Drooling
I have grown up with allergies and asthma. So, most of the time my nose is stuffed up and I have to breath through my mouth. Because of this I have a habit of leaving my mouth open for no reason. I don’t realize I’m doing this until someone says to me, “Close your mouth” and by ‘someone’ I mean my Dad. Thanks Dad. Due to the open mouth issue, which is due to the allergy issue, I also have developed a drooling issue. I know, I’m so cute, wicked cute, you want me. I’m not quite sure when it started but my sister assured me the other day that I’ve always had this issue. So I thought I may recap some of my drooling experiences.
I was coloring in a map with four other people in the second grade. I was delegated to coloring North America. It was allergy season (which for me is January 1st through December 15th) and I was having a particularly difficult day. Michael George was sitting next to me. I wanted to marry Michael George, which I would profess to him several times a week by trying to cause him physical harm or by telling him he was short. He was indeed short but then again we were seven. As I was coloring in the southern hemisphere of North America, mouth agape, I heard Jill Whitecross make a noise that was a cross between a high-pitched scream and a gasp from across the desks. I looked at her and noticed that she was pointing at something. I took a closer look to find that there lay a pool of drool somewhere in the vicinity of New Jersey (well, if a state MUST go …just kidding…seriously Daen, kidding). Michael George took one look at the pool, looked at me and then to the boy to his left calmly stating “cootie spray” at which point the boy next to him held up the invisible can of aerosol cootie spray and sprayed him. Jill ran over and held out her arms, closing her eyes (smart girl, I mean who knows what happens when cootie spray gets into an open orifice) waiting to be sprayed. Several kids next to our desks witnessed this and also ran over. This caused a classroom cooties epidemic. Kids were spraying other kids from across the room, panicked and visibly shaken. There were so many questions, I mean, where did the cooties start? What kind of cooties were we talking about here? Person to person cooties, floor to person cooties or just visual cooties? By the time the teacher got control of the classroom everyone had been informed that the source of the cooties was Deidre, her open mouth and the pool of drool.
The second drool episode happened during the summer before my senior year in college. Because I was taking my English seminar class during the summer, I had to do a lot of reading. Therefore; my friend Amy (who also was taking the seminar class) and I had taken a job at a local jewelry factory because we knew it would be mindless work and leave a lot of brainpower for the reading. Our job was to buff and polish jewelry, fascinating, no? THAT is a story unto itself. I digress; during that summer I was also going through a huge feminism phase and had decided it was not fair that women had to shave their legs and armpits. Again, I know, I’m cute, wicked cute…you know the rest. Any-friggen-way, there I am with my legs unshorn, armpits bushy, buffing and polishing thousands of pieces of jewelry with my mouth wide open. From my peripheral vision it appeared that the guy who sat next to me, Larry, had turned in his seat and was staring at me. I slightly tilted my head in his direction as if to say ‘yes?’ and discovered that he was indeed staring at me. He wasn’t just looking at me; however, he was glaring with disapproval and shaking his head from side to side. I went to ask him why he was staring at me and noticed that I had a line of drool that hung from my lip to my knee gently swaying from side to side. However, the motion of going to talk dislodged the drool and it fell to the floor. I sat and stared at the small pool on the floor. “You know, you need to pull yourself together woman. You’re shaggy, generally unkempt and now you are drooling all over the place. Have some respect for yourself”. Larry was right. I shaved that night.
The last episode that I am going to share with you is also one of the more recent. I work at the Portland Symphony Orchestra, and we just recently hired a new Executive Director, Ari, in August whom I work for directly. He is twenty-six, intelligent and reserved. On his second day here I was in the kitchen area putting the Brita pitcher, which I had just refilled, back into the refrigerator when Ari came around the corner. I went to say “Hey”! But just as I went to say something I felt the familiar weightiness that one feels when they have drool attached to their lip. Yes, there is weightiness. Yes, I am gross. Ari looked at me there was a brief expression of inquisition, then of recognition, disgust and lastly denial. He shot his eyes down to the ground after a brief smile and I just started at the ground and made a strange sound that was neither talking or mumbling and walked to my desk.
I am not sure how to cure myself of this affliction. But I do need some serious help.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Weed, Rebecca and Wine.
It was a Saturday night, and my friend's Mary, Ira and Jeff were throwing a party at their house in the Oakland, CA. For some reason, whenever these three friends threw a party it was always a great time. I felt at home there. After being there for an hour or so, Mary turned to me and asked if I wanted to go smoke some weed in the bedroom and I gladly accepted. Let me interject that when I was in college I was a habitual pot smoker. Although I was a functioning pothead and would never smoke until I was done with classes and finished with my homework, I smoked every day for over four years. After I graduated, I moved to Surrey England for a small period of time and didn't know where to get weed so I took a break. When I came back home and started smoking again it had a completely different effect on me. I’d get paranoid and think that everyone wanted to stab me and whatnot. So, unless I felt completely comfortable and safe I wouldn’t smoke. However, this was one of those times that I felt completely comfortable. So I went into the room and a group of us smoked a joint. I felt good and walked out onto the large deck and garden area to have a cigarette and then I headed to the kitchen to grab a Mojito refill (the signature drink of the evening LA TE DA!).
As I was approaching the kitchen I noticed a group of girls I had met before at a prior party standing near the table. One of the girls was Rebecca Stein. My unspoken hero. I had met her a couple months after moving to San Francisco and liked her immediately. Her attributes included but were not limited to:
1) Ballsy
2) Walking into a room and instantly raising the energy.
3) Extremely outgoing without being obnoxious
4) Having strong opinions but being far from judgmental
5) Being friends with all kinds of different people.
6) Having no qualms making a move on a man she was interested in.
I have to admit, it was quality number six that bumped her from someone
I would like to become friends with to someone whose picture I put candles around and chanted to at night. No, not really. I found quality number six so astounding because I myself had a bit to be desired in the category of men. Hitting on a guy in my world consisted of two strategies. The first was a strategy where I would ignore the man I was interested in. This strategy was used on those whom had no idea I existed. Right. Strategy number two was for those men whom I was convinced knew I liked them and therefore would be downright mean to. Brilliant. O.K., enough of my dating advice to all the single readers out there and back to Rebecca. The issue with Rebecca Stein was that she just didn't seem to like me. At all. This turned my general interest in this girl to a bit of an obsession where I was dead set on making her like me. Hey, easy, this blog is called “I Have Issues” for a reason.
On the way to refill my Mojioto the weed started to kick in. There were two people standing in front of the ‘Mojito station’ if you will, so I decided to just have wine because it was easily accessible. I poured myself a glass of red and some guy I had never met started talking to me about the intricacies of wine. This was pre-‘Sideways’ where most people still didn’t say much about wine or scream "I aint drinking any fucking Merlot". I found what he had to say quite interesting. He then asked if I liked white wines. Pause. There were a number of things I thought of discussing. I started to think about how most of my friends from home drank white Zinfandel from a box. I thought about how I had spent many nights over a year ago draining box after box sobbing about a recent breakup which had briefly made me insane. (HEY, I’m much more sane now...well...no I'm not.) In fact, the smell of any white wine alone took me back to those days and made me want to curl up in a fetal position and sob like a small child. What good friends I had to listen to me night after night. Wow, I can’t believe that was a year ago...
