Chop Chop

Saturday, I went and got my hair TOTALLY chopped off. And I hate it. I actually loved my hair, but it had gotten really really long, and working two jobs does not good haircare make. It's short. Real short. Part of me is horrified, part of me is like, "Eh, at least it'll grow back." I'm getting lots of obligatory compliments, but most include words like "cute" and "darling" and "sweet." So much for "sexy mutha fucka." I think I look like a fat Penelope Ann Miller.

My neck, which hasn't been exposed in like 20+ years (seriously), is always cold. And my hair keeps brushing the collar of my shirts which is fairly irritating. And it flies into my face when I drive. And I knew I had a lot of heavy hair, but I must have always SWUNG it around, cause my hair sails around dramatically like I'm in a shampoo commercial every time I turn to look at something to the right or left. I've already told Beau my new hair should be an accentuating partner when we have our next fight. I'm going to use its body and bounce to enhance my rage. He's looking forward to it. He's already greatly amused by my occasional foot stomps.

I've been wearing my hair long for years and years now. In 4th grade, my grandma kept telling me, "You would look SO cute in a pixie!" For those not in the know, a "pixie" on a girl is akin to a bowl cut on a guy, a la Julia Robert's "Tinkerbell" in Hook. Shocked after the haircut, my aunt offered to "fix" my hair on that first day at school. She did something complicated with a curling iron, I went to school, and was the laughing stock for hours. I remember doing something I never did before, simply took off by myself during school hours and went somewhere to cry. I know! Sad, right? But there's more! Since I was a tomboy at the time wearing knee-high stripped socks, tennis shoes, and other sporty clothes, my gender instantly became netural, and I was asked on MORE than one occasion thereafter by adults, "Are you a boy or a girl?" The one that really broke my heart was the owner of a small bookstore in a strip mall not too far from my home. I used to frequent FREQUENTLY his establishment since he sold both Choose Your Own Adventures and Piers Anthony's Xanth series books. I couldn't understand how he didn't recognize me, a frequent customer, and stung, didn't go back to the bookstore for a long time.

Pretty traumatizing for a 9 year old.

Since then, my hair has never gone above my shoulders. Basically, it's been loooooooong, usually approaching my waist, at which point I get sick to death of it, and then chop it to my shoulders. Rinse. Repeat.

I'd reached that point recently. I went to the salon and got it chopped. As typical when you cut very long hair into short hair, it's pretty unsettling, but I was used to that feeling. With fairly damp hair, I left the hairdresser, holding my bag of my old hair. Gross, but I'm hoping to donate it to Locks of Love. Since my new hair was so short, I was wondering how long it would take to get used to the change.

Then my hair dried.

Remember, I have naturally wavy hair, so as my hair dried, it got higher and higher. For the first time since 4th grade, the back of my neck hit air. Brrrrrr! Oh well. As Randy Travis sang, "Honey, I don't care. I'm not in love with your hair. And if it all fell out, I'd love you anyway."

Maybe tomorrow morning I'll sprinkle some Miracle Grow in my shampoo. It works great for my tomatoes.

Random Photo of the Day - Lemur

Lemur, Bronx Zoo 2006

In Defense of the Elizabeth Bennets of the World

This morning Spongie sent me the following email:

Found this when reading around after what Jenn had written about Colin Firth's Mr Darcy...

http://www.thefword.org.uk/features/2006/05/oh_mr_darcy
"Why do so many heterosexual women still find the Darcy figure attractive? Sheryl Plant ponders the influence of romantic fiction on women’s expectations of love and relationships. She discusses how lusting after the dominant male archetype can be interpreted both as resistance to patricarchy and compliance with it."

(It did strike me when watching the original BBC mini-series that Mr Darcy came across as a bit of a dominant grunt who had no idea of how to interact with women... so *naturally* the heroine changes her mind and falls in love with him. In Austen's defence, 1. power and social dominance are associated with male attractiveness, and 2. that was the nature of British society at the time - and some of it still exists within the anachronistic British public [i.e. private] school system.
I should know, being a product of it myself... :D )
----------------

Okay, *cough* hmmm. I have to respond (of course). Especially since I read the article and think it's a bunch of steaming horse poop.

I've been "living" in academia for a long time. I went straight to grad school from undergrad and then overlapped finishing my Master's degree with my full-time university position. I was immersed in all things professor for years and years. And here I am again, years later, back at a university, an environment I truly enjoy, but no longer have the same wide-eyed admiration for. The problem with academia is that they may challenge each other ruthlessly on their arguments, but outside of the "ivory tower" (the real world), they believe they are never wrong. It's because they're so damn smart, damn it! If you're smarter than the others around you, you must be right, right?

And this woman's article features the same ol' discourse you get used to. It's chock full of SAT-worthy words and a slightly patronizing style. The literature professors are the ABSOLUTE worst at this. Comparative Lit students were the ones all the other already overly-verbose grad students used to make fun of. Talking to a Comp Lit person was like trying to stir a giant vat of cooling molasses. They're all about complicated theories, and thick thick thick language, some of it simply made up words that your spell checker will go mad over, but scholarly journals will embrace. ANYWAY.

In a nutshell, the woman's argument is that we "feminists" of today still pine away for that arrogant, strong, dominant asshole (Mr. Darcy) and consider winning him the true prize of courtship.

I don't think this woman gets it at all. And to try and be fair, I will just speak for myself, and any other female who has been "sucked in" by Mr. Darcy can speak on their own opinion. When you watch (or read) Pride and Prejudice, you are initially disgusted with Darcy, yes. He's a dick. But the whole point of the book, and this is funny because I talked with Beau about this very thing last night when we were watching the last 20 minutes of the BBC series, is that you see the slow and delicious progression of the Elizabeth-Darcy relationship, who they both truly are, and how they both evolve and change. When you see Darcy at his home for the first time, speaking amiably with Elizabeth's aunt and uncle, you feel as if you've finally met the true Darcy, the one more at ease with himself and his surroundings.

