Sleepover

When my mom and I lived alone when I was younger, my mom single, and my sisters out of the house, I hated to leave my mom at home alone.  I hated going on sleepovers because when it came to bedtime, I lied in bed wondering if she would be okay at home alone. She was probably thankful for the reprieve, but I didn't understand this as a child.  I didn't know what she could possibly do while I was not around, and I often came home from sleepovers because I was "ill."

We were not a religious family.  Granted, my mom asked God for help a lot, but we never went to church.  I'm sure she blamed God, too, but our troubles usually were self-created.  We owned a bible, my mother's white, leather-bound one from her childhood. I never read it, though I liked the zipper that tucked the pages within the leather cover, and I liked seeing my mom's handwritten name inside on the cover.  And though the bible never became part of my regular reading--I am a staunch agnostic now--I was obsessed with the notion of people going to church as a child.  Maybe it was their customs that I found fascinating or that they were drastically different from our family.  Or maybe I just liked the snacks afterwards--the stale coffee and tables of treats and donuts in the basement.  I remember on a number of occasions going to church with friends after begging my mom if I could. I went to church with my childhood best friend, Laurie, though I don't remember much about the church, other than it was across the street from a junior high I later attended, and it was probably the only normal religious experience I had as a child.

At one time, we lived across the street from a strange, poor family that buttered their sandwiches with a lot of mayonaise--and the parents used to ask each other when making sandwiches for each other "Lou?  You want it thick on the mayo or thin?" And the answer was always thick.  Mira was their oldest daughter, and at their church, I took the sacrament, though never having been baptized.  I also took home a small wooden goblet, which presumably resembled the goblet used during church services to hold the wine that the priest offered to the congregation.  I remember the thick wax that lined the mini goblet, and scraping it off with the edge of my fingernails.  I will never know how I  got someone to give me wine--I was probably only 8, but I did.

This religious fascination led to hanging out with Alyssa and Allison, two red-headed LDS twins who played violin with me in elementary school. When I visited their house, I was always amazed by the amount of family members--there was something like 18 of them--or at the amount of cheerfulness filling their house as they baked muffins together as a family. The twins visited our house once, and I remember making a big deal about having 7-Up for them to drink since that was all I thought mormons could drink, seriously. And then the fascination led to spending time with Elizabeth, the elementary school's star viola player--she was LDS, too, I think, and I wondered why our friendship never blossomed. Go figure.

And the reason I bring this all up is because there had to be a reason I wanted to hang out with Amy Smith, whose name is not really Smith. She has a very distinctive name, and though the story I am about to tell is true, I find it important to protect her identity.  The reason I wanted to hang out with Amy was not because she and I had a lot in common or because I liked her that much; it was probably because I saw weird church rituals and snack tables in my future.  I think she asked me to the sleepover, and I said yes, and it is a decision I will never forget.

The sleepover started like a normal one.  We ate pizza and had popcorn and were going to watch movies, I think.  But then, one of the sleepover attendees got ill.  And as she lay on the daybed in Amy's room, Amy's mother suggested we pray for the little girl. We gathered around the bed, each of us laying a hand on the clammy girl.  Then Amy's mother started invoking the spirit and swaying and praying for the girl's fever to leave her body.  And in this moment, I did not like religion anymore.  It scared me.  And it made me uncomfortable.  Child-me thought something like give the girl some fucking Tylenol already, and child-me stood there, paralyzed, swaying and praying with the Pentecostals, not knowing what to do or how to get out of the situation. I couldn't call my mom to rescue me from the sleepover because she had plans that evening, and I had already come home "ill" from one sleepover that month already.  I don't remember how long the praying went on, but it interrupted our movies and popcorn eating--though I am sure I wouldn't have enjoyed the movies--they probably would have been some made-for-tv-movie adaptations of the rapture or snake charming or people speaking in tongues.  All I know is I was freaked out and bad.

And if the praying hadn't freaked me out enough, what happened the next day was worse.  I tried to call my mom early in the morning to come and get me, and I couldn't reach her.  I don't know how I survived the night in that place, as I was sure I would be driven mad.  The fever girl still had a fever but was alive.  God had not cured her, nor had he rescued me soon enough from the crazies--proof that he doesn't exist because no god would be cruel enough to make anyone witness what was about to happen.

As the morning progressed, Amy's baby sister, probably 2-3 years old wandered the house, and eventually she took off her diaper.  The parents thought it was cute.  What happened next was by far the most disturbing image that has ever been seared into my brain: Amy's baby sister squatted on the carpet and took a huge shit (huge for a baby), and then, quickly following behind, the family's chocolate lab who ate the shit off the ground. The dog ate the baby's poop.  Okay, let me lay this down again, the baby crapped on the floor, and the dog slurped and gobbled the crap down like it were a goddamned Pupperoni treat.  And then, the baby getting praise from the family, and thinking it funny that the dog had consumed her feces--what baby wouldn't--decided to take two steps and force out another turd on the ground, and the dog ate the turd with as much enthusiasm as the first time.  Take a minute to let that sink in.

My mom eventually arrived to pick me up.  She had been trying to reach me, too, but the Smiths' phone was giving a busy signal because it was off the hook.  So my mom, thinking I was having fun, left me to play longer while she went to the mall without me.  Little did she know she was changing my life.  And I have never been the same, and I think this is part of where my abandonment issues stem from.

When I Spill Tabasco, I Touch Myself

A story was in the news today that seems curious.  A man was caught masturbating on a plane by a 17-year-old girl.  He was questioned, and when arrested, he said he had spilled Tabasco sauce on himself which caused his crotch to burn.
That's a likely story.

I am not so much intrigued by the truth of the matter, but the plausibility of burning your penis with Tabasco.  So, I called a friend (one with a penis) and asked, "What is the likelihood of burning your shaft if you spilled Tabasco on it?"

He replied, "Not likely.  It's like spilling it on your skin."

"Unless you spilled it directly on your pee hole, right?"

"That would definitely burn."

"If you spilled Tabasco on your penis, or in your pee hole," I asked "would you go to the bathroom to remedy the situation, or would you stay in your seat?"

"Bathroom."

Tabasco is tricky.  Sometimes I go to shake it onto an omelet or some hashbrowns and it shoots uncontrollably, but I usually spill it on my hand, the counter, or the table.  I've come close to shooting myself in the eye, but I don't think I would ever spill it on my genitals where it would burn.  And I don't think I would spill it on my genitals in a way that would make it burn and make me seem as though I am masturbating, even if I had a penis and not a vagina.  I may spill it on my pee hole if I had a penis and was trying to eat a burrito naked while masturbating on a plane, however.

Toenail necklace

I heard about a woman that sells toenail art the other day, and I looked her up.  She was recently on the show Oddities, and her name is Rachel Case:

http://dsc.discovery.com/videos/oddities-toenail-art.html

Most people I talk to are incredibly disgusted by the art, and there is something that is really fascinating about it to me.   Also, I think it is awesome that someone thought of the idea, and I feel good knowing I get to support someone's creativity and livelihood.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/37984900/human-ivory-tear-shaped-pendant

All I Want for Christmas is Grubby

In 1985, I stared out the window on Christmas Eve night.  I waited and waited for Santa.  Our family usually exchanged presents on Christmas Eve as tradition--when my mother was a kid, grandpa worked at the paper mill in Antioch, California on Christmas Day and so they celebrated on Christmas Eve.  When I was a kid, though we opened presents on Christmas Eve, Santa brought a present on Christmas Day.  The present was usually the one thing we really wanted--something major like a bike.  In 1985, our family was really poor (who I am kidding, we're still not wealthy), the kind of poor where we took potatoes off the sides of fields that the farmers had missed when we lived in Kuna.

On that Christmas Eve night in 1985, I saw a red flashing light in the sky, and I swore it was Rudolph leading the sleigh--no lie.  As an adult, I know it was a plane, but child-me still can feel the magic I felt that night as I prayed for Grubby, a companion toy to my toy Teddy Ruxpin--which I assume I had gotten as a birthday gift earlier that year.  Teddy Ruxpin was the plush, robotic, talking bear who worked on D batteries and cassette tapes that went in his back.  When you hit play, his eyes and animatronic mouth sang along.  Grubby was Teddy's friend--a caterpillar worm thing that was orange.  And all I wished for that Christmas was a friend for Teddy.  With both of them, you connected them with a cable, and they sang duets.  Here is a video I found of the two singing with each other on you tube:




When I awoke on Christmas morning in 1985 and unwrapped my gift from Santa, he brought me a Grubby. My dad loaded Grubby with batteries and plugged him into Teddy, and Grubby didn't work. In my childhood, I can't remember a bigger disappointment. Okay, that's a lie, I came home once to find that my dad had sold my pony to the neighbor while I was at school, and I was heartbroken that he was gone.  So, other than the pony theft, Grubby not working made my heart break.  Okay, there was one other time.  I had a Michael Jackson microphone that was like Mr. Microphone, and it had an FM transmitter in it, so you could tune it to an FM station that was not in use or one that was in use and sing along to the music.  The microphone  had speakers attached, and  I sang and sang and sang my heart out to anyone that would listen.  This went on for a few weeks, and one day, the microphone disappeared.  So other than the pony theft and the mysterious Michael Jackson microphone disappearance, Grubby not working properly on Christmas morning was my most heartbreaking childhood memory.

