any one candidate though. I like bits and pieces of all of them (especially that crazy guy from Alaska) but not one of them is perfect.
Which would be okay with me. If they could admit that.
For once, I'd like someone to say that they don't have all the answers. That they are bound to make mistakes. But that, when they do make those mistakes, they will own up to them. And they will fix them.
If there is one thing we've learned in the Bush Presidency, it is that the willingness to be accountable should be a big factor to consider when choosing a leader. Because, when you get someone who isn't willing to take responsibility, you get situations like Iraq.
Obviously, mistakes were made.
Obviously, Bush made those mistakes.
But instead of saying 'I was wrong' he says 'Stay the course' and the problem just grows and grows.
To be honest, Hillary almost has me. If she'd just say that she was wrong to vote for the war in Iraq, I might consider her. Until she does, however, I don't think I can trust her. Because I can't trust someone who has no regrets.
And don't even get me started on Obama. He keeps ragging on everyone else for voting for the war and pumping up the fact that he did not vote for the war.
That's all well and good, except that he was elected to the Senate in 2004. We went to war with Iraq in 2003. You can't take credit for a vote you didn't even have the opportunity to cast. (Or, in this case, not cast.) It doesn't work that way. Or at least it shouldn't.
And then his wife goes and makes this remark and he starts backpedaling for her.
I've had it with all of them.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really wish Al Gore were running. I don't think I need to go into his environmental credentials. Whatever else the man has done, he has done a world of good with An Inconvenient Truth and its subsequent dialogue.
And when Michael Moore, while promoting his amazing movie Sicko, said that Gore was the only politician with a legitimate plan for universal health care, I began to actually consider him as President.
Gore, not Moore.
(Although...)
And since he 'lost' the 2000 election, he has grown more confident. He isn't afraid to make people angry or uncomfortable. And, more importantly, he has admitted his failures!
But it doesn't look like Gore will enter, so I guess I'll just wait until one of the other candidates grows a pair.
And hold my breath that Giuliani doesn't swoop in and take it from under our noses.
(I refuse to put a link to his page. You can Google him if you must...)
8.21.2007
The Lives of Numbers
I have begun to (seriously) study for the GRE which I plan to take sometime in September (or October. November. Maybe December.) This process has brought to light an ongoing conflict within myself. My conflict with numbers.
When I was young, I created lives and personalities for numbers. Although, I shouldn't really say I created them. It was more like I just knew them....like I would know my own life or the lives of my friends and family.
At the time, I did not realize that I was the only who knew the personalities and lives of numbers. I remember being shocked, when first learning addition, when my teacher asked me what 4 plus 5 was.
My reply was that 4 and 5 would never be together because '5 hates 4.' Didn't she know that?
Needless to say, this particular quirk of mine did not help in the math department. I simply could not wrap my head around the fact that 4 and 5 could, and frequently did, go together.
But my numbers-stories went far beyond that. Here is a simplified breakdown:
1 is male. A young boy who is very kind-hearted but easily taken advantage of.
2 is female. She is either the sister or best friend of 1. She looks after, and takes care, of him. She tries to protect him from 3. She is strong but gentle.
3 is male. He is a bully and frequently picks on 1 and 2 but he really wants to be their friend.
4 is male. He is quite a few years older than 1 and 2 but he is the same age as 3. He has a crush on 2 and will therefore do everything to protect her and her best friend/brother 1. 4 is fun-loving and popular.
5 is male. As previously stated, 5 hates 4. He is the same age as 4 but, where 4 is popular, 5 is not. He is not a bully...he just isn't pleasant to be around. 5 secretly respects 2 but she does not return the sentiment.
6 is female and the older sister of 5. She is kind-hearted like 1 so she pities 5 and tries to help him. 6 is a friend to the underdog and is always trying to help others.
7 is male and is 6's best friend. He doesn't trust 5 and tries to protect 6. 7 is very serious. 7 has a lot of money.
8 is female. She is frequently alone but she is not lonely. She has a great sense of humor and enjoys life. 8 is impulsive and somewhat of a tomboy.
9 is very female. She is quiet and demure. She loves 7 but can never bring herself to speak with him. She is 8's older sister/best friend and wishes she had 8's sense of humor and ease of self. 9 is beautiful and completely unaware of it.
10 is male. He is very powerful and wealthy. He is much older than 9 but wants to someday marry her. He is annoyed by 8 but tolerates her because she is 9's sister/best friend. 10 barely knows 1, 2, 3, and 4. He only concerns himself with 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9. 10 is the older brother to 5 and 6.
When I was little I loved to think about the lives of numbers. They all had their basic personalities but their stories would advance the more I got to know them. At some point in Kindergarten, 10 married 9. 10 was extremely happy but 9 was not (because she was in love with 7, of course.)
Growing up, my favorite numbers were 6 and 8 because I wanted to be kind, funny, outgoing, and fun-loving. I also secretly wanted to be like 9 because she was ultra-feminine, graceful and sweet. I always associated my sister with number 9. 9 is not clumsy and would never say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
My 'lucky numbers' have always been either 6 or 16. I love the number 16 because it means that 6 is looking out for 1....as she is meant to do.
Before you start to think I'm truly crazy, I should tell you that I recently learned that this is an actual condition called Ordinal-linguistic personification (or OLP, for short) and is a form of synesthesia. Synesthesia is when a person 'crosses' senses.
A letter is a color.
A word is a taste.
A number is music.
Apparently, a lot of 'synesthesists' can use this to their advantage. It has been said that many writers might have it, to varying degrees. Most of my favorite books are ones in which the author can completely paint a picture with words. Maybe that's because words aren't just words to them. They are literally (no pun intended) sounds. Or colors. Or tastes.
Some people with OLP are math geniuses. For me, it didn't quite work that way. I wasn't able to turn my OLP into anything useful.
I have long since accepted the fact that sometimes 4 and 5 would be added together. And that 7 could be taken from 9 (heartbreaking though it is). But those early years of arithmetic are the foundation for all the math to follow and, unfortunately, my foundation was hesitantly and reluctantly patched together. And, in the end, I never quite believed it all.
