I Gotta Be Me!

I'm writing this post not because I have some story to tell, but just because I haven't written in awhile. I hate abandoned blogs, and I don't want mine to be that way. It's not because I don't have time to write anymore (okay, yeah, I have a lot less free time than I did before, but there's always a way to MAKE time), and it's not because I don't have the will, either. I think it has to do with the fact that a) Facebook is such an enormous outlet for what my (and JiffyPop's) life is that it almost seems redundant to come on here, and b) I have become a videotape monster, which has become it's own blog itself.

I managed to buy this super cheap video camera. It's not great quality, obviously, but it takes decent footage (if you're in bright light and hold still). Since JiffyPop was very small, I started videotaping mostly her, but also our life in New Zealand. The land around our house, the places we visit, the dog, the cats, the chooks (now dead), etc. At first it was just short little clips of JiffyPop progressing on that linear map of milestones. I strung all the little clips together into one large movie and sent it off to the grandparents. No one wants to receive 800 photographs anymore, and the internet has made letter writing almost obsolete (sadly). But these grandparents don't have quite the online savvy as us and so telling them "Just go see the new photos of JiffyPop on Facebook" doesn't really cut it (though to be fare to Beau's mother, she does...try).

As time went on, my 30-second clips of Jiffy Pop wobbling around during "Tummy Time" became longer clips of me lifting the camera to the gorgeous scenery around us, and me at first shyly making a comment here and there, to what it is now -- my big mouth going on and on about what's going on in my life, my partner's life, my baby's life and all our lives combined. It's not QUITE a video diary (the tendency for a couple of the grandmas to become highly critical is something I always seek to avoid for personal annoyance sake), but at least a catalogue of how our lives are going. I kind of like it. And it's nice to have one small cd case to chronicle JiffyPop's life instead of 10 photo albums stuffed in a corner.

There's also what I mentioned in a previous blog. Since JiffyPop's birth, I've developed the irrational fear that I will die and leave her, and though that doesn't plague me every day, it does come upon me here and there (usually from something on TV or a book) and it chills me to my core. In some way, these videos feel like I could leave here something of me, in case I should go. Beau hates when I talk so morbidly, but it's true. (Not to mention he was the one who brought up talk again last night of who the hell could we make JiffyPop's godparent(s) in case we die and how we should stipulate the use of our life insurance payout).

Hence, long explanation of why I don't really blog anymore. I can't stand to hear myself go on and on anymore, even if it is in written form. It's true I tend to be a bit more open here, which I avoid on video, but still. Telling the same story over and over sucks.

ANYWAY, I will make a conscious effort to be here more, for my own sake. It's not just about the blog, it's about getting back a bit more ME after becoming MOM. I've always been highly sensitive (and honestly, a bit critical) of the fact that many of my friends seem to have disappeared once they became mothers, and it's something I totally understand now, but still want to avoid. I want to be "J, who has a daughter," not "J the Mother," even if I think JiffyPop is the most amazing creation EVER.

So, I started taking yoga again, went to an amazing art seminar (I hadn't painted in AGES), and at least started thinking about my 85% completed book again. I had shoved my book aside after JiffyPop's birth, and have been feeling guilty and wistful about it since. I have just pulled it out of its hiding place, dusted it off, went through it and made careful piles, and then left it sitting there on the coffee table for the next seven days. Oh well, that's some progress made.

And for 3 days we are back in Hamilton while Beau does some teaching training -- the city of JiffyPop's birth. It's been 9 months and I have just as warm and loving feelings toward the place as I did back then. Gosh, I'd love to live here, though already it sounds like getting a job here is tough. Pff, that's how it is everywhere, especially when you're a "foreigner." Gotta keep trying though. It's been 3 years in the bush and we're both just about at the end of our tether. Anyway, in the meantime, I've done a shameful amount of shopping (and frankly, loved every minute), had some okay food, and as soon as JiffyPop wakes up from this nap, I plan on taking her over to the NICU (baby intensive care) where she was born to say thanks and show them how great she's doing. I'm a little nervous about it since they always had super strict rules there (though they were never crystal clear with you what they were, just when you violated them), and I am hoping it's a friendly, instead of intensely awkward visit. We'll see. If not, there's always a nice cafe to sit and eat away my social embarrassment.

The Misadventures of J. and Beau: How J. Totally Sucks

I am a terrible person. Or maybe just a stupid one. Or both.

Or, at least I was last weekend. But the guilt lingers...

We were thrilled to discover we had the same days off this weekend, and decided to go tubing again, this time much earlier to give us the chance to really relax this time.

Ha!

All started out fine. We were floating down the river for about an hour. The sun was hot, but the water was nice and cool. More beautiful birds were spotted, this time including the impressive-looking osprey, as well as more screeching giant blue herons and a bevy of other feathered folk. We only saw one other group of people the whole time we were floating. Nice.

At one point the river slowed a bit and I was sitting right atop the tube enjoying myself. My wedding ring, which is a very thick Scottish wedding band of knotted silver with a thistle on opposite "sides" was itching and irritating me a bit. That happens once in awhile, I guess because it's such a big ring, and normally I just pull it off, rub my finger a few times, and push it back on.

You can probably already guess where this is going. Not really giving it much thought, I pulled the ring off, rubbed my finger a few times, and started to slide it back on again. Just as the ring touched my finger, *whooosh* it dropped like a lightning bolt straight into the water.

I wish I could convey to you the complex terror of that moment. It's amazing the 10,000 things that can fire through your brain in less than one full second. Shock that it's actually happened. Horror that your wedding ring is now at the bottom of a river, a not-so-likely place to ever be retrieved from. Despair as your tube is already floating away from the dropped location. Anger that you were so stupid. Guilt that you were so reckless. Fear that that's just it, it's gone. And an indescribable emotion, a kind of GO GO GO NOW adrenaline of action that kicks in. I immediately (though it felt like minutes had gone by), dropped through the middle of my tube into the water, only to immediately discover that at that point in the river, the water was all the way up to my forehead - just my incredible bad luck since the majority of the river ranges from about 3 inches to 4 1/2 feet in depth. (I am 5'8).

After screaming at Beau, who was behind me aways on his own tube, and immediately knew something was very wrong, I began a desperate attempt to make my way back to where I thought I had dropped it. This was incredibly difficult since a) the water was so high at this point and b) the current was fairly strong. I was literally on my tippy-toes, digging them into the stony bottom, trying to work my way back up the river. And of course, I was bawling my fucking head off since I knew it was most likely already a lost cause.

Beau caught up, and we began the search. One small piece of luck is that the river is incredibly clear, but the depth darkened the water somewhat, and with the current constantly push push pushing you on, it was this horrible game we were playing. I stood there, anxiously trying to stay in one place, holding a tube in each hand while Beau scanned the bottom as best he could. This went on for about 10 minutes, until he suddenly shouted, "I see it!" I felt like my heart burst out of my chest and flew skyward. I couldn't believe the GOOD luck! He dived, but came up pretty quickly. With the current pushing you by, as soon as you see it, you're past it. But now, there was hope!

We tried to mark the location as best we could and regroup. I also began to try and search the bottom, though knowing the ring was resting on a place too deep for me to stand made things especially rough. We kept it up though, and Beau thought he spotted it again, dived again, but came up empty-handed. It was maddening. I then devised a method, where I would walk upstream to where I could actually get solid footing, mount my tube, and then float toward the believed-resting place of the ring, my face practically in the water as I went by, eyes darting back and forth wildly. Beau would call out, "You should be passing it about now" and my heart would just clench as I scanned for flashing silver. The first couple times, nothing, but around the third time, I actually spotted it too! I could hardly believe it - but there it was, the large, super-bright silver circle shining in the water like the god-damn Lord of the Rings ring. I dived, but couldn't see a thing, and was immediately pushed past it. I desperately grabbed with both hands, and surfacing, opened my fingers with some anticipation, only to see rocks and dirt spill out between them.

