A Memoir
It's impossible for an eleven year old to listen to a man with only eight fingers. He could be saying that he's about to give you a lifetime supply of Tootsie Pops or Pop Tarts or some other wondrous prize, but the only thought running through your mind will be, "where the hell are his pinkies?!" Don't try this at home kids; it's just plain impossible.
In this case, the eight-fingered man is a priest at my church and is decidedly not offering a prize. At least not anything I'm interested in at eleven. Eternal life and salvation are the least of my worries. I have the rest of my life to worry about my soul and being swallowed by the pits of hell. Eternity, to me, is sitting in church for an hour every Sunday.
My mom, obviously on to the fact that I'm not listening, as I'm currently slouched down in the pew and counting ceiling fan rotations, instructs me to sit up and listen to the father.
"Do you have any Lifesavers?", I ask.
She shakes her head no and shushes me.
Damn it.
"Does it count as a sin if you think a swear in church?," I whisper, slightly concerned.
I see her eyes roll and swear I detect a slight smirk. Getting my parents to laugh in church is the ultimate win-- even a small, thinly spread wisp of a smile is a chink in the armor; a small but exploitable gap in the unified front of church-going and godliness. Ha, I'm funnier and more interesting than church. Take that, God. It's usually my goal to make them laugh at least once during the sermon, particularly when there's no possibility of Lifesavers or any other suckable candy that guaranteed my parents at least a couple of minutes quiet time, but today I'm much more interested in getting the full story of the eight-fingered father.
Church wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't preceded by a full hour of Sunday school. Sunday school starts way too early and reminds me of a pre-game show. No one cares about the pre-game show. They're getting nachos ready and beer cold. They're here for the main event. God, in his omnipotence, should be well aware of this.
To make matters worse, my Sunday school teacher is literally the most boring human being alive. At this point, I'm fairly certain he's actually one of the apostles. It's the only possible explanation as to why he's so old and boring. He's not in touch with the way things operate in our advanced, modern society. We have Nintendo now, the most important discovery of the 20th century. There's no way he can compete with that. He's constantly making us leaf through our Sunday school workbooks that contain pictures and seemingly endless stories of miracles and tales of Jesus and his crazy antics. Anyone that wasn't an apostolic time-traveler would know that modern kids would be much more interested in reading if the illustrated biblical characters looked more like the Dream Team or New Kids on the Block. Duh.
When he talks about the crucifixion, which is a lot, I find myself secretly rooting for Jesus. That, just once, Jesus would look (disdainfully, of course) at Pontius Pilate and say, "Yeah dude, I'm totally the King of the Jews. What are you gonna do about it?" This would enliven the crowd of Romans and Jews alike and culminate in a WWF-style cage match between Jesus and Pontius. Which Jesus would obviously win by pile-driving Pontius head first into the mat and then helicoptering him into the toga-ed crowd. That never seems to happen though. And I still have an hour of church after this...
Kneel, sit, stand, bow, shake someone's hand. The father sings something. Hymn. Sit. Another hymn. Stand. I wonder if the lady playing the organ lives full-time up on the organ balcony. I imagine her fixed to the side of organ day in and day out, steadfast in her duty, devoted only to playing the music of the Lord. Nuns would go by twice a day, three times on Sunday, to feed her some eucharist and wine. Occasionally, when the church is empty and she has the ears of the Lord to herself, she plays baseball music to keep her spirits up. She imagines the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit all enjoy a good rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." She plays on into the night, the sounds of the organ echoing out into the dark, empty pulpit. She plays herself to sleep, only to be gently roused by a nun in the morning with a fresh plate of warm eucharist.
Well, that train of thought lasted about twelve seconds. Now what? I look around. Kneel. Finally, when I'm totally unable to occupy my mind any longer (I've looked at every single stained glass window and for being so colorful, they're all alarmingly boring--couldn't they at least have thrown in some saints getting mauled by lions?), I break down and frantically, in far too loud of a whisper, ask my mom why the father only has eight fingers.
"I'm not sure. I think he was born that way," she responds.