I loved Darcy not for his initial arrogance, but for his later dedication, tenderness, and yes, though the author claims this is a negative attribute connected to (future domestic) violence - his deep passion. The more you learn about Darcy, the more you like him. All of us have met someone we initially disliked, and as we got to know him/her and learned of all the complexities of his/her life and character, have come to truly care for that person. When you first learn the truth about the real "bad boy" Wickham, your heart softens towards Darcy. When you see his great adoration for his sister, your heart gets a little mushy. And when you learn to what lengths Darcy goes to during the whole "Lydia-Wickham" scandal, your heart just about melts. There's a reason I put that particular still photo of Darcy in the blog. It's an important moment in the story -- Elizabeth and Darcy make a connection. She knows how much he loves and cares for his sister, and Elizabeth, easily picking up on the sister's verbal wound from the icky Miss Bingley, immediately rushes to care for the sister herself. It's then that Darcy gives her "the look" -- communicating not only his thanks to Elizabeth for protecting Georgiana, but his love for her caring nature (so different from that of callous Miss Bingley).

The author keeps claiming that the love for Darcy is the love for the bad boy, the jerk, the man who leaves you "humped and dumped." As she writes:

"I believe Jane Austen’s Darcy character still exists in today’s society and still holds some women in a love like trance, exercising power over women, using and controlling women to his (usually sexual) advantage. In all walks of life such men exist; he is usually the town womaniser or ‘badboy’, picking up and dropping women whenever he likes..."

Um, huh? I never saw it that way at all. Is it any more obvious that the one displaying all these attributes in the story is Wickham? (And Willoughby in Sense and Sensibility). Both of them play the charming, "dark-haired, " love-you-and-leave-you cad. In all likelihood, Darcy may well have been a virgin when he marries, as he is so disgusted by Wickham's womanizing in college.

And the author is forgetting one very vital aspect of the whole Darcy argument: Elizabeth Bennet! Half the reason I love Pride and Prejudice so much (and Mr. Darcy) is due to her. Elizabeth is one of the most popular female literary characters for a reason. She's strong, intelligent with a fierce wit, she's fearless, and she doesn't take shit from anybody. And of course, she has a heart of gold. Women just don't fall for Darcy, they fall for Elizabeth too. And as Elizabeth slowly learns about and loves Darcy, so do you. You feel they are well-matched, if not by socio-economic status, then by their personalities and character.

At the end, it's not the "Ha ha ha, Elizabeth has conquered that arrogant prick" as the author claims to be some sort of female revenge, simply because by the end, you don't think he's a prick anymore. By the end, you feel as if you've gotten to know who Darcy truly is, an aristocratic man (and all the pomp that entails), with a genuinely good heart and true intentions.

And you love him for it.

Nickel and Dime You To Death

When Beau and I returned from New Zealand, we stayed briefly at my mother's place in Milwaukee. She had been trying to sell one of her cars for awhile, a 1996 Honda Civic, without success. And we, having almost NO material possessions at the time, were happy to buy it off her. As I've told before, it was that diminutive car that we stuffed in what possessions we did have (along with Sabina the cat), and road tripped to our new home - Missoula.

I'd like to say it's a reliable car, but I'm afraid it may be, as my grandfather used to say, a "nickel and dime you to death" car. I've already regaled you with the tale of the one-working headlight (and my comic attempt to bang it "on" for the cop who pulled me over). Beau has since replaced the light, with only moderate difficulty.

Then, the muffler started to go. As in all these cases, it starts off as a purr and progresses slowly to a roar. For quite awhile I was mortified driving it around, though my only other option is what Beau drives -- the "Jesus car." Beau's UBER-religious mother (and step-father, not-so-religious) very generously let us borrow their Mercury Grand Marquis, which is basically a mini-station wagon. I can deal with the "Jesus loves me" cross dangling from the rearview mirror, but I admit to being squeamish about the "Eternity: Smoking or Non-Smoking?" sticker adorning the rear bumper. I can only imagine what my mother-in-law would think/say/do if she knew my own religious (non-)beliefs.

So, yeah, I drive the Honda. I like driving a stick anyway, and I prefer a small car. Of course, BRRRAAAWLING down the street is hard to get used to, though I have become rather adept at the microfine differences in accelerator pressure in order to try and lessen the intensity of the roar. And, as our finances have slowly increased from both of us working two jobs (three for Beau if you count his two hours a day driving a school bus), we finally had enough money to get the muffler replaced and even splurge on an oil change. I was looking forward to it, and to crossing off "muffler" from "The List." On our fridge is slapped a white board which contains a horribly-lengthy list of all the things we need to pay for before we're sound. Besides fixing the muffler, it includes old bills, getting a driver's license and car registration, etc. The list has gone unmarked for quite some time, if you don't count Beau trying to wipe out my entry of "getting a second cat" *grin* or his other attempted wipe-out of "fly fishing rod" which I consider a necessity for Beau's own sanity. As many of you know, an (un)happy spouse = an (un)happy you.

Then, driving into work last Friday, I heard an ominous *pop* sound and saw the speedometer needle do a 360 degree dance around the dial before lying still forever.

Just great.

It didn't stop there. From that point forward, every time I drove the car, the needle would swing to and fro, back and forth across the dial, with no rhyme or reason. Furthermore, the other night I was leaving Shop-n-Smile about 10pm, and blasting Kylie Minogue's famous(ly-overplayed) dance tune, "Can't Get You Out of My Head" and really feeling it. Apparently, I wasn't the only one. *BOOM BOOM BOOM* went my little Honda. Then I got to the first stoplight, and watched in fascination and horror as both the dashboard light and headlights pulsed in time with the dance beat. It was like my own little disco car! This is not good.

So, I took it into the shop, a place I had heard good things about. Plus, they advertised in the university's newspaper, and I figured, anyone who courts poor students as customers can't charge that much. I explained the problem to them, and left. Around 4pm I get a call at work.

"Um, yeah, your oil has been changed and the muffler was replaced fine. About the dash...well, it's not a cable, it's all electrical and digital in there. And your car has like 10,000 feet of cables, and to find the electrical problem, we'd have to test those cables, inch by inch, and well, you can imagine all the labor costs. You'll probably have to take it into the dealer."

*gulp*

Exactly the words I dread: "take it into the dealer." So, I called up the only Honda dealership in town, asked for the mechanic, and explained my disco car problem to him. After a moment's pause he said, "Gee, I've never seen anything like that before."

Oh. My. God.

"Never? I mean, it doesn't even sound familiar to you?"

"No."