Roller coaster highs and lows, over and over again. Hope, then despair. It was awful. Beau continued to scan and I continued my float-by technique. We would both each spot it again, but with no luck. It was more totally exasperating to know it was there, so close, and not be able to snatch it, than it would be to just simply never seen it at all and thought it gone forever.

After a time, the light began to fade, and Beau urged me to give up the search. I kept asking for "one more pass" and made a few more "final" ones. No luck. Finally, I had to face the fact that we had to go, and we mounted our tubes and began to float again. I felt so low, and guilty. What a fucking stupid thing to do! It was just one of those things you do out of habit, with hardly a thought, but of course, you don't do that while on a RIVER! I felt like an idiot and a bad wife. And just like the previous time, the darkness began to catch up with us, and we considered exiting the river again for another railroad tracks walk, but we stuck it out, and if I hadn't been so completely miserable over my ring, would have found the rest of the float quite enjoyable. We saw more herons, and at one point, a young buck was in the water just across the river from us. He stared at us as we silently floated by, staring back at him. And despite all, I had to giggle when Beau said, "He's got a nice little rack on him." It was a lovely (and naughty) moment, but unfortunately marred.

And after what seemed like forever (I just wanted OUT of the river), we made it to the bridge and crawled our way up some rocks and to our car. This entire time Beau was nothing but kind and understanding. Not once had he gotten angry with me, and kept saying, "It was just an accident." I have to hand it to him - I think I would have been emotional if he'd dropped his wedding ring into the river. Accidents are accidents, yes, but that doesn't mean they can't be upsetting. Or stupid.

The next morning I got up and went to Target, where I purchased a simple, sterling silver wedding band. It's a nice, temporary ring, though when I could (should) get a new one is beyond me at this moment. And of course, it's not MY ring, my special ring. I really would like to go back to the river to try again, this time equipped with a face mask and, I dunno, a net or something, especially since we had the drop site well-marked. Also, the repeated 100+ degree temperatures we've had will have lowered the water level somewhat by next weekend, but I know it's probably even more unlikely we could spot it this time than last time. Still, I have hope.

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.

Self-Compliment

Men, this post is on hair. Feel free to move on.
--------------------------------------
I like compliments, I won't lie. Well, I like compliments coming from an individual. The kind you get when someone in a group loudly gives you a compliment so everyone kind of turns and examines you makes me squirm. Still, a compliment's a compliment. And today, I needed one. It's only a little past noon and it's been a crappy day. I'll spare you most of the details, but to refer to a recent blog, that headlight I used to strong-arm to blink on every night has now steadfastly refused to shimmer, so I'm worried about meeting my friendly neighborhood cop on the way home from Shop-n-Smile tonight. We'll leave the bitching of today to just one.

It was just lunch and I had parked on the road and ran into the big University Center to get my lunch and buy a one-day parking permit. I was playing that game you play with the parking checkers here, since they're notorious here for handing out parking tickets like pediatricians hand out lollipops. I needed to buy the permit, grab my lunch, and get back to my car before it got a shiny new parking violation. Universities are always such a colossal pain when it comes to parking.

So, I was in the salad bar line, trying to turbo-make my salad, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman next to me giving me the body language for, "Hurry up, move over. I'm making my salad too!" So, I moved over politely and continued building my masterpiece.

Then, I got the signal again. So again, I stepped over and continued. When I felt it a third time, I suddenly heard her exclaim, "I'm so sorry, I'm just starting at you! Your hair is so beautiful!"

I looked up, both startled and flattered, into the face of a woman about my height, also with blue eyes, and with hair about the same length as mine. Her hair was a bit blonder (mine's kinda strawberry-light-brownish) and a bit curlier. I thought it was beautiful. It wasn't exactly a doppelganger moment, but it was close enough.

"Oh, well it looks just like yours!" I said smiling.

"Oh no," she said, "Yours isn't as curly. It's more wavy and nice."

"I wish mine was more curly!" I said, and then began to feel self-conscious about this salad bar line mutual admiration society. "Thank you!" I added with some enthusiasm.

And then we continued on with our lives. But I felt a little zing of happiness with the compliment.

It's funny, I always hated my natural hair. Being wavy, it unfortunately isn't Rapunzel-like cascading waves either, it has always been dry, frizzy, and basically bumpy. You know, the one side flips up the other side flips under kind. I blew it straight several times a week for years and years until when living in NYC an instructive and insistent curly-hair salon stylist and the overwhelming number of lovely, curly-haired heroines at the Jewish organization I worked for inspired me to go natural. Plus, with all the curly hair products that have exploded onto the market, I can help to "enhance" my hair's waviness into something more controlled and appealing. I have now fully-accepted and have even come to love my hair just as it is (well, enhanced as it is). It feels good.

Well, let's just hope I'm still as self-loving after I chop off about a foot of it in the near future. I'm not self-loving how long it takes to dry hair that goes to the middle of my back.

On another note, oOoOOoh, I just ate three pickles! The day's getting even better. Now, where did I put those Sugar Babies?

Things That Annoy Me About Myself

This could be a long list, but for now, I'll just list one...

I hate how I do that nervous, polite laugh thing. Like, with someone I don't know very well or with a supervisor or something. I use it to fill up space, as a reply, whatever. It sounds stupid. I need to stop.

Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

Since I began driving at 16, (18 years ago). I've been pulled over by the cops three times in my entire life. All three times were on major interstate highways amidst a long, laborious road trip of some kind. All three times I was speeding. The one that killed me was on my return from NYC - Madison, non-stop 14 hour trip, where I was JUST reaching the exit to my home at about 3am, exhausted and relieved. Then, flashing blue and red lights! Fucker.

Beau and I have lived in Missoula for 2 1/2 months and we've each been pulled over once already. Cops are everywhere here and though I've never found myself having strong feelings one way or the other about cops or tickets, I find myself growing more and more upset. Big surprise, it's Missoula!

I first started getting irritated, naturally, after Beau got his $81 speeding ticket for doing 35 in a 25 mph zone. It's hard to argue with a ticket when you're speeding. You just are. Doesn't stop me from being annoyed by all the circumstances surrounding it though. For one, we live in a nice apartment, but basically in a pretty depressed area of small, unkempt houses where the front yards often feature a doberman, rottweiler, or something else large-jawed and fear-inspiring. A somewhat major (busy) road road runs along the outside of these neighborhoods near where we live. The other side of the road consists of industrial lots, or just dirt lots, or the cemetery. On this road to our home, right before you pass these neighborhoods on the right, you have to cross a short, yet surprisingly steep bridge, since underneath it runs about ten lines of railroad track. I have to kick our little Honda into high gear to make it up the little bridge, and then of course, to keep me from getting a ticket by going over 25 mph, lean heavily on the break the whole way down. That's where Beau got nabbed, coming off that bridge.

Nearly every single day when I'm driving to and from work, I see a cop and some unfortunate victim pulled over on the side of the road, right in this area -- I did again just this morning on the way to work. You can imagine how that inspires a stately crawl every time I enter the neighborhood. I guess it just seems so unfair that again and again I see people getting that $81 ticket, and I KNOW these are, for the most part, blue-collar families in small homes with not much money. Whenever I've been in the wealthier sections of Missoula (like where I park my car every morning for work), I have seen ZERO cops. Not one. $81 is a LOT of money to pay when you don't have it. Trust me on that one.