I squirm in my seat, swinging my head back to the altar, incredulous. Being told anything or anyone was "born that way" is the worst possible answer to a question. There aren't any follow up questions. There's no room for imagination or exaggeration. Up to this point, the possibilities were endless. In my mind, the father could've been accosted and captured by a gang of angry Jews in South America while trying to build a school for blind children. They might have been merciful and agreed to let him go with his life, but kept his pinkies as a warning. There could've been a freak baptism of teething twins who, upon being plunged into frigid holy water, had a knee-jerk biting reaction and clamped down onto the nearest objects for survival. But, no. This would not be chalked up to a fluke occupational hazard. There was no derring-do, he was just "born that way". End of story.
I think about it for a while and realize that I can find some solace in this. Because if a person can be born without pinkies, and still want to come to church everyday, a place with boring stained glass and overzealous organ ladies, he must really love God. So, surely, there's still hope for me.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
My Winnipeg and The War for North America
We have a strange relationship with Canada. We call them our neighbors to the north but really, we don't like sharing our continent with them. We scoff at the fact that most Canadians live so close to our border, as if clinging to us a like a scared girlfriend watching a horror movie. This land is NOT your land, Canada, this land is OUR land. And we're not the friendly type of neighbor, so quit looking over the fence at us.
I recently traveled to Winnipeg for a week of meetings with my job. Upon telling people of my intended travel to Canada, I was met with the same patronizing look someone gives you when you tell them you've just sat in traffic for two hours.
"Really? Oh, that sucks. Why?"
At first, I found myself matching the tone of their labored condolence, explaining dejectedly that it was "for work", but I didn't truly understand the origin of this intense pity. It goes without saying that our American ethnocentricity runs deeply, and there are few (if any) countries that truly escape our disdain. Even if we have to stand on our tippy-toes, we're looking down our nose at you. But, if the world was gym class (and really, it might as well be) we see Canada as the fat, slow kid that could never get to the top of the rope. We pick him last.
I decided an investigation was in order. I would use this trip as an opportunity to poke, prod, and perform what I considered to be a social autopsy on Canadians. I needed to expose (and possibly exploit) our differences.
What I found up north surprised me. Their blood was blue, they breathed (get this) air, they laughed. Just like us! I was fortunate to have encountered a slew of proud Winnepegians who I found to be friendly, intelligent, sincere, and down-to-earth. They inquired about the upcoming election, the state of our economy, and gas prices. It turns out that our neighbors to the north are quite privy to what goes on down here. Even the weather reports don't stop at the border as they do in the States. I'd never noticed, but American weather maps stop curiously at our northern border, as if to say, "meh...don't care."
Embarrassed about my complete and utterly blatant lack of knowledge of Winnipeg and Canada in general, I became a bit uneasy when the inevitable break in the conversation would come, and I realized it was my turn to ask a question.
"So, I hear it gets pretty cold up here, huh?"
I cringed every time the words left my mouth. Asking a Winnipegian about the winter weather felt like asking a person on crutches how they broke their foot: you know they're going to tell you, but they're probably sick of talking about it. This is not to say, however, that they don't answer energetically, treating you like you were the first person to inquire about the weather in ages. Polite? Yes. But, it's more than that. They're also undoubtedly proud of their ability to withstand this seemingly cruel and unusual punishment Mother Nature has unfairly sentenced them with. And who can blame them?
There were stories. Epic winter tales that have lent themselves to embellishment, been honed to perfection, and told many times over. My favorite was the story about a fellow who, in his brash adolescence, cut the top off his first car so he could have a convertible. The story came complete with a histrionic reenactment of his subsequent (and somehow successful) attempts to brave the relentless and bitter winter.
I couldn't help but think to myself, where's the beef? Was there any merit to our reasoning for the way we view them? Surely, we hadn't condemned an entire nation because of its affinity for hockey and curling, had we? Was it the metric system? Or because they took longer to politely squirm free of British rule? Was it because, despite their sovereignty, they kept the Queen on their money? What WAS it?
The more I searched for differences between us, the more I realized how alike we were. What I found, as I almost always do when I travel, is that, geographical locale, language, and culture differences notwithstanding, people are people. It's not that complicated because, despite our heculean attempts to convince ourselves otherwise, people aren't that complicated. If we can share a species, we can certainly share a continent. And you never know, it might start to get lonely being the big kid holding the last dodgeball.