The problem was that I don't think there were any other Grubbys left at the store, and I know my dad took it back, but he never returned with another one.  So Teddy Ruxpin had to live alone for the rest of his life.  And my Christmas wish never came true.  That Santa is a real asshole.

Intervention

Today is one week since I have been out of school, and I am tired.  While I have been trying to write and get my grad school application completed during the days, and working at night, I feel unmotivated.  I have been told that it is normal to feel unmotivated after accomplishing a huge goal like graduating college.

I got my grades today, and I got a 4.0 for the semester, two A+s and two As, so I know I should be proud, but this sudden slowing of my schedule only complicates my unmotivation.  I have found time for television where I never had time before--oh, I used to watch it, mainly The Office, 30 Rock, Mad Men, Dexter, and Weeds--but only while computing math problems or trying to write for class. Over Thanksgiving break, I discovered that A&E's show Intervention is on Netflix, and since I have graduated, I can't quit watching it.

In two days, I have made it completely through Season 3.  I don't know what my draw to the show is.  I don't know if I like it because I have seen addiction affect my own family, but there is something so interesting to me about watching how different families handle their demise, though I know that addiction is serious.  Also, the show is so unflattering to the addicts and often to their families that it seems that the show isn't far from reality--though I know the show is produced for effect. It's a mindless show, and one I may need help to stop watching.  Sometimes I see the families of the addicts and think I would be an addict if you were my family, too.  Mean, I know.  And I have friends who have died of addiction, and it is heartbreaking, so if anything, maybe this show is an eye-opener for some and a warning to others.

I don't watch the show in a normal, linear way.  I pull it up on Netflix and let the intro to the show start with the dramatic, tinny music.  For those that haven't seen the show, the person is introduced with a small montage of their former, non-addict life through photographs and commentary of their family.  Then usually there is big text that comes across the screen that says "The Cheerleader" and it morphs into "The Heroin Addict."  Then the addict speaks, and some of the most horrific scenes of the addict using and nodding off to sleep with plates of food in their lap are showed in the beginning of the show.  And that's enough for me to see.  Then, I fast-forward to the end where the intervention happens.  I don't really care about the middle.  I don't need to see the demise--I know it's there.  I am more interested in the family speaking to the addict and the crying.  I need the crying and the screaming, and I am more interested in the mini-updates they give at the end: did the person stay sober, and did they stay reconnected to their family.  In the episodes I have seen so far, nobody refuses treatment.  A lot of people relapse, however.

I am still not sure why I like the show so much, but until I get my motivation back, I am going to keep watching it. Hopefully, I don't end up on the show.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

I think the senate repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell is a remarkable accomplishment.  And I have mixed emotions about it, too.  I thought I would write about it here because I don't think that some people often see both perspectives when talking about this issue.  As part of a project I did about a year ago, I did an interview with a gay, enlisted soldier.  Of course, I won't out him here, and I didn't out him then, either.  In the interview, I was shocked to find that he saw Don't Ask, Don't Tell as a form of protection.  And while I think it's sad that he needed to feel protected from his fellow soldiers, I think that he isn't alone in the comfort that the policy provided.


Here is what I asked him about his feelings on overturning the law (he had a lot of other things to say, too, but this was the most important to me):

A:  “Wouldn’t you just rather the rule be overturned?”

SS: “Yes, but it isn’t going to change the way I conduct myself in the military.  It isn’t like I am going to start wearing pink boas.  I think that rule is wrong.  I think it shouldn’t matter [that I'm gay].  I would like to hope that this country is at a mature enough level rather than worrying about if guys are going to look at each other’s dicks in the shower.  And not be such sissies.  Why does it even matter?  Just because someone has a penis doesn’t mean I want to sleep with every single one I see.  But people are under that assumption.  As such a homophobic institution as the Army can be, they certainly act gay.  It’s all about dry humping each other’s butts, playing grab ass, and talking overly effeminate. Guys already look at each other’s dicks in the shower—gay or straight. Just to see how they measure up.  But as soon as they find out one of the other soldiers is gay, they want to raise a stink about it.  I don’t think we [the nation] are mature enough to handle it.  It’s people that are at higher ranks that want to talk about this.    Am I in favor of getting rid of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?  I am kind of on the fence.  Yes, that in I have hope we can be mature and okay with that, but no because we are not there yet.  And right now, in theory, it is protecting me.”

I think it's ironic that a policy that is discriminating actually feels to some soldiers like it provides protection, and in a way, it does.  I know that if I were a gay solidier I wouldn't wan't to be discriminated against.  I wouldn't want to keep my family or life a secret.  Leading dual lives is incredibly difficult.  Living in fear of losing your job because of who you love would be horrible.  I know a marine who lost his job because of Don't Ask, Don't Tell after an investigation was launched into his personal life, and he is even against the policy being overturned, too because of the protection the policy provides.

I think it is incredible that the Senate agreed this week.  And I think the decision is a step towards gay civil rights.  But is it the right step at the right time or are we getting ahead of ourselves?  I don't know.   I don't know how the laws should be strategically overturned to get us where we need to be in society.  I think any step is important, but at what cost? What I am worried about are the repercussions of the decision.  Are thousands of soldiers going to suffer at the hands of hate crimes simply because they came out after the policy is officially signed?  Will we see military trials because of the actions of homophobic assholes?  I hope not, and I hope this decision helps, not hurts. 

Graduation Snuggie

This morning, I had a meltdown.  I was lying in bed, and I started sobbing about not being in school.  It seems crazy to think I am not going back next semester, and instead of being excited, I have wavered between feelings of disbelief and sorrow.  It feels like it is going to take me a few days to even come to grips with being free (other than work obligations).  I feel lost, a little directionless, and moronic for feeling this way.

When I arrived at work, my day changed.  A few days ago I typed up our White Elephant Gift Exchange Rules for our company Christmas party. Side note: it seems no matter how many rules are in place, the exchange usually ends in shambles; we make it about halfway through before people wander off to do shots or get drunken enough that they can't read which number they are--and I am just as guilty of this as anyone, and I think I am supposed to run the thing because I have a loud voice--and then there are just gifts lying around everywhere.  On the rules flyer, I inserted a subliminal picture of a Snuggie, hoping someone would catch on and bring it as their gift to exchange.  My master plan was to end up with the Snuggie, no matter what. 

Well, I didn't have to.  On my desk today sat a coveted Snuggie, a graduation gift from my coworkers.  Though I have talked about Snuggies for years, I have never had the guts to buy one seriously.  And though I have mentioned them, no one--until now--has gifted me one.  I was so excited that it seemed there were angels singing and the box was glowing.  The first dilemna: to put Snuggie on in front of everyone while working.  I had to restrain myself from doing it--I mean, really, it's all I could think about all night at work, but I never succumbed because I knew once I had Snuggie on, then I would want to put Snuggie to the test and wouldn't get much work done. 

Moments after I got home from work and slid in the door, I ditched my clothes and donned pajamas.  I unwrapped Snuggie, and my first thought was how do I get this damned thing on? It's so big!  And once I got it on, I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Snuggie is long and hard to walk in, and after I made it back to the bedroom, I forgot something in the kitchen and needed to head back, but since Snuggie is so big, and picked up a cat toy on the initial trip back from the kitchen, I decided to take Snuggie off.  OW!  Staticky!  With a ZAP! I was almost afraid to put Snuggie back on.  The static-factor is making me glad I didn't consider putting Snuggie on naked, seriously, because I considered it briefly, though my butt would have been hanging out the back like a hospital gown.  That made me think, what if I wear Snuggie like a robe? And I tried it.  I have the *new with pockets* Snuggie, and while it kind of made an interesting robe, it's still a blanket with sleeves.  I pulled Snuggie off once again, with a loud crack of static and shock to my ass, and decided, ultimately, Snuggie is probably best while lounging  (and it is incredibly warm and awesome) and typing a Snuggie story or reading a book, and that is where I am now.

So, while it hurts when the cat cuddles in my lap, both of us being zapped with static by each subtle movement, I think this was the perfect gift, a little distraction to forget my feelings of woe and give me feelings of WHOA!

Panic at the Graduation

I never understood why retired people said they felt like they were going to die; now I do.  For days I have toyed with writing this blog, trying to decide if it was going to make me feel better or worse or if people would laugh at me.   And last week felt like it went by in a second; this week seems to be slowing in time, the days slowly ticking down, as graduation inches nearer.

I am graduating in 3 days, and while I know I worked hard and deserve it, I have this nagging panic that hasn't left in the past month.  Most people are excited to be out of school when it finally happens.  Most people struggle just to get the degree done, and when it's done they say good riddance.  I am one of the weird ones.  I like school; it's probably the driving force for me wanting to be a professor.  One day as I sat in a class, watching my best professor and mentor Bruce Ballenger teach, I realized that I wanted to be in the classroom--the college classroom--always. With graduation, I feel like my brain will turn to mush.

I know that my brain will not turn to mush, but I think I am worried because I won't have anything to do after graduation is here.  While I have a list of things to occupy me, I will feel unproductive.  College gave me something to look forward to, to worry about, to direct my stress, to be proud of.  After a string of retail jobs where I was unhappy, I found college.  In college, I found what I want to do with my life; this break before I apply for grad school seems like a cruel speed bump.  One that I know I need to take, as I don't want to burn out in grad school, and one I don't really want all at the same time.