And sometimes, it just seemed...wrong. And I can't turn it off...even though I know it is silly.
So every time I'm adding a tip, or calculating the price of a bag of apples at the grocery store, or studying for the GRE, all those stories and personalities and lives of numbers are in my head.
And they get in the way.
Either that, or I've come up with a very elaborate story to explain why I'm so awful at math.
When I was young, I created lives and personalities for numbers. Although, I shouldn't really say I created them. It was more like I just knew them....like I would know my own life or the lives of my friends and family.
At the time, I did not realize that I was the only who knew the personalities and lives of numbers. I remember being shocked, when first learning addition, when my teacher asked me what 4 plus 5 was.
My reply was that 4 and 5 would never be together because '5 hates 4.' Didn't she know that?
Needless to say, this particular quirk of mine did not help in the math department. I simply could not wrap my head around the fact that 4 and 5 could, and frequently did, go together.
But my numbers-stories went far beyond that. Here is a simplified breakdown:
1 is male. A young boy who is very kind-hearted but easily taken advantage of.
2 is female. She is either the sister or best friend of 1. She looks after, and takes care, of him. She tries to protect him from 3. She is strong but gentle.
3 is male. He is a bully and frequently picks on 1 and 2 but he really wants to be their friend.
4 is male. He is quite a few years older than 1 and 2 but he is the same age as 3. He has a crush on 2 and will therefore do everything to protect her and her best friend/brother 1. 4 is fun-loving and popular.
5 is male. As previously stated, 5 hates 4. He is the same age as 4 but, where 4 is popular, 5 is not. He is not a bully...he just isn't pleasant to be around. 5 secretly respects 2 but she does not return the sentiment.
6 is female and the older sister of 5. She is kind-hearted like 1 so she pities 5 and tries to help him. 6 is a friend to the underdog and is always trying to help others.
7 is male and is 6's best friend. He doesn't trust 5 and tries to protect 6. 7 is very serious. 7 has a lot of money.
8 is female. She is frequently alone but she is not lonely. She has a great sense of humor and enjoys life. 8 is impulsive and somewhat of a tomboy.
9 is very female. She is quiet and demure. She loves 7 but can never bring herself to speak with him. She is 8's older sister/best friend and wishes she had 8's sense of humor and ease of self. 9 is beautiful and completely unaware of it.
10 is male. He is very powerful and wealthy. He is much older than 9 but wants to someday marry her. He is annoyed by 8 but tolerates her because she is 9's sister/best friend. 10 barely knows 1, 2, 3, and 4. He only concerns himself with 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9. 10 is the older brother to 5 and 6.
When I was little I loved to think about the lives of numbers. They all had their basic personalities but their stories would advance the more I got to know them. At some point in Kindergarten, 10 married 9. 10 was extremely happy but 9 was not (because she was in love with 7, of course.)
Growing up, my favorite numbers were 6 and 8 because I wanted to be kind, funny, outgoing, and fun-loving. I also secretly wanted to be like 9 because she was ultra-feminine, graceful and sweet. I always associated my sister with number 9. 9 is not clumsy and would never say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
My 'lucky numbers' have always been either 6 or 16. I love the number 16 because it means that 6 is looking out for 1....as she is meant to do.
Before you start to think I'm truly crazy, I should tell you that I recently learned that this is an actual condition called Ordinal-linguistic personification (or OLP, for short) and is a form of synesthesia. Synesthesia is when a person 'crosses' senses.
A letter is a color.
A word is a taste.
A number is music.
Apparently, a lot of 'synesthesists' can use this to their advantage. It has been said that many writers might have it, to varying degrees. Most of my favorite books are ones in which the author can completely paint a picture with words. Maybe that's because words aren't just words to them. They are literally (no pun intended) sounds. Or colors. Or tastes.
Some people with OLP are math geniuses. For me, it didn't quite work that way. I wasn't able to turn my OLP into anything useful.
I have long since accepted the fact that sometimes 4 and 5 would be added together. And that 7 could be taken from 9 (heartbreaking though it is). But those early years of arithmetic are the foundation for all the math to follow and, unfortunately, my foundation was hesitantly and reluctantly patched together. And, in the end, I never quite believed it all.
And sometimes, it just seemed...wrong. And I can't turn it off...even though I know it is silly.
So every time I'm adding a tip, or calculating the price of a bag of apples at the grocery store, or studying for the GRE, all those stories and personalities and lives of numbers are in my head.
And they get in the way.
Either that, or I've come up with a very elaborate story to explain why I'm so awful at math.
8.18.2007
Wrong Turns, Windows and Lamps
Adam left town last night and, per routine, strange things happened when I returned home from the airport. It seems like whenever Adam is gone, something weird happens that makes me feel slightly on edge and a little...uncomfortable.
I took Adam to the airport where he was to fly home for his family's annual trip to Canada. I can't go this year because I just started that new job and it seemed wrong to take more time off.
It was bad enough to say, 'Okay, I'm going to need at least a day in October. Then three weeks in November. And I'll probably only be working here a year anyway because I want to go to grad school,' without adding some August days-off to the list.
I left the airport feeling sorry for myself because I can't go to Canada and because I'm going to be Adam-less for a while. And I missed my exit off the highway and ended up going west instead of east.
This happens every time I drop him off there. I end up driving west. Maybe my subconscious self is trying to follow him in his airplane trek across the country.
But that sounds overly romantic. Even for me. Maybe I'm just distracted thinking about which all-male revue I'm going to patronize first.
Right.
So I finally get home and I take a look at our apartment. I've always thought of my cat Moo Shu as a little furry alarm system. If she is out and about when I get home, then I know there are no strangers (evil or otherwise) lurking in the apartment.
Last night, Moo Shu was nowhere to be found.
So I start to make the grand-rounds of our tiny apartment. I check the bathtub. And the closet. I look under the bed and the couch. When I'm certain there is no boogey-man hiding in the apartment, I lock all the doors. (Because, if I locked them before I checked for the 'bad man,' then when I find him I will have locked myself in with him. Not a good idea.)