A Dear John Letter to the Green-Eyed Monster
Dear Greenie,
I write to you today with a heavy heart. For today, my fair Greenie, after all this time together, we must part ways.
You've been there for me through even the most sane moments of my life, and have always been the one who was so willing to turn everything on its head. You were there when I least expected you, as if to add the last word to an already completed sentence. You were there for my tornadoes of emotion, and have become synonymous with that hot feeling that spreads from my neck to my face during my fits of illogical rage and bursts of unnecessary panic. Your appreciation for the beauty of these moments will not soon be forgotten.
I don't think you're a monster, Greenie. I never have. I think you're raw and uncomplicated; beautiful in your own right. I think you're misunderstood, like most that are deemed monsters. But while I appreciate what we've shared, I must tell you that it is over between us. I need to move on and know a life without you in it. For now, it will be hard. But, Greenie, I know there are others out there who need you. And with time, I know you'll be just fine.
With Kindest Regards,
Magen
xoxo
I write to you today with a heavy heart. For today, my fair Greenie, after all this time together, we must part ways.
You've been there for me through even the most sane moments of my life, and have always been the one who was so willing to turn everything on its head. You were there when I least expected you, as if to add the last word to an already completed sentence. You were there for my tornadoes of emotion, and have become synonymous with that hot feeling that spreads from my neck to my face during my fits of illogical rage and bursts of unnecessary panic. Your appreciation for the beauty of these moments will not soon be forgotten.
I don't think you're a monster, Greenie. I never have. I think you're raw and uncomplicated; beautiful in your own right. I think you're misunderstood, like most that are deemed monsters. But while I appreciate what we've shared, I must tell you that it is over between us. I need to move on and know a life without you in it. For now, it will be hard. But, Greenie, I know there are others out there who need you. And with time, I know you'll be just fine.
With Kindest Regards,
Magen
xoxo
Global Menopause
An Exclusive Interview with Mother Earth
There has been much debate about global warming, but most experts now agree that global warming is indeed a real threat to our survival. When we return, an exclusive interview with the woman behind the mystery. In her very first television appearance in 4.6 billion years, we welcome to the program Mother Earth.
Barbara Walters: Mother Earth, thank you so very much for being here with us tonight.
Mother Earth: It's my pleasure, Barbara.
BW: Tell us, Mother Earth, how are you?
ME: Well Barbara, truth be told, I'm not as young as I used to be. One day, you wake up and look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Your glaciers are sagging, your canyons run deeper, and your techtonic plates ache when you get out of bed in the morning.
BW: I think some of our viewers out there can relate!
ME: I may look and feel 4.6 billion years old, Barbara, but my mind is as sharp as it was when I was 3 billion!
BW: Ahh, to be 3 billion again...
ME: (chuckles) Indeed.
BW: Talk to us about the warming as of late, Mother Earth.
ME: Well Barbara, when a woman gets to be my age, she starts.. er, changing. I fear I don't have much control over it. Someday soon my fossil fuels will run dry and I will begin a new chapter of my life.
BW: What does this mean for us as humans?
ME: (Sigh.) You humans are my favorite species. Don't tell the others.. not that they'd understand! haha. I've truly enjoyed watching you evolve. After that meteor hit and all my dinosaurs were gone, I was devastated. Not to mention smarting like a bitch! That thing hurt!
BW: That was quite a catastrophic time for you, wasn't it?
ME: Yes, it was. The sulfuric rain in itself was horrible, but on top of it all, Father Time and I grew apart. I pulled away from him when he needed me the most.
BW: And then what happened?
ME: Well, it started when I saw the emails on Myspace. It all made sense to me then. He was in love with her and was planning to leave me.
BW: Another woman?
ME: Yes. Let's face it, Barbara. I'm not as volcanic as I used to be, and our relationship lost its spark. He fell in love with someone else. And who can blame him? Mars is beautiful. She has a thinner atmosphere, permanent, perky ice caps, and she's red. How can I compete with that?
BW: But you're still here and as beautiful as ever.