The other panic stems from the huge packet the government sends which essentially screams "PAY UP!"  It seems like the transitions all come too fast.  The government gives a six-month grace period for paying, and it seems that they should hold off on the paperwork barrage until at least three months after graduation.  I have no idea how I am going to pay.  And when I picked my repayment plan, I laughed that it says I will be paying until 2038.  I hope it doesn't take that long.

I guess what bothers me most, is I feel a uncomfortable in my world.  I rarely feel this uncomfortable in my world, where I debate whether I am having a panic attack or a heart attack on an hourly to daily basis depending on the moment. I don't like change; I don't like the unknown.  And there is a lot of both right now.  I have an incredible support system, and that will help.  So will the amount of beer I've been consuming lately.

Laziness, missing noses, bums, pap pizza, and hatchets.

I haven't posted in a long time, simply because I have been lazy and unmotivated.  I am trying to get motivated, but I am grappling with school being in three weeks, and needing to study for the GRE which I am taking again sometime in September or October.  Also, a wedding I will be performing is looming in the near future, and I need to find something witty, romantic, and heartfelt to say and pick something to read.  So, basically with so many responsibilities swirling, I choose to do nothing instead.

Here are some highlights for the week, though.

1. During a fight in the Boise area, a man bit off another man's nose.  WTF?

2. I saw a homeless man today wearing a sign that said "KICK ME FOR A DOLLAR."  A friend and I talked about how the sign grammatically means, kick the guy, and you get a dollar for doing it--you not only get to kick another human, you get paid for doing so.  What he really means, as I am sure you have gathered, is give him a dollar and you get to kick him.  I wanted to give him a couple of dollars to take a picture of him with the sign, but for some reason, I just didn't have the heart.  However, I think it rates as the most ingenious idea that any homeless person has come up with.  Degrading? Yes. Creative? Most definitely.

3. I drove past a Papa John's today, and the sign said "Pap John" or "Pap Pizza" or something like that.  My friend asked, "Are they out of business or something?" "No," I replied.  "But they will be soon if they are selling "Pap Pizza."

4.  A man attacked a soda machine with a hatchet on Sunday.  Why?  He thought there was someone trapped inside--oh, and he was high on meth.  I know it shouldn't, well maybe it should, but it makes me laugh really hard. 

http://www.idahostatesman.com/2010/08/02/1289300/boise-police-man-arrested-after.html#storylink=omni_popular

Independent Verification

Going to college as an adult, one who is independent and has been for many years always surprises me. It seems like the university system is set up to deal with 18 year-olds, and I feel like I am often being patronized. Most of the people that work at the counters in different departments at the university are students on work study, and while some of them don't seem totally incompetent, the majority of them do.

In February, I was asked for the second time in my college career to fill out what is called an "Independent Verification" form. Essentially, the college, after looking at your taxes, notices an error that brings your "independence" into question. Meaning, they think you live with your parents. How this error indicates you live with your parents I am not sure. When this happened to me the first time, I wrote the Financial Aid department about the process before subsequently writing a column in the school newspaper in which I invited the Financial Aid department to my house for a tour to see the disarray that was my independent life. If I lived with my mother, I said, my laundry would be folded and clean, my hair brushed regularly. I was assured in an email that I received from the Financial Aid department that the selection for Independent Verification was a "highly-scientific process based on a very complicated algorithm and that most importantly, students were always randomly selected."

So, when I was randomly chosen a second time in as many years by the Financial Aid office, I printed out my paperwork, took it down to the Financial Aid office, only to have them tear half of it out of the neatly stapled pack I made, and give it back. "We only need these parts of your taxes" the work-study girl said to me twirling her hair and chomping her gum while giving me the *blink blink* of her doe eyes, with her mind elsewhere--probably imagining riding a ferris wheel at a carnival--but I assure you, there was nothing smart going on behind those eyes.

"What is this about?" I asked her. As if she would have a coherent answer. "They probably found an error in your taxes." *blink blink* "Right, but this is supposed to be random, and it is the second time it has happened to me." "It happens to me all the time" she said. *blink blink* It was probably the first smart thing she said.

While I make errors a lot in everyday life, like putting liquid dishwashing soap in the dishwasher only to discover that it makes a bubbly mess instead of cleaning the dishes and that only dishwasher soap should go in the dishwasher, I have a hard time believing I consistently fuck up my taxes since I have been doing them on my own since I was 15. There have been two exceptions to this: 1. I fucked up my aunt's taxes, but why would a grown woman trust an 18-year-old who was drunk to do her taxes?
2. After my dad died, my mom never gave me an interest statement from a company for some life insurance money I was supposed to get. When I was 18, I got a lovely certified letter from both the state and federal governments informing me of my tax evasion.

Most importantly, however, is when I screw up my taxes, why do they think I live with my parents? Wouldn't your parents make sure you don't screw up your taxes?  So, shouldn't they change the form to something like "Hey dumbass, we think you screwed up your taxes, so we need a copy to review them for you.  If you could get copies to us quickly, we'll only take about five months to process them."

And that is why I write today.  The girl at the counter, remember, *blink blink* girl, told me that they take about two weeks to process the tax information.  I turned in my taxes at the beginning of February and got an email today telling me they have adjusted my financial aid and that I need to go into the system and reaccept my aid.  So glad I hurried on that cold day in February.

Grocery

Last night, I needed cat litter, and since I was lazy, I went to Albertson's, the rich-man's grocery store. Everything there is more expensive than at Winco--and presumably, the theory is, Winco can keep the cost down by making you bag your own groceries. I am okay with bagging my own if I go to Winco--except for when people block the aisle near the end of the lanes and act as if it your fault for needing to walk by.

However, the whole appeal of the rich-man's grocery store is having everything done for you. The clerk greets you, and sends the groceries down the really short distance to the bagger, usually a young person for whom bagging is their first job, but more than likely, it's the "special person" on release from the group home. Then, the bagger asks if you need assistance to your car, and while I would never let a bagger follow me to my car, just the fact that they ask makes me feel like the trip to rich-man land was worth it. It's like the spa of grocery stores.

Now, at the store I visit, they have about 10 self-checkouts, and they usually have about one human checker working. I don't want to ring up my own groceries at the store. When I was 19 and drunk, the notion was appealing, listening to the beep as I swiped each item across. At nearly 30, the appeal is gone. If I am paying for something, I want there to be a clear clerk/customer relationship, and I want to stand and watch as you sell me my stuff. I want to watch commerce in action. I don't want to interact with machines in rich-man land, but at the rate of 700 customers to one clerk, the machine was the only way to go.

On my way to the store, I remembered I needed cream for my coffee. At the entrance to the store, they had a big cardboard bin full of mini-seedless watermelons. They were huge and $2.99, so I bought one. I also bought some cat treats. To conclude, the total items in my shopping trip were these: 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream.

I am sure you all are familiar with using a self-checkout. Run item across scanner, item must immediately be placed in the "bagging area" or else the light above the scanner turns red, and the machine freezes. I scan as fast as I can; I want out of the store. I am dressed in my pajamas, I am sweaty, and I am covered in cat fur. It's a Sunday night--this is what most cat ladies look like on a Sunday evening.

I scan everything, and finally, the mini-seedless watermelon. Usually, fruit is placed on the scanner, and you punch in a code, and the scanner weighs the fruit and charges you. The mini-seedless watermelons had tags, since they were $2.99 each, and I scanned the tag and placed the mini-seedless watermelon in the "bagging area." Then, the machine froze. Presumably, since the watermelon was about 10 pounds, the machine didn't think it was mini enough. Thief, the red light screams!

The clerk, who looked to be about 17, walked over and said in a very serious tone, "Ma'am, do you remember what item you put in the "bagging area" last?" Um, hello. I have four items. "Yes, it was the watermelon's fault." And as he typed in his code to unlock the machine, he hovered for about 30 extra seconds and scanned my items on the screen and checked them against what I had in the "bagging area," gave me a sneer, and walked back to his post with a watchful glance. What about 18lb cat litter, cat treats, mini-seedless watermelon, cream screams criminal?

He's obviously too young to remember this video, but maybe, just maybe:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrwjiO1MCVs

Fireworks: Day 4 and Day 5, my final days.

Day 4:
I had to touch boob money. A woman, with her boyfriend/baby daddy/husband? in tow came to the register and was short some bills. After giving her enormous right tit a squeeze, she said, "Ah. Found some." She stuck her hand in her cleavage, lifted her right breast with her right hand and grabbed the money from beneath her breast with her left hand. For anyone with breasts, you know that the underside (unless you have petite, skinny-lady, no-kid, nonboobs) of the breast is the most damp part during the summer. S-W-E-A-T-Y! Touching boob money is the equivalent of touching nutsack money. Now, I will admit, I have carried a debit card, cash, and lipstick in my cleavage before, but never, never, did I let such items travel to the depths of the underside. The items always stayed saddled right between the girls. Touching the boob money.