Wonderful.

I can hear *cha-ching cha-ching* going off in my mind again and again. The shop I had taken the car too also suggested a place in town that only does electrical stuff for cars. Maybe I'll try them. Maybe I'll win the lottery.

Or maybe, in reality, I'll just drive around with pulsating lights and no speedometer for awhile. "Just try to drive along with the other cars in the meantime," suggested the mechanic.

That may just happen...for a long, long time.

The DMV - Drama of Motor Vehicles

Why is it that the DMV is a comical, annoying, dramatic place, no matter where you live? After being pulled over by a cop recently, I was informed that by law, I had to get a Montana license after I began working. So, I looked up the DMV on the internet and faced my first problem: there is only one office and they are only open 8am-5pm, my exact hours of work during the day. A co-worker said, "Did you know you can make an appointment with them? You can get it and out real fast." Sounds good! So, I called up and Crabby Cathy answered.

Me: Hi, I heard you can make appointments to come in and get your driver's license.
CC: Um, no, I don't know where you heard that. We don't do that.
Me: Okay, are you usually very busy at lunchtime?
CC: It's the lunch hour! We're going to be short-staffed!
Me: Oh, so you probably will be busy then.
CC: I don't know! It depends on the day! It's never the same.
Me: Um, okay, thank you.

Meanie.

Of course, this written dialogue isn't nearly as fun without the woman's voice, which gives you the full treat of her attitude and phone skills.

"What did you expect? It's the DMV!" said a co-worker. Yeah, duh. Still!

So, after doing a bit more research on the web, I found out what we needed to bring to prove identity, residency, and a new favorite: "proof of authorized presence." And luckily, one of my supervisors told me I should (could!) go at 8am the next morning instead of my lunch hour. Hooray! So, gathering all important documents of my and Beau's life, we take off in separate cars (we had to drop mine off at the shop afterwards, that's a fun story for later), and drive to the DMV.

By the gods above, the place was people-free! Astounding! So, we sat down and began to fill out our paperwork. And for the first time in my life, a DMV employee rounded the corner of the wall separating us, and said, "When you guys are ready, you can just come around over to us." Well, that's a new kind of service I'm not used to.

Then we looked up. A large sign on the wall said, "We only take cash or checks."

Now, what the HELL is that? We only take cash??? Who takes cash for anything nowadays besides a pack of gum? And checks? The ONLY time I ever write a check is for rent. But happily, Beau usually carries a checkbook around (he's a dinosaur). "Where's the checkbook?" I asked. "I don't have it," he said. "What??" Oh great. And to further our luck, I had left my ATM card at home in the back pocket of the pants I wore the other night. I had remembered our passports, birth certificates, apartment lease, utility bill, and social security cards, but I had forgotten my frickin ATM card. Wonderful.

So, Beau decides it's best to go home, get the checkbook, get my ATM card, and come back. I know this will be a wait, so I ask the woman if I can go ahead and do all the stuff now and just pay when he returns. She fixes me with an intense stare and says, "Are you sure he'll return?"

"Um, yeah, if he wants to stay married," I said.

She smiled, shrugged, and continued my paperwork. I was a bit concerned about the eye test, since my right eye has not been so great lately. I got that AMAZING Lasik surgery back in Bangkok about five years ago, but even though I had my right eye re-done, it never made it to 20-20, and in recent years has seemed to get slightly worse. I still don't wear contacts and think I'm fine *bumps into door* but was wondering if the obligatory eye test would jeopordize the license. Well, even though I had some difficulty seeing the last line of letters ("Is that a two?"), Crabby Cathy said, "That's great!" So, oh well!

For the second time, the lady looked at me and said, "Are you sure he's coming back, are you?" This was such a perplexing question. I mean, what did she think Beau was going to do? After she asked me a third time, she said, "You never know. My ex-husband went out for a loaf of bread and milk and he never came back."

My mouth dropped open a little bit and I said, "Um, seriously?"

"Yes," she said and continued on with her typing. I had no idea how to even react to a statement like that so just said, "Wow," and then remained silent while "Everybody's Got a Hungry Heart" played through my mind.

FINALLY, after what seemed forever, Beau showed up, hooray! I took one look at the dog-eared checkbook he pulled out and grimaced. "Beau," I said, "That's our checkbook from Missouri, not Montana." His face froze. I instantly fantasized about slugging him in the stomach.

"But, but," he protested, "You put this on top of our checks, right on top of all the other Montana ones. I thought it was for this bank!" Though this is entirely true, I am not letting him get away with not using his EYES. "Nuh uh, no way are you blaming me for this!" I said, thinking about slugging him another time.

So, getting my ATM card back from him, I ran to the car and took off for the nearest bank, which thankfully wasn't too far. I was in a hurry since, again, being a *puke* hourly employee means every minute does count, and I was burning them away. I efficiently took out $60 and started driving back, mentally patting myself on the back since I'd be returning in less than five minutes. Then, I realized something. Our licenses were FORTY dollars each, not TWENTY. I hadn't taken out enough cash, AND, I'd had to pay that "not your bank, ha ha" fee once already.

FUCK.

So, I quickly u-turned and returned to the teller, where I took out another $40 (just in case), and headed back. So the whole thing took less than 10 minutes, but STILL. I seem to have caught Beau's goober disease. I got back, paid for both of us, and waited while we received....our temporary driver's licenses. That's right, apparently Montana has not yet mastered the technology to instantly print out a plastic card with your photo on it. Instead we were given a somewhat large (about twice the size of a real license) piece of paper with our black and white picture on it, like it had been printed on someone's old dot matrix. "You'll get your real license in about 14 days," they informed us.

!!

Well, okay then. Let's hope I don't NEED a license in the next two weeks. Like when I get pulled over by a cop again.
---------------------------

Oh my gosh, I almost forgot this part. As I was sitting there, one of the Crabby Cathy's turned to the other and said, "Hey, what's that stupid thing we have to go to tomorrow....anger management training?"

I almost peed my pants.

"Noooo," drawled the other one, "'Emotional Intelligence,' whatever that is."

"It's like an IQ test, but for your emotions," I said, "They use it to help see your way of thinking and your approaches to things, like at work."

"Huh," said the woman.

You Know It's True Love When...