ME: It's amazing to even me.
BW: So, what's next?
ME: As I said, I've enjoyed watching you evolve. You are the most intelligent species yet, and my bond with you runs deeply. But you continue to take so much from me, and I fear I've spoiled you. You fight with each other and do such destructive things. It's all so incomprehensible.
BW: We've grown apart.
ME: More than I could've ever imagined. I've provided so much for you all. And I'm now at the age where I want to relax and watch you grow old, but I fear I can't rely on you to take care of me. But one thing is certain, Barbara. My existence will continue to unfold, with or without you. Extinction is a way of life here, unfortunately for your species. But with extinction comes change for me. And I am resilient. You humans fail to see this through your limited scope of existence here.
BW: You will go on, won't you Mother Earth?
ME: I will. Though my core may grow cold, or I may be knocked from my axis, though I may no longer be recognizable as I am today, my matter shall be conserved.
BW: Well, great Mother, thanks so much for joining us tonight. It has truly been an honor.
ME: Thanks to you as well, Barbara. I will be rooting for you and your kind.
There has been much debate about global warming, but most experts now agree that global warming is indeed a real threat to our survival. When we return, an exclusive interview with the woman behind the mystery. In her very first television appearance in 4.6 billion years, we welcome to the program Mother Earth.
Barbara Walters: Mother Earth, thank you so very much for being here with us tonight.
Mother Earth: It's my pleasure, Barbara.
BW: Tell us, Mother Earth, how are you?
ME: Well Barbara, truth be told, I'm not as young as I used to be. One day, you wake up and look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Your glaciers are sagging, your canyons run deeper, and your techtonic plates ache when you get out of bed in the morning.
BW: I think some of our viewers out there can relate!
ME: I may look and feel 4.6 billion years old, Barbara, but my mind is as sharp as it was when I was 3 billion!
BW: Ahh, to be 3 billion again...
ME: (chuckles) Indeed.
BW: Talk to us about the warming as of late, Mother Earth.
ME: Well Barbara, when a woman gets to be my age, she starts.. er, changing. I fear I don't have much control over it. Someday soon my fossil fuels will run dry and I will begin a new chapter of my life.
BW: What does this mean for us as humans?
ME: (Sigh.) You humans are my favorite species. Don't tell the others.. not that they'd understand! haha. I've truly enjoyed watching you evolve. After that meteor hit and all my dinosaurs were gone, I was devastated. Not to mention smarting like a bitch! That thing hurt!
BW: That was quite a catastrophic time for you, wasn't it?
ME: Yes, it was. The sulfuric rain in itself was horrible, but on top of it all, Father Time and I grew apart. I pulled away from him when he needed me the most.
BW: And then what happened?
ME: Well, it started when I saw the emails on Myspace. It all made sense to me then. He was in love with her and was planning to leave me.
BW: Another woman?
ME: Yes. Let's face it, Barbara. I'm not as volcanic as I used to be, and our relationship lost its spark. He fell in love with someone else. And who can blame him? Mars is beautiful. She has a thinner atmosphere, permanent, perky ice caps, and she's red. How can I compete with that?
BW: But you're still here and as beautiful as ever.
ME: It's amazing to even me.
BW: So, what's next?
ME: As I said, I've enjoyed watching you evolve. You are the most intelligent species yet, and my bond with you runs deeply. But you continue to take so much from me, and I fear I've spoiled you. You fight with each other and do such destructive things. It's all so incomprehensible.
BW: We've grown apart.
ME: More than I could've ever imagined. I've provided so much for you all. And I'm now at the age where I want to relax and watch you grow old, but I fear I can't rely on you to take care of me. But one thing is certain, Barbara. My existence will continue to unfold, with or without you. Extinction is a way of life here, unfortunately for your species. But with extinction comes change for me. And I am resilient. You humans fail to see this through your limited scope of existence here.
BW: You will go on, won't you Mother Earth?
ME: I will. Though my core may grow cold, or I may be knocked from my axis, though I may no longer be recognizable as I am today, my matter shall be conserved.
BW: Well, great Mother, thanks so much for joining us tonight. It has truly been an honor.