The boob money and mean customers is a reminder of why I will never work in retail again, if I can help it. By the end of the day, I was cranky and sick of customers. I was more irritated with the smart remarks of the "fireworks savant," however:







Within minutes of getting to "work" for the day, my sister's boyfriend (actually fiance) was on my case about my sales techniques, my attitude, blah, blah, blah, teamplayer, blah, blah, harrassing him for using a Starbucks cup to pee in the shipping crate today instead of a soda cup, blah, blah. While he's funny on most days, I was short on nerves to begin with and was hoping since I would be annoyed with "the away team" i.e. the customers, that I wouldn't have to get annoyed with "the home team" i.e. my family.

All turned funny again once he decided he was the "fireworks psychic," that is, look at everyone pulling up in their cars and predict what it was that they were going to buy. His first and last prediction (at least to me) was for an older couple. His products were almost on, but his numbers were way off--fail! By the end of the evening, when he was exercising his "assistant manager pants," I cinched a black trash bag over his head and considered leaving it, but I thought better and took it off.

The highlight was Janey Chao showing up with a box of muffins from Marie Callendar's. They were a hit with everyone:





Alana showed later with her little man and husband in tow, and it was awesome to see her and even cooler to sell fireworks to a bonafide Canadian!

I saw an old customer from the Record Exchange--one I used to make fun of a lot, especially for the time when he tried to return the album he special ordered because it sucked--Mr. Pooky, a tough rap-guy album. I felt bad for all of the years of backstabbing when he bought about $120.00 worth of fireworks. Well, not that bad.

Day 5:
I showed at closing time to help count the left-over inventory.  We went back to my sister's house for a late-night BBQ and to set off all of our fireworks.  Everyone in the neighborhood had illegals, and well, every 4th of July reminds me of when I was a child--a time when my dad fashioned his own fireworks out of tons of gun powder and dynamite.  On one particular fourth, I remember getting burned with falling debris.

As an adult, not a lot has changed:

Glad it's over for the year.

Fireworks Day 2 and Day 3

Fireworks Day 2: It went off pretty easily. I actually enjoyed myself. Stephanie and Jeff May came down with there little one in tow, and it was good to be supported by friends.

I heard a riveting story about how my 16 year-old nephew clogged the bathtub drain with a condom. He decided in his infinite wisdom that the shower was a good place to "try a condom on," and it slid down the drain. After using bottles and bottles of Drano with no results, my sister's boyfriend took the drain apart and found said condom--I don't think he held it in his hands for long--once he figured out what it was, he shouted for my nephew to (I am guessing) "Get his ass upstairs." Moral of the story: showers/bathtubs are not good dressing rooms for trying on prophylactics, and Drano is no match for good old jimmies.

Day 3:
Mic (solo) and Stephanie and David (together) came and bought the same exact things. Thanks, friends for your support.

I studied some GRE vocab words--that was good. I found out that my mom knows about the previous post which features her because my AUNT ROBYN told. Nice going, Dooby.

My sister's boyfriend has been peeing in a cup in the shipping crate because he is too lazy to go pee at the Winco or at the Carl's Jr. I didn't actually catch him peeing in the crate (thank god). But, he went to the Carl's Jr. for a drink today, so maybe he only goes pee in the crate sometimes. I discovered that I wish I could pee in the cup in the shipping crate. I was frightened when I found out he had been peeing in a cup in the crate because earlier in the day there was a Pepsi cup in the crate with a lid, pre-pee talk, and I opened the cup and sniffed it (I thought it was somebody's moonshine they were hiding), but it turns out it was a different cup (phew!).

And I helped this guy:



He made me remember why I don't do retail anymore.
Me: Hi!
Him: Grnnn.
Me: Let us know if you have any questions.
Him: gpshnsoinsngrn.
Me: That'll be $42.39
Him: grnnnrspaonponqtt.
Me: Here's your card back. Can I have you sign this please?
Him: grnrrnrnrlqwtr.

Before I left for the day, my sister arrived and said, "Don't you wish we were skinny? We could dress up in bikinis out here." "Why?" I asked.  "We could sell more."  Me: "I am not dressing up like a slut to sell fireworks."

One more day, then I am done.

Lesson Learned

Yesterday, I stole flowers from the neighbor's yard. Her name is Linda, and she doesn't actually live there anymore, but lives in Alaska (where she moved to live with her something like 7th husband) and still owns the house. She was always really mean to me--maybe it's because she confused me with the woman who lived here before that wandered naked out the door on numerous occasions, yelling at her boyfriend every step of the way. Maybe Linda confused me with the Iranian man who assaulted the prostitute and who she had to call the cops on. At any rate, I feel no guilt at attempting to commandeer some of her roses for my desk.

I tried to steal some a few weeks ago, but my neighbor Vinnie, the skinny man who resembles Ichabod Crane, and who fancies himself the neighborhood-watch, strolled over for a chat. I hid the clippers in my back pocket and made as if I was only leaning over the fence to sniff the roses.

I clipped four roses, all varying colors of fuschia. I saw some aphids on them, so I took them over to the hose to wash them off before I took them inside. After drowning the aphids out, I almost took them inside, until lots of earwigs started to emerge. The clipped roses went straight into the compost. Lesson learned.

I Still Miss Someone

Today is the two year anniversary of the death of my best pet ever, Smokey. While I have other pets, now, and have had other pets in the past, he will always be the one--I'm sure you probably have a pet like that, too.

I was devastated when I had to take him to the vet that morning because I knew he wouldn't be coming home. I called my friend Megan, and all I said was "I need to go to the vet," and she was at my house within minutes. I was afraid to be alone as they shot him up with the pink juice, and so she stayed in the room with me. She left to make some phone calls, one to her husband, and one to Justin to bring cigarettes and beer to my house (it was early on a Sunday morning) to meet us after it was all over.

While Megan was out, they prepared Smokey with a little i.v., and when I was ready to let him go, I went looking for Megan so she would be in the room with me when I summoned the vet. I couldn't find her, so I waited. When she walked back in the room, I said, "I looked for you." And she looked at Smokey and started to tear up and say something about how she was sorry she missed it. "No. I said. He's not dead, yet. He just looks like it." And though it's macabre, I have always thought it was funny that she thought he was already dead--I think we laughed about it then, or maybe it was later.

The other funny part is that we looked like a lesbian couple. Megan was wearing short pants, flip flops, and a The Sword t-shirt. Her hair was disheveled as I had disturbed her from her sleep, and she didn't take the time to get dolled up (thank you, Megan). I was dressed in a blue v-neck shirt with jeans that were rolled up and flip-flops. My legs hadn't been shaved in days, my hair was a mess, but I had brushed my teeth and donned a bra (thank god). Megan was really quiet as I talked to the vet; yet, he kept looking in her direction, maybe for answers or because I was suffering from a reasoned hysteria and she seemed sane, almost pleading with Megan, "You can reason with her, right?" as I asked my millions of questions about death, and tumors, and morals. I think we joked that day about him assuming we were a couple, she the angry lesbian who didn't like animals, and me, the lesbian that she had met and fallen in love with who just happened to have a cat that was older than dirt, that just wouldn't fucking die already.

Nothing in this world can prepare anyone for death. You think you're prepared, and the moment comes, and you're not prepared. And though I was lucky enough to see it and be there, watching the life leave one of your best friend's eyes is indescribable, eerie and peaceful all at the same time--eerie because it's so quick and peaceful because you finally know they are at rest.

I have often thought of writing a cat version of Marley and Me. The only problem being, pet stories bother me, even as I am writing this one. The other problem being that there are cat people in this world and there are dog people (rarely do the two combine, but it happens), and I have this nagging assumption that people just think dogs are funnier.

I will share two of my most favorite Smokey moments (a disclaimer: Smokey was an indoor/outdoor cat. When I got him, we lived in a neighborhood that had a big field out back and not much traffic, and he was happy outdoors--he used to fish in the ditch behind our house and come home sopping wet from his swim with fish in his mouth which he would leave on the doorstep. However, I didn't know the perils of outdoor cat life--well I did, but he drove me crazy trying to get outside, so I gave in, but I know better now.) :

At the house I lived in previously to the one I live in now, I had a next-door neighbor, Janey. Janey was an older woman that lived in the basement of a huge two story house. Her mother (who had recently died) occupied the top floor with her brother Tom, a very large developmentally challenged man who used to sit on the porch in his whitey-tighties and smoke cigarettes in the middle of the night. Janey had a nasty gray cat, Peasley. One of my first encounters with Janey was at about 5:00am on a weekday. I was getting ready for work and opened the window in my bedroom because I heard someone outside. She was lifting the cat door on her apartment window, right across our adjoining yards, and had her face pressed up to, and partially out of the cat door, and was calling "Peasley! Peasley!" We were face-to-face, separated by only a few yards as we both lived in the basement. "Oh, hello!" she said. It was one of our only encounters until she knocked on my door one evening. I opened the door to see her standing there, carrying a yellow household broom, one hand bleeding, the blood dripping all the way down her arm. "Can you come get your cat?" she asked. "What happened?" "He came in the cat door, but he won't leave. I started smacking him with the broom to get out of my house, and when I bent over to pick him up, he attacked me!" I toed the line of being amused (what did she expect, she was smacking him with a fucking broom?) and worried that I would end up on Judge Judy. I arrived to find Smokey hiding under a chair, and when he saw me, he crawled out, and I picked him up. Janey said he snuck in through the cat door and was eating her cat's food (a problem that I had over the years with Smokey where he would sneak into different people's homes to eat--I once locked myself in the bathroom to eat a sandwich because he wouldn't leave me and the sandwich alone). I tried to explain to Janey that "it was just sort of his thing," but she was convinced that I didn't feed him, and she sent me home with an almost full bag of Science Diet food because "Peasley didn't like it."