And though I've been driving through this area for about 11 weeks now, and have seen daily police pull-overs in this tiny area, I have never seen anyone racing by me in their car. I've never seen an accident, I've never seen anything even remotely reckless or strange warranting such blanket attention. I don't get it. It's not even that busy of an area, traffic-wise. People here tell you that the police are so rabid because of Montana's no sales tax law. I hear this as an excuse for anything that is ridiculous or expensive. We haven't gotten a new car title yet, but we're afraid to, since we hear "It'll cost SO much money, hundreds of dollars, since there's no sales tax and this is how they get their money." I've already mentioned how angry people are about their sky-high property taxes too. Yet, every time it's put to a vote, people want to keep their no-sales-tax way of life. Okay.

The only thing I've seen that should stimulate police action, are the idiots who drive their stupid trucks up the side of a very steep hill lying underneath I-90. These idiots deserve a little Cop Smackdown, or to just die from their dumbassness. It's either teenagers or men in their 30's or 40's who drive their cars straight up the hill, like they're just taunting the hill and the laws of gravity to fling them off. I watched from my window in disbelief as a man went slowly up up up the hill in his Bronco, and then began to slowly slide back down. The teenagers in the station wagon didn't even make it up that high before their car stalled. I'm waiting for the day when something truly tragic happens. Of course, though this is about a half mile from the speed trap area I mentioned -- the hill is literally in view -- I have never seen a single cop nab one of these brain surgeons. I guess you can't get a ticket for being crazy.

It also bothers me since it just rips up the ground. This must be some kind of common pasttime here, because there are several paths just chewed out of the hillside shooting up and down and circling around. Those are not real roads by any means. They're just guys driving around in the dirt. I took a picture of this guy last weekend. I was pretty bummed that the photo doesn't allow you to really see the dramatic angle this hill (and car) are on. Maybe it's because I took the picture from where I live on the third floor. But just use your fantastic powers of imagination to picture this hill as very very steep.

As for myself, changing gears now to a different story, I had MUCH better luck, and an experience that somewhat redeemed my opinion of Missoula cops. After coming off an eight hour shift at Shop-n-Smile, exhausted and just DYING to get home, I get pulled over. JUST GREAT! It couldn't be a worse time to get a ticket since, as usual, we're broke, and our Shop-n-Smile and my university paychecks haven't started rolling in yet. I thought, maybe he'll see my Shop-n-Smile dork nametag and take pity on a poor, working slop like me. He had this giant, bright headlight on the side of his car that he kept shining into my rearview mirror rendering me paralyzed in fear and confusion. He did this about three times, rolling the light around a bit. I felt like there was something I was supposed to do, but had no idea what. Finally, a young male cop came to my window and said, "Could you please move your car farther off the road so I don't get hit."

- 'Oh, oh yeah, sure" *sheepish*

Then he walked over to the car, leaned down and said, "How long has your headlight been out?"

Oh crap.

Now, that stupid headlight has been going out for about a month now, but like a bad sitcom, what happens is this: Beau turns the car and headlights on, only the left headlight will shine, he then gets out and smacks the right headlight forcefully. The right headlight then obediently snaps on in cheery brightness. He gets back in the car and we drive off. I had punched it on myself two weeks earlier and it had inexplicably just kept coming on every time I turned the ignition thereafter without my Mafia-like ass-kicking persuasion. So, since it had been working for awhile, I had forgotten to threaten it that particular night.

I looked at the cop and said, "Um, can I get out and show you?" He said yes, I got out and timidly stepped around to the front of the car. I raised my arm and brought down the side of my fist onto the light.

*bam*

Nothing.

"Oh fuck oh fuck," I thought.

I hit it again, a little harder.

Nothing.

I hit it about five more times. "I can't BELIEVE this!" I thought in rising panic. Like he was going to believe me now! I gave it one more smack.

*blink* *shine*

I muttered under my breath that the light was DEAD, you hear me, DEAD, when we got home. Okay, that just went on in my mind. In reality I looked up at the police officer with hope and triumph in my eyes.

"What, is it just loose?" he asked.

- "Um, I don't know," I said. "It's stayed on for the past couple weeks so I thought it was fine now."

"Okay, let's see your license and proof of insurance then."

So, I got back in the car, frantically digging through the glove box (the overhead light in the car wouldn't turn on EITHER!), and gave them both to him. Again, snag. My license is still out-of-state and the insurance, though totally valid, is under my mother's name until April. And of course, like previously mentioned, the license plate and registration itself is still Wisconsin.

"You new to the area?" he asked.
- "Yes," I replied cheerfully, "We just moved here two months ago."
"You work at Shop-n-Smile, do you?"
- "Yes, I just started there."
"M'am, once you are gainfully employed, by law, you are required to get a driver's license from Montana."
- "Well, you see, I have a story about that..."

Which is true, I do, and it's a totally honest story. I can't reveal right now what it is. It's nothing that interesting. Still, even though everything I had said to the cop was true, even to my own ears it just started to sound like story after story, excuse after excuse. I braced for impact.

"Well, you make sure to get that new license and fix that light. You have a good night."

- "Oh. Oh? Oh! Thank you! Yes, okay!" I spluttered. I was stunned. I had never been let off of a ticket before. The three previous cops had all been big fat meanies to me. I was so relieved that I teared up. He went back to his car and I sat in mine. What made this comical, is that I didn't want to drive off before him. To add to all the other problems, the muffler on the car had just recently started to go, and though it had not yet reached epic noise pollution levels, I'm sure he would have noticed it, and the only "story" I had for this one is that we didn't have enough money yet to get it fixed. So, I sat there for a moment, nervous, but it was obvious he was waiting for me. So, very.....slowly....I began to drive off. I heard the engine growl, not too loudly, but still louder than normal. I bit my lip and continued on, my eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds. No more flashing lights.

I drove home like a senior citizen. In one piece. No ticket.

Glory hallelujah!

Cruel Cruel Missoula - Part II

As previously mentioned, I'm having a helluva time with the job market in Missoula. So, I was pretty thrilled when I got a temp job at a non-profit writers' association. Writers! I love writers! I wanna BE a writer, right?

Most of the time I worked with "Steph" who I liked immediately. She was very friendly and left me to myself most of the day to work on the project I was assigned, which was very interesting since it involved the writers and photographers who belonged to the organization. Like many here in Missoula, Steph was all about the outdoors -- skiing every weekend,hiking the backcountry whenever possible. My god the people here make me feel like a Weeble Wobble. (Weeble Wobbles wobble but they don't fall down!).

As time went on, and I did my best to do a good job, I was told that they had a position that was open. It was only four hours a day, but it had the "potential" to go full-time. It sounded great. Finally, a job! A good job! An interesting job! HOORAY!

Now, it wasn't a perfect job by any means. Just by being half-time, it meant I'd have to get a second job somewhere else. Also, the organization was going through a time of chaos (gee, have I heard this tune before?) due to some internal conflicts. And finally, the entire organizational staff consisted of Steph, another nice woman as the editor, and the boss, Kyle. Up until this point, I had had little contact with Kyle, but he seemed nice enough. Yeah, nice....

Kyle put me through an hour-long interview regarding the job. He told me that he was interviewing another person as well, but that since I already knew the organization, I was the front-runner. Then Kyle began to reveal the aspect of his character which would torture me for the next two weeks....

In one breath, Kyle discussed the many issues and conflicts the organization was facing, first and foremost being a lack of funding which had shrunk the staff from five to three. Due to this, he thought the job may go full-time, but you know, he couldn't guarantee it. I would be expected to take over Steph's job, a job that all admitted was much too much work for her to do in an eight-hour shift (although it was revealed that she almost never stayed less than ten hours at a time), during my own, four-hour shift. I would have to work hard, real hard. And due to the fact that I was still tied to my temp agency, I would continue to make my single-digit wage for the next few months.

It wasn't the most promising job offer I'd ever received.

But it didn't stop there, despite Kyle offering me up a big steaming plate of MAYBE. In the next breath, he began to tell me that despite all this, what he wanted from me was an agreed, sealed, guaranteed, promised, signed-in-blood VOW that I would never ever ever ever quit.