Then I find Moo Shu in the toilet paper roll filled box above the shower (she's a little neurotic) and all is right with the world. I grab my book and a large glass of 2 Buck Chuck and make myself as comfortable on the couch as I can with two cats clamoring for that cat-coveted-sleeping-spot of my chest.
I barely make it past the introduction to my book when I hear a harmonica. Outside my window. Interesting....
I turn off the light so I can get up and look out the window without anyone on the street seeing me. Because I am also a little neurotic...where do you think my cat got it from?
I look out the window and that is when I realize that the harmonica player is a man. And he's standing directly below my living room window. And he's looking up. And I don't know him.
For a brief second, I think, 'Awww, I have a harmonica-playing admirer' until my next thought of 'Ewww, I have a harmonica-playing admirer' takes over.
Maybe he has the wrong house. Maybe he is actually serenading my downstairs neighbor and he just happened to glance up when I looked out the window. She seems far more likely to attract admirers....especially the harmonica-playing type. If I were to have an admirer, he'd be more likely to play a triangle.
While I'm thinking these thoughts, he abruptly stops and walks away. And leaves me with my imagination running wild. I decide it is high time to head to bed and I tip-toe away, clutching my book and my glass of wine to my chest, with my cats trailing behind.
I spent a while getting situated in bed, with a brief detour to the back door in order to jam a table up against it, and try to take my mind of my mysterious visitor. I prop myself up against some pillows and continue reading my book by the light of the wall-mounted lamp next to the bed.
I'm engrossed in the book and at the dregs of the wine when that wall-mounted lamp slowly goes out. The room is suddenly (or, I guess, slowly) filled with darkness.
I freeze. My eyes widen. I think, of course, that my harmonica-playing admirer has sneaked in and turned off my electricity. That's when I notice the alarm clock's green numbers are still glowing. I slowly reach out an arm and flick the switch for the bedside lamp.
It comes on. My electricity still works. There is no harmonica wielding crazy man in my apartment. The light bulb just burned out. That's when I decide to just go to sleep. Because, honestly, my dreams can't be much weirder than this.
(But of course they were....and that is a story for another day.)
I took Adam to the airport where he was to fly home for his family's annual trip to Canada. I can't go this year because I just started that new job and it seemed wrong to take more time off.
It was bad enough to say, 'Okay, I'm going to need at least a day in October. Then three weeks in November. And I'll probably only be working here a year anyway because I want to go to grad school,' without adding some August days-off to the list.
I left the airport feeling sorry for myself because I can't go to Canada and because I'm going to be Adam-less for a while. And I missed my exit off the highway and ended up going west instead of east.
This happens every time I drop him off there. I end up driving west. Maybe my subconscious self is trying to follow him in his airplane trek across the country.
But that sounds overly romantic. Even for me. Maybe I'm just distracted thinking about which all-male revue I'm going to patronize first.
Right.
So I finally get home and I take a look at our apartment. I've always thought of my cat Moo Shu as a little furry alarm system. If she is out and about when I get home, then I know there are no strangers (evil or otherwise) lurking in the apartment.
Last night, Moo Shu was nowhere to be found.
So I start to make the grand-rounds of our tiny apartment. I check the bathtub. And the closet. I look under the bed and the couch. When I'm certain there is no boogey-man hiding in the apartment, I lock all the doors. (Because, if I locked them before I checked for the 'bad man,' then when I find him I will have locked myself in with him. Not a good idea.)
Then I find Moo Shu in the toilet paper roll filled box above the shower (she's a little neurotic) and all is right with the world. I grab my book and a large glass of 2 Buck Chuck and make myself as comfortable on the couch as I can with two cats clamoring for that cat-coveted-sleeping-spot of my chest.
I barely make it past the introduction to my book when I hear a harmonica. Outside my window. Interesting....
I turn off the light so I can get up and look out the window without anyone on the street seeing me. Because I am also a little neurotic...where do you think my cat got it from?
I look out the window and that is when I realize that the harmonica player is a man. And he's standing directly below my living room window. And he's looking up. And I don't know him.
For a brief second, I think, 'Awww, I have a harmonica-playing admirer' until my next thought of 'Ewww, I have a harmonica-playing admirer' takes over.
Maybe he has the wrong house. Maybe he is actually serenading my downstairs neighbor and he just happened to glance up when I looked out the window. She seems far more likely to attract admirers....especially the harmonica-playing type. If I were to have an admirer, he'd be more likely to play a triangle.
While I'm thinking these thoughts, he abruptly stops and walks away. And leaves me with my imagination running wild. I decide it is high time to head to bed and I tip-toe away, clutching my book and my glass of wine to my chest, with my cats trailing behind.
I spent a while getting situated in bed, with a brief detour to the back door in order to jam a table up against it, and try to take my mind of my mysterious visitor. I prop myself up against some pillows and continue reading my book by the light of the wall-mounted lamp next to the bed.
I'm engrossed in the book and at the dregs of the wine when that wall-mounted lamp slowly goes out. The room is suddenly (or, I guess, slowly) filled with darkness.
I freeze. My eyes widen. I think, of course, that my harmonica-playing admirer has sneaked in and turned off my electricity. That's when I notice the alarm clock's green numbers are still glowing. I slowly reach out an arm and flick the switch for the bedside lamp.
It comes on. My electricity still works. There is no harmonica wielding crazy man in my apartment. The light bulb just burned out. That's when I decide to just go to sleep. Because, honestly, my dreams can't be much weirder than this.
(But of course they were....and that is a story for another day.)
8.15.2007
Take Back Moment #2
As I promised yesterday, here is my second "Take Back" Moment. Although, to be fair, it really isn't a moment. More like an entire weekend. An interview weekend.
Oh yes, there are many aspects of this interview weekend that I wish I could go back and change. Mostly, I just wish I could take back the entire weekend and do something better with it.
Like rearrange my shoes.
Or clean out my kitchen drain.