When I moved into my current house from my old apartment next door to Janey, Smokey still had his collar reading the old residence's address. I was at home, and I may have slept late that day as I remember nursing a hangover and never getting ready, simply showering and putting my pajamas back on. Justin was at my house, and we were sitting out on the deck. I got a phone call. "Hello?" I said. "Yes. I am here with someone named Smokey. I was at the park and when I went to leave, he jumped in my car. So, I hope it's alright, but I took him home." Oh, shit. I thought to myself. His tag says the wrong address. "You took him to the address on the tag?" "Yes. That's his home, isn't it?" "No. I haven't gotten him a new tag, but it's okay." Justin and I drove the few blocks to my old house where the woman said she had left Smokey on the doorstep. He wasn't there. I called a few times, and he came running from the direction of one of the neighbor's houses. Crisis averted.


So today I celebrate my pet, my friend, my dearly missed companion, Smokey the cat who survived being run over by my step-father returning from his early morning paper route (Smokey had to relearn how to walk), Smokey the cat who survived raccoon attacks, Smokey the cat who got dive-bombed by a seagull once and was deathly afraid whenever he saw them coming. I miss you, friend.

Arrest Photos

I see a lot of arrest photos everyday because of the nature of my work. This rates as the saddest one I have ever seen in my life:



Drunk people make bad decisions--I know because I have been a drunk person on occasion--but jumping off of the freeway into the dark was probably not the best idea, even for a drunk person.

Read the article here:
http://www.ktvb.com/news/Man-arrested-after-crashing-car-jumping-off-connector-97331839.html

The Gift

Today I arrived at work to find this right outside the front door to the building:



A television on top of the ashtray/trashcan.

I snapped this photo and wondered why someone would leave a TV there and more importantly I wonder about the television's journey and how it's new home came to be the ashtray. It's small enough that it could have been one man or one woman's solo-job.

I didn't have to wait long for my explanation. When my boss arrived at work today, and I pointed the television out, he said that yesterday he saw two men stumbling through the bushes with the TV (why they didn't use the sidewalk I don't know), and he didn't think they could see him, presumably because the windows are tinted. They plugged the TV in, discovered it didn't work, and left it on the ashtray. My boss thinks it came from the dumpster. I guess the men didn't feel like stumbling through the bushes just to put it back where it came from. Imagine if it would have worked.

Fireworks: Day 1

The sheriff was at our fireworks tent when I arrived Friday morning. A woman had called to complain that there was a three-year-old boy standing on the street being exploited for advertisement purposes. I arrived just as the sheriff was leaving (an obvious good sign and good start to any venture), and the story is this: My nephew, a six-year-old boy donned his fourth of July top hat--you know, the hat that Uncle Sam wears--grabbed a sign in the shape of an arrow that reads "FIREWORKS!" and headed to the corner to fulfill his fantasy of being a business sign handler. You've seen them--they're the guys that dance around in an effort to convince you to buy a $5.00 foot-long. The top hat was not purchased for the express purposes of advertising at the fireworks stand but was purchased for my nephew to wear during "superhero day" at his daycare. I can't figure out who in my family thinks Uncle Sam is a superhero, but maybe it was my nephew as he is proving to be quite the entrepreneur.

A story about my six-year-old nephew that was relayed to me yesterday unrelated to the sheriff: Around the time of my older nephew's birthday, 6-year-old nephew checked the mail everyday for two weeks for birthday cards and money intended for his brother. My sister only discovered this after she found a ten dollar bill on 6-year-old nephew's bedroom floor and couldn't figure out where he had gotten it. He confessed (I think), and the birthday card intended for older nephew was found under the mattress.

Setting up the fireworks and labeling them was a slow process, but we had a few customers--most nice, and one not so much. The not-so-nice-family was the token "hails from the mountains and are only stopping in Boise because we are on our way back from a 9 day really expensive river excursion" family.


The day wrapped up (for me) with a windstorm that knocked over this rack which I picked up off the ground before the picture was taken because my sister was on her way, and I didn't want to get my ass chewed (notice some contents still on the ground):



And this photo of my mom (which she is obviously happy I am taking) exemplifies the feeling of sitting/walking around a dirt lot with weeds and millions of goatheads--her eyes are red because of allergies--and my nose at this point was full of black-lung dirt boogers. Also this photo is about 2 hours before the stool, which we had positioned in front of the register and that I predicted would break, crumpled and pitched my mom into the dirt, filling her knees and hands with goatheads, making her pee her pants. If you visit the stand and meet her and are reading this, don't tell her I told you.



And I love my mom. I'm not intending to make fun. I would say the same things about myself if they had happened to me.

Special K

I was out of tampons and coffee at the same time. I only wanted one stop, and you can't get tampons at all my favorite local coffee shops. Eight O'Clock coffee is the best whole bean coffee I have tasted available at the store--the problem being, you can only get it at one store--Walmart.

I got my coffee and tampons and headed for the checkout just in time to see a woman dip her hand into a box of Special K cereal and shovel a handful into her mouth.

As a child, if I got a drink out of one of the free standing coolers in the grocery store, my mom never let me open it until after we paid for it--even if I was DYING of thirst, I still had to wait. As an adult, if I am DYING of thirst and grab a bottle of water, I open it, and steal a few drinks before tightening the lid back down and putting it in my cart. Of course, I pay for it later. Every time I do this, I feel guilty, and I think of my mom's anger at the act.

Opening a box of Special K to eat dry cereal by the handful at the store seems to be pushing it. It's like opening a block of cheese to gnaw on the end, or buying a rotisserie chicken from the deli, ripping off the leg and having a meal of drumstick as you push the cart.

The only explanation comes from my friend: Walmart is like going to the state fair, all year long.

Sometimes water is just more palatable

Today a very close friend of mine ( I would quote him directly, but I don't know if he wants his name mentioned) said to me:

"Blood relationships are an accident of birth, so there's no reason you should have to maintain them and suffer emotionally just because you're kin."

I agree. Relationships take work, and mostly the work is worth it. But what about when it's not worth it? Today it occurred to me that a lot of times people don't hold their families to the standards that they hold their friends. Why? I also wonder why more people don't actively seek estrangement from their family members who they only complain about or who make them feel bad. Is it because we fear we will ultimately be alone in the end but blood ties bind? Blood relatives are obligated to be there until the end? I don't want people in my life because of obligation; I want them in my life because they care about my well being and want to be there--the same reason I want to be around for someone.

Human body weight is about 7% blood and 55-60% in water. Blood is the circulating fluid, it keeps the heart going, but it is made of about 50% water. Water is more abundant and easier to find and in most cases tastes better.

Thank You. Yes, you.

No stories today, as I have to go out to the beautiful land of Mountain Home to visit my grandmother who is such a delight.

I just wanted to let everyone know that has been reading, I started my blog a month ago today in an attempt to force myself to write more. I have tried for everyday, and that hasn't always been possible, but it is getting easier. Part of what is making it easier has been knowing that people are reading it and enjoying it (though the inner critic tells me it can't be possible). As of this post I have 1765 hits--not bad for a month, and not possible without readers like you (this is starting to sound like a damned Public Television PSA).

Also, as you may have noticed, I put a donation button off to the side, not because I want to be gross (because it makes me feel a little gross), but because some friends of mine encouraged me to do so as it has become a "norm" in the blogging world. I know that everyone reading is as broke as me, but if you win the lottery, think of me. Or if you know someone that knows someone that wants to pay me to write, do some networking for me, will ya?

Thanks again!

*A special thanks to Michael for always fixing my jacked up images and template. Because without his help, this thing would be ugly because I am incompetent.

Shop-Along III

Today when I walked into Winco, the cart bay didn't have many carts in it, so I had to walk all the way back to grab one. Along the wall, there were these carts that were made of red, hard plastic called the Shop-Along III. The cart looked almost like a flatbed cart--one you would see in a big box store like Costco--but with lips on the edges to prevent your stuff from sliding off, and the top, near the handle, was sort of rounded, presumably for a child, or your purse--it's hard to say.

What was most interesting was the label:



It's designed to carry up to two children, which I understand. I've seen kids in the cart bay nearly clawing each other's eyes out to ride in the cart. The Shop-Along III provides more room than a regular grocery cart so both kids can enjoy shopping. And, I can understand the safety part of it, too. While carts aren't designed to sit on the bottom, near the wheels, like in days of old, riding in the actual cart can be dangerous for little kids--fingers stuck in the wiring, pudding cups burst on pants, and scraped up knuckles from riding beside mommy's 6 pack of beer bottles.

The part that baffles me is or one adult. Come on Grandma! Hop in! Taking your elderly parents to the store? Who needs an electric cart? The only joy I see in this is driving around your friend at the store shopping for Pizza Rolls after a long night of too many margaritas. But I see fights happening. I don't want to steer, you steer!