I was stunned. He wanted a 100% guarantee, but he could offer me none in return? I liked the place, and was happy for the offer, but WHO can give such a promise?

But the truth is that Missoula has demoralized me, and on more than one occassion, I've thought, "Why do I hold on to this 'dream' of having a job I love, a job I can look forward to every morning, a job that excites me? We're in some real financial trouble, why can't I just be like every other normal person and just get a fucking job and stop being a princess about it?"

Yet, in the end, I refused to sign over my first-born child. Deep down I knew that his offer wasn't fair, and if by some Act of God I was finally offered a coveted job at the University of Montana, I didn't want to jeopardize that. I believe in loyalty and I believe in my own word, and I just couldn't tell him a flat out lie. I told him the truth, I would be happy to get the job, I had no intention of leaving, and I would work hard. But I would not guarantee I'd never leave. I also told him that I would go ahead and get another job as well, since I couldn't survive on his half-day wages. He was startled and panicked, and told me, "But, you can't do that, 'cause there will be days I'll need you for 2/3 time, maybe even some busy times here and there where I'll need you for the full eight hours!" Um, okay.

So, technically, I was not really offered the job. Never officially. The following week, while still temping there, Kyle gave me another one of his clear-as-mud messages. He stood there and began to tell me he was no longer interviewing anyone else, I was the one (hooray!), and I swear to god, in the next breath, he said, "But we'll keep going with this temp thing and just see how it goes."

Huh?

It gets better.

A few days after that, as Steph was earnestly training me to replace her (her last day rapidly approaching), Kyle talked to me again, asked if I was still interested in continuing "with this," and for about the fifth time, I told him, yes, of course I was. He told me again how this job would continue until around June (but now he added "or July") when it should go full-time. And then to my utter astonishment he said, "Oh, and you know, maybe at that time we'll just open the job up to the public."

All I could reply with was stunned silence.

He continued, "Oh, but you know, you'll have been working here that whole time, so you'll already know the job, so you'll probably be the one who gets it, of course."

The coward that I was faked a smile and nodded and went, "Mmm hmm," when what I wanted to say was, "WHAT THE HELL, YOU PRICK!?" At that moment, the loyalty I had felt toward this job, and the desire to stick it out at the crappy wage and low hours, evaporated. But it wouldn't be the first time I felt kicked in the gut. The temp agency woman I worked with kept contacting me and Kyle trying to figure out what the hell was going on. What could I tell her? I didn't understand myself. And everytime she emailed Kyle, he would bring me in and say, "Well, you know, you should deal with this, you should be the one to talk to her, because, you know, you work for her and all" and he'd proceed to tell me what exactly I should say, adding the occassional, "But don't tell her I told you that!" Hmm.

Just a day or two after that, Kyle closed his door and had a very long conversation. This immediately got my antenna up since that is almost never done. Like I mentioned, it's a tiny office with just a few people in it, and so silent that every cough, whisper, and particularly, every phone call, is heard, word-for-word. And I have heard more than one DOOZY of a phone call go on there, and there had never been any privacy before. I had sat there as a temp hearing it all. So now that Kyle had the door closed, I was suspicious. Paranoid, yes, but also suspicious. For some reason I just felt that he was talking to another applicant, and I am no clairvoyant by any means.

It turned out my paranoia was absolutely correct. The next morning I came to work where Steph was already there (she normally arrived at work at 6am each morning to "catch up"). She looked straight into my eyes and told me we needed to talk. And whan ensued was a 45 minute conversation, where Steph told me how much she liked me, and how she couldn't live with herself if she didn't give me the whole truth. As you can guess, most of it centered around Kyle and his mismanagement skills. "I really like you. You're smart, you're nice, you work hard, and you're way over-qualified for this position. I just have to warn you. I know you really need the work right now, and I'm not going to tell you to quit or anything, but use this job. Use it as a stepping stone to the next thing. Get out as soon as you can."

There was a lot more to it, including her confirmation of Kyle's closed-door conversation, much more discussion about Kyle as supervisor, and what Steph had basically suffered through until she got the point where she was now, just getting the fuck out. I had no idea that she had nothing on the horizon, no new job to go to. "How will you survive?" I asked in astonishment.

"I don't know. I haven't even had time to sit and think and figure it out yet," she said sadly. I felt bad for her, bad for myself, but at the same time, felt a wave of elation. Just a few days before I had suddenly gotten two Two TWO calls from the university from two totally different departments who had found my resume in the university's temp pool that I had registered with nearly two months ago. Suddenly, I went from almost no prospects, to two interviews exactly where I wanted to work. But I had felt horribly guilty that I might actually be going ahead and quitting the job I had said I had no intention of leaving. Steph's words set me free.

There is a happy ending to this story, my gentle reader. Here I am, today, where I have had my two interviews at the university, an hour apart. The bad news is that they are both temporary, but there is much more good news. 1) They both pay more than what I'm making at the writers' association now, 2) One of them offered me a job on the SPOT! *cheer*, and 3) as they both said, this was the foot in the door of the university, and getting a job after their respective positions ended would be no problem. "I know a lot of people at this university," one woman smiled and winked at me during the interview. I wanted to kiss her.

So, all that's left for me now is to somehow tell Kyle that he can take this job and shove it. And despite my rage in my previous post on revenge, the truth is, I'm a real wuss. Though I'd love to march up to him tomorrow and tell him he was a colossal prick who strung me along and stabbed me in the back, I'm actually terrified of telling him, and NOT looking forward to that awkward moment where I have to have him sign my temp agency time sheet. *gulp* But really, there is no choice in the matter....

Well, I could always do what you're supposed to do, which is let your temp agency do it for you, but that seems even more cowardly than I feel I really am. We'll see. Either way, I am OUTTA HERE! Hooray!

And in the end, I am stunned by yet another inexplicable experience in Missoula. Like I told Beau, I feel like there's something going on in this city I don't get, something I'm missing, some secret that I haven't learned yet. Beau was stunned since he had been having a similar view. It's not exactly Stepford, but it's not normal. All I can say for now is...

What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On. In. This. City?

I'm stumped. It's confirmed, I live in Bizarro World.

Cruel Cruel Missoula - Part I

We’re surrounded by lumber and dead bodies.

Beau and I have an apartment which sits in a sort of bowl surrounded by large hills and mountains, with I-90 up above us, two pieces of a cemetery on two sides of us, and various lumber yards and mills on the other sides. On a good day, you can walk outside and smell the pine wood being processed. And unfortunately, now when I smell that lumber, I just get pissed off, as you’ll soon discover…

Anyway, though Beau and I are happy to be in Missoula, we have been facing a harsh, HARSH realty since we got here – there are NO FUCKING JOBS! Here we are: him a certified teacher, now with savvy international experience, and me with my master’s degree and fairly impressive resume in the educational and non-profit fields. And yet, we are drinking from the dregs of what this “big” city has to offer.

The truth is, Missoula is only a big city to Montanans. To anyone you talk to who has come from out of state (which is a good many people), it’s a pretty small place. I find it to be a strange, somewhat cool, somewhat unappealing combination of small, hardcore industrial town and growing, quirky university town.

Since we moved here six weeks ago, Beau has only been able to secure seven substitute teaching jobs (one that doesn’t come up ‘til early March). This is some scary shit for us, struggling to pay for rent, credit card bills, and the dreaded student loans.

It doesn’t stop there. At this moment, I am registered with FOUR, count ‘em, uno, dos, tres, QUATRO temp agencies. How depressing is that! Temp agencies are always such an catch-22. You need them to get you some quick and dirty work when you come to a new city, but then you are tied to them like an indentured servant if you do get a good job. They provide you with weekly wages, but since your employer is paying them several dollars an hour on TOP of what they pay you, you get less money than you would if you were hired from them directly.