“Okaaaay, cheers!” said the guy who had asked me about the white wine. Then he promptly walked briskly away. I just smiled and watched his back and wondered how long he had been standing there waiting for my reply before throwing in the towel. Great, apparently another fun filled side effect that weed had on me post England was daydreaming, in public, in the middle of conversations. I was trying to figure out if I was the most embarrassing person I know when I spotted Mary, thank god.
I walked over and stood beside her facing the room. "I'm all sorts of high", I said. "Yeah! Me too", said Mary and smiled at someone to my left. I looked over to see Rebecca Stein walking towards us. She was staring directly at me and a grin wrapped around her face. Everything was moving in slow motion. If I had a soundtrack to my life the song "You Light Up My Life" would have been playing.
"Hey, Dee. Hey Mary" she said.
"Steiny!" yelled Mary.
The two embrased. I stood and watched. I am many things; however, a premature hugger I am not. I know when I have reached that point in a relationship and Rebecca and I were not there yet. She looked at me and could see that I was trying to say something. I had noticed she too was drinking red wine. Should I say something about the guy from before or might it be better to say something about the Mojitos? They were quite refreshing really. The longer I waited the more panicked I became. I couldn’t have this huge pause only to come out with "hello" and I certainly could not play the part of mute girl twice in a matter of minutes. I had to say something witty, funny or at the very least something original. Between my confusion of which alcoholic beverage to comment on, the weed I had smoked and my excitement of Rebecca’s full on acknowledgement of me I was completely flummoxed. After what seemed to be an entire minute of silence I broke out and yelled "Mojitos!" loudly enough for everyone in the kitchen area to look over at me. My right arm had thought I was going for the story about the random guy asking me about white wines and so it pointed towards the kitchen counter and bottles of wine. My left arm, being all too forward, went to wrap itself around the poor and confused Rebbecca who was still visually stunned by my boisterous scream. However, as my arm was going towards her I twitched (side effect number 8,587,252 that weed now gave me) and knocked into her glass of red wine. The glass shattered all over the ground but not before it managed to spill it’s entire contents all over her shirt. Somehow in the mix I cut my elbow and was bleeding. Fabulous. I stood with my mouth open and drooled, which as you know, is my personal deviation from the typical fight or flight response and caught a glimpse of Rebecca heading in the direction of the bathroom. After a little bit of time I managed to help Mary pick up the pieces of the broken glass on the floor. It was official I was the most embarrassing person I know.
It was a Saturday night, and my friend's Mary, Ira and Jeff were throwing a party at their house in the Oakland, CA. For some reason, whenever these three friends threw a party it was always a great time. I felt at home there. After being there for an hour or so, Mary turned to me and asked if I wanted to go smoke some weed in the bedroom and I gladly accepted. Let me interject that when I was in college I was a habitual pot smoker. Although I was a functioning pothead and would never smoke until I was done with classes and finished with my homework, I smoked every day for over four years. After I graduated, I moved to Surrey England for a small period of time and didn't know where to get weed so I took a break. When I came back home and started smoking again it had a completely different effect on me. I’d get paranoid and think that everyone wanted to stab me and whatnot. So, unless I felt completely comfortable and safe I wouldn’t smoke. However, this was one of those times that I felt completely comfortable. So I went into the room and a group of us smoked a joint. I felt good and walked out onto the large deck and garden area to have a cigarette and then I headed to the kitchen to grab a Mojito refill (the signature drink of the evening LA TE DA!).
As I was approaching the kitchen I noticed a group of girls I had met before at a prior party standing near the table. One of the girls was Rebecca Stein. My unspoken hero. I had met her a couple months after moving to San Francisco and liked her immediately. Her attributes included but were not limited to:
1) Ballsy
2) Walking into a room and instantly raising the energy.
3) Extremely outgoing without being obnoxious
4) Having strong opinions but being far from judgmental
5) Being friends with all kinds of different people.
6) Having no qualms making a move on a man she was interested in.
I have to admit, it was quality number six that bumped her from someone
I would like to become friends with to someone whose picture I put candles around and chanted to at night. No, not really. I found quality number six so astounding because I myself had a bit to be desired in the category of men. Hitting on a guy in my world consisted of two strategies. The first was a strategy where I would ignore the man I was interested in. This strategy was used on those whom had no idea I existed. Right. Strategy number two was for those men whom I was convinced knew I liked them and therefore would be downright mean to. Brilliant. O.K., enough of my dating advice to all the single readers out there and back to Rebecca. The issue with Rebecca Stein was that she just didn't seem to like me. At all. This turned my general interest in this girl to a bit of an obsession where I was dead set on making her like me. Hey, easy, this blog is called “I Have Issues” for a reason.
On the way to refill my Mojioto the weed started to kick in. There were two people standing in front of the ‘Mojito station’ if you will, so I decided to just have wine because it was easily accessible. I poured myself a glass of red and some guy I had never met started talking to me about the intricacies of wine. This was pre-‘Sideways’ where most people still didn’t say much about wine or scream "I aint drinking any fucking Merlot". I found what he had to say quite interesting. He then asked if I liked white wines. Pause. There were a number of things I thought of discussing. I started to think about how most of my friends from home drank white Zinfandel from a box. I thought about how I had spent many nights over a year ago draining box after box sobbing about a recent breakup which had briefly made me insane. (HEY, I’m much more sane now...well...no I'm not.) In fact, the smell of any white wine alone took me back to those days and made me want to curl up in a fetal position and sob like a small child. What good friends I had to listen to me night after night. Wow, I can’t believe that was a year ago...
“Okaaaay, cheers!” said the guy who had asked me about the white wine. Then he promptly walked briskly away. I just smiled and watched his back and wondered how long he had been standing there waiting for my reply before throwing in the towel. Great, apparently another fun filled side effect that weed had on me post England was daydreaming, in public, in the middle of conversations. I was trying to figure out if I was the most embarrassing person I know when I spotted Mary, thank god.
I walked over and stood beside her facing the room. "I'm all sorts of high", I said. "Yeah! Me too", said Mary and smiled at someone to my left. I looked over to see Rebecca Stein walking towards us. She was staring directly at me and a grin wrapped around her face. Everything was moving in slow motion. If I had a soundtrack to my life the song "You Light Up My Life" would have been playing.
"Hey, Dee. Hey Mary" she said.
"Steiny!" yelled Mary.
The two embrased. I stood and watched. I am many things; however, a premature hugger I am not. I know when I have reached that point in a relationship and Rebecca and I were not there yet. She looked at me and could see that I was trying to say something. I had noticed she too was drinking red wine. Should I say something about the guy from before or might it be better to say something about the Mojitos? They were quite refreshing really. The longer I waited the more panicked I became. I couldn’t have this huge pause only to come out with "hello" and I certainly could not play the part of mute girl twice in a matter of minutes. I had to say something witty, funny or at the very least something original. Between my confusion of which alcoholic beverage to comment on, the weed I had smoked and my excitement of Rebecca’s full on acknowledgement of me I was completely flummoxed. After what seemed to be an entire minute of silence I broke out and yelled "Mojitos!" loudly enough for everyone in the kitchen area to look over at me. My right arm had thought I was going for the story about the random guy asking me about white wines and so it pointed towards the kitchen counter and bottles of wine. My left arm, being all too forward, went to wrap itself around the poor and confused Rebbecca who was still visually stunned by my boisterous scream. However, as my arm was going towards her I twitched (side effect number 8,587,252 that weed now gave me) and knocked into her glass of red wine. The glass shattered all over the ground but not before it managed to spill it’s entire contents all over her shirt. Somehow in the mix I cut my elbow and was bleeding. Fabulous. I stood with my mouth open and drooled, which as you know, is my personal deviation from the typical fight or flight response and caught a glimpse of Rebecca heading in the direction of the bathroom. After a little bit of time I managed to help Mary pick up the pieces of the broken glass on the floor. It was official I was the most embarrassing person I know.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Shopping
It's official. I am old. I went to go shopping for clothes the other day and all the pants are now so low that they barely reach the top of my pelvic bone. Um..I feel three ways about this:
a) NO.
b) HELL no.