...your husband watches the BBC mini-series Pride & Prejudice with you. (Some begging was required).

That's a 6+ hour mini-series folks. A PERIOD piece, a COSTUME drama. A movie of witty, yet antiquated dialogue. Men in stuffy shirts, women in somewhat shapeless dresses. No guns, no car chases, not much cleavage. Just some crusty aristocratic scandals to whip it up. And your wife is slobbering over "Mr. Darcy" (Colin *pant* Firth) throughout.

He loves me!

P.S. If any of you women have seen this film, you know EXACTLY which scene this "look" is from. *SWOO*

Virginia Tech, Imus, and Blame

My friend wrote me like a one-line email last week about Imus. Kind of a, "Wow, did you hear what he said?" (I had only heard of it at the time). And in true J. Cullinane form, I wrote him back an essay on my opinion of what I now see as our culture of overzealous blame. He didn't really respond after that.

Beau and I have been talking about this for awhile now, and it came up again with the whole Imus situation. My problem for awhile has been the whole concept of blame. My personal opinion on Imus is mixed. I thought he did a really mean, stupid thing, but was kind of shocked at the rabid response and his subsequent firings. At home, sick, I watched the two days of "Town Hall" meetings on Oprah which featured various black leaders, entertainers, authors, shrinks, and students discussing the whole issue. I thought it was pretty fascinating and I don't think I quite realized how deep some of this pain goes, and that Imus was just a symbol, or, a catalyst.

Back to my point though, there seems to be this, almost nation-wide, INSTANT witch hunt that goes on when anyone with any remote spec of celebrity says something stupid/mean/racist, etc. Not that saying any of these things is ever okay, but it's just that suddenly, whatever the person said is splashed on TV and print for DAYS, the s/he always has to give multiple public apologies, get suspended, meet with the ACLU, do volunteer work, be tarred and feathered...and of course, let's not forget...

GO TO REHAB!

I just think it has gotten way out of control. I know in the course of joking around we have all said something that could have easily offended lots of people, but can you imagine going through ALL this for it? I try to be sensitive to others, and Beau even thinks sometimes it goes too far where I'm careful not to offend ANYONE, but that doesn't mean I haven't ever said anything that would make me some kind of public target.

When I was an undergrad at a Jesuit university, I had to take a LOT of philosophy. This included an introduction to Existentialism, a school of thought, that for the most part, I really identified with (except for the whole "the body is disgusting" part). In particular, I liked how it believes in accepting blame for one's mistakes and not trying to make excuses or point the finger at another. We are all responsible for our own lives. I felt this was something really missing in American culture, where we are so quick to either blame someone else, or eager to diagnose and medicate problems. This doesn't mean I've been innocent of course. I've sought my own medical attention for things and felt a sense of relief when a problem was identified and sometimes then prescribed something (especially in regards to my stomach).

But I can't stand this whole notion that not only is everyone innocent because of things happening to oneself. It's not my fault! It's my parents/teachers/environment/physician/boss/broken heart, etc. To me, these things are all influences, sometimes very strong ones, but influences nonetheless. In the end, we all make choices in our own behavior. Responsibility and blame are not the same.

And now, with the whole sad shooting at Virginia Tech, every time I turn on the TV, all I hear is blame blame blame. Not so much for the shooter, who was obviously disturbed, but for the university, the president, the campus security, the Virginia police. Why didn't they do THIS soon enough? Why didn't they do THAT? If I am correct, that school has nine THOUSAND students living on its over 2600 acres! AND it has another 14,000 students driving in from the surrounding area. How do you "lock down" 2600 acres of anything that isn't a fenced in prison? It's ridiculous. I work at a university with about half as many total students, and about 1/10th the acreage and I cannot imagine a) notifying the entire campus immediately of something of this nature, or b) locking it down in any way. If they use this tragedy to try and develop better ways to communicate en masse with their student, staff, and faculty, great! I wish them luck on such an ambitious task.

And I certainly can't see blame in police believing this was a "domestic" act considering it was initially confined to one dorm and seemed to be an ex-girlfriend (that last fact I'm not sure of). Who would possibly imagine he would then walk to an academic building and open fire on dozens of people afterwards?

It saddens me to see so many people so quick to seek blame and fault at this time, just hours after it all happened. I don't know, maybe if it was my child who was shot, I may be reaching out for some sort of vengeance myself, but unless there was some sort of gross negligence on the part of officials, which I clearly do not see, why why why blame them? Why go after them as if they caused this event? Accountability is fine, I obviously believe in that. I believe in justice. But in needs to be directed to its proper place -- the shooter.

And I'm sure, as the days go on, we'll find out just how disturbed he was, and how it's someone else's fault for not throwing him in jail, committing him to an asylum, etc. How can anyone know the heart of another? Even if there were "warning signs" that something was wrong, would anyone ever take the leap to think a massacre would follow? And is that truly something we should be blamed for?

Sick of Being Sick

So, I've been sick all weekend, though I know it kind of started gradually a few days before that. The pharmacist at Shop-n-Smile -- my only form of healthcare since I currently have no health insurance -- told me it sounds likes a flu that's going around. Basically it started off feeling like when I had mono when I was 15. Every time I stand up I feel really dizzy and nauseous and after just walking around for a few minutes, these two symptons surge dramatically, I start to feel really tired, and I have to just sit down or lay down for a little while. I have almost no appetite (a REAL rarity for me who never passes up a chance to eat!), and several times an hour I am forced to visit the bathroom (I'll just leave it at that). Every now and then I'll start to feel better and think, "Oh good, I can do this, I can go to work." And then the super-crappy feeling will wash over me again and I'll have to lay down until it subsides somewhat. What really sucks about missing work, is that for the first time in awhile I have hourly jobs, not salary, so when you miss work, you really fuck up your paycheck, not to mention it's TWO jobs I'm losing money from.

Last night in bed I was lying flat on my back in an effort to keep my stomach as calm as possible, which sucks since I always have trouble falling asleep on my back. Still, it churned and whirred away to the point where Beau suddenly exclaimed, "Geez, is that your stomach I hear?" "Yeeeeees," I said in a whiny voice. I'm a baby when I'm sick; I like to be taken care of. Beau made me soup and gives me orange juice which I love. I feel so ungrateful to eat a few spoonfuls and then put down my spoon in disinterest. Beau is the polar opposite. When he's sick (which he was last week with a different kind of illness), he'd prefer to crawl into a cave alone until the sickness passes and then emerge healthy and happy. You can imagine what a great patient this makes him when you try to take care of him. That Scottish stubborness comes out full force until I forget that he's sick and want to smack him upside the head.