And sometimes, the whole thing can just be humiliating…

One of my first temp jobs was a clerical one at a lumber yard of sorts. More like a processing plant that receives wooden boards and then cuts them to order. Naturally, this wasn’t my dream job, but I needed work bad, and it seemed okay. I got there the first day and was greeted by a man with an ear-to-ear smile and a laid back attitude. At lunch, I told Beau he reminded me of Mr. Rogers. The woman who had given her two weeks notice, “Jill,” was not there to train me, which made it somewhat awkward, but Mr. Rogers did his best to train me to do a few things. He was actually a bit freaked out, since the office seemed to be going through a time of chaos. There was the woman who I was replacing, and the other woman in the office was moving into another position, and had just started training her replacement (whom they were not sure would stick around since the woman got the job by being demoted from another department). Mr. Rogers was obviously uneasy about the transitions.

Nevertheless, he began to train me. There were actually some duties I had never done before, but it wasn’t rocket science, and I picked it up fine. I continued working hard all day, and the woman I was to replace finally showed up (she had had some problems at home), and I sat with her for the rest of the day filling out paperwork and such. People there seemed nice, and I thought the job would do for awhile.

Jill and I chatted during the day and were astounded to find out we both came from the same city in Arizona. She told me how she was quitting to start school as a Speech Therapist, which I thought was very cool and told her so. I told her how Beau and I had been having such a tough time finding work and how I was happy to working there. I opened up to her a lot. I liked her and we really seemed to bond.

At the end of the day, Mr. Rogers came up to the both of us and solemnly asked Jill if he could speak to her alone for a bit and for me to wait. My heart stopped. The only thing I could think of was that Mr. Rogers would tell her I was doing such a good job that she didn’t have to fulfill her two weeks notice. He had been telling me all day how I’d been picking up the job quickly and competently. I felt sorry for her, since that probably would be an awkward conversation, but would probably release her as well.

I could see them in the other room, since there was a large window stretching across the wall. After about five minutes of my standing there, Mr. Rogers got up from the table, left the room, and came over to me, his face slightly twisted. Jill remained in the other room, motionless, her back to me. Suddenly, I had an ominous feeling.

Once again I got his broad smile, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Do you have your timesheet from the temp agency?” Aw hell, now I KNEW this was trouble. After a moment’s shocked hesitation, I told him no, since I thought I’d be working for awhile and he wouldn’t need to sign my timesheet until the end of the week.

And so then began his schpiel, and that’s all it was, a big schpiel of horseshit. He went on and on about how he knew Jill had been having second thoughts of quitting, and so that’s why he had wanted to take her aside and talk to her about it and see what she really wanted to do. And yes, it seems she DID want to stay (so much for wanting to be a speech therapist), and you know what that means, I was out on my ass. After ONE day! Mr. Rogers blabbed on, saying how I had done such a great job, and he kept crowing, “But J., you are at the TOP of the list, the TOP of the list!” as he explained that the office was still in flux and maybe just MAYBE I could be called back *wink nudge* to replace the recently-demoted woman if she chose to quit.

He had to be fucking kidding me.

I have had plenty of jobs in my life, and have always strongly believed in working hard and doing a good job. And I have never been fired. At that moment, I felt like I had just been fired for the first time.

I nodded, turned, and left, where Beau was waiting in the parking lot in the car. “Go, just go!” I said, and poor confused him put the car in reverse and drove off to our home, just on the other side of the cemetery.

I spent the next several hours cussing and cursing the name of Mr. Rogers and his whole big stupid lumber yard. Even though I knew it wasn’t my fault, I felt humiliated. The worst part was, I would have to RETURN there the next day so he could sign my timesheet. There was no way I was going to walk away without being paid for the day.

And what was also so depressing, was that once again, I was back at square one – unemployed with no prospects. It just killed me.

The next day I got up, showered and styled myself into a state of professional hotness. Wearing my sharp black suit and high-heeled boots, I drove over to the lumber yard, and with timesheet in hand, I marched in. I immediately zeroed in on Mr. Rogers and headed straight for him like a heat-seeking missile. The other woman smiled sweetly and greeted me and I did the same. Jill barely whispered a “Hi” and studied her desk intently. Mr. Rogers, seeing me, boomed out an over-dramatic “HI J!” that shook the walls and just pissed me off further. I tried to give him a polite smile, but it felt more like a grimace, as I handed over my timesheet like I was handing him a summons. He quickly signed it, mumbling pleasantries, to which I didn’t reply. I snatched the timesheet back, turned, and walked out with as much dignity as I could pull off. Really, the whole thing just made me feel blech inside. I got back in the car and drove off; at least it was over and I would never have to see these people again.

But damn it, sometimes I still SMELL them.

Friendly Baby Boom

Today I received a Valentine's Email from a one-month old baby. My good friend Stanna, whom I've known since the first grade, had little baby Ava at the end of the year. A real cutie, eh?

I mentioned it in passing previously, but there seems to be an unusual baby boom going on around me. Not literally, thankfully.

The fact that I have lived in so many different places, has meant that I have also had friends in different places, of all types and ages. Yet, they seem to all have gotten together and agreed to get knocked up around the same 18 month period. Just now, off the top of my head, I'm counting seven babies, either just recently expelled, or getting close to it. I didn't know I still knew seven people. Just last night I got an email from a co-worker back in NYC who I haven't talked to in awhile -- quite obviously since she's due to give birth in two weeks! One of my closest friends from the same job just got back from her own maternity leave this past Monday.

Most of these pregnancies were planned, some not-so-much, as in my own sister, who just a few months shy of graduating from college (from a school, no less, that has put my mother "in the poorhouse" for my sister to attend), is getting ready for her own birth. I have to hand it to her though, she has celebrated her own pregnancy with more gusto than many of my friends, which is really saying something. I don't know anyone else who got their swollen stomach painted in festive colors and then took artistic photos (which were pretty cool looking, actually).

I hope I don't sound callous. I've been a teacher, and loved it, so I do like children. But I also have a lot of weird, uncomfortable feelings toward other people's children and their excitement in regards to them. And don't get me started AGAIN on my boiling rage toward a woman wielding a baby stroller!

I guess I just don't know how to process it, so I'm writing, cause that usually helps me out. In this case, it doesn't seem to be. What am I feeling? Jealous? Hmm, no doesn't feel like that. Annoyance? Only sometimes. I really am happy for my friends' happy packages. Longing? I only get that every once in awhile after a vivid dream or stray pensive moment.

Hmm, I don't know. I'm 34 and still don't feel rushed about babies, though I admit to thinking about it more than when I was 24. It's still basically the same thought though, "Yeah, I want to, just NOT NOW." And if my aunt (who is 3 years older than I with 3 boys, spaced far apart), tells me ONE more time "You better hurry, J, TICK TOCK!" I am going to put my hands through the phone and strangle her.

I still want another cat though.

So, I'll just try to be "happy with the question" instead of reaching for the answer. I guess it's like one of those things where you see everyone going in one direction and even though you're not going that way, you think, "Well, it must be SOMETHING important if they're all going there."

And of course, I am happy for all of you who have recently or are getting ready to give birth (YIKES!). CONGRATULATIONS! I do admire those who make the conscious decision to go ahead and completely change their lives, forever. There's no more sleeping in, no more wild sex in the living room, no more selfish vacations, no more ME ME ME!

When in New Zealand, I went with Beau to a end-of-semester drink fest at the local bar with several other teachers (all women, all Maori). At one point, two of the younger ones I was sitting near began an interesting, deeply emphatic, conversation on their views of giving birth. They described it in terms I had never heard of before.
- "It was great! You feel like you're superwoman!"
- "You feel like a goddess! You are so strong and amazing!"