C) All of the above.
My shopping experiences over the past four years have all merged together in my brain to form one awful hellish experience that goes something like this.
I walk into the store and tell myself that I absolutely must, above all else, keep a positive frame of mind. I then proceed to go around the store and never have a problem finding a dozen or so articles of clothing that I like. I pick out all the things I'm going to try on in a size twelve. Which will most likely be too big but too big is more assuring than not getting it past my wide, flat, two dimensional ass. Seriously, it's like my body is stuck in a two dimensional world. When I gain weight I grow out the sides but my profile always looks the same. I'm like a wall. Strange.
I take said articles of clothing into the dressing room leaving the extras with the female employee that always seems miffed by my presence. In fact, these dressing room employees seem so annoyed that I usually say 'Hello', hand them my clothes and say "I'm sorry" right before I enter the dressing room. Once I get into the dressing room the same warning sentence scrolls through my head over and over, like the severe weather warnings on tv. "WARNING, FOR THE NEXT TEN SECONDS OF TIME WHILE YOU ARE NAKED IN THIS DRESSING ROOM, DO NOT..I REPEAT DO NOT.. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, LOOK IN THE MIRROR' Right. Yet, at some point between getting off my clothes and putting on the new ones I always manage to get a quick glimpse in the mirror of something, could be my calf, my elbow, and then suddenly, I can't look away. It's like road kill, I know it will be bad, I know it will be shocking, but I must see it. The next thing I know I am standing directly in front of the mirror, mouth open, staring at my pasty naked body in the dressing room mirror with fluorescent lights spraying over me. Oh. My. God. I didn't realize it was possible to have cellulite on your big toe, huh, that's nice. The seeing myself in the dressing room mirror naked part of the experience usually traumatizes me for about a year or so. When I manage to pry myself away from the mirror I put on the first pair of jeans. Too big. I end up exchanging all articles for sizes that are a wee bit smaller. Past angry dressing room lady and back into the horror story.
Now I put on a pair of jeans that are more my size. They pull up to my mid thigh without incident. Then they squeeze over the thigh and by the time they are at mid buttocks I am more than positive that they are not 'quite right for my build', as most people put it. By the time I finally pull them all the way up and the jeans reach the widest part of my hips and sit barely above my pelvic bone. The fly and button are wide open in such a manner that allows my lower stomach to hang out. Sweet. Needless to say that I will not be able to zipper these. I turn to look at my arse in the mirror and the top of my underwear is hanging out all over the place. It's less Jessica Simpson and more chick with plumber crack (Yes, I've tried the thong but I feel that I spend my entire life trying to get my underwear out of my ass, therefore, the last thing I want to do is shove it in). I take a deep breath and pull the pants off, my underwear usually come off right along with them because of the 'snug fit', and there I am again, naked in the dressing room mirror. This is right about when the worker girl comes over, knocks on the door and says 'Do you need another size?' What I want to say: "No, I need a therapist and a friggen pair of jeans that fit a woman and not a prepubescent girl". What I do say: "No thank you. Sorry". Yes, I am still apologizing.
I put my clothes back on, don't bother to try on the other five articles. I tell myself that these pants aren't made for ANYONE and that it's not just me. I leave the dressing room just in time to catch some 18-23 year old girl jumping out of the room next to mine in the 'cute jeans' I just tried on, with her 'cute ass' and she's bouncing all around saying to her friend "Aren't these cute?" To which her friend and I simultaneously reply "Yes". DOH! I finally get the remaining articles from hostile girl. Put the clothes back on the rack, leave the store. Go home, telling myself the entire way that I need to start exercising more. I run that evening for five minutes, get tired, get depressed and eat buffalo chicken. I refuse to return back to the stores for another six months or so. Am I the only one who experiences this nightmare? I have come to many conclusions and one of them is that it's official. I am old.
It's official. I am old. I went to go shopping for clothes the other day and all the pants are now so low that they barely reach the top of my pelvic bone. Um..I feel three ways about this:
a) NO.
b) HELL no.
C) All of the above.
My shopping experiences over the past four years have all merged together in my brain to form one awful hellish experience that goes something like this.
I walk into the store and tell myself that I absolutely must, above all else, keep a positive frame of mind. I then proceed to go around the store and never have a problem finding a dozen or so articles of clothing that I like. I pick out all the things I'm going to try on in a size twelve. Which will most likely be too big but too big is more assuring than not getting it past my wide, flat, two dimensional ass. Seriously, it's like my body is stuck in a two dimensional world. When I gain weight I grow out the sides but my profile always looks the same. I'm like a wall. Strange.
I take said articles of clothing into the dressing room leaving the extras with the female employee that always seems miffed by my presence. In fact, these dressing room employees seem so annoyed that I usually say 'Hello', hand them my clothes and say "I'm sorry" right before I enter the dressing room. Once I get into the dressing room the same warning sentence scrolls through my head over and over, like the severe weather warnings on tv. "WARNING, FOR THE NEXT TEN SECONDS OF TIME WHILE YOU ARE NAKED IN THIS DRESSING ROOM, DO NOT..I REPEAT DO NOT.. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, LOOK IN THE MIRROR' Right. Yet, at some point between getting off my clothes and putting on the new ones I always manage to get a quick glimpse in the mirror of something, could be my calf, my elbow, and then suddenly, I can't look away. It's like road kill, I know it will be bad, I know it will be shocking, but I must see it. The next thing I know I am standing directly in front of the mirror, mouth open, staring at my pasty naked body in the dressing room mirror with fluorescent lights spraying over me. Oh. My. God. I didn't realize it was possible to have cellulite on your big toe, huh, that's nice. The seeing myself in the dressing room mirror naked part of the experience usually traumatizes me for about a year or so. When I manage to pry myself away from the mirror I put on the first pair of jeans. Too big. I end up exchanging all articles for sizes that are a wee bit smaller. Past angry dressing room lady and back into the horror story.
Now I put on a pair of jeans that are more my size. They pull up to my mid thigh without incident. Then they squeeze over the thigh and by the time they are at mid buttocks I am more than positive that they are not 'quite right for my build', as most people put it. By the time I finally pull them all the way up and the jeans reach the widest part of my hips and sit barely above my pelvic bone. The fly and button are wide open in such a manner that allows my lower stomach to hang out. Sweet. Needless to say that I will not be able to zipper these. I turn to look at my arse in the mirror and the top of my underwear is hanging out all over the place. It's less Jessica Simpson and more chick with plumber crack (Yes, I've tried the thong but I feel that I spend my entire life trying to get my underwear out of my ass, therefore, the last thing I want to do is shove it in). I take a deep breath and pull the pants off, my underwear usually come off right along with them because of the 'snug fit', and there I am again, naked in the dressing room mirror. This is right about when the worker girl comes over, knocks on the door and says 'Do you need another size?' What I want to say: "No, I need a therapist and a friggen pair of jeans that fit a woman and not a prepubescent girl". What I do say: "No thank you. Sorry". Yes, I am still apologizing.