So, it's 10 minutes 'til 11am and I'm contemplating going in to the university at 1pm to do half my shift. It's really a bad idea to be sick when you start a new job, and I have a feeling it's a really bad idea with this particular one. Most of that job is spent on my ass anyway, so I could probably do it. I'm just so sick of being sick already and I'm really frustrated. But I know, I should probably just stay home and watch Charmed and forensic shows and Dr. Phil. And I probably will.

Fart.

Random Photo of the Day - Tree in Springtime in Central Park

Springtime in Central Park, 2006

Work and Such

I've been DYING to post about my current job in the VIP office, but I just can't. I know now it'd be a sure-fire way to get my ass canned, not to mention a lot of school publicity (the newspaper here is pretty fantastic, ...and thorough). But the cast of characters in my office is right out of the movie, Clue. Not so much for their flamboyance or craziness, but just utter umm...uniqueness and comic value. I'd love to describe this cast of characters -- a writer's dream! But alas, I don't think it will be so. Maybe someday. Like, after I'm fired.

For now, things are going okay. I am a bit uncomfortable because the woman I replaced did not exactly leave of her own volition, and naturally, she had friends in the office, so there's quite a bit of tension. And me being the person who replaced her makes me a target. A few have been very nice to me, in fact, extremely nice, and a few have been difficult. It's one thing to be cold to the newcomer who replaced your friend, but I think some others are acting out their unhappiness in other ways.

Basically, it's the, every-misstep-is-noted-and-heavily-criticized thing. There's one woman, that every time I ask her a simple question, and I mean simple question, will give me a five-minute, utterly condescending lecture that makes me want to claw my eyes out. I've totally avoided asking her anything at this point.

But for now, I will try to be understanding and patient. I'll take it for awhile. For awhile. It's not the kind of atmosphere I'd tolerate forever, but I understand this place is in radical transition, in a lot of other ways besides my own piddly position. And I also am trying to get used to their VERY. PARTICULAR. way of doing everything, and anything. It's fine, despite the fact that it doesn't exactly fit my personality. I can adapt.

While at Shop-n-Smile, I got a compliment I have never heard from an employer before, despite my years of promotions and merit raises: "Thanks for having such attention to detail!" I wanted to laugh. If there was ever a weakness in my administrative quiver of skills, it's my lack of attention to detail. In fact, my very first job in college was with the American Heart Association where I worked as the assistant to an assistant. She was a super nice woman named Mary who had big giant blue eyes and a big giant heart. At some point they gave me a performance review, something I had never experienced in my life after my high school jobs at movie theaters and Arby's. I was praised over and over again for this and that skill, for my hard work, etc. But what do you think it was I remember? Of course, me, The Queen of Darkness only remembers the single criticism I received: "You could probably pay a little bit more attention to detail." It stung pretty badly at the time. Now I laugh because it's true.

It's really just impatience, I think. I actually enjoy working hard and doing a good job, but I just don't have the patience to be meticulous, to have that slow hand, to move with great deliberation. Thankfully, I am much more organized than I once was, but details bore the snot out of me. It's affected a lot of my artwork 'cause I just can't be bothered with some of the steady hand, slow movements necessary in painting or pottery.

Anyway, as for the job front, the only thing that's really irking me now, is that my "good job," the day job, which has much higher pay and the potential for more, is just that, potential. I'm still a temp with no benefits. This job opens up as a permanent position in another month or two, and there's no guarantee it's mine. I've been dying to quit Shop-n-Smile, but can't, knowing it's my *irk* "stable" job. Furthermore, I just saw ANOTHER university position open up that fits me so well (it has to do with international students), but the thought of applying for ANOTHER university job and then quitting THIS (another) university job just makes me want to vomit.

It's funny, we moved to Missoula so that we would have these stable, successful, enjoyable lives, and so far, it's been wildly unstable, not even remotely successful, and we haven't had any time (or cash) to enjoy it. I've never been in such a confusing, crazy job market (and I thought NYC was tough!) where everyone's a low-level temp and yet everyone thinks they're living in the Garden of Eden. It doesn't cease to blow our minds.

I was just reading the "letters to the editor" section of the local newspaper, and someone wrote in complaining that children were all fucked up not because of the parents, but because of the teachers, and get this, the writer complained bitterly that the teachers get decent benefits and that a starting teacher's salary was an indulgent $32,000!

Oh yeah, $32,000! Beau and I will be taking bi-annual trips to Bermuda on that kind of cash!! Woo hoo! The gluttony of over-paid, underworked teachers!

Asshole.

Moments in Life that Suck

So, I've been at work exactly 20 minutes when I get a dime-sized spot of coffee right in the center of my super-white (of course) shirt. I take a napkin and begin dabbing at it which pulls some of it out. So I go to the bathroom and add some water and soap and pick up the napkin and start to dab again, only to find that this MAROON napkin is now transferring its color to the wet part of my shirt.

It's gonna be a bad day.

Things That Annoy Me About Other People

People who linger after finishing their thought or after listening to yours, and just kind of pause and stare. And there's this awkward dead silence where you feel as if there's some sort of expectation, but you don't know what it is.

i.e. Nice woman comes into the office and makes a simple request. I complete it immediately and say, "Okay, it's all ready to go. You're set."

The woman says, "Great!" and then continues to stand there smiling. I feel as if the conversation is not closed, but have no idea what other information might be needed in order for it to be so. Silence looms unbearably and confusingly like some sort of threatening spectre for a few seconds.

Grrrr.

Garden Plotters

In other news, the weekend was a smashing success solely because on Saturday I procured a community garden plot. Apparently a coveted one as well. As with any university (hippy) town, there is always the community garden. Beau and I are lucky enough to live just a few blocks away from one, which the website said was very popular and that plots went fast. So, for weeks my heart was all a-flutter with nervousness, wondering if I'd get one at all, and if not, if I could even get one at some distant location. Then Beau pretended to get serious and asked, "Are you sure you want to do this? Start another garden?"