Had to be the first time I ever heard a woman describing the birthing process as "great."

They continued on to talk about their profound love for their children and the overwhelming honor and love they felt in being a mother, as well as the utmost security they got from living in a small "family" village, where they knew their children would always be cared for, and always loved. One woman showed me a beautiful bracelet she wore of three, intertwined silver bands. She said they represented her three children, that she never took it off, and she never wore any other jewelery. Despite the fact that raising children in a small village was completely NOT what I was interested in, I still was deeply touched by their feelings, and it has stuck with me today.

So, go on with your bad selves, Superwomen! Goddess of Maternity! Hooray!

Just one request, please please please do NOT send me a photo of the ultrasound. I don't mean to offend, but i have ZERO interest in that blurry, warped picture. I'm sure YOU can see the fingers and toes (and penis!) and all that. To me, it's a fuzzy mess. I don't even know how to comment on it when I get it. "Ooooh, loooook. Um."

Instead, just send me a pretty K-Mart photo after the baby is born. Put yourself in it too! I find YOU just as interesting as your baby and love the parent-child pics. Now THAT'S something I can really ooh and ahhh.

Welcome to Montana! Ow! Ow! Ow!

FINALLY we got to move into our new apartment. It was a bit touch and go for awhile, seeing as how both Beau and I are unemployed and have just arrived into the state. Would you rent to us? I understood the apartment offices' hesitation, but it still really pissed off Beau when they suggested his elderly parents co-sign for us just in case.

We had done quite a bit of looking, were interested in one, put down a deposit, and then finally relaxed. Apartment hunting blows. Still, we had to wait for our final approval. Two unemployed and homeless people who have just arrived into town don’t make the best tenants, no matter how good our rental history is. And then, horrors, the apartment fell through! The surly lady in the apartment office had failed to notice that the apartment we wanted wasn't available for another three weeks! Not an option for us, who were living in Motel 6 on the edge of town. After she apologized profusely and gave us our deposit back, we went to another complex with nice apartments, and a location I wasn't totally pleased with, but could live with. We paid the deposit and for about 24 hours we bit our nails as they checked up on us (seriously, the FIRST time my past landlord has ever been called!). And then finally they said yes, and we were no longer homeless!!!! HOORAY! Too bad we had to cough up the GDP of a tiny country to move in.

Sadly, on moving day, the temperature was about 12 degrees Fahrenheit with one of the most wicked winds I have ever felt -- the kind of wind that will literally push your car a couple inches to the side when driving down the highway. I tried to spend as little time outside as possible, and wore my warm clothes against the cold. Since all our possessions fit inside the little Honda, it didn’t take us too long to move it all in, despite the fact that we live on the third floor. It was literally the easiest move of my life, though that’s cold comfort when you don’t have one stick of furniture, namely, a BED.

After a few hours, it became clear that something was wrong with my face. In a very short amount of time, I seem to have acquired a wind burn. As a child I’d gotten one a couple of times when downhill skiing, though it was always something that was more comical than problematic. I guess you could say this one was comical, to Beau. Certainly not to me.

Now, I’m a VERY fair-skinned gal and have had about a half dozen really scary burns in my life. The last one I had in while in Phuket, Thailand (a beach resort town) was so bad, that I had a bubble on my forehead and my nose swelled up. It scared the crap out of me, especially since I’d only been in the water for about an hour (and walking around for about two).

But this wind burn was in a different league. It’s about a week later now, and I’m still suffering. When it first happened, it felt like someone had covered my face in an itchy, leather mask and pulled it as tight as they could across my face. I felt like Hannibal Lecter. Despite this haphazard facelift, I also gained an immediate set of wrinkles that hadn’t existed before, particularly bunched around my eyes, which succeeded in instantly aging me about ten years. But the worst part was just the pain. Just like a sunburn, my face was bright red and BURNING. I felt like I had a full-on fever and spent quite a bit of time placing a cold compress to different parts of my face, though it would heat up the compress within a couple minutes. Beau, whose face was completely unharmed, could only stare in disbelief as he kept repeating, “How did you do that?” He never received a cheerful response in return.

So here I am, about a week later, and though my face is no longer painfully hot, or as tight as before, it still is giving me quite a bit of discomfort. Oh, and bonus! Now I get to enter the ‘slowly peeling’ stage! Hooray! Nothing like going in for an interview with teeny flecks of skin dotting your face, especially those attractive ones hanging around the edges of your nostrils. Yes! Oh yeah, and every lavish application of face cream results in about 30 seconds of intense burning akin to squeezing lemon juice into a paper cut. JUST FUCKING GREAT!

I just hope I get a job REAL soon so I can focus on something else besides my stupid face.

Bonne Anniversaire a Toi

It's my birthday. It's okay. I'm feeling mixed emotions. As I've said before, I really really like birthdays. I think they're vastly underrated once you pass the age of 12 and it's a complete travesty that once you're over 25, we're supposed to not care anymore, except maybe at 50 when you're given the black balloons and black-frosting cake with Death toting a scythe.

I'm not going to lie, I don't really want to get older. When I was about 25 I said, "Hmm, this is a good age. I'm not too young to be totally stupid yet still young enough to have fun and experience new things." As of today, that was 9 years ago and I ain't getting that time back. Sure, I wish I "knew then what I know now," but otherwise, I wouldn't have minded being frozen at 25 forever, a la Highlander.

The depressing thing about your 30's is that you're supposed to be a grown up now, settled, have a career (not a job), have kids, have a house, have a spouse, and stop getting hammered, getting laid, and getting in trouble.

As of now, I am not really settled, have no career to speak of (nor JOB!), have no kids (though my friends seem to be popping them out like Pez dispensers), have no house (and won't for a long time, though I'd like one), but I DO have a spouse (what's that, 1 for 5???), and I don't get hammered. Yet in all, honestly, I constantly want to get laid, and I would like to get hammered more than I do, which occurs only 2-3 times a year now.

I also feel immature. Though when I recall myself at 22, a complete fucking mess, it may seem like I've come a long way at 34, and yet, I feel as if there are parts of me that are way too childish to be even remotely proper. And i'm not talking about cutsie, child-like antics, which I also seem to have in abundance, but quite enjoy. I mean, I still am way too emotional for my own liking in ways that I'd be ashamed of if it were publicly displayed. I have selfish tendencies, I pout and sulk, and instead of getting angry or being "adult-like," I tend to just get really hurt and feel very sorry for myself.

I'm still not as responsible with money as I should be (though I am no longer in massive credit card debt hell).

And I'm getting fat.

Now, let's end the pity fest. I'd like to be positive, but it's the wee hours of the morning, it's really dark and quiet, and I'm sitting in a room alone while Beau sleeps in another (he could sleep through a bomb raid), typing along like it's my own personal therapy session. This should be the part where I start listing all the great things about me, but that feels indulgent and arrogant. And no, gentle reader, it's also not a fishing expedition. This is not the time to use the comments section to champion me, no matter how completely fabulous you find me. This is late-night "oh shit" venting of one's life.

I know what's going to happen. I'm going to finally go to bed, wake up in the morning, remember I posted it, utter a few choice curse words, and then come erase it from blogger. Or....I'll tell myself I'm being "brave" and leave it on to show that I am emotionally open and honest and not only going to write about what's funny or interesting. I actually did that with a post not too long back, and it wasn't so well-received. I guess we like giggle-inducing blogs over the depressing ones. In all honesty, I do!

I think my life has been so unstable lately that it's made me rather uneasy. And the difficulty in finding a decent job is really quite stressful. The stakes seem so much higher now. But let's see what I do have...Beau and I have a really great apartment, Beau's a sweetheart (he gave me a strawberry-rhubarb pie for my birthday which is awesome since i'm a pie girl and NOT a cake girl), I'm currently siphoning free internet through someone's wireless connection, Missoula is a pretty neat place, I have enough to eat (which is obvious), and well, hell, it's my birthday!