So as I inspected the Shop-Along III, a man came into the cart bay and said, "Wow. Not many carts in here, huh?" And I said, "No. But I found this." And he walked over and looked at the Shop-Along III with me. I think the notion struck him as a little odd, but it only really sunk in and made him uncomfortable after I offered to push him around.

9X2=F.U., Mrs. Jayo

When I was in the third grade, the school I went to had three portables (outside trailer-type buildings), one for each of the third-grade classrooms. All of the students had a homeroom teacher, but in an unprecedented experimental program, during the afternoons, each student went to a teacher that specialized in a different difficulty level of a certain subject--math, reading, and social studies.

This program was initially designed to put the accelerated students with like-minded students and the dumb kids with the dumb kids. This was the same year that someone at school sent a letter home to my mother, who was normally a single-parent but was cohabitating with the Clover Club chip guy, Scott Clairborne. The letter indicated school officials wanted to test my IQ for special classes. My mother agreed, and I remember the day I was tested, walking from my classroom, the cubicle on the far left, to the south, across the blacktop, to an identical cream colored building with a brown roof, and a gray sand-paper textured ramp leading up to it. Of the questions I was asked that day, I remember these: How many days are in a year?; How many weeks are in a year?; and How many feet are in a yard? As I remember, I passed with flying colors, and the woman testing me (the school counselor?) seemed impressed while I indignantly answered the questions, as they seemed like such silly ones.

In the three afternoon classes, reading, math, and social studies, I was in the advanced group for both reading and social studies. The reading teacher Mrs. Ware was a rolly-polly woman with a bad perm, and I remember the books we read were part of a series of anthologies called the Junior Reader series--my books, the smart kid books, were yellow with blue writing and borders. Within the pages were greats like Roald Dahl. I remember getting so excited about the reading that in private I squeezed the books between my fingers, feeling their thickness, and I would release a little pent up squeal of delight.

I don't remember the social studies teacher's name, but I think her first name was Susan. She had a short hair cut, was in her fifties, had big glasses, and big teeth that shined from being covered in too much saliva. She had a mouth full of dental work--partials and bridges or maybe it was a set of adult braces. I remember watching the fall of the Berlin Wall in class in 1989 on the old TV atop the metal rolling TV cart while in social studies. While at the time I understood the significance of the event as all major historical events were aired on the TV (I watched the Challenger explosion at the age of four what seems to me like 700 times), I was too young to understand the importance or implications of what was going on in the world. I just thought there were a bunch of angry people wandering around with sledgehammers and pickaxes taking out their frustrations on a wall--which in a sense is exactly what was happening.

When it came to math, however, I was a dumb kid. And in some ways, I am still the dumb kid when it comes to math. Mrs. Jayo was the math teacher; she was also my homeroom teacher. She was by far the youngest and most attractive of the three teachers. She was petite with chin-length curly blond hair. Her face escapes me now, although in my mind's eye, her features are taking on the facial features of Amy Sedaris, though I know this wasn't what she really looked like.

Mrs. Jayo didn't seem to have the patience for me, and while I don't know if I would recognize her if I saw her again, I would like to tell her that she may be the root of all my math ills.

I remember the day as a dreary one, cold, dark, cloudy, and maybe damp. As a reward for memorizing our times tables, at lunch time, there was an ice cream social. The problem being, I didn't memorize mine. So, Mrs. Jayo made me go outside alone, while the others celebrated with their ice cream and toppings. Even Sary Anderson, the strange girl who owned rats and kept them in a bathtub, who I later became friends with, and in adult life ended up on Judge Judy in an embroiled battle of defamation with her punk rock boyfriend when he put her picture on a flyer with the word slut next to it, got to go to the ice cream social. This has always seemed a great injustice to me--something in my brain made me smarter than the rest of the kids, so much so that I was deemed gifted; yet, that same brain couldn't figure out numbers. That day was the first day in my life when I felt weird and left out, the only kid on the playground, ostricized. Maybe Mrs. Jayo thought I was already too pudgy, I didn't need any more ice cream, my little chubby cheeks and miniature fat roll indicating I had had enough ice cream already.

I learned my times tables though--no thanks to Mrs. Jayo or the experimental system that segregated the dumb kids from the smart ones, putting them in incestuous little pissing-contest boxes. I learned my times tables at a different school, one that's torn down now. I learned them from Mrs. Sutherland, the butterfly lady of Idaho. I don't know how she helped me or how I learned, but I remember piles and piles of worksheets, and going over the numbers again and again. Maybe Mrs. Sutherland was more patient or she saw a part of herself in me, a woman so eccentric that she devoted her life to insects. I do know that when I finally conquered the times tables, I was up at the chalkboard participating in a competition against other students in front of the class--the prize, hard candy--and when I beat everyone by completing them first and correctly I was elated and shocked. But there was another feeling, too. One that would best be described as "Fuck you, Mrs. Jayo."

Touchdown Jesus

I don't think it's a sign that Touchdown Jesus was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. I do think it is sad--not because I am religious--but because having anything burned to the ground (whether it cost an unspeakable $250,000 to build or not) that you believed in has to suck. I am a fan of religious art because usually it is so eerie and spooky that it seems impossible that the faithful would worship it. Also, the depictions of Jesus differ so greatly, that it seems no one has it right.

These gigantic roadside religious statues (attractions) are a huge part of pop culture, and that to me is what makes them so interesting. When they are built, their builders have a different message in mind, I think. Meaning, come worship, not come check out the freakily huge Jesus! And for some, I think that message rings true, but for others, like me, it's the hard work and dedication that goes into building a huge likeness of someone or something that strikes me. Also, they are sort of awe-inspiring, much like seeing Mt. Rushmore for the first time.

The burning down of Touchdown Jesus (unfortunate, yet hilarious name) reminds me of the Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ Ministries that was featured on an episode of This American Life. The cross is 19 stories tall and the COOLJCM claim that 10 million people stop to see it each year, as it is constructed right on Interstate 40 in Groom, TX. I almost believe that that many people stop.

It reminds me of a time when I took a road trip to Georgia to visit my sister. I had my best friend in tow, and as we passed the border from Wyoming into Nebraska, I saw a similar gigantic Jesus statue. As I remember, the statue wasn't right on the highway, but a ways off, and while I have researched it, the only thing it seems like it could be is a statue somewhere in Colorado on the border.

When I saw it, I remember slowing down, making my best friend take out the video camera to get a shot, which she missed. I was disappointed until she said, "You can't see the Holy Spirit on video camera. You can only see him in your heart."

It was hilarious, but I think she may have been right.

The Old Lady With the Condiments

Sometimes, I hate reading library books. I like reading books, but often, when I get books home from the library, they usually have crusted stuff in the pages, pages in the middle are stuck together, and sometimes, the plastic covering over the dust jacket feels as if someone was propping their book up in a bucket of KFC.

I don't know what the crusty stuff is--usually it looks like boogers or lollipop--and while the liquid that's holding page 67 to 68 (the best part of the book) seems as though it's just water, it could be milk or juice or soda or coffee or semen.

What? You don't believe me about the semen? Check out Noam Baumbach's The Squid and the Whale:



So, I saw this story in the news today:
74-year-old Boise woman arrested on suspicion of damaging library books with mayonnaise, liquids | News Updates | Idaho Statesman



And I have to say I am disturbed. Obviously, something needs to be addressed with this woman regarding her mental health or maybe it doesn't. Maybe she's pissed off that every time she tries to get a book, 98 other people have it on hold. Maybe she's angry about her fines or about the lack of parking at the Boise Public Library. Or maybe she mistakes the return boxes for condiment trash cans. Whatever it is, it's made her so angry that she's been doing it for a little over a year. But I can guarantee you, it won't stop with condiments, and that is what bothers me the most.

Ice Cream Man

So, it was about 80 degrees in our neighborhood today, and that means the ice cream man is back.

What I don't understand is why can't we have a cool ice cream man/truck? I remember being in the northend in Boise and hearing the Jamaican ice cream truck coming down the street blaring his reggae. While it didn't make a lot of sense, it was better than what the ice cream man in my neighborhood plays: Christmas music.

Today I heard Deck the Halls as the ice cream man came down the street, and on his return trip, I heard Silent Night. I don't know if he is trying to evoke the feeling in people of what it feels like to be cool on a hot summer day, what with the images of winter and Christmas and JESUS and all, but what part of the song Silent Night says ice cream? Is it the tune? No. The lyrics? "Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child, Holy Infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace." Um, no.


I guess it could be worse. I could live in this guy's neighborhood:



Or, Capt. Scrummy (Michael Stipe) could be the ice cream man in my neighborhood after the regular ice cream man disappears:

End of the World As They Know It

On my way to Mountain Home on Wednesday morning to see my grandmother, I passed a semi with this message almost completely covering the back-end of his trailer in huge vinyl letters:

THE END OF THE WORLD IS ALMOST HERE!
HOLY GOD WILL BRING JUDGMENT DAY ON
MAY 21, 2011
www.familyradio.org

As I passed the truck on the left to get around him and to see who was inside--I thought maybe it was going to be Jesus (you never know)-- I noticed the cab had the same message in proportionately large letters covering the doors.

All I could think was, if the truck driver really believes that, what the hell is he doing driving a truck across the country? If I knew the world was going to end in less than a year, I wouldn't spend the rest of my earthly time working.