"Why not? You know how much I love doing this together."

"I know, but you realize, since we've moved in together, you've started two garden plots, and both times, we had to leave the country before the season was over."

I paused. This was actually true. Both in Missouri and New Zealand I had started grand plots that were just starting to kick into hyperdrive when we left (with much sorrow on my part). Was this some kind of gardening curse?

"Ha ha ha, that's silly!" I proclaimed with not much confidence.

So, on a VERY windy Saturday morning, the DAY it was all to go down, I showed up at 11:45am. Previous-year plotters could show up at 10am and re-claim their plots, newcomers at noon. I was going to leave even earlier, but was in the middle of doing our taxes (yes, this late), and didn't make it out the door. When I got there, and shyly walked up to the ramshackle shed that housed two perky college women, I found there was only one couple before me, and the women informed me there were "plenty of plots" to go around. Yipee! But by the rules of the place, we had to wait until the clock struck noon before being able to claim one. No problem, I brought a book.

While standing there, a couple of other college women chatted beside me, where I heard this line: "I got the plot in the divorce."

And to think all I got in my divorce was my maxed out credit cards and my name back.

Finally, the time came, and I asked the woman to help me choose. She walked me to the center where a very nice plot was, conveniently located near a water spout and covered with straw (they were supposed to do that at the end of the last season). It looked nice and I liked its location since I was told outside plots sometimes get their veggies ripped off, and after my homicidal rage at the thieving squirrels of Missouri, I didn't want to go through that again. Not like I can post a live trap for thieving neighborhood kids. I mean, where would I release them?

Anyway, though some hearty gardeners began immediately to clear and ready their plots, I just wanted to get out of the wind and back home to our taxes. I was home about 30 minutes when the phone rang.

A hesitant and apologetic female voice was on the phone - one of the perky college students. She informed that last year's owner of my plot had called up, absolutely irate that HIS plot had been given out to another and that he had reserved his three months earlier. I was confused at this (as was the young woman who was running the show for someone else that day), since I thought the rules were strict and clear -- it all happens on one day, at 10am and 12pm. The woman apologized again and asked what I wanted to do. My first (NYC) reaction was for him to fuck off. I had done exactly what you were supposed to do and I really liked the plot. But then in my mind I suddenly envisioned the scenario of Beau and I pulling weeds from between our tomato plants, only to have Mr Jerk-Off-Crybaby giving me the stinkeye from his new, consolation prize plot. I didn't really want to deal with a pissy hippy all summer long, so I said I'd take a new plot. She gave me its number (which don't seem to go in any logical order) and told me it was "kitty corner" to my previous one.

When Beau and I went later, I had some difficulty locating my original plot, but then did, and then we were confused which kitty corner plot was ours, which was kind of a bummer since I was really in the mood to get started. But just my luck, we'd work for two hours on some else's plot, clearing weeds and such. No thank you!

Despite the initial drama (is there any other way in my life?), I'm super excited to get going with this. I've got my gloves, my mini-rake, and I've already bought one tomato and one basil plant, which are patiently perched upon my living room windowsill and actually already growing a bit. The hardest part will be limiting myself to the plot given, as I tend to get a bit manic with gardening and continue buying and buying vegetable and herb plants and slowly and secretly urban-sprawling the garden, trying without success to hide the expansion from Beau. There have been more than one occasion when he will be serenely digging away in the garden, only to suddenly pause and go, "Hey, that plant wasn't there yesterday." And me pretending I didn't hear the comment, go on watering the basil plants and trying to keep a straight face, before I explode out, "Well, I couldn't help it! How am I supposed to make pesto without more basil plants? I mean, you need like 10,000 basil leaves for one thing of pesto!."

It's true, you know. You do.

Random Photo of the Day -8

Wolf Monkey, Bronx Zoo 2005

An Expired Box of Condoms

I've talked about this before, but it's kind of swirling around in my mind again. Basically, in regards to most human beings, it's the way that there seems to be an expiration date on everything. This varies wildly from person to person and from subject to subject, but I think it applies to most people, at least in some aspect of their lives. Basically, this "expiration date" is the concept of replenishment, reassurance and affirmation.

For example, like me, *cough* I know there are many women and some men who need to hear "I love you" from their partner, frequently. If a period of time goes by and you don't hear it, a part of you can get anywhere from ansy to fearful (depending on your own level of confidence in the relationship). To hear it, once a week, once a day, whatever, settles you in a sense. The old "I love you" may not be spoiled or gone bad, but it certainly is losing its potency, so instead of curdled milk, it's like an old box of condoms! So, your partner says it again, and the date of the last "I love you," which had expired, is now renewed, and a new date is subconsciously imprinted in your heart.

That's the romanticized version, but it applies to other things.

Note: The condom thing came to mind because when I started at Shop-n-Smile a few weeks ago, one of the first things they ever had me do was go through all the condom boxes, one by one, to make sure there were no expired products on the shelf. I learned a lot!

What about simple gratefulness for life itself? We've all seen or known someone who has had a near-death experience and then comes back full of zest for life. "Live like there's no tomorrow!" people will crow. What's the country song? Live like you were dying? "I went sky-diving...I went rocky mountain climbing..." It's great to see someone charge into life with such joy and enthusiasm. But again, does it last? Has anyone who ever said they were going to live every day like it was their last, then actually gone ahead and done just that for the rest of his or her life? I've wondered about it myself. Even if I maxed out all my credit cards and embarked on some great adventure, my funds would run out in about six days. Then what? It's hard to live life to its fullest when you're broke, I don't care what you say.

When I was in grad school and emerging from my bout with Depression, I remember how I had this personal rule to do something every day that scared me. Now I don't mean like hang glide off of the Grand Canyon, I mean simple things that you wouldn't do just because you were too shy. It could be something simple like asking a stranger for the time, or something a bit more bold, like when I bet my mother $5 that I would lie down in the center of the rotunda of the state capitol building and stare up at the vast ceiling above (which I did, briefly). I loved it, because each day when I finished my mini-quest, I felt such a great thrill, like a shot of adrenaline.

I don't do that anymore. Why? I dunno. Lazy, I guess. The "Do something that scares you every day" scheme expired.