Happy Birthday to me!

P.S. I will post the continuation of the road trip to GET to Missoula tomorrow or the next. Kisses.

Love is Pain

I have been separated from Beau for about five weeks, and to talk in hyperbole, it has been pure torture. I feel like I've been walking around half alive, a shell of myself (more melodrama, yes). But it's true. I sleep, though I haven't had a single good night's sleep since I arrived. It's hard to sleep so close to someone for so long and then suddenly be alone. Your body feels the absence and objects via its restlessness.

But, Beau arrives in the United States, specifically Milwaukee, tomorrow, and this should all come to an end, FOREVER. In fact, he should be somewhere over the Pacific (along with my cat, Bina) right about now, watching his third movie and having his sixth drink and second meal. I don't envy his nightmare trip, which involved some desperate dashing around in L.A. trying to get Bina released from the airlines, passed through customs, and back to the airport to get them both back on the plane to Milwaukee all within two hours and 45 minutes. If he doesn't make that plane, I'll probably have to do something drastic, like drink a bottle of tequila and sing Bohemian Rhapsody over and over.

And of course, I'm very very very excited. I kind of have a habit of overdoing presents, particularly for birthdays, which I think are very special and sadly lacking in the appropriate attention. I mean, if you love someone, shouldn't the day that celebrates their existence on this planet be a BIG deal, no matter HOW old they are? *cough* Anyway, for Christmas I have gone all out for Beau again. I'm feeling the pressure since last year i got him a mandolin and he was so stunned and overcome with emotion it kinda scared me. So, how to top a fantastic Christmas trip to NYC and a mandolin?

Well, for starters, I bought him a charcoal grill. Beau is a HUGE BBQ man, which is great for me too since i reap the benefits of his great cooking, and we sold the old grill when we moved to NZ. Now, I know it's the middle of winter, but I'm sure he'll figure out a way to use it 12 times before the temperature reaches above 50 degrees. But that's not all! I bought him a bunch of ornaments that would have a personal meaning to him (I'll spare you those details), a nice shirt for work (he'll wear his clothes 'til their threads otherwise), and I oil painted his family's Scottish clan crest (Ferguson) on an 8x10 canvas in bright colors.

But wait, there's more. This was the biggie. I don't know exactly why it came to me, it wasn't my plan, but I do have a kind of belief in fate, well, sort of, destiny, kind of, and I just follow it. A week ago I walked into a tattoo parlor and started asking questions. By the time I left, I had made an appointment for the following Friday and the artist started to do his pre-tattoo drawing. Now, i've already got two tattoos, I'm very happy with both of them, and they're both perfectly placed somewhere where'd you'd have to see me in a bikini to be able to eyeball them. That suits me fine, since my tattoos are very special to me, and FOR ME. That's why i never totally understood the ones on the back of the shoulder or above your ass. Those are obviously for other's enjoyment. I love to look at my tattoos, even today. I got the first in Kanchanaburi, Thailand in a night market. Yeah, it sounds crazy now, it seemed like a cool idea at the time. It's a symbol from Arizona -- a saguaro -- that I thought represented me in many ways. Getting it was more painful than I'd expected - originally I was going to have a more elaborate tattoo and stopped after the saguaro was done -- but he did a great job and there were no problems.

The second I got in Missouri; Beau and I each got one at the same time. Mine was a Maori symbol -- a Koru -- long before we left for NZ. His, he likes to call a "war pony." I like to call it "that cute horsie."

So, why get another? I don't know. And the "faith" part of it is the real kicker. Since Beau used to be a real darn cowboy, I thought what I would do was get a cowboy hat and then have his name in cursive below it. "Cowboy Take Me Away" has always been one of our songs, so it seemed fitting. But anyone who knows anything about tattoos knows that that's the taboo of the tattoo world -- NEVER get your lover's name, never! It puts a jinx on the relationship and you always break up. And yet, over and over and over again we do it. Now, is that FAITH or what?

The tattoo parlor was staffed by two men, one a late-40's guy who had a long beard, crazy hair, little glasses, and kind of that old school Harley guy thing going on. And of course, lots of tattoos. He was loud and obnoxious, and kinda turned me off. His partner was barely an adult, with piercings, a bright red beard, and a body so skinny, that the whole thing seemed concave, from neck to feet. He was lost within his clothes, and pointy bones jutted everywhere. He had that "whatever" stoner voice and speech, and laughed frequently at the older man's obnoxious remarks. And of course, lots of tattoos. I was told Junior would be doing the tattoo.

That was a Saturday, but I couldn't do it til the following Friday after I got my first paycheck from Target. As the days crept by I kept telling myself, "You can get it out of it! They don't know you. You just don't show up." But I didn't want to. Even though the whole thing felt spontaneous, something I am firmly against when it comes to getting a tattoo, it felt good, and as the days advanced, I found myself growing excited. I even stopped by Thursday to check in and see when I should come and to see Junior's drawing. It was great. Junior had the idea of making Beau's name, still in cursive, look like it was a lasso rope. Very cool! He even put a little star above the "i" in Beau's name (*cough* yeah, obviously Beau is not his real name). My only request was to make it smaller, since I don't like the idea of a tattoo crawling across my body.

I cashed my check Friday and came in. I brought a pair of shorts and a Janet Evanovich book. I knew trying to read while getting a tattoo, which hurts like a motherfucker, was going to be a challenge, but i needed SOMETHING to do. If I just laid there and took the pain, I'd go insane and run screaming out of the parlor. I entered the place and chatted with the guys for awhile. The more the older obnoxious guy ("Senior") talked to me, the more he seemed to like me, particularly interested in Beau's cowboy past.

I watched Junior very slowly and methodically set up all the tools and dye. It was nerve-wracking, cause it's like watching a phlebotomist prepare his needles and gauze before he jabs you in the arm for blood, and you know the tattoo is going to take MUCH longer and hurt MUCH worse. Also, I'd been through this twice before, and thought it a pretty rough experience (though worth it). This time I didn't have two friends cheering me on like in Thailand or Beau holding my hand like in Missouri. This was my surprise present, and I was alone. Junior transferred his drawing to my leg, high up on the outside of my right thigh, just below the panty line. It looked good. Then, I had to lay down on the bed in a somewhat awkward position, shorts hiked up pretty high. Honey, there's no shame in the tattoo parlor. I opened my book and prepared to read.

FUCK! Fuck fuck fuck! It really hurts! For anyone who hasn't gotten a tattoo, it's the initial part, when your tattoo is being outlined in black, that is the most painful, though I'm not sure why. Later, when they're filling in all that color, it hurts a bit less. And as Junior was carving up my thigh, I thought about that long, coiling rope of Beau's name and how it had all those details on it. I grimaced and tried to dive into my book. Surprisingly, I could read, though as hysterical as Evanovich's books are, they don't make tattoo pain disappear. I did get through a great deal of pages though as the tattoo progressed. I tried not to look back, because as the inking progresses, I kind of put myself in this state. It's like, "Ohhh that's painful that hurts, just hang on, it's almost over, it's almost over..." just to psych myself through it. And tattoo artists know what they're doing, they'll etch away and just when you think you can't stand it, they lift up their gun. I mean, if I tried to tell myself "Just hang on for 40 more minutes!" I probably couldn't deal and would sprint from the parlor with a half-finished tattoo on my thigh. I suppose it's what women must tell themselves when giving birth, though I don't kid myself; I know that THAT pain must be 10,000x worse.