ME: Thanks to you as well, Barbara. I will be rooting for you and your kind.
Locked Out
Also, God Mocks Me
I can never lead a normal life and here's why:
I finally get out of work tonight at about 11 pm, exasperated from a hard and unecessarily annoying night of work. My phone battery sucks, so I often turn it off when I'm not using it. As I'm walking to my car, I turn my pitiful phone back on (god, I hate it) to see if I can glean another second of battery usage and check messages. To my surprise, I have two new voicemails. Two new voicemails? I don't even know two people. And so it begins.
"Hey Magen, it's Lauren. I locked myself out of your house. I'm at Jack in the Box using some Mexican guy's cell phone. I think your phone is dead. I guess I'll just wait outside."
Next message.
"Hi Magen, it's Mom. Lauren said she's locked out..? What's going on?"
End of new messages.
Sigh. I am now on my knees and face down in the parking lot wondering why I had given my sister the only set of keys to the house. My coworker spots me on the ground and walks over to me.
"What's wrong? Why are you on your knees and face down in the parking lot?"
I explain what happened, red in the face, holding back nary a swear. She kindly agrees to help me out and we head to the house to assess the situation. We finally arrive, and after attempting to determine how my sister could sit outside for FOUR hours and have neither gathered nuts/berries nor whittled a key from a nearby tree, we decide on calling a locksmith.
Thirty-five minutes and several cigarettes later (I took up smoking for dramatic effect), our swashbuckling hero arrives. Complete with an underwhelming tool kit that looks alarmingly like mine (which consists of a hammer from Ikea, a rusty wrench, and some jelly beans), flip flops (shouldn't he have on boots or something?), and wearing what I'm almost certain is woman's perfume, he scratches his head and tells us he can't pick the lock. Of course he can't. Why would a locksmith be able to pick a lock? It's not like he's, oh I don't know, a LOCKSMITH or something! I finally understand how Nancy Kerrigan must've felt. Why me, indeed.
His weirdly excessive giggling and total incompetence notwithstanding (and to make a long, not-so-exciting story shorter), I will give him credit for finally shimmying his way into a second story window. After he charged us an extra seventy-five bucks, of course.
The moral of the story, as anti-climactic as it may be, is: getting locked out is only funny when it's not happening to you.
I can never lead a normal life and here's why:
I finally get out of work tonight at about 11 pm, exasperated from a hard and unecessarily annoying night of work. My phone battery sucks, so I often turn it off when I'm not using it. As I'm walking to my car, I turn my pitiful phone back on (god, I hate it) to see if I can glean another second of battery usage and check messages. To my surprise, I have two new voicemails. Two new voicemails? I don't even know two people. And so it begins.
"Hey Magen, it's Lauren. I locked myself out of your house. I'm at Jack in the Box using some Mexican guy's cell phone. I think your phone is dead. I guess I'll just wait outside."
Next message.
"Hi Magen, it's Mom. Lauren said she's locked out..? What's going on?"
End of new messages.
Sigh. I am now on my knees and face down in the parking lot wondering why I had given my sister the only set of keys to the house. My coworker spots me on the ground and walks over to me.
"What's wrong? Why are you on your knees and face down in the parking lot?"
I explain what happened, red in the face, holding back nary a swear. She kindly agrees to help me out and we head to the house to assess the situation. We finally arrive, and after attempting to determine how my sister could sit outside for FOUR hours and have neither gathered nuts/berries nor whittled a key from a nearby tree, we decide on calling a locksmith.
Thirty-five minutes and several cigarettes later (I took up smoking for dramatic effect), our swashbuckling hero arrives. Complete with an underwhelming tool kit that looks alarmingly like mine (which consists of a hammer from Ikea, a rusty wrench, and some jelly beans), flip flops (shouldn't he have on boots or something?), and wearing what I'm almost certain is woman's perfume, he scratches his head and tells us he can't pick the lock. Of course he can't. Why would a locksmith be able to pick a lock? It's not like he's, oh I don't know, a LOCKSMITH or something! I finally understand how Nancy Kerrigan must've felt. Why me, indeed.