I put my clothes back on, don't bother to try on the other five articles. I tell myself that these pants aren't made for ANYONE and that it's not just me. I leave the dressing room just in time to catch some 18-23 year old girl jumping out of the room next to mine in the 'cute jeans' I just tried on, with her 'cute ass' and she's bouncing all around saying to her friend "Aren't these cute?" To which her friend and I simultaneously reply "Yes". DOH! I finally get the remaining articles from hostile girl. Put the clothes back on the rack, leave the store. Go home, telling myself the entire way that I need to start exercising more. I run that evening for five minutes, get tired, get depressed and eat buffalo chicken. I refuse to return back to the stores for another six months or so. Am I the only one who experiences this nightmare? I have come to many conclusions and one of them is that it's official. I am old.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Puppet Porn and Grandma
Recently I was reminiscing about all of my past fourth of July's. Every year since I can remember, I go to my parent's cabin on Lake Bomoseen in Vermont. It's the one time of year that I get to see most of my relatives on my mother's side of the family. Beer, family, friends, fireworks, celebrating our freedom from the tyranny of the English Crown while creating our own tyranny by slaughtering the natives of this land and taking over by trading Montana for a bottle of whisky and so on and so forth until, America! Yay!
Last year, my cousin Craig and his wife Mary had brought the movie "Team America" with them. I hadn't heard much about the movie other than the fact that it was a movie written, produced and directed by Trey Parker. It was late on Saturday night, Sunday morning and I sat in front of the fire with the rest of the stragglers who were still awake. Mary came out and announced that she was going to put in 'Team America' for those who wanted to watch. I went in to watch the movie and the rest of the people went to bed.
I sat down on the couch with Craig and Mary and started the movie when my grandmother came over from the kitchen and asked if she could watch with us. "Sure Gram", answered my cousin's simultaneously. How sweet. A half an hour went by when my cousin Craig looked at me and said "Well, we're beat. Enjoy the rest of the movie". My grandmother and I said good night and I watched Mary and Craig get into their air mattress directly behind the TV. They were intensely whispering about something. I thought maybe they were fighting and, because I'm nosy, I strained to make out what they were saying. I heard a sudden gasp from my grandmother which averted my attention back to the screen. Two of the puppets were in bed. Naked. Having sex in the missionary position. The alarm sounded off in my head. This was that fight or flight moment that everyone talks about. You supposedly have one or the other. I myself often experience option three which nobody talks about. That's the one where you stay exactly where you are, mouth agape, and drool on yourself. I excel at this option. The puppets moved into the 'dog style' position. I slowly picked the pillow up from my lap and held it up between the TV screen and myself as to block my view, yet I was peaking over the pillow anyways because I couldn't stop watching. I glanced at my grandmother and realized that she too was experiencing option three of the fight or flight response. I slowly pivoted the pillow between my grandmother and I as to block my view of her. I directed my attention back to the movie, the puppets were against a bureau and watching themselves in the mirror. Inner voice: "Get up. Turn it off. TURN IT OFF". Puppets in the 69 position. "Run Deidre, Run". Female puppet on top of male puppet backwards. "Bad Puppets". Then they started doing things that I'd never even heard of. "God I hate these puppets". I hear a noise somewhere in the vicinity of the air mattress. Was someone crying I wondered? No, quite the contrary, I was hearing giggles. The bastards had set me up. "Sweet Mary mother of..." My grandmother's voice pulled me back to the screen. What could be worse than what we've already seen? I can't go into full detail but I will say this, sometimes seeing public urination isn't as shocking as seeing private urination. With Puppets. And Poo. I dropped the pillow and jumped up to my feet. The remote hit the floor which pulled my grandmother back to reality and away from the shock and awe of puppet porn. I smiled. She didn't. I stretched and said "Well, I'm going to bed Gram". "Can I shut this off?" She asked, barely able to make out the question. "Ya, sure. You know, that's a...Bad...Movie. Bad movie. Good night." Well said. I walked behind the TV and could make out Mary and Craig's faces which were glistening with tears of laughter.
Recently I was reminiscing about all of my past fourth of July's. Every year since I can remember, I go to my parent's cabin on Lake Bomoseen in Vermont. It's the one time of year that I get to see most of my relatives on my mother's side of the family. Beer, family, friends, fireworks, celebrating our freedom from the tyranny of the English Crown while creating our own tyranny by slaughtering the natives of this land and taking over by trading Montana for a bottle of whisky and so on and so forth until, America! Yay!
Last year, my cousin Craig and his wife Mary had brought the movie "Team America" with them. I hadn't heard much about the movie other than the fact that it was a movie written, produced and directed by Trey Parker. It was late on Saturday night, Sunday morning and I sat in front of the fire with the rest of the stragglers who were still awake. Mary came out and announced that she was going to put in 'Team America' for those who wanted to watch. I went in to watch the movie and the rest of the people went to bed.
I sat down on the couch with Craig and Mary and started the movie when my grandmother came over from the kitchen and asked if she could watch with us. "Sure Gram", answered my cousin's simultaneously. How sweet. A half an hour went by when my cousin Craig looked at me and said "Well, we're beat. Enjoy the rest of the movie". My grandmother and I said good night and I watched Mary and Craig get into their air mattress directly behind the TV. They were intensely whispering about something. I thought maybe they were fighting and, because I'm nosy, I strained to make out what they were saying. I heard a sudden gasp from my grandmother which averted my attention back to the screen. Two of the puppets were in bed. Naked. Having sex in the missionary position. The alarm sounded off in my head. This was that fight or flight moment that everyone talks about. You supposedly have one or the other. I myself often experience option three which nobody talks about. That's the one where you stay exactly where you are, mouth agape, and drool on yourself. I excel at this option. The puppets moved into the 'dog style' position. I slowly picked the pillow up from my lap and held it up between the TV screen and myself as to block my view, yet I was peaking over the pillow anyways because I couldn't stop watching. I glanced at my grandmother and realized that she too was experiencing option three of the fight or flight response. I slowly pivoted the pillow between my grandmother and I as to block my view of her. I directed my attention back to the movie, the puppets were against a bureau and watching themselves in the mirror. Inner voice: "Get up. Turn it off. TURN IT OFF". Puppets in the 69 position. "Run Deidre, Run". Female puppet on top of male puppet backwards. "Bad Puppets". Then they started doing things that I'd never even heard of. "God I hate these puppets". I hear a noise somewhere in the vicinity of the air mattress. Was someone crying I wondered? No, quite the contrary, I was hearing giggles. The bastards had set me up. "Sweet Mary mother of..." My grandmother's voice pulled me back to the screen. What could be worse than what we've already seen? I can't go into full detail but I will say this, sometimes seeing public urination isn't as shocking as seeing private urination. With Puppets. And Poo. I dropped the pillow and jumped up to my feet. The remote hit the floor which pulled my grandmother back to reality and away from the shock and awe of puppet porn. I smiled. She didn't. I stretched and said "Well, I'm going to bed Gram". "Can I shut this off?" She asked, barely able to make out the question. "Ya, sure. You know, that's a...Bad...Movie. Bad movie. Good night." Well said. I walked behind the TV and could make out Mary and Craig's faces which were glistening with tears of laughter.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Stick Shift
So I've been learning over the past three days how to drive a stick shift. My boyfriend, Connor, is in Germany to see a couple of World Cup soccer games. Bastard. He left his car for me to drive and it is standard. So needless to say I've been bucking all around Portland.