Senior walked in a few times, making conversation, and commenting on the quality of the tattoo (always nice to hear). He seemed to continually soften the more I talked to him, and a lot of his brusqueness melted away, which was really nice. At one point, mid-tattooing, he came in and handed me a small silver and gold piece, which looked like a tiny square belt buckle, that had a beautiful saddle on it. He said, "This is for you, you can keep it cowgirl." It turned out to be the top piece for a bolo tie! I thought it was really beautiful and touched by the gesture. A few minutes after that he came in and deposited a pen between the pages of my open book, which was engraved with the tattoo parlor's logo and address. Another little gift. Hee hee.

FINALLY, it was over. I went and checked it out in the mirror, and a gorgeous tattoo glared at me from my reddened thigh. I loved it. They both commented favorably how I had taken it so well, without a peep out of me. Junior said that sometimes with women they either scream or start to cry. Not that it doesn't hurt, but geez, to me it's one of those things where you kinda want to stay as still as possible. Your body racked with sobs probably makes the outcome of a neat and detailed tattoo a bit risky. Besides, I'm not that tough, I'd just be too humiliated to bawl in front of these guys.

Then we all walked out to the front where i paid (it was quite a bit more than I had been expecting, but worth it, it IS forever). We had a friendly chat, and when I brought up the tattoo curse about putting your lover's name on your body, they kinda sheepishly admitted that they believed in the curse too and were a bit concerned when that's what I said I wanted. But they admitted, it happens all the time, and it's not like you're going to tell someone "No." Junior said, "I just see it as a list. If it doesn't work, you put the new name under it." Hahah. Senior said, "Besides, it's more work for us. People come in later to re-do the tattoo after the break-up. More business!" I guess that's one way to look at. Despite all this, the parlor's boss (a woman) had put her lover's name on her arm, in such a way that Junior said, "Made it impossible to ever change it into something else." Then Senior added, "Yeah, and she's crying into her pillow every night now." Oh great. And yet, Junior himself had put a small heart on his arm with his girlfriend's initials inside. "I guess you could always fill in the heart if you had to," I said. "Yeah, heh heh," he replied.

Then I began to leave and they waved and said, "Come back in if you ever need us to change that name again!"

"Better yet," I said, "I'll bring HIM in to get MY name tattooed on!"

"There you go!" they said and smiled.

Then I turned, and slowly limped away.

Merry Christmas, Beau.

*****************************

P.S. I just HAD to show this tattoo 'cause it so grossed and freaked me out!!!! Can you imagine being the woman seeing that coming at her vagina? Let alone, giving this guy a BJ??? That'd turn you off of the act forever.

The Word of Tarot

I'm a big fan of Tarot cards. I picked up my first and only pack when I was 13 years old at a Renaissance festival somewhere in northern Illinois. Since then I've bought a few books, made a few honest attempts to learn the cards well, and occasionally given readings. Any reading by me is a bit tedious, to say the last. I sit there with my favorite Tarot reference book open in my lap, flipping through the pages to read the results for each card, and then in the end try to tie it all together, usually with a great deal of help and prodding from the person I'm reading for. It's actually pretty hard, but it's also a lot of fun. Each card in the Tarot has its own little story, its own positive (and if you like, negative) spin, and can be interpreted by itself and in conjunction with other cards that "influence" it. To learn the story for each of the 78 cards and how they intertwine with each other, and then seeing "the big picture" can be rather daunting. Not to mention I have the memory of a field mouse, so that doesn't particularly help.

Shortly before I left New Zealand, Beau and I stopped at this Gypsy Fair that was set up in one of the larger cities we often traveled to on weekends when "escaping" our own little village. We didnt' know the fair was there, so that was a treat. A slew of caravans, small trailers that were decorated jauntily in "gypsy" style, sat upon a grassy, high school sports field. I have to admit I was a bit disappointed by the whole thing. I thought it would be authentic, but if you ask me to define what authentic means, I couldn't really tell you. It was just a bit disappointing. I knew it would be commercial, I'm sure this was how they made their living, but it was the same kind of stuff you see at every and any kind of fair -- silver jewelry (lots of Celtic knots and fantasy rings), soda and snacks, magnets, posters, t-shirts, and clothes and kitsch from India, Nepal, and Tibet (oooh SOOO mystical! Sheesh). I did get some cotton candy, which though I don't believe was much in terms of gypsy food, I rather enjoyed, as I always do.

But, oh rapture(!), we did finally see one caravan advertising tarot card readings. The woman had a small blackboard outsider her trailer which boasted her credentials of 20 years of training and readings, her personal philosophy, and lots of other very eager and earnest words to her legitimacy. NOW we're talking! Since I've already had the opportunity for a couple readings in my life, both in the Philippines and in Thailand, I thought Beau should go ahead and pop his divination cherry.

We waited outside the woman's tent for a very. long. time. as she was giving another reading. This was both good and bad. It means at least she really gives you a nice, thorough reading, but we were sitting there for so long, I started to doubt she was ever coming out, or maybe just actually shooting the shit with a buddy and not noticing our presence. Finally, she did emerge and ushered us inside. Wearing what i took to be a gypsy costume, she came out to greet us, sporting wild blonde hair, no make-up, small blue eyes and a rather weathered-looking face that had me putting her in her late 40's. I found her interesting immediately. I think I was just as eager to see the inside of her caravan as I was for Beau's reading. I was astonished at just how tiny and simple it was. It was still set up in gypsy style, but it looked like her worldly possessions must have been very few, as the whole thing consisted of a sink and tiny counter, a padded wooden bench that ran the width of it, a modest table and chair in front of the bench, and a small loft-bed behind and above the bench itself. There were a couple of small decorations here and there, but that was about it. I sat on a rickety stool which I eyed uneasily as I pressed my weight upon it, and leaned forward as much as I could to take in Beau's reading.

So Beau sat down and went through the motions of shuffling/cutting the deck and thinking of his question (but not announcing it to her). We pretty much wanted to know about our future, since we had JUST decided to move back to the United States and fate was a bit murky at the moment. Then the woman stunned me by laying out the largest spread I had ever seen, basically using the whole deck, *flip flip flip flip* she plunked them all down. From what I could decipher, she did one whole reading for each month of the coming year, rather impressive at the mammoth amount of information she would have to process for us. In the end though, her message was pretty simple and short, and I was surprised that for all intents and purpose, the reading ended pretty quickly, and she proceeded to prod Beau to ask her questions so she could expand.

One thing we found interesting was that the woman basically told him he would be going through a lot of crap, financial and career-wise for awhile, and that it would all come together in a good way, probably in August/September. A job would come about and his life, and all the bullshit she was reading for the eight months preceding that, would magically clear up. Seeing as how Beau expected to simply be substitute teaching in Montana and hopefully getting a full-time position at the start of the next school year in August/September, this was a welcome revelation from the cards.

The reader also kept stressing that Beau needed to slow down, slow down, slow down. Over and over the cards said he needed to just let life flow, not to rush or push any important decisions for awhile, not to make any big travel, monetary, or career plans for a bit. Since we had basically just made a major decision that affected all three (the return to the U.S.), that sort of made us uneasy. Her analogy was that if he didn't listen to this advice, which appeared to be screaming at her from the cards (I, sadly, heard nothing), the cosmos would realistically or symbolically "break his leg" to force him to slow down. Oh, excellent, and us without health insurance. Nonetheless, there wasn't much of a choice for us in that matter. We had to leave now, the contract was ending and so were our visas. Besides, as much as I love a Tarot reading, I'll be damned if I let it be any more than a fun and interesting experience, not a life-altering guide.

Oh, and there was a really shitty month coming up, I think it was March. Damn, see, I told you my memory isn't worth a crud! I bet Beau remembers many more details. But anyway, March is supposed to suck. Just great!

But in the end, like a lovely bedtime story, we're supposed to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after, we just have to stick it out until Fall 2007.

I guess we can do that. Do we have a choice?