Oh, and I visited the website when I got home: it's not my thing.

Trash Day

The trash men came this morning. And although this blog was going to be something else today, I need to talk about what I found when I just went to take out some trash.

I opened the lid of the bin, and there lay the leftovers of what didn't get shaken out of the bin this morning--a miniature cock and balls (like smaller than my pinky finger). The balls snapped on at the base of the cock (presumably for real swinging action), and seeing as how our trash bin is about 90 gallons or something, and it is empty and slimy from the rain, I wasn't about to dive into it to retrieve the cock and balls.



Did the trash men plant them for my discovery? Where in the hell did they come from? Someone's doll that they ditched in my trash? Because they sure as hell ain't mine, and if they were, I probably wouldn't be telling you about it; actually, I probably would.

Too Fat to Fly

While I know that the Kevin Smith/Southwest debacle happened a few months ago, I still think about it often. If you have no idea what I am talking about, read about it here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/02/14/director-kevin-smith-too_n_461803.html

No matter how you feel about fat people (over 1/3 of Americans are "overweight"), whether you think they need to "slim down" or you think they are disgusting, or you think they are jolly because they jiggle when they laugh, the fact remains: we all need to be nicer to each other. No matter if you are skinny or ugly or nerdy or tattooed or scarred because a fucking chimpanzee ripped off your face in a horrible accident, we all deserve to be treated like human beings.

I just saw an interview with Marilyn Wann--fat activist--from a morning show a year ago where she addresses the airline issue. She basically says that she wants to spill into your seat about as much as you want her to. She thinks that everybody should have seats they are comfortable in--which I think is fair. Because, no matter how much you complain, fat people are still going up into the air whether you like it or not. And so are the skinny ones and the ugly ones and the disabled ones and the ones with kids that vomit who stink up the whole plane.

And it isn't just the size of the seat that appalls me about airlines. It's that now you can't travel with checked luggage without paying, you are charged in some cases for "stretch-seats" in which you can pay $15.00 per segment for an extra inch of leg room (thank you Frontier Airlines what a fucking bargain), you pay for T.V., you pay for pillows, you pay for blankets, and I wouldn't be surprised that if you take a shit in the fancy airtoilet, soon, you will be charged for that, too.

The last time I flew, I flew with my roommate, and I didn't need a second seat. While we were snuggled up close because we are both fat chicks, it was fine. As Kevin Smith says, "I am not that fat, yet." But you know what? What if I was? What if I was the friend that you all know and love, and I was that fat? And what if I was the one that an airline was intentionally trying to humiliate on that Southwest flight like the girl who was sitting next to Kevin Smith who was from Boise, ID (in case you didn't know)?

I love me the way I am, as those that know me recognize, and I am not going to apologize for me. I have bad days, like everyone, but I love me.

So, my quandary is this: which airline do I fly? Because if I get to the airport and am told I am too fat for the plane (much like Kevin Smith), I am not taking the attempted humiliation with tears, and you all are going to have to bond together, scrape up some pennies, and bail my ass out of the TSA jail. Part of the quandary is this: I hate flying anyway. I hate being that close to other people for an extended length of time without an exit (that won't kill me). Flying is like being in a tin can with wings. And I always end up next to the drunk business guy, which is nice when they buy you a drink, but not so nice when they fall asleep in your seat. Why don't they charge those guys extra, and profile them at the airport? Hey, you look like you are going to hit the sauce pretty hard and pass out on your fellow passenger...you need to buy an extra seat and pay for a pillow.

So, since I am in this kind of "letter writing mood" lately, I wrote this letter to Southwest today, just to remind them, that the fatties are still here, we're scary, and we're lurking.

I am avoiding flying your airline because I am a fat person. After the whole Kevin Smith debacle, I really don't want to to do business with you. Usually, you have the cheapest flights, but they are actually more expensive than anything out there right now. Maybe you are suffering from fat people avoiding your airlines? Seeing as how the girl you tried to kick off the flight that was riding near Kevin Smith was from Boise, Idaho, I am even more reluctant to do business with you, as I feel I should stand with her in solidarity.

You require fat people to purchase two tickets. I don't need two seats, but how am I to know that you won't decide I am too fat to fly once I get to the airport? You might decide I am, just like you decided both Kevin Smith and the poor young lady you humiliated in front of everyone were.

Do you discount the second ticket as I have heard before, or do you charge fat people for two (which in my case would be nearly $1,000 dollars) and treat them like cargo instead of human beings?

Just thought I would ask.

Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal

Dear David Shields (the not-so-friendly author)

Recently, I read Reality Hunger: A Manifesto by David Shields as part of a project I am working on. Instead of trying to describe the book in my own words, here is an editorial review from Amazon.com:

"'I doubt very much that I’m the only person who’s finding it more and more difficult to want to read or write novels,' David Shields acknowledges in Reality Hunger, then seeks to understand how the conventional literary novel has become as lifeless a form as the mass market bodice-ripper. Shields provides an ars poetica for writers and other artists who, exhausted by the artificiality of our culture, 'obsessed by real events because we experience hardly any,' are taking larger and larger pieces of the real world and using them in their work. Reality Hunger is made of 600-odd numbered fragments, many of them quotations from other sources, some from Shields’s own books, but none properly sourced--the project being not a treasure hunt or a con but a good-faith presentation of what literature might look like if it caught up to contemporary strategies and devices used in the other arts, and allowed for samples (that is, quotation from art and from the world) to revivify existing forms. Shields challenges the perceived superiority of the imagination and exposes conventional literary pieties as imitation writing, the textual equivalent of artificial flavoring, sleepwalking, and small talk. I can’t name a more necessary or a more thrilling book. "--Sarah Manguso

If you need more information about the book to illuminate the following, please feel free to do some research. Shields is on YouTube in a number of videos giving readings. One thing Shields maintains is that "Art is theft." The notion of plagiarism and lack of attribution in this book still makes me uncomfortable. I appreciate what Shields is trying to do with this book (and yes, I understand the book's purpose), but I feel like he missed the mark by going too far without giving enough explanation of his own in some aspects. I also feel like the book may have been more interesting written from his perspective exclusively. I will save you from my findings which were my task at hand, as I more interested here in sharing the experience.

The one aspect of the book that I kept coming back to was if Shields believes this much in plagiarism(the majority of the book is plagiarized), what would he think if someone stole his ideas. Seemed a reasonable question to me.

I have written a lot of authors over the years: out of curiosity, for projects, and simply to let them know that I truly appreciated the effort they were putting forth. Two authors in particular gave me incredibly gracious responses: Sarah Vowell and Thomas Lynch, both of whom I respect even more for their kindnesses in spite of their fame--they recognized that without an audience, while the authors themselves would exist still, their writings might not mean anything.

Shields was not so gracious. Here is my email and his response. I didn't think his response deserved a response, but I got worked up, as I do, and responded anyway--which I feel good about now.

The Original Email
Hi, David.

I am reading your book Reality Hunger: A Manifesto as part of a project in which I am helping one of my professors finish his textbook. Another professor I have has added your book as a requirement for a class next semester. I am not finished with the novel, yet, but I keep coming back to one question: how would you feel if I put my name on this book, changed the picture, so your picture became mine, and called the book my own?

I am sure you have had this question before, but I am really curious as to what your answer will be.

Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal

David's Reply-Exactly 7 minutes later

1) It’s not a novel.
2) The book argues that quotation can be a transformative, crreative** act. Putting your name on my book would make about as much sense as putting your name on The Waste Land.

My Response
Dear David,

1.) I purposefully called it a novel because it has been described as the "anti-novel." Part of what I got from your book is that lines are very much blurred when it comes to genre. With genre comes labeling, which I did purposefully, and long ago, Capote coined the term nonfiction novel, so it seemed fitting to me to label it as such. Part of what you argue is that nonfiction and fiction, in a sense, do not exist. In my reading of the book, I use the term novel in a sense from the Italian origin novella, meaning "new story," because your book is something new--and it's aphoristic quality, while using the words of others, seemed something new in respect to a book--as you point out it's done elsewhere in culture all the time. Your book is art, and it is up to me to interpret it as I will. While I don't always agree with the book, something I learned long ago is to always respect the work that is put behind an idea to form a book, and it is the hard work that I respect.

2.) The question was a serious one, and one I felt needed to be asked, but I will be sure to share with my classmates and professors that I got such a thoughtful, non-terse response from a fellow professor in the Northwest. Thanks for your time.

Sincerely,
Andrea Oyarzabal


David's Reply-an hour and fifty minutes later

Ok;thanks.

How do I feel about this? A little sad that someone that is a thinking human would give such a condescending response. While I understand that as my question is written--the notion of plagiarism becomes really literal. It's not as if I asked, if I were to take your work and re-render it into something, then would it be okay if I put my name on it? Yet, my original question is not a lot different than what he did in this book. He cut and pasted the writings of other authors, which he did not want to cite, but his publisher made him, arranged them in an aphoristic way, and put his name on it. It is only logical to ask such a question: "how do you feel when people steal your work; does it bother you?"

In comparing my question to the notion of me putting my name on an enigmatic piece of literature, Shields is implying I am a huge, dumb asshole. That doesn't bode well with me. I'm not the smartest person in the world, but that's for me to decide, not him. Am I surprised? Not entirely. Did I want to remind him I was lining his pockets by reading the book? You bet I did. Would it bother him if someone plagiarized his work? I think the succinct, straightforward, and cordial response is, yes.