His weirdly excessive giggling and total incompetence notwithstanding (and to make a long, not-so-exciting story shorter), I will give him credit for finally shimmying his way into a second story window. After he charged us an extra seventy-five bucks, of course.
The moral of the story, as anti-climactic as it may be, is: getting locked out is only funny when it's not happening to you.
Employment Diaries
Part 1: Reefer Madness
I got the job.
Yay.
Excuse me for not being more excited, but my future employer (I start next Monday) required that I go for a drug screen prior to my start date. Now, many of you would think that this would be fairly standard procedure for those of us that work in or around any sort of laboratory setting. That any respectable scientific company would want to cover their bases and not hire someone that's going to rip-off the lab's supply of ether, acetone, or phosphorous in an attempt to stock their basement meth lab. But you'd be wrong.
At first, I thought it was odd too. Coming out of college, I heard stories about people getting drug tested prior to employment, and have to admit that I was pretty damn nervous. Don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't selling all my worldly possessions and preparing to join the Rastafari movement or anything, but come on, it's college.
I eventually got a job at a local biotech company and prepared myself for the worst (cranberry juice-- a wondrous elixir!). They sent me to a hospital at which a series of nurses and doctors performed the most comprehensive full physical I'd ever had. Since the job involved working with potentially infectious strains of viruses, they had to make sure we were 100% healthy, presumably to avoid any future lawsuits. The doctor even tested my lung capacity by making me blow into one of those Fisher Price looking tube things after running on a treadmill. But even after all the rigamarole, surprisingly, there was no drug test.
It wasn't until I'd worked in the industry for a couple more years that I realized why none of the companies I worked for ever performed drug tests: scientists REALLY like pot. Now, I know this seems like a specious and outrageous claim. But I can assure you that the reality is that some of the most brilliant scientific minds I've ever come across were 4:20 celebratin', Bob Marley t-shirt wearin', water bong ownin', Snoop Dogg listenin', certifiable potheads. They don't perform drug tests at these companies because they know they'd lose a third (or more) of their work force! It's a rabbit hole most employers don't want to explore.
Now, the idea of scientists (or any great thinkers for that matter) smoking weed is not a new idea, nor was it to me at the time. What surprised me was the overwhelming, unspoken tolerance of it. That corporate America (or at least the biotech sector) was in essence giving the thumbs up (or, more appropriately, the "hang loose" sign) to drug use.
So I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed that I had to go for a drug screen for my new job. Not that I'm worried, all they'll find in my urine is too much caffeine and perhaps a few traces of last night's pale ales. But really, how good of a company can it be if there aren't any stoners? Why has this company not caught on to the importance of mind-expanding psychotropics in the field of science?
I'm not exactly sure what I've gotten myself into, but I guess I'll have to wait and see. I know one thing for sure: I'll have to start bringing my own snacks.
I got the job.
Yay.
Excuse me for not being more excited, but my future employer (I start next Monday) required that I go for a drug screen prior to my start date. Now, many of you would think that this would be fairly standard procedure for those of us that work in or around any sort of laboratory setting. That any respectable scientific company would want to cover their bases and not hire someone that's going to rip-off the lab's supply of ether, acetone, or phosphorous in an attempt to stock their basement meth lab. But you'd be wrong.
At first, I thought it was odd too. Coming out of college, I heard stories about people getting drug tested prior to employment, and have to admit that I was pretty damn nervous. Don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't selling all my worldly possessions and preparing to join the Rastafari movement or anything, but come on, it's college.
I eventually got a job at a local biotech company and prepared myself for the worst (cranberry juice-- a wondrous elixir!). They sent me to a hospital at which a series of nurses and doctors performed the most comprehensive full physical I'd ever had. Since the job involved working with potentially infectious strains of viruses, they had to make sure we were 100% healthy, presumably to avoid any future lawsuits. The doctor even tested my lung capacity by making me blow into one of those Fisher Price looking tube things after running on a treadmill. But even after all the rigamarole, surprisingly, there was no drug test.