Today I had a lot of things I needed to accomplish before getting to work at nine. I needed to take a bath (I take baths instead of showers, get over it), let the dog out, get ready, get my dog's stuff together, get myself and the dog into the car, drop off a movie, bring the dog over to my parent's place in Scarborough, get gas, go to the post office and then finally go to work. If I had an automatic car I would have left my house at 7:45. This morning, to be safe, I left at 6:45.
Side bar comment. We normally have a hell of a time getting Duke to sit once he is in the car; however, since I've been driving stick, he gets in and lies down immediately. Thanks Duke.
Everything went fine, dropped off the movie, got gas, dropped off the dog, went to the post office and then headed to work without incident. Well maybe the woman I almost ran over, because I didn't want to have to deal with first gear, could be considered an 'incident'. She was j-walking. I blame her. The only thing left to do on my list was get to work and park the car.
I was going up a hill next to my building when I saw a spot. Good. But in order to park there I needed to parallel park...on a hill...on a busy street. Bad. First I had a wave of panic engross me, then the hives suffice it to say I started sweating like a 500-pound man in a chicken suit. I knew the first attempt was crucial. If I could back into the space close enough to the curb the first time then there wouldn't be inevitably superfluous maneuvering. I lined up my car with the car in front of the spot; put it in neutral and coasted back. Not bad, I ended up about three feet from the curb, ok, maybe three and half. I was thinking maybe I could leave it there. Three feet wasn't that far. I mean, if you stand three feet tall you are a midget or a dwarf, a midget or a dwarf is, well, little. Therefore, three feet to the curb times a midget or a dwarf equals I have no idea what I'm talking about. Right. I got out to get a better angle. To be honest, if no one was there, I would have left it. However, due to the fact that I was blocking a lane of traffic and people were yelling obscenities in my general direction I decided it best to move my car closer. Note to self; don't block a lane of traffic in the center of town in rush hour. Second note to self; when someone asks you if you are retarded they most likely mean that as a rhetorical question and answering them may cause them to become more escalated. I got back in my car...quickly. Put her into first, bucked a couple inches and stalled. First again, buck, stall. I revved the engine to about 3,500 and shot forward then slammed on the breaks just in time to avoid slamming into the car in front of me. I put it in reverse. Bucked. Stalled. You get the point, no? I finally managed to park and by managed I mean I ended up one and a half feet away from the curb and more diagonal than parallel. My tally: it took fifteen minutes, four to ten stalls, fifteen mini breakdowns, three angry commuters who were verbally expressive, two angry commuters who were more visually expressive, and a group of 17 year old (give or take) boys asking me if I needed help in order to park the car. Not bad. I think this whole driving a standard thing is going swimmingly. You?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Duke and the Chuck It
There were certain things I absolutely refused to do when we got our dog. The first is buy our dog 'doggie pastries'. The day I go into a fru fru dog store and pick out a frosted pink doughnut for my dog is the day that I've apparently lost my friggen mind. The second thing I refuse to do is make out with my dog. I mean, that seems completely self explanitory, no? Yet, on several occasions I've had people's dogs come up and lick my face and mouth. My natural reaction is to push the dog away from me. Nine times out of ten in that situation I've had the dog owner actually give me the stink eye for not allowing their dog to slobber all over me. What's that all about? Thirdly, I refuse to put any kind of clothing on my dog. If you want to put a sweater on your little puffball Kiwi you go right ahead. However, when Kiwi can't take her sweater off due to her lack of opposable thumbs and is being laughed at during playtime, well, shame on you. Hey, here's something, dogs have fur. Fourthly, I will never use a poop bag with a heart on it. Yes, there are poop bags with hearts on them. If it were a poop bag with someone giving the finger on the side of it then maybe I'd consider. I mean, what does a heart on a poop bag even mean? Poop equals Love? I love to pick up my dogs poop? Whatever. NO. Lastly, I refuse to buy a Chuck It. These were my words exactly, "I will never buy a Chuck It." A Chuck It, for those of you who don't know, is one of those devises that supposedly makes it easier to throw a ball to your dog, cat or goat. It looks like a long plastic arm with a claw at the end of it and can grip a tennis ball. They cost $15.00 and come with a Chuck It tennis ball. If you ask me, the Chuck It was designed for those who are either; too lazy to bend down, don't know how to throw a ball further than two feet or think that picking up a used tennis ball with their hand is too 'icky'. I decided I didn't like those people nor did I like the Chuck It. Maybe this is somehow connected to the gearhead issue I explained in my Geocaching post.
To this day Duke (our dog) has never had a pastry, never worn clothes (OK, once I put a sock on his paw b/c he was chewing it. Apparently to a dog that is the equivalent of making their paw disappear. Duke lost all ability to walk on that paw and would hold the socked leg up somewhere in the vicinity of his ear using only his other three legs. I must say I've socked many paws since then for sheer entertainment value. I'm going to hell.) and I have never used a poop bag with a heart on the side. However, two weeks ago, and to my dismay and other's chagrin, I had to buy a Chuck It. You can't hurt me. I hate myself more than you possibly ever could. How could I do it? Well...
About a month ago Duke and I went to the beach. I noticed off in the distance that there was a guy throwing tennis balls into the water for his two dogs. He was using a Chuck It. Sweet. Duke was behind me eating a clump of seaweed which he threw up an hour later. I myself was too involved in disliking the man and his Chuck It to be fully engaged with the seaweed issue and therefore I blame myself for Duke getting sick. As I pondered the complete lack of effort that anyone in our society wants to put into things anymore I noticed a third dog running up to the Chuck It man that bore a striking resemblance to Duke. It was quite amazing really...I mean the way he ran, his coloring and height was exactly the same. Although he certainly was not as well behaved as Duke. He was jumping all over the poor man, whom I disliked, running in circles around him and barking. Wow, bag dog. I was wondering what kind of owner would let their dog act that way when I turned around and noticed that Duke was gone. I'd like to say that it immediately occurred to me that the ill mannered dog jumping all over this man was Duke, but I didn't. Instead I panicked. I thought I'd lost my dog. The only other person I had seen on the beach was the man w/ the Chuck It so I started running towards him. I wondered what I could possibly say to him that wouldn't make me sound completely irresponsible. I could skip the details of how I lost my dog. No need to get overly detailed. I'd just explain to the man that Duke looks so similar to the dog jumping all over him that if I didn't know better I'd think it WAS Duke...aaaaannnd...stop. Deidre clocks in at just under five minutes to realize something that would take most other's only ten seconds. Suck it. By the time I actually got to man, Chuck It and two dogs, Duke was in quite the state. He spotted me just as I went to grab his collar and dodged my hand. He ran to the other side of Mr. Chuck It.
"Duke, come" I said in my happy, 'come here and I'll give you something good' voice.
He took a deep breath and didn't move.
"DUKE" I said in a sharp whisper, "COME!" That's right dog, I'm in COMPLETE control.
He ignored me. He refused to take his eyes off of the target. He barked. I went to go around the man and made another frivolous attempt to grab my dog. He dodged me, again. That's when Duke dug in and gave it one last college try. He took ten or so steps back, sat, stamped his front paws on the sand several times, stood up and proceeded to run full speed towards the man. He propelled himself, head down like a bull, into the Chuck It. Which did..absolutely nothing. He gave up. I grabbed Duke's collar and put him on the leash. I apologized profusely to the dislikeable man, who owned a Chuck It and walked away.