Or give my cat a bath.
But instead I lugged myself to Boston for the interview extravaganza of a lifetime. I was living in upstate New York at the time and working at a non-profit. I was so desperate to get away from this non-profit job that I applied for a somewhat prestigious job with a national group.
Well, prestigious in the environmental movement. I won't name names but lets just say it rhymes with Creen Gorps. It was their 2 year fellowship-type program. Many apply, few will be accepted, that sort of thing.
I had very small hopes.
So, after the application (and a phone interview, and a second phone interview) I was invited to come to the interview weekend.
When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was that everyone was either still in, or fresh out of, college. Granted, I was only a year out of college at the time but I felt very worldly and smug about my yearlong non-profit experience.
We had introductions, name games, blah blah. Then we go out for a "casual" dinner as a group. Of course, nothing is casual about this weekend. Everything is strategically planned for the Interviewers to ask questions of the Interviewees. We eat at a Chinese restaurant and every table of 10 or so interviewees has 1-2 interviewers in their midst.
During dinner (why is it my embarrassing moments seem to happen over dinner?), Interviewer A asks us all what kind of experience we have in the environmental movement. We go around the table and most of the responses go along the lines of:
I (wrote a letter/telephoned) my (governor/representative/senator) about (a toxic spill/endangered dolphins/global warming) once.
After each response, the interviewers would nod and the interviewee would look proud. Then it came to the girl next to me who said:
"I volunteer at a daycare and read books to the kids."
Interviewer A nods and looks at me expectantly. But I'm confused. A daycare? Is it a "green" daycare? Do they use cloth diapers or something? Does she read Silent Spring to the kids?
I don't get it. But instead of simply adding my contribution to the environmental movement, I say,
"Oh, how is the daycare sustainable?"
Because I'm assuming that it is. Otherwise, why would she mention it? Girl-Next-To-Me says,
"Oh, isn't. But it is what I do."
Interviewers A and B send me looks saying to forget it and go on. But I'm now I'm worried because I think this poor girl misunderstood the question. I say,
"I think they want to know what you are doing in the environmental movement."
Girl-Next-To-Me looks stricken and that is when I realize that she hasn't done anything in the environmental movement. She was grasping at straws and I now look like a super-enviro-bitch. I try to smooth it over but it doesn't work and the whole table has fixed me with their hate-filled eyes. So, I burble on about whatever contribution I'd made to the environmental movement. When I'm finished, Interviewer A asks me:
"Was it easy at your school to get people involved, or was it hard?"
To which I reply, with a knowing roll of the eyes,
"At times, it was like pulling teeth...."
I hate cliches but, overall, it is okay. Until I add,
"....from a baby."
Interviewer B says "Funny, I didn't realize babies had teeth."
Interviewer A says "That's why it is hard to pull them."
I sit there with what I'm sure was a vapid gaze and vacant smile on my face. I simply didn't realize what I had said and I didn't understand why whatever I said was so funny.
Of course, by the time dessert came around, it had hit me. Yet again, I wanted to go back and fix it. But what could I say?
"The phrase 'its like pulling teeth' always confused me because it seems like pulling teeth isn't really that hard. Just give them a good yank and they're out! And 'taking candy from a baby' always seemed like it would be hard. The baby would certainly wail. The mom would probably start hitting you over the head with her purse or something because you were harassing her child. Strangers would tackle you to the ground while you tried to get away. So, I simply combine the two phrases in order to convey the difficulty of a situation...."
I had to let sleeping dogs lie (because you can't make them drink, you know) and move on.
The next day, they actually dismiss those people whom they are no longer considering for the positions. By some miracle, I remain despite my super-enviro-bitchy yet amazingly ignorant performance of the night before. I vow to make it up in the day ahead.
I go through almost an entire day without incident. I get call-backs for further interviews. By the end of the day, I've talked about myself so much that even I am starting to hate me.
It is my final interview of the day. I'm already dreaming about the big cushy bed, the cable tv and the vending-machine dinner awaiting me at my hotel.
I get through the interview with no problems. Not only do I not mess up but the guy seems to genuinely like me! As I'm getting up to go, he asks,
"What is your favorite CD?"
I stare at him. I'm completely blank. Favorite CD? I have no idea. I could have said any number of lies. For instance:
1. The last Dave Matthews Band CD (I'm sure he gets that a lot with this crowd)
2. I believe CD's are merely a symbol of our throw-away society so I don't buy them. I only buy used vintage records. (Haha...take that!)
3. I'm deaf.
Instead, I say "I don't know." To which he says, "Oh come on, just name something. Anything."
ToriAmosAniDCountingCrowsTheBeatlesLedZepplinJanisJoplinSmashing
PumpkinsBillieHollidayJudyGarlandBarryManilowTheCranberries
AndrewLloydWeberBoneThugsInHarmonyANYTHING
But I've got nothing. So the rest of the conversation goes like this:
Me: "The CD I listened to on the way here."
Him: "Which is..?"
Me: "A mix."
Him (after actually sighing): "What is on it?"
Me: "I don't know. (pause) My brother-in-law made it. (pause) Its mostly an experimental band in Germany" (WHAT?!?!)
Him: "Do you speak German?"
Me: "No."
Him: "Interesting, so your favorite CD features a band you don't know the name of that sings in a language you don't understand."
Me: "Yes."
And that was the end of the interview. Weekend.
And I didn't get the job. But it was probably a good thing because you should never take a job just to get away from another job. You'll end up hating your new job because you acted so rashly and it will be too hard.
Like....pulling-teeth-from-a-baby-hard.
Oh yes, there are many aspects of this interview weekend that I wish I could go back and change. Mostly, I just wish I could take back the entire weekend and do something better with it.
Like rearrange my shoes.
Or clean out my kitchen drain.
Or give my cat a bath.
But instead I lugged myself to Boston for the interview extravaganza of a lifetime. I was living in upstate New York at the time and working at a non-profit. I was so desperate to get away from this non-profit job that I applied for a somewhat prestigious job with a national group.