It wasn't until I'd worked in the industry for a couple more years that I realized why none of the companies I worked for ever performed drug tests: scientists REALLY like pot. Now, I know this seems like a specious and outrageous claim. But I can assure you that the reality is that some of the most brilliant scientific minds I've ever come across were 4:20 celebratin', Bob Marley t-shirt wearin', water bong ownin', Snoop Dogg listenin', certifiable potheads. They don't perform drug tests at these companies because they know they'd lose a third (or more) of their work force! It's a rabbit hole most employers don't want to explore.
Now, the idea of scientists (or any great thinkers for that matter) smoking weed is not a new idea, nor was it to me at the time. What surprised me was the overwhelming, unspoken tolerance of it. That corporate America (or at least the biotech sector) was in essence giving the thumbs up (or, more appropriately, the "hang loose" sign) to drug use.
So I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed that I had to go for a drug screen for my new job. Not that I'm worried, all they'll find in my urine is too much caffeine and perhaps a few traces of last night's pale ales. But really, how good of a company can it be if there aren't any stoners? Why has this company not caught on to the importance of mind-expanding psychotropics in the field of science?
I'm not exactly sure what I've gotten myself into, but I guess I'll have to wait and see. I know one thing for sure: I'll have to start bringing my own snacks.
Unemployment Diaries
Part Two: Deceit, Plasma, and Kanye West
What I failed to mention in my previous post about interviewing was that listening to "Stronger" by Kanye West before heading into a job interview is a spectacular idea. This way, "th-that-that-that that don't kill, can only make me stronger" will be thumping in your head the whole time you're in the hot seat. It works on two levels: 1.) you're not listening to what Captain Mc-Hiring Pants is saying, and 2.) it's a good anthem for easing yourself back into the sucktitude of the working world.
Speaking of sucktitude, I had an interview today. As it turns out, I could very well be a full time nit-picker (a figurative one, thankfully) as a Quality Specialist. Watch out world, I Specialize in Quality! Get the hell out of my way or I will push you back down into that reprehensible gutter from whence you came!
And, what's best about the job is that I get to work with plasma. Again.
It's times like these that I wish I worked in advertising. How fun would it be to come up with fresh, new slogans for marketing plasma to John Q. Consumer?
Plasma: It's blood without the stains! Now, with even fewer red blood cells!
Plasma: It's the part of your blood that's not Communist!
Plasma: Even crackheads can donate!
Scene opens at a school circa 1952 with awkward, "square" boy crying. Popular and more attractive 50's style girl approaches.
"Gee, what's the matter, Jimmy?"
"Nothing Paula. I just got this big zit today and I feel ugly."
"Well Jimmy, teacher says everyone looks the same on the inside. Maybe you should go donate plasma!"
"Great idea, Paula!"
They high five.
End scene.
Because I have experience with "human juice", as we so lovingly called it, I'm extra-qualified. And I don't mean I worked with little, nancy bits of plasma. I mean I worked with enough plasma in which to drown a horse. We tested for "bad" proteins that were present in the blood. Antibodies that, if present in high enough numbers, generally meant you could expect a heart attack or stroke or septic shock in the near future. We made it into a game called, "You're Going to Die Soon." I'm just kidding, that would be horrible. Incredibly funny and entertaining, but horrible.
Though it seems like a glamorous and romantic job, in reality plasma is a wretched, vile liquid. It's bright yellow and reminiscent of cold egg drop soup. It smells like a perfectly balanced combination of wet dog and raw hamburger meat. (I can't take full credit for that description, it was the general consensus--after much ado--of my former lab rat employee pals that that's what it smelled like.)
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to making its acquaintance again. It's been far too long, my old friend. This, of course, is assuming that I even get the job. If I do though, be sure to check out my next post which will be entitled, "Employment Diaries, Part One. My Life as a Corporate Whore: The Homogenization of America (and next, the World!). Who Wants a Jamba Juice?"
What I failed to mention in my previous post about interviewing was that listening to "Stronger" by Kanye West before heading into a job interview is a spectacular idea. This way, "th-that-that-that that don't kill, can only make me stronger" will be thumping in your head the whole time you're in the hot seat. It works on two levels: 1.) you're not listening to what Captain Mc-Hiring Pants is saying, and 2.) it's a good anthem for easing yourself back into the sucktitude of the working world.