After that, Duke was never quite the same. He had become obsessed with the Chuck it. It was like crack. He wasn't sleeping well, he was cranky and was losing weight. OK, now I'm being dramatic. I tried everything but I couldn't keep him away. I tried avoidance but it was impossible. Chuck It's are everywhere. This bastard devise had shown up on every dog scene there was; the beach, the dog park, every open field or school playground. I tried reprimand. If Duke went after the chuck it and behaved like psycho dog from hell, I'd put him on the leash and we'd go home. That didn't last long, however. Duke is a high energy dog that needs to run around at least once a day or else he drives me to drink. I tried praise. I'd jump up and down and cheer like a lunatic every time he 'behaved properly' around the Chuck It. But he'd get so OCD around it that he didn't even notice me, unlike the other dog owners who would slowly back step away from me with their dogs. There was only one thing left to do. Train him on the damn thing. The only way to train him on the damn thing was to own the damn thing.
So that's it. I have lines that I have drawn when it comes to my dog. I have stuck to most. But in the case of Deidre Daly vs. the Chuck It, the verdict is in. I am guilty as charged. I have become a self loathing Chuck It owner.
There were certain things I absolutely refused to do when we got our dog. The first is buy our dog 'doggie pastries'. The day I go into a fru fru dog store and pick out a frosted pink doughnut for my dog is the day that I've apparently lost my friggen mind. The second thing I refuse to do is make out with my dog. I mean, that seems completely self explanitory, no? Yet, on several occasions I've had people's dogs come up and lick my face and mouth. My natural reaction is to push the dog away from me. Nine times out of ten in that situation I've had the dog owner actually give me the stink eye for not allowing their dog to slobber all over me. What's that all about? Thirdly, I refuse to put any kind of clothing on my dog. If you want to put a sweater on your little puffball Kiwi you go right ahead. However, when Kiwi can't take her sweater off due to her lack of opposable thumbs and is being laughed at during playtime, well, shame on you. Hey, here's something, dogs have fur. Fourthly, I will never use a poop bag with a heart on it. Yes, there are poop bags with hearts on them. If it were a poop bag with someone giving the finger on the side of it then maybe I'd consider. I mean, what does a heart on a poop bag even mean? Poop equals Love? I love to pick up my dogs poop? Whatever. NO. Lastly, I refuse to buy a Chuck It. These were my words exactly, "I will never buy a Chuck It." A Chuck It, for those of you who don't know, is one of those devises that supposedly makes it easier to throw a ball to your dog, cat or goat. It looks like a long plastic arm with a claw at the end of it and can grip a tennis ball. They cost $15.00 and come with a Chuck It tennis ball. If you ask me, the Chuck It was designed for those who are either; too lazy to bend down, don't know how to throw a ball further than two feet or think that picking up a used tennis ball with their hand is too 'icky'. I decided I didn't like those people nor did I like the Chuck It. Maybe this is somehow connected to the gearhead issue I explained in my Geocaching post.
To this day Duke (our dog) has never had a pastry, never worn clothes (OK, once I put a sock on his paw b/c he was chewing it. Apparently to a dog that is the equivalent of making their paw disappear. Duke lost all ability to walk on that paw and would hold the socked leg up somewhere in the vicinity of his ear using only his other three legs. I must say I've socked many paws since then for sheer entertainment value. I'm going to hell.) and I have never used a poop bag with a heart on the side. However, two weeks ago, and to my dismay and other's chagrin, I had to buy a Chuck It. You can't hurt me. I hate myself more than you possibly ever could. How could I do it? Well...
About a month ago Duke and I went to the beach. I noticed off in the distance that there was a guy throwing tennis balls into the water for his two dogs. He was using a Chuck It. Sweet. Duke was behind me eating a clump of seaweed which he threw up an hour later. I myself was too involved in disliking the man and his Chuck It to be fully engaged with the seaweed issue and therefore I blame myself for Duke getting sick. As I pondered the complete lack of effort that anyone in our society wants to put into things anymore I noticed a third dog running up to the Chuck It man that bore a striking resemblance to Duke. It was quite amazing really...I mean the way he ran, his coloring and height was exactly the same. Although he certainly was not as well behaved as Duke. He was jumping all over the poor man, whom I disliked, running in circles around him and barking. Wow, bag dog. I was wondering what kind of owner would let their dog act that way when I turned around and noticed that Duke was gone. I'd like to say that it immediately occurred to me that the ill mannered dog jumping all over this man was Duke, but I didn't. Instead I panicked. I thought I'd lost my dog. The only other person I had seen on the beach was the man w/ the Chuck It so I started running towards him. I wondered what I could possibly say to him that wouldn't make me sound completely irresponsible. I could skip the details of how I lost my dog. No need to get overly detailed. I'd just explain to the man that Duke looks so similar to the dog jumping all over him that if I didn't know better I'd think it WAS Duke...aaaaannnd...stop. Deidre clocks in at just under five minutes to realize something that would take most other's only ten seconds. Suck it. By the time I actually got to man, Chuck It and two dogs, Duke was in quite the state. He spotted me just as I went to grab his collar and dodged my hand. He ran to the other side of Mr. Chuck It.
"Duke, come" I said in my happy, 'come here and I'll give you something good' voice.
He took a deep breath and didn't move.
"DUKE" I said in a sharp whisper, "COME!" That's right dog, I'm in COMPLETE control.
He ignored me. He refused to take his eyes off of the target. He barked. I went to go around the man and made another frivolous attempt to grab my dog. He dodged me, again. That's when Duke dug in and gave it one last college try. He took ten or so steps back, sat, stamped his front paws on the sand several times, stood up and proceeded to run full speed towards the man. He propelled himself, head down like a bull, into the Chuck It. Which did..absolutely nothing. He gave up. I grabbed Duke's collar and put him on the leash. I apologized profusely to the dislikeable man, who owned a Chuck It and walked away.
After that, Duke was never quite the same. He had become obsessed with the Chuck it. It was like crack. He wasn't sleeping well, he was cranky and was losing weight. OK, now I'm being dramatic. I tried everything but I couldn't keep him away. I tried avoidance but it was impossible. Chuck It's are everywhere. This bastard devise had shown up on every dog scene there was; the beach, the dog park, every open field or school playground. I tried reprimand. If Duke went after the chuck it and behaved like psycho dog from hell, I'd put him on the leash and we'd go home. That didn't last long, however. Duke is a high energy dog that needs to run around at least once a day or else he drives me to drink. I tried praise. I'd jump up and down and cheer like a lunatic every time he 'behaved properly' around the Chuck It. But he'd get so OCD around it that he didn't even notice me, unlike the other dog owners who would slowly back step away from me with their dogs. There was only one thing left to do. Train him on the damn thing. The only way to train him on the damn thing was to own the damn thing.
So that's it. I have lines that I have drawn when it comes to my dog. I have stuck to most. But in the case of Deidre Daly vs. the Chuck It, the verdict is in. I am guilty as charged. I have become a self loathing Chuck It owner.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Temping
Have you ever had one of those moments where you stop and think, "I officially can't believe that this is my life?" If not, let me share with you what one of those moments might feel like.