Well, prestigious in the environmental movement. I won't name names but lets just say it rhymes with Creen Gorps. It was their 2 year fellowship-type program. Many apply, few will be accepted, that sort of thing.
I had very small hopes.
So, after the application (and a phone interview, and a second phone interview) I was invited to come to the interview weekend.
When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was that everyone was either still in, or fresh out of, college. Granted, I was only a year out of college at the time but I felt very worldly and smug about my yearlong non-profit experience.
We had introductions, name games, blah blah. Then we go out for a "casual" dinner as a group. Of course, nothing is casual about this weekend. Everything is strategically planned for the Interviewers to ask questions of the Interviewees. We eat at a Chinese restaurant and every table of 10 or so interviewees has 1-2 interviewers in their midst.
During dinner (why is it my embarrassing moments seem to happen over dinner?), Interviewer A asks us all what kind of experience we have in the environmental movement. We go around the table and most of the responses go along the lines of:
I (wrote a letter/telephoned) my (governor/representative/senator) about (a toxic spill/endangered dolphins/global warming) once.
After each response, the interviewers would nod and the interviewee would look proud. Then it came to the girl next to me who said:
"I volunteer at a daycare and read books to the kids."
Interviewer A nods and looks at me expectantly. But I'm confused. A daycare? Is it a "green" daycare? Do they use cloth diapers or something? Does she read Silent Spring to the kids?
I don't get it. But instead of simply adding my contribution to the environmental movement, I say,
"Oh, how is the daycare sustainable?"
Because I'm assuming that it is. Otherwise, why would she mention it? Girl-Next-To-Me says,
"Oh, isn't. But it is what I do."
Interviewers A and B send me looks saying to forget it and go on. But I'm now I'm worried because I think this poor girl misunderstood the question. I say,
"I think they want to know what you are doing in the environmental movement."
Girl-Next-To-Me looks stricken and that is when I realize that she hasn't done anything in the environmental movement. She was grasping at straws and I now look like a super-enviro-bitch. I try to smooth it over but it doesn't work and the whole table has fixed me with their hate-filled eyes. So, I burble on about whatever contribution I'd made to the environmental movement. When I'm finished, Interviewer A asks me:
"Was it easy at your school to get people involved, or was it hard?"
To which I reply, with a knowing roll of the eyes,
"At times, it was like pulling teeth...."
I hate cliches but, overall, it is okay. Until I add,
"....from a baby."
Interviewer B says "Funny, I didn't realize babies had teeth."
Interviewer A says "That's why it is hard to pull them."
I sit there with what I'm sure was a vapid gaze and vacant smile on my face. I simply didn't realize what I had said and I didn't understand why whatever I said was so funny.
Of course, by the time dessert came around, it had hit me. Yet again, I wanted to go back and fix it. But what could I say?
"The phrase 'its like pulling teeth' always confused me because it seems like pulling teeth isn't really that hard. Just give them a good yank and they're out! And 'taking candy from a baby' always seemed like it would be hard. The baby would certainly wail. The mom would probably start hitting you over the head with her purse or something because you were harassing her child. Strangers would tackle you to the ground while you tried to get away. So, I simply combine the two phrases in order to convey the difficulty of a situation...."
I had to let sleeping dogs lie (because you can't make them drink, you know) and move on.
The next day, they actually dismiss those people whom they are no longer considering for the positions. By some miracle, I remain despite my super-enviro-bitchy yet amazingly ignorant performance of the night before. I vow to make it up in the day ahead.
I go through almost an entire day without incident. I get call-backs for further interviews. By the end of the day, I've talked about myself so much that even I am starting to hate me.
It is my final interview of the day. I'm already dreaming about the big cushy bed, the cable tv and the vending-machine dinner awaiting me at my hotel.
I get through the interview with no problems. Not only do I not mess up but the guy seems to genuinely like me! As I'm getting up to go, he asks,
"What is your favorite CD?"
I stare at him. I'm completely blank. Favorite CD? I have no idea. I could have said any number of lies. For instance:
1. The last Dave Matthews Band CD (I'm sure he gets that a lot with this crowd)
2. I believe CD's are merely a symbol of our throw-away society so I don't buy them. I only buy used vintage records. (Haha...take that!)
3. I'm deaf.
Instead, I say "I don't know." To which he says, "Oh come on, just name something. Anything."
ToriAmosAniDCountingCrowsTheBeatlesLedZepplinJanisJoplinSmashing
PumpkinsBillieHollidayJudyGarlandBarryManilowTheCranberries
AndrewLloydWeberBoneThugsInHarmonyANYTHING
But I've got nothing. So the rest of the conversation goes like this:
Me: "The CD I listened to on the way here."
Him: "Which is..?"
Me: "A mix."
Him (after actually sighing): "What is on it?"
Me: "I don't know. (pause) My brother-in-law made it. (pause) Its mostly an experimental band in Germany" (WHAT?!?!)
Him: "Do you speak German?"
Me: "No."
Him: "Interesting, so your favorite CD features a band you don't know the name of that sings in a language you don't understand."
Me: "Yes."
And that was the end of the interview. Weekend.
And I didn't get the job. But it was probably a good thing because you should never take a job just to get away from another job. You'll end up hating your new job because you acted so rashly and it will be too hard.
Like....pulling-teeth-from-a-baby-hard.
8.14.2007
Take Back Moments
Have you ever had a moment, or perhaps an entire day, that you wish you could take back? And for some unknown reason, this moment continues to pop into your head on occasion to nag and niggle at your brain so that you are forced to relive it over and over again? And from all different angles?
I have several such moments in my life but today I had two of them pop into my head. I have therefore been thinking of them all day and thought I'd share them with you.
So, "Take Back Moment Number One"
Adam and I had been "dating" (if you want to call it that) for about a year. I had been to his home in upstate New York and he had been to mine in Arkansas. We had met each other's parents and high school friends. Life was grand.