And I can't tell you how many talks I've been to on university campuses, or something I've seen on TV (hello, Dr. Phil!) which have energized and inspired me and made me want to jump out of my chair and take action. But sadly, it never lasts. When I was a freshman in college in a special federal program for "educationally-disadvantaged" students (I still love that term -- it basically means "poor and first-generation college student" or "'targeted' minority"), we were honored to have Cornell West, a well-known scholar and current instructor at Princeton, come to our school to give the opening speech. At the time, I was 18 and had no idea who he was. He gave the most amazing talk about grasping your education and shaking all you could out of it. He strongly suggested that we attend as many of the free talks that are so common to all university campuses as we could. He said, "I'd go to a talk on molecular biology," (he was/is a scholar on religion), "Because I didn't know anything about it. Just to learn something new and interesting." Little ol' me thought that was a genius idea, since I already was into learning about everything. I wanted to follow his advice, I wanted to go to molecular biology and physical therapy and mathematical and religious talks! I was going to start right away!

Well, how many talks on Math do you think I actually attended? That's right, ZERO. In fact, right now at UM there's a Math talk advertised entitled, "Phase-Locking in Electrically Coupled Networks or Cortical Neurons." I don't know shit about what that even means. Will I attend that talk? What do you think?

In undergrad I did attend talks and special lectures, but they all pertained to my degrees. I may have attended one or two others that had some connection to me, but not a single speech originated in the "Hard" Sciences building. So much for the life of inspiration. The expiration date on the inspiration from Dr. West's speech could have been just days. And what's even hypocritical about it, is that I remember (obviously) that speech today and still believe in it and still want to follow his advice. Yet, the only talk I plan to attend in the near future has to do with teaching, which is connected to me. Oh well.

And how many times have you looked at the person you love, and just marveled at how thankful you are for having them in your life, and how you truly want to treat them with dignity, respect, and love. And how you vow to yourself at that moment you will not do (insert psycho behavior here) to them anymore.

And then you fight.

There's just this need in us, as humans, for our love to be constantly reaffirmed, for our inspiration to be constantly replenished, for our ambition to be constantly revitalized. All this great work that is done in the world for "sustainable development," and I can't even sustain it within myself. We become so grateful for what we have, for awhile, maybe around Thanksgiving or Christmas, then that expiration date comes and goes as well. Perhaps that's a good thing, but I've always found it kind of selfish and sad. Why can't we sustain positive, motivational, life-altering feelings and use them to be better people? Why are we this constant source of need? Why do I sound like a whiny philosopher? It's because of my undergrad university! It's their fault!

That's right. I blame the Jesuits.

Out, Out Damn Nostalgia!

"For every job, so many men
So many men no one needs."
-----------------

So, I've been here in the, let's just say, VIP University Officials Office (From now on referred to as VIPO) for a few days. As usual, since I moved to this city, my feelings are mixed. Decent job in important office that can show me a lot and as I've been told like 10 times, set me up to get to know the whole campus as a whole and get an even better job. I guess that's how things work here. People kept telling me how difficult it was to get hired by the university, but once you were in, you were in. Now I guess the deal is to float around until you find a nice job to land on. I find the whole thing unsettling. Yeah, me, Ms. Move-Around-The-Universe-Every-1-2-Years.

And with the way things have been going, I've tried to be really positive about getting ANY work at all, even if it doesn't fit me. Let me say that again, trying. It's interesting how I can overdramatize my life sometimes (don't laugh, Beau). When you're looking for work, and you keep lowering and lowering your standards ('til you end up working at Shop-n-Smile and start saying to your mate, "Hey, look, we could deliver newspapers at 3 in the morning!"), I start imagining strange scenarios. I love history, particularly individuals in history and how they react. And I have been imagining the long, depressing lines for work during the Depression. Those grey photos of men with vacant, hopeless stares hoping that today they'll be picked to do some shit labor job. And for a split second I'll feel like that, temping at some lumber yard for 1/3 my NYC salary and having to defer my student loans AGAIN, and eating oatmeal for breakfast AGAIN lets me feel a fraternity with those men. How I have been doing all these jobs I hate, that are boring and tedious, and that the pay is crap.

And then in the very next moment I feel like a giant asshole. I'm not an idiot; I know there is no comparison of me now to what people then went through. When I'm picking up the 12 rugs that someone has left strewn all over the floor at Shop-n-Smile, I remind myself that a) this job is easy, b) this job is an a climate-controlled environment, c) I don't get that dirty, and d) I don't have a bunch of starving kids to feed.

I still want to quit Shop-n-Smile every single night though.

It's funny, when you're in a situation where your current job situation sucks, you start looking back to your old jobs with a great deal of romantic nostalgia and wondering why you ever left, despite the fact that at the time you were DYING to get out of there, for whatever reason.

Remembering how happy I was at UW-Madison and how it was the only time I really felt a part of a tight-knit, warm community, but forgetting that the job I was in had no growth potential, EVER; and that I was surrounded by either 50-something's or 20 year olds, but never anyone my own age; and how I was in a relationship that needed to end, but wouldn't as long as were in the same city; and that after I got my Master's I thought it might be time to move to Southeast Asia, since, what's the point of spending all that time and money studying it and not ever experiencing it in any meaningful way?

Remembering my great jobs in NYC that did have growth potential and lots of interesting and caring people to work with, but forgetting that it was still low-paying; that at times I felt as if I was treated like a glorified secretary and not an equal; that I lived in a tiny, cockroach-infested apartment that would make the guy on Fear Factor wince; or that my second job (teaching) really fulfilled me, but also forced me to travel way out to Queens, only to return to my home on the subway at around 11pm at night every night; or that the love of my life was living in a totally different state; or that as much as I loved NYC, that I wasn't really a NY'er and didn't really fit in anywhere; and that I couldn't afford the damn place!

Or even remembering my brief job in Missouri with four beautiful, funny, and unbelievably kind and caring women (I used to call them the Missouri version of Sex & the City, the waaaaaaay toned down version), but forgetting that the pay was less than half what I made in NYC, that the job was often slow and boring, that most of the time I was itching and burning to leave for New Zealand and join Beau, and that I had to commute (something I really really hate).

Yeah, nostalgia's a real treat.