It was St Patrick's day. I was under the impression that I wouldn't have to work that day as none of the employment agencies I was registered with had called me the night before. However, I woke up at seven AM to my phone ringing, they had work, I was selling my CD's for money, I had to go. I had to be in the downtown, Quincy Market area by nine.
What I remember of that morning: not enough hot water to fill the bathtub, a good coffee at the local cafe, an Asian gentleman on the T that looked like he was either fourteen or forty (how does that happen?) and a smellier than normal ride from Lechemere to Park Street. As for the smell, it was a toss up. It was certainly emanating from the man in front of me, however, I wasn't sure if he had skipped his weekly shower or eaten an Italian grinder in his recent past. Body odor and Italian grinders smell alarmingly alike causing my brain to channel this message to me, 'mmmm, do you smell that? What is that? Source identified by nose. You are smelling an Italian grinder. Inserting image of Italian grinder. Maybe for lunch you should get a...oh... one minute....sorry to interrupt but we're getting something here from the eyes. Um..what? What's that? I see. Eyes over riding nose. Source of smell has been identified, replace inner head image of Italian grinder to outside image of sweaty man walking by.' Three. Two. One. Gag reflex.
I arrived an hour early. I am obsessed about being early to work and airports. The rest of it is up for debate. I also get lost so often that I figure in an extra hour to get anywhere I've never been before. Although I'd been to the Quincy Market area plenty of times, I had never been to that specific building. It took me twenty minutes to get there. Door to door. So I did what any reasonable human being would do and paced in front of the building for a half an hour in the cold rain while the doorman watched me from inside. He finally came out of the building and asked me if I wanted to wait inside. He seemed a bit perplexed when I said 'Sure, I'd love to come inside. Thank you.' and proceeded to walk past him and into the elevator.
When I stepped into the office there was a man sitting at a desk in the center of an empty room. Seriously. Why in the center? The room was papered in a yellow that I suspect was once white. The man at the desk was probably forty years old, short and balding. He had an inntertube shaped body that is typical of middle aged women. He stared at me. I stared at him. I smiled. He stared at me. I said "Hello". He said nothing. I said "I'm the temp". He stared at me. I put out my hand towards him,
"Deidre Daly".
"Hello Ms. Daly. Bill Weiss. I don't need a temp."
"I'm sorry?"
"I don't need a temp. I didn't CALL for a temp".
"Um, is this the forth floor?"
"Yes."
"Is this the Michael and Michael law office?"
"Yes."
More silence. Inner monologue of panic 'Deidre say something to the man. Don't just stand there. Close your mouth, how long have you had that open? Call the agency. CALL THE AGENCY'.
"Sorry, I'll call the agency and see what is happening".
My representative, Paulie, answered her extension.
"Hi Deidre. How is it going over there?"
"Fine Paulie, thank you, well, except that Mr. Wise.."
"WEISS" says the man in the center of the room who is now back to his papers.
"..Sorry, Weiss, doesn't need a temp."
"Yes he most certainly does".
"Ah....."
"He needs a temp."
"Okaaaay, well he didn't call for one."
"I spoke with him. He can't pull out now!"
O.K., Paulie wanna...calm the hell down?
"Let me talk to Mr. Wise."
"Weiss"
"You said Wise."
"I know, but it's Weiss. Here he is".
I took a couple of steps towards the man in the center of the room and held the phone out towards him. He jumped. He had already forgotten that I was there. Tremendous for the confidence. He slowly reached for the phone and never took his eyes off me as if to say 'I'm watching you, don't try any funny business missy.' I can only hear his end of the conversation which goes something like this,
"Hello."... "Um. No we don't need a temp and I think maybe Tom called you by mistake... WHAT? I should not have to pay for... that is absurd." He brings his voice to a sharp whisper "I have nothing for her to DO!...FINE! She might as well stay if we have to pay her anyways."
He handed the phone back to me. I smiled. He shook his head at me in disappointment.
"Hello?"
"OK Deidre, all set." Paulie had composed herself to her typical neuroticly chipper self. "Remember that you have to get your time card signed before you leave or else we can't pay you. Keep in mind, if you do a good job maybe they'll ask for you to come again tomorrow!"
That seemed like as good a time as any to hang up on her. I figured that she would make 10 dollars per every one of my twelve on top of what she was getting paid hourly and for what? To send me to jobs that never called, to make sure I know better than to wear ripped jeans to my assignments and above else to make sure I know to fill out my time card. She was quite the asset.
Mr. Weiss took me into another room off to the left. This room had the same yellow that used to be white wallpaper, no windows and one desk which faced the wall in the corner. There was no computer on the desk, just a phone. He sat me down and gave me my instructions which were as follows. 'Your job is to answer the phones.' Right. There were three lines and two transfer buttons. He explained that the top transfer button didn't work so if I tried to transfer a call using that button I would hang up on the caller. It seemed so easy. Yet, that top transfer button was plaguing me. I mean, it was the bad button, I knew to stay away, yet I couldn't stop thinking about how much I hated that button.
Within the next three hours four other employees walked in, including Tom, the individual who allegedly called for a temp. Yet he had said nothing to me nor did any of the others. So, there it was. Three lines that rang approximately once every hour, six people including myself, a desk that faced a wall in an empty room with no computer, and a broken transfer line. I answered three calls in my first four hours there. I transferred them all with the ease and confidence of a receptionist that had been answering phones for years. Then, the fourth call came in.
"Hello, Law offices of Michael and Michael how can I help you?"
"Hello. Can I speak with Tom please."
"Sure can I ask whose calling?"
"Yes, this is Mr. Gary Smith".
"Sure Mr. Smith, let me transfer you"
I pushed the top transfer button without even noticing, I then entered Tom's extension.
"Tom?"
No answer.
"Tom?"
No answer.
"Hello? Tom?"
"Who is on line one?" I heard Mr. Weiss call from the other room. I didn't answer him, I had a job to do and that job was to transfer this call to Tom.
"Tom?"
No answer. At this point I had three frantic employees standing over me. I could make out certain statments and questions.
'Who's she trying to transfer? Why does she keep saying 'Tom'? Who is she? I didn't even know she was back here. Where did she come from? Is she a Temp? Did we call for a temp?'
"NO!" answered Mr. Weiss from the other room and added "But we have to pay for one anyways! She doesn't understand phones. Could someone show her how to use the phone?"
My focus was unparalleled. I wasn't hired to just answer three phone lines for this law office, nay, I was also responsible for transferring that call to the appropriate persons. I was a college graduate. This was a temp job. For god sakes I could handle this! I phased them all out and went back to the task at hand.
"Tom?"
No answer
"Tom?"
No answer. Then I saw a finger press down on the hangup button. Dial tone. I looked up, it was Tom.
"Hi Tom, Mr. Smith on line one".
Mr. Weiss was standing next to Tom shaking his head at me in disappointment for the second time that morning. He turned to Tom and instructed him to "please show this temp how to use the phone as she is obviously confused." Tom re-instructed me on the intricacies of a three lined phone system with a broken transfer button. Then he left the room.
I was alone again facing the wall. I stared at the phone and pondered many things like, why hadn't anyone just pulled that damn broken transfer button off the phone, why one's nose runs in the cold when it seems like everything should freeze up, why the smallest state in the US has longest name, why teachers make middle schoolers read the most depressing books (A Day No Pigs Would Die?). Lastly I pondered my life, that moment, how the frig I got to that moment. This statement is what resonated: "I officially can not believe that this is my life."