It was summertime and I was on my way to visit Adam and to go with his family to Canada. At this point, I don't think I had met his brother or sister yet. I was a little nervous about meeting them because, having an older sister of my own, I know how important a sibling's opinion is. The good thing was that I was going to meet them one at a time. Chris, the brother, first. Erin, the sister, a few days later.
I wasn't so nervous that I wouldn't be able to speak. I was just nervous enough so that I'd be on my guard and wouldn't say or do anything really stupid.
Or so I thought.
It is dinnertime. We are sitting around the table enjoying a lovely meal. The day had gone well enough. I hadn't locked anyone in the basement or killed the neighbors cat or anything. And, at this point, I felt comfortable around Adam's brother. There was nothing to be worried about.
As I remember it, this is how the conversation went:
Adam's Dad: The florist convention is in Las Vegas this year.
Someone else: Ooh, are you going to go?
Adam's Dad: I don't think so. I usually stick out since I'm the only man there who isn't gay.
Adam's Brother: You could take Erin. I think she'd enjoy Vegas. She seems like she might be a little wild.
This is when I should laugh and say something like, "I'll go as long as there is an open bar." Something witty and non-committal. But what do I do?
I say nothing. In my mental reenactments, everyone is looking at me expectantly while I stare at my plate and gorge myself on grilled zucchini. I don't know if that is exactly how it went down (because I was literally staring at my plate and gorging myself on grilled zucchini) but that's how it replays itself in my head.
So why didn't I say anything?
Because, I thought he was talking about his sister. Also named Erin. Which makes no sense whatsoever because that Erin wasn't even there and this Erin was.
After that, the conversation switched to something else entirely. It wasn't until later that I realized what I had done (or not done) and I desperately wanted to say, "Oh, you were joking about me going to Vegas and maybe being a little wild. I thought you were joking about the other Erin. I'll go as long as there is an open bar...."
But at that point we were so beyond the Vegas topic of conversation that it would have been weird to bring it up.
So, instead, I bring it up in a blog some 6 years later.
I'm not sure why that moment has haunted me. I certainly have done far worse, and far more embarrassing, things in my life. Like, on that very same visit to Adam's house, I fell down the stairs.
From the very top.
Bouncing down each step on my rear end.
While everyone was standing at the bottom.
Maybe it bothers me because it is out of character for me. I am the girl who falls down the stairs. I'm not the girl who doesn't get a joke.
Okay, so I frequently don't get jokes. But I'm not the girl who doesn't join in.
And Adam's brother is great and certainly isn't the type to hold something like that against someone. He probably doesn't even remember it.
But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I always thought that if Adam and I broke up, Chris would say, "Well, good. She wasn't right for you anyway. She can't even take a joke. Remember that time Dad was talking about the florist convention in Vegas...."
"Take Back Moment" number 2 coming tomorrow....
I have several such moments in my life but today I had two of them pop into my head. I have therefore been thinking of them all day and thought I'd share them with you.
So, "Take Back Moment Number One"
Adam and I had been "dating" (if you want to call it that) for about a year. I had been to his home in upstate New York and he had been to mine in Arkansas. We had met each other's parents and high school friends. Life was grand.
It was summertime and I was on my way to visit Adam and to go with his family to Canada. At this point, I don't think I had met his brother or sister yet. I was a little nervous about meeting them because, having an older sister of my own, I know how important a sibling's opinion is. The good thing was that I was going to meet them one at a time. Chris, the brother, first. Erin, the sister, a few days later.
I wasn't so nervous that I wouldn't be able to speak. I was just nervous enough so that I'd be on my guard and wouldn't say or do anything really stupid.
Or so I thought.
It is dinnertime. We are sitting around the table enjoying a lovely meal. The day had gone well enough. I hadn't locked anyone in the basement or killed the neighbors cat or anything. And, at this point, I felt comfortable around Adam's brother. There was nothing to be worried about.
As I remember it, this is how the conversation went:
Adam's Dad: The florist convention is in Las Vegas this year.
Someone else: Ooh, are you going to go?
Adam's Dad: I don't think so. I usually stick out since I'm the only man there who isn't gay.
Adam's Brother: You could take Erin. I think she'd enjoy Vegas. She seems like she might be a little wild.
This is when I should laugh and say something like, "I'll go as long as there is an open bar." Something witty and non-committal. But what do I do?
I say nothing. In my mental reenactments, everyone is looking at me expectantly while I stare at my plate and gorge myself on grilled zucchini. I don't know if that is exactly how it went down (because I was literally staring at my plate and gorging myself on grilled zucchini) but that's how it replays itself in my head.
So why didn't I say anything?
Because, I thought he was talking about his sister. Also named Erin. Which makes no sense whatsoever because that Erin wasn't even there and this Erin was.
After that, the conversation switched to something else entirely. It wasn't until later that I realized what I had done (or not done) and I desperately wanted to say, "Oh, you were joking about me going to Vegas and maybe being a little wild. I thought you were joking about the other Erin. I'll go as long as there is an open bar...."
But at that point we were so beyond the Vegas topic of conversation that it would have been weird to bring it up.
So, instead, I bring it up in a blog some 6 years later.
I'm not sure why that moment has haunted me. I certainly have done far worse, and far more embarrassing, things in my life. Like, on that very same visit to Adam's house, I fell down the stairs.
From the very top.
Bouncing down each step on my rear end.
While everyone was standing at the bottom.
Maybe it bothers me because it is out of character for me. I am the girl who falls down the stairs. I'm not the girl who doesn't get a joke.
Okay, so I frequently don't get jokes. But I'm not the girl who doesn't join in.
And Adam's brother is great and certainly isn't the type to hold something like that against someone. He probably doesn't even remember it.
But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I always thought that if Adam and I broke up, Chris would say, "Well, good. She wasn't right for you anyway. She can't even take a joke. Remember that time Dad was talking about the florist convention in Vegas...."
"Take Back Moment" number 2 coming tomorrow....
8.11.2007
Crazy Bus Part Deux
I have a slight problem when it comes to crazy people. There must be something about me, some expression on my face, that compels them to speak with me. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.