And I'm a nutjob. You ever wonder if it's even possible that you could ever just be happy? Ever? Not deliriously happy, but a long-lasting, unending, flowing stream of contentment? Peace? I have periods where I am, but.... ugh. Normally, I don't consider myself unhappy, but I also don't usually consider myself truly happy. Or that I have happy days. Usually I feel restless, like I haven't really reached my potential and there's so much more to be accomplished, worked on, figured out, paid for, learned. I could attribute this constant restlessness to my ADD, how when doing my work at Shop-n-Smile, my mind, which is usually going going going, feels like letting out a bloodcurdling scream from the boredom. But more and more I feel like that's just a cop-out, even if it is true. I've been somewhat fascinated by those at Shop-n-Smile for whom this is their "job," (most are younger than me and have children), and who have a kind of contentment with that. They are making single-digit, per hour wages, they do the same thing night after night, and there's a sense of okayness with that. That fascinates me, because every time I think about working at Shop-n-Smile, as a full-time provide-for-my-family job, FOREVER, I want to stab myself. I envy that kind of peace.

I used to poke fun at Beau, because he'd make these comments like, "When this happens, I'll be happy." Then it would happen. And he'd go, "Okay, when THIS happens, I'll be happy." And then THAT would happen. Rinse. Repeat. Is there just something in us that is so spoiled and screwed up that happiness is completely unsustainable? I sometimes think of people years and years ago who basically worked their asses off every single day, simply to survive, and I don't think they had long periods of self-musing over their own personal happiness. They just did. Or, so I think. Sheesh, right now I'm thinking so much I'm all turned around.

Blah.

Random Photo of the Day - 7

Angel Fountain in Central Park

Winds of Change

Over the past couple of months I've shared with you my struggles, ill luck, and disbelief over our misadventures in Missoula. And believe it or not, I haven't told you everything. Some because it's too private, and some because I was starting to feel like a big whiny baby. Though both Beau and I have felt a range of negative emotions from discouragement to outright Depression (with the BIG "D"), as Beau says, "You just gotta keep plugging away at it. There isn't any other choice." Of course, he's right.

When I got my temp job at the university and began that familiar walk across a grassy collegial campus, I felt my first sense of relief, and for a moment, a spark of hope and happiness. Something good had finally happened, something that was headed in the right direction.

And then, the second job at the university came along, much faster than I expected. What I haven't told you yet is the drama of the past few days -- of my first experience with some aggressive poaching (I had some non-aggressive poaching attempted on me in NYC). I'd love to write some of it out, but I'm a bit cautious. Knowing my luck, I'll detail all that went down and some university official will read this and I'll be canned in no time. I've felt so unlucky lately that I think I'm becoming superstitious. *rubs rabbit foot*

Just a sidenote, but did you all ever own a rabbit's foot when you were a kid? I can remember owning SEVERAL (though not at the same time). Now when I look at the photos, I'm a bit grossed out. I carried a dead rabbit's foot, complete with pointy toenails and an outrageously-colored dye job, around as a key chain -- as if I owned any keys then -- rubbing it happily here and there. Ewwww!

*cough* Anyway, poaching is a familiar phenomenon on university campuses, though typically it's the professors who are sneakily snatched away by an outside university, not a temp snatched away from another department. I'm certainly flattered and thankful to get a higher position with better pay, and with the possibility of benefits, something that has become a VERY big deal in every American's life, but the whole process has left me feeling awkward, embarrassed, and uneasy.

And my good luck continued when the two women in my current department were nothing but gracious, kind, and supportive of the whole thing. Sure, they weren't thrilled to lose me, but they understood that this was a chance at a really good job and what I was doing for them was helpful, but not rocket science. I felt so thankful toward them I bowed and scraped all day. I wanted to do something for them, flowers, candy, a plaque. And I'll be sorry to be leaving them. I've come to really like them in the past few weeks.

I don't know why I always expect the worst from most people, that people will be angry, uncivilized, will misunderstand. I don't consider myself a pessimist, but I think Beau does. He's not the first to tell me I always imagine the worst out of every situation.

I read that Michael Douglas calls Catherine Zeta-Jones the Queen of Gloom and Doom or something to that effect. Even better, once upon a time, Sting and his longtime love, Trudie Styler, were in lawn chairs sunbathing. Suddenly Sting says, "Look, there's a little black spot on the sun today." And Trudie responded, "Oh god, here we go again, it's the King of Pain."

And a song was born.

So, I guess I'm not the only one.

Anyway, tomorrow is day one in "The Serious Office." I will up my clothes from office casual to office professional. I will keep my head down and do what I'm told 'til I get my bearings. I will work hard. I will impress. I will kick some administrative ass.

Maybe my luck has finally begun to change...

Sinner Man!

"Oh, Sinner man, where you gonna run to? Where you gonna run to?"
- Nina Simone

Between the University Center, where I get lunch, and the building I currently work in, is a large open grassy area. And at any university, this is used for the same basic things:

- Students lounging around to talk, sleep, or study
- Students doing "active" things like throw frisbees or footballs, or walking their dogs
- Students protesting something


For not being a "major" university, I'm surprised and impressed by the sheer amount of protests/demonstrations that go on on this campus. Most involve some boring folk singer, unfortunately, and usually, draw a very small crowd.

Exiting the UC today, I noticed a much larger than usual crowd gathered, and could hear someone giving some kind of oratory with great enthusiasm and authority. What kind of protest or demonstration could entice so many students to stop in their usual walks of apathy?

A bible-thumper, literally. Standing there was a diminutive man, who looked to be the same age as the other college students, which made him even more interesting to me. Holding a bible in hand, and yes, thumping away, he was crowing about the immorality of the students around him. As you can imagine, this did nothing but amuse and delight the students to no end, who catcalled continuously along with the "preacher's" speech. Apparently, my own apathy wasn't enough to make me stop (I had to be back in the office in about three minutes, and I'm already damned to Hell as it is), but I got enough of his schpiel to feel a pang of sympathy for the poor guy, despite the fact that I probably wouldn't agree with a word he said. If ever there was a tougher audience to preach to about moral values, and his particular focus on LUST, it had to be a college crowd. But he bravely fought on, there were souls to save, don'tcha know?!

Rock on, preacher, rock on!

Random Photo of the Day - 6

Flower at the Bronx Zoo. Spring 2005