That my friends is what one of those moments feels like.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you stop and think, "I officially can't believe that this is my life?" If not, let me share with you what one of those moments might feel like.
It was St Patrick's day. I was under the impression that I wouldn't have to work that day as none of the employment agencies I was registered with had called me the night before. However, I woke up at seven AM to my phone ringing, they had work, I was selling my CD's for money, I had to go. I had to be in the downtown, Quincy Market area by nine.
What I remember of that morning: not enough hot water to fill the bathtub, a good coffee at the local cafe, an Asian gentleman on the T that looked like he was either fourteen or forty (how does that happen?) and a smellier than normal ride from Lechemere to Park Street. As for the smell, it was a toss up. It was certainly emanating from the man in front of me, however, I wasn't sure if he had skipped his weekly shower or eaten an Italian grinder in his recent past. Body odor and Italian grinders smell alarmingly alike causing my brain to channel this message to me, 'mmmm, do you smell that? What is that? Source identified by nose. You are smelling an Italian grinder. Inserting image of Italian grinder
I arrived an hour early. I am obsessed about being early to work and airports. The rest of it is up for debate. I also get lost so often that I figure in an extra hour to get anywhere I've never been before. Although I'd been to the Quincy Market area plenty of times, I had never been to that specific building. It took me twenty minutes to get there. Door to door. So I did what any reasonable human being would do and paced in front of the building for a half an hour in the cold rain while the doorman watched me from inside. He finally came out of the building and asked me if I wanted to wait inside. He seemed a bit perplexed when I said 'Sure, I'd love to come inside. Thank you.' and proceeded to walk past him and into the elevator.
When I stepped into the office there was a man sitting at a desk in the center of an empty room. Seriously. Why in the center? The room was papered in a yellow that I suspect was once white. The man at the desk was probably forty years old, short and balding. He had an inntertube shaped body that is typical of middle aged women. He stared at me. I stared at him. I smiled. He stared at me. I said "Hello". He said nothing. I said "I'm the temp". He stared at me. I put out my hand towards him,
"Deidre Daly".
"Hello Ms. Daly. Bill Weiss. I don't need a temp."
"I'm sorry?"
"I don't need a temp. I didn't CALL for a temp".
"Um, is this the forth floor?"
"Yes."
"Is this the Michael and Michael law office?"
"Yes."
More silence. Inner monologue of panic 'Deidre say something to the man. Don't just stand there. Close your mouth, how long have you had that open? Call the agency. CALL THE AGENCY'.
"Sorry, I'll call the agency and see what is happening".
My representative, Paulie, answered her extension.
"Hi Deidre. How is it going over there?"
"Fine Paulie, thank you, well, except that Mr. Wise.."
"WEISS" says the man in the center of the room who is now back to his papers.
"..Sorry, Weiss, doesn't need a temp."
"Yes he most certainly does".
"Ah....."
"He needs a temp."
"Okaaaay, well he didn't call for one."
"I spoke with him. He can't pull out now!"
O.K., Paulie wanna...calm the hell down?
"Let me talk to Mr. Wise."
"Weiss"
"You said Wise."
"I know, but it's Weiss. Here he is".
I took a couple of steps towards the man in the center of the room and held the phone out towards him. He jumped. He had already forgotten that I was there. Tremendous for the confidence. He slowly reached for the phone and never took his eyes off me as if to say 'I'm watching you, don't try any funny business missy.' I can only hear his end of the conversation which goes something like this,
"Hello."... "Um. No we don't need a temp and I think maybe Tom called you by mistake... WHAT? I should not have to pay for... that is absurd." He brings his voice to a sharp whisper "I have nothing for her to DO!...FINE! She might as well stay if we have to pay her anyways."
He handed the phone back to me. I smiled. He shook his head at me in disappointment.
"Hello?"
"OK Deidre, all set." Paulie had composed herself to her typical neuroticly chipper self. "Remember that you have to get your time card signed before you leave or else we can't pay you. Keep in mind, if you do a good job maybe they'll ask for you to come again tomorrow!"
That seemed like as good a time as any to hang up on her. I figured that she would make 10 dollars per every one of my twelve on top of what she was getting paid hourly and for what? To send me to jobs that never called, to make sure I know better than to wear ripped jeans to my assignments and above else to make sure I know to fill out my time card. She was quite the asset.
Mr. Weiss took me into another room off to the left. This room had the same yellow that used to be white wallpaper, no windows and one desk which faced the wall in the corner. There was no computer on the desk, just a phone. He sat me down and gave me my instructions which were as follows. 'Your job is to answer the phones.' Right. There were three lines and two transfer buttons. He explained that the top transfer button didn't work so if I tried to transfer a call using that button I would hang up on the caller. It seemed so easy. Yet, that top transfer button was plaguing me. I mean, it was the bad button, I knew to stay away, yet I couldn't stop thinking about how much I hated that button.
Within the next three hours four other employees walked in, including Tom, the individual who allegedly called for a temp. Yet he had said nothing to me nor did any of the others. So, there it was. Three lines that rang approximately once every hour, six people including myself, a desk that faced a wall in an empty room with no computer, and a broken transfer line. I answered three calls in my first four hours there. I transferred them all with the ease and confidence of a receptionist that had been answering phones for years. Then, the fourth call came in.
"Hello, Law offices of Michael and Michael how can I help you?"
"Hello. Can I speak with Tom please."
"Sure can I ask whose calling?"
"Yes, this is Mr. Gary Smith".
"Sure Mr. Smith, let me transfer you"
I pushed the top transfer button without even noticing, I then entered Tom's extension.
"Tom?"
No answer.
"Tom?"
No answer.
"Hello? Tom?"
"Who is on line one?" I heard Mr. Weiss call from the other room. I didn't answer him, I had a job to do and that job was to transfer this call to Tom.
"Tom?"
No answer. At this point I had three frantic employees standing over me. I could make out certain statments and questions.
'Who's she trying to transfer? Why does she keep saying 'Tom'? Who is she? I didn't even know she was back here. Where did she come from? Is she a Temp? Did we call for a temp?'
"NO!" answered Mr. Weiss from the other room and added "But we have to pay for one anyways! She doesn't understand phones. Could someone show her how to use the phone?"
My focus was unparalleled. I wasn't hired to just answer three phone lines for this law office, nay, I was also responsible for transferring that call to the appropriate persons. I was a college graduate. This was a temp job. For god sakes I could handle this! I phased them all out and went back to the task at hand.
"Tom?"
No answer
"Tom?"
No answer. Then I saw a finger press down on the hangup button. Dial tone. I looked up, it was Tom.
"Hi Tom, Mr. Smith on line one".
Mr. Weiss was standing next to Tom shaking his head at me in disappointment for the second time that morning. He turned to Tom and instructed him to "please show this temp how to use the phone as she is obviously confused." Tom re-instructed me on the intricacies of a three lined phone system with a broken transfer button. Then he left the room.
I was alone again facing the wall. I stared at the phone and pondered many things like, why hadn't anyone just pulled that damn broken transfer button off the phone, why one's nose runs in the cold when it seems like everything should freeze up, why the smallest state in the US has longest name, why teachers make middle schoolers read the most depressing books (A Day No Pigs Would Die?). Lastly I pondered my life, that moment, how the frig I got to that moment. This statement is what resonated: "I officially can not believe that this is my life."
That my friends is what one of those moments feels like.
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