One day last week, my problem was not slight at all. In fact, it was a large, sweaty, loud crazy man who somehow found his way to the seat next to me on the bus. I pegged him immediately for someone heading to the methadone clinic near my house....just like Crazy Bus Part One.
This guy was evidently upset that the bus was running 4 minutes behind schedule. He proceeded to tell me about the bus driver he nicknamed "Mario Andretti."
"After the race car driver, you know."
Before I could say, "Yes, I know," he continued with his monologue.
"I've never seen anyone drive like him. He didn't never press the brake. Mario Andretti doesn't brake, you know, but just goes through all the red lights. HIS bus (this directed toward the current bus driver) would never be 4 minutes late. If anything, it'd be 4 minutes EARLY."
I could have taken advantage of the lull in his speech to point out that, if he wanted a non-stop ride from point A to point methadone, maybe he should hitch a ride. Or take a cab. Or walk.
I didn't point it out. I'm not the type of person to say something like that....maybe, if I were, crazy people wouldn't talk to me. Instead, I continued to listen and nod my head when appropriate. Or widen my eyes and say "Oh No" at particularly heinous parts like,
"One time, I got on the bus, and Mario Andretti was the driver. But THEN, after a block or so, Mario Andretti pulled over and they switched drivers! I couldn't believe it. I called Tri-Met and left a message saying I always wanted Mario Andretti to be my bus driver but they never called me back. Tri-Met facists."
In their defense they probably weren't aware that he meant his Mario Andretti-nicknamed-bus driver...not the race car driver. I didn't say this either.
Oh but I wish I had. Because then he just got crazier. Waving his sweaty arms about, spitting profusely as he spoke, his eyes darting wildly back and forth. I started counting the stops until we reached the methadone clinic while he continued,
"Ever since then, I know Tri-Met has been spying on me. When I come to a bus stop, there is almost always a bus JUST LEAVING. Tell me that is not on purpose! I know they follow me to my apartment. They watch me until I leave again and then they tell the buses to change their schedules to I'll be late. Mario Andretti would never do that but THIS GUY (directed toward the current bus driver again) is in on it. Mario Andretti hasn't been my driver since I called Tri-Met. They are trying to keep him from me. But I'll figure a way around them..."
We finally reach the methadone clinic stop and Big Sweaty Crazy Man steps off followed immediately by my sigh of relief. He is still telling his story out on the sidewalk but this time no one is listening.
In some ways I wish I could be the type of person to abruptly get up and move to a different seat. Or say something incredibly clever and scathing to shut crazy person up. Or just stare them down so that they know not to sit next to me in the first place.
But then, I might not meet some of the people I've met through the years.
Like the homeless man I danced with in a park in Memphis when I was eight.
Or the man in San Juan, Puerto Rico who brought me fresh cherries (steeped in brandy, unfortunately) whenever he saw me walking in town with my family.
Or the elderly man on a subway in NYC who, after my friends rolled their eyes because I actually admitted to being a tourist, helped us find our way to the appropriate subway stop. As we walked through Times Square he took my arm in his, waved his cane over his head and said, "This is my hometown."
When it comes down to it, I guess I'll take the crazy with the good.
One day last week, my problem was not slight at all. In fact, it was a large, sweaty, loud crazy man who somehow found his way to the seat next to me on the bus. I pegged him immediately for someone heading to the methadone clinic near my house....just like Crazy Bus Part One.
This guy was evidently upset that the bus was running 4 minutes behind schedule. He proceeded to tell me about the bus driver he nicknamed "Mario Andretti."
"After the race car driver, you know."
Before I could say, "Yes, I know," he continued with his monologue.
"I've never seen anyone drive like him. He didn't never press the brake. Mario Andretti doesn't brake, you know, but just goes through all the red lights. HIS bus (this directed toward the current bus driver) would never be 4 minutes late. If anything, it'd be 4 minutes EARLY."
I could have taken advantage of the lull in his speech to point out that, if he wanted a non-stop ride from point A to point methadone, maybe he should hitch a ride. Or take a cab. Or walk.
I didn't point it out. I'm not the type of person to say something like that....maybe, if I were, crazy people wouldn't talk to me. Instead, I continued to listen and nod my head when appropriate. Or widen my eyes and say "Oh No" at particularly heinous parts like,
"One time, I got on the bus, and Mario Andretti was the driver. But THEN, after a block or so, Mario Andretti pulled over and they switched drivers! I couldn't believe it. I called Tri-Met and left a message saying I always wanted Mario Andretti to be my bus driver but they never called me back. Tri-Met facists."
In their defense they probably weren't aware that he meant his Mario Andretti-nicknamed-bus driver...not the race car driver. I didn't say this either.
Oh but I wish I had. Because then he just got crazier. Waving his sweaty arms about, spitting profusely as he spoke, his eyes darting wildly back and forth. I started counting the stops until we reached the methadone clinic while he continued,
"Ever since then, I know Tri-Met has been spying on me. When I come to a bus stop, there is almost always a bus JUST LEAVING. Tell me that is not on purpose! I know they follow me to my apartment. They watch me until I leave again and then they tell the buses to change their schedules to I'll be late. Mario Andretti would never do that but THIS GUY (directed toward the current bus driver again) is in on it. Mario Andretti hasn't been my driver since I called Tri-Met. They are trying to keep him from me. But I'll figure a way around them..."
We finally reach the methadone clinic stop and Big Sweaty Crazy Man steps off followed immediately by my sigh of relief. He is still telling his story out on the sidewalk but this time no one is listening.
In some ways I wish I could be the type of person to abruptly get up and move to a different seat. Or say something incredibly clever and scathing to shut crazy person up. Or just stare them down so that they know not to sit next to me in the first place.
But then, I might not meet some of the people I've met through the years.
Like the homeless man I danced with in a park in Memphis when I was eight.
Or the man in San Juan, Puerto Rico who brought me fresh cherries (steeped in brandy, unfortunately) whenever he saw me walking in town with my family.