And only to make myself feel much better, here is a clip from the Colbert Report in which Stephen Colbert does the only thing that makes sense:

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/270740/april-14-2010/david-shields

Reformed

Reformed fat people really bother me. Guess what, former fatty? No one gives a fuck, and chances are, you are going to get fat again. The statistics aren't in your favor. Also, I hate reformed smokers, too. Fuckers. Reformed drinkers (i.e. recovering alcoholics) don't bother me as much. I wonder what it is that prevents them from touting their way of life.

*****faces and ****heads

I don't think I ever sucked at customer service. People, for the most part, liked me. Other than the time J.O. told me some woman complained about me at the record store because I was impatient with her because she paid for her purchase with all coins, people were generally satisfied with their service. And J.O., as I recall, was mistaken, because the problem was, the coin lady wasn't complaining about me. She described me as the "heavy set" black-haired girl which I was, but I wasn't the right one. She meant the other black-haired girl with a big butt--Lauren Tweedy. I would relish in any person paying in all coins; it might even make me laugh.

And realistically, I probably didn't make people as happy as I thought I did, but I did make a lot of money in tips when I made coffee. Maybe it was because most of my customers that tipped well were lawyers (shocker--that is, that they tipped well), but maybe it was because said customers were masochists, and they liked the abuse I doled out, what with my witticisms and denigrations. But maybe it was my commiseration during complaint sessions about their overbearing wives.

I remember the only time I was publicly lambasted, and not to my face, but loud enough for me to hear. There was a girl, we'll call her bitchface. Bitchface always got a dry cappuccino with whipped cream on the top. For anyone that works in coffee or drinks coffee regularly, you know how ridiculous this sounds. The whole point of a cappuccino is a bit of foam on your espresso, to enjoy, a lavish treat. Putting whipped cream on top of it all defeats the purpose, and is JUST PLAIN STUPID.

In all the time Bitchface came in, she was never happy with her drink. So, one day, seeing her disgust and frustration with her ridiculous concoction, I took it back, and said, "Tell me exactly what it is that you want." And she couldn't. I tried putting words in her mouth, and I tried coaxing her, but she JUST DIDN'T KNOW. And how can you make someone happy if they don't even know what it is what they want?

After Bitchface took her fresh drink I made her, that she was equally as unhappy about, she walked to the end of the counter, turned to my coworker and said, "That girl is a dickhead." I was shocked, but I didn't want to come to blows, and if I remember correctly, my coworker defended me, and I walked into the backroom, to sulk. I wasn't sulking over the fact that I had been insulted. Oh, no. I know I tried my hardest with Bitchface. I was sulking over the term dickhead. Why not bitch or cunt or twat or even asshole? At least asshole is gender neutral--everyone's got one. But dickhead?

So, I saw Bitchface yesterday, while eating lunch. She spotted me, and I snapped a photo of her, which she may have noticed. I wasn't brave enough to get close, but she knew. I wanted to walk up and ask, "Why dickhead?" It seems the furthest from the truth. But maybe it's not.

Hey, Sprinkler Guy!

Today, I am working at my desk by the window. The sprinkler guy has shown up to do some maintenance. I don't think he realizes I am on the other side of this window--which is open; however, when I thought I heard a gurgling that seemed as though a sound of potential distress (i.e. he is stroking out or having a heart attack), I peeked out to see if he was face down in the lawn. He's wearing headphones.

So far I have heard a lot of mouth-guitar noises, some melodic, "Whooooooaaaa's" and a lot of "Hi-Ya!" Also, he busted out "I've gotta a hold on you!"

Get down with your bad self, sprinkler guy. Your passion for singing out loud with no care for those around you enthuses me.

Hard Jocks

I wonder how much porno gets left behind when people move. I know that my roommate and I left behind a big stack of different pornographic magazines (featuring men and women respectively)in a move from my first apartment when I was 18.

My sister's boyfriend, while hunting in my mom's attic one day for presumably other treasures, found a large stack of videos and magazines. He's one of those guys that knows where to find money in old houses, but I think pulling that out was even more than he bargained for. **Disclaimer** The porno was not my mother's--it had been left behind by the previous tenant.

Today, someone told me they donated some porn videos to The Salvation Army--funny considering The Salvation Army is an organization based on an evangelical branch of Christianity. His reason: "Poor people need porn, too!" Look for a copy of Hard Jocks at The Salvation Army near you! Although, it might be in a sleeve for The Hunt For Red October.

From The Salvation Army's mission statement: "Its mission is to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ and to meet human needs in His name without discrimination."

My guess is that porno isn't a human need, necessarily, but I am sure some would argue with me.

Splatter: a Story About Friends

When I was 16 years old, I bought my first car. This was after the destruction of the first car I drove in high school, my mom's red 1986 Hyundai Excel. I planned for the Hyundai to be my car forever and always, that is, until I got creamed by a woman in front of Hawks stadium.

The car I bought for a cool $800 dollars later that year was similar to the Hyundai--a red, 1987 Chevy Sprint. It had a 3-cylinder engine, got 50 miles to the gallon, and was once picked up by four boys and moved a few feet, all while I sat in it. It survived being plowed into by Justin's big 1970's Dodge pickup, when Justin was driving like a maniac in the school parking lot. We both went home, lied, and said someone had hit-and-run our cars at school. We confessed years later. The Sprint had a serious vapor-lock issue during the summer, and it looked as though I was drunk-driving from about June through the end of August because on any given summer day, suddenly, the car would die, hitting a spot of air in the engine, then sputter along, and then suddenly take off like a bat out of hell.

I got pulled over once on the way home from Moscow where I was visiting a friend at college. The Sprint did not make it up hills well, so every time I found a hill to go down, I floored it, all the way through the subsequent valley, and up the next hill. The cop outside of Moscow caught me on the way down the hill. After he gave me the ticket, and followed me up the next hill, I think he understood my raging speed (which was probably about 80mph tops--that car shook so much, I am surprised we didn't lose the wheels), and regretted ever pulling me over. I like to believe that he considered pulling me back over to take back the ticket, but he was afraid he would have to push me with his crash bar the rest of the way up the hill because I wouldn't make it otherwise.

When I turned eighteen, I bought a new car. I reluctantly parked the Sprint in front of our house and removed the license plates. I wanted to keep it and maybe give it to my nephew when he was of driving age (he was five at the time). My mom wouldn't hear of it: she made me sell my poor car.

I sold it to a friend's brother-in-law and the brother-in-law's business partner. They owned a construction business and drove big diesel trucks; so, they thought the Sprint would be a good vehicle for driving between construction sites. I wanted to sell it for $500.00: my mom thought that was way too much. I sold the Sprint for $300.00. I owned it for a little over two years; when I sold it, my heart broke, and my heart breaks to tell you this story now. I asked my friend for months after the sale how my car was doing, and I have discovered as the years have passed that this is something I do: I get attached to inanimate objects, mainly my old beater cars, until they are personified in my mind. My dad, before he died, had a penchant for old junker cars, and people rarely understand my passion. Some say it's genetic, I think it is a genetic disorder. The friend always said things like "it's great," "it's running well!" It turns out, he was lying.

Shortly after I sold the car, the business partner of the brother-in-law shot himself in the Sprint. The brother-in-law and sister of my friend called the junkyard, only to hear that it was best for them not to come pick the Sprint up, as it was covered in blood and skull fragments. Now, let that sink in. What I'm saying is, my friend was gone, destroyed. For a long time after I found out, I tried to find the car--not because I wanted it back, but just because I felt like I needed to wish it goodbye and praise it for its years of hard work and early retirement at the hands of someone--I don't want to say selfish--but someone not worthy of owning the car that had become my friend that did me right for so many years.

I tell this story now because I have found another love ( a few have come and gone since then, and I even bumped into one of them on a dead-end street last month), my Saab. I bought the Saab in 2007, and I love it. Recently, it had to have major work, and I considered finding a new car because the work was more than the car is worth. But as I found myself crying at work over it one day, my co-worker said, "If you are crying over it, you might as well fix it." He was right. So, I did.

Now, though, it's getting to the point where little things are going wrong sporadically, and recently, I had to replace the instrument cluster after it had been ailing for about a year (the whole dash had come to complete stop), which I thought involved replacing some wiring behind the dash. It turns out it is the whole instrument panel and everything that goes along with it. I didn't discover this until the morning after I had picked up my car. The shop had it for a couple days because they were looking for a used part because inexpensive new instrument clusters are hard to come by.

When I turned it on the first morning I had it back in my possession, I noticed the warning lights were designed differently, and that is when I discovered some hard water spots on the plastic cover of the panel. On closer inspection, I saw a splatter, a smattering if you will, of rust colored spots. As I scraped one of the spots with my fingernail, and held it closer to my eyes, that's when I discovered it--blood. Little flecks of dried blood. From an accident? Maybe. From a suicide? Possible. I haven't called the shop to tell them, and I don't know that I will. I cleaned the blood off, and while I was disturbed at first, I know I have a piece of someone's friend (the car, not a human--though maybe that, too), and I am going to treat it right.