Or the elderly man on a subway in NYC who, after my friends rolled their eyes because I actually admitted to being a tourist, helped us find our way to the appropriate subway stop. As we walked through Times Square he took my arm in his, waved his cane over his head and said, "This is my hometown."
When it comes down to it, I guess I'll take the crazy with the good.
8.08.2007
Turns out, I am not a chatty Cathy
The only downside to my new job is that there is an office-wide chat which is used, extensively, by everyone. And, despite the fact that I came-of-age during the "internet revolution" I have very little experience with chat.
I do not chat. I do not text.
I don't even understand the allure of "texting." (And, I hate hate hate the word "texting" so I refuse to use it from here on out in this entry.) I know people who are addicted to it and do it all the time. But, I ask you, couldn't a person carry on an actual conversation with someone instead of swapping little sentence snippets back and forth on a tiny cell phone screen?
I don't get it.
So, because I have little experience with chat and I do not text, I find myself a little bit behind the curve in the at-work chat room. Despite the fact that my blog is riddled with grammatical errors, I refuse to say things like, "How R U?"
It honestly gives me chills.
So my conversations with fellow employees look something like this:
Co-Worker: "how ru" (I spend some time figuring out what "ru" means.)
Me: "I am great! What are you up to?"
Co-Worker: "nm" (I think, New Mexico?)
Me: "So, another day another dollar, huh?! (Because, honestly, how do I respond to "nm"?)
Co-Worker: "Sorry, aak. let me know if u need hlp. syal"
Me: "AAK? Is that a sorority or were you startled?
Co-Worker: LOL (Finally...one that I know! Although, if you aren't "laughing out loud" then aren't you just smiling?)
Me: Ha, ha, ha! (I have no idea what is so funny but I refuse to 'LOL')
Needless to say, after this conversation (and many others), I am exhausted and I have no idea what I have just talked about. I guarantee that eventually I will inadvertently insult someone or agree to do some heinous task.
But at least I'll do it in complete sentences.
I do not chat. I do not text.
I don't even understand the allure of "texting." (And, I hate hate hate the word "texting" so I refuse to use it from here on out in this entry.) I know people who are addicted to it and do it all the time. But, I ask you, couldn't a person carry on an actual conversation with someone instead of swapping little sentence snippets back and forth on a tiny cell phone screen?
I don't get it.
So, because I have little experience with chat and I do not text, I find myself a little bit behind the curve in the at-work chat room. Despite the fact that my blog is riddled with grammatical errors, I refuse to say things like, "How R U?"
It honestly gives me chills.
So my conversations with fellow employees look something like this:
Co-Worker: "how ru" (I spend some time figuring out what "ru" means.)
Me: "I am great! What are you up to?"
Co-Worker: "nm" (I think, New Mexico?)
Me: "So, another day another dollar, huh?! (Because, honestly, how do I respond to "nm"?)
Co-Worker: "Sorry, aak. let me know if u need hlp. syal"
Me: "AAK? Is that a sorority or were you startled?
Co-Worker: LOL (Finally...one that I know! Although, if you aren't "laughing out loud" then aren't you just smiling?)
Me: Ha, ha, ha! (I have no idea what is so funny but I refuse to 'LOL')
Needless to say, after this conversation (and many others), I am exhausted and I have no idea what I have just talked about. I guarantee that eventually I will inadvertently insult someone or agree to do some heinous task.
But at least I'll do it in complete sentences.
8.07.2007
Lucky Number 12?
I am happy to say that I have finally re-joined the ranks of the permanently employed. Which somewhat accounts for my absence on this blog. I won't say where I work because I've heard of people getting in trouble for "work blogging" and I really want to keep this job until grad school in a year. (Fingers crossed)
I will say that I have to get up at an ungodly hour for this new job because I have an early shift.
I'm talking still-dark early.
Before the birds start chirping-early.
My fellow commuters are street cleaners, trash collectors and long-haul truckers.
But the upswing is that I also get out very early so my fellow commuters are...nonexistent! They are at lunch.
Other benefits of this job include:
1. The total lack of "animal rescuers"
2. A fun and laid back office (free beer on Friday afternoons....whilst still at work!)
3. BENEFITS (something this non-profit girl needed desperately)
4. It is within walking distance of a local non-profit where I've been wanting to volunteer (okay, I couldn't cut them off completely)
During all of this upheaval and change, Adam noticed a "12" on the ring finger of his right hand. At least it looked like a 12 to us. Take a look at the picture and see if you notice it. (Also note the appalling state of Adam's hands. I guess that is what happens when you are a farmer...)
Here are some possible reasons for the 12:
1. He will have 12 children (god, I hope not)
2. He will have 12 wives (also, not a good thing)
3. He will win 12 million dollars (that should just about cover college loans)
4. Something monumental will happen in December...of any year.
Before we could say for certain what the 12 meant, it disappeared. As long as it doesn't start counting down, I'm okay with it.
I will say that I have to get up at an ungodly hour for this new job because I have an early shift.
I'm talking still-dark early.
Before the birds start chirping-early.
My fellow commuters are street cleaners, trash collectors and long-haul truckers.
But the upswing is that I also get out very early so my fellow commuters are...nonexistent! They are at lunch.
Other benefits of this job include:
1. The total lack of "animal rescuers"
2. A fun and laid back office (free beer on Friday afternoons....whilst still at work!)
3. BENEFITS (something this non-profit girl needed desperately)
4. It is within walking distance of a local non-profit where I've been wanting to volunteer (okay, I couldn't cut them off completely)
During all of this upheaval and change, Adam noticed a "12" on the ring finger of his right hand. At least it looked like a 12 to us. Take a look at the picture and see if you notice it. (Also note the appalling state of Adam's hands. I guess that is what happens when you are a farmer...)
Here are some possible reasons for the 12:
1. He will have 12 children (god, I hope not)
2. He will have 12 wives (also, not a good thing)
3. He will win 12 million dollars (that should just about cover college loans)
4. Something monumental will happen in December...of any year.
Before we could say for certain what the 12 meant, it disappeared. As long as it doesn't start counting down, I'm okay with it.
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