Speaking of sucktitude, I had an interview today. As it turns out, I could very well be a full time nit-picker (a figurative one, thankfully) as a Quality Specialist. Watch out world, I Specialize in Quality! Get the hell out of my way or I will push you back down into that reprehensible gutter from whence you came!
And, what's best about the job is that I get to work with plasma. Again.
It's times like these that I wish I worked in advertising. How fun would it be to come up with fresh, new slogans for marketing plasma to John Q. Consumer?
Plasma: It's blood without the stains! Now, with even fewer red blood cells!
Plasma: It's the part of your blood that's not Communist!
Plasma: Even crackheads can donate!
Scene opens at a school circa 1952 with awkward, "square" boy crying. Popular and more attractive 50's style girl approaches.
"Gee, what's the matter, Jimmy?"
"Nothing Paula. I just got this big zit today and I feel ugly."
"Well Jimmy, teacher says everyone looks the same on the inside. Maybe you should go donate plasma!"
"Great idea, Paula!"
They high five.
End scene.
Because I have experience with "human juice", as we so lovingly called it, I'm extra-qualified. And I don't mean I worked with little, nancy bits of plasma. I mean I worked with enough plasma in which to drown a horse. We tested for "bad" proteins that were present in the blood. Antibodies that, if present in high enough numbers, generally meant you could expect a heart attack or stroke or septic shock in the near future. We made it into a game called, "You're Going to Die Soon." I'm just kidding, that would be horrible. Incredibly funny and entertaining, but horrible.
Though it seems like a glamorous and romantic job, in reality plasma is a wretched, vile liquid. It's bright yellow and reminiscent of cold egg drop soup. It smells like a perfectly balanced combination of wet dog and raw hamburger meat. (I can't take full credit for that description, it was the general consensus--after much ado--of my former lab rat employee pals that that's what it smelled like.)
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to making its acquaintance again. It's been far too long, my old friend. This, of course, is assuming that I even get the job. If I do though, be sure to check out my next post which will be entitled, "Employment Diaries, Part One. My Life as a Corporate Whore: The Homogenization of America (and next, the World!). Who Wants a Jamba Juice?"
Dispelling Job Interview Myths
What Human Resources Won't Tell You
There's a lot of information out there on "how to get a job" and "how to interview". All of this information is wrong. As an American, I can't stand idly by and allow those of you that are underemployed to be set adrift in a sea of misinformation. So without further ado, I will attempt to dispel common misconceptions about job interviews, and provide what I hope is an insightful and comprehensive guide to getting the job.
Job Interview Myth #1: Showing Up on Time
Are you a sheep? Because that's what a Potential Future Employer (PFE) will think if you show up on time. You don't want them to think you're a sheep. You want them to think you're a maverick, a rogue, a loose cannon! This makes you stand out against all of the other candidates, doesn't it? The key is to keep them waiting a good 15-20 minutes. Then, when you do show up, tell them you were late because you noticed a family of baby bunnies without a mother bunny on the side of the road, and had to stop to help them. (Unless you're applying for a job at an animal testing facility. In this case, replace "family of baby bunnies without a mother bunny on the side of the road" with "confused old woman drowning in the sewer" to avoid any doubt as to your ability to harm animals.) Then, sit back and watch the irritation dissolve off of PFE's face. You've just gone from maverick to lover of all living things. Now that's making a first impression!
Job Interview Myth #2: The Handshake
Most job interview guides will tell you to give a firm, but not overpowering handshake upon meeting your PFE. Wrong again. The key here is to crush their hand with brute force. The harder you squeeze, the better off you'll be. Research has shown that there's a clear correlation between how hard you squeeze and how much money you will make. If you give an average handshake, guess what? You're getting an average salary. It's science.
Job Interview Myth #3: Answering Questions
Forget what you know about answering interview questions. Here is a discussion of some questions you'll likely be asked during an interview, and how a PFE REALLY wants you to answer:
QUESTION: Please describe some of your strengths and weaknesses.
This is the oldest trick in the book. Never admit weakness. Think of the interview process as life in the Serengeti. Are you a wounded antelope or are you a lion? A PFE wants someone who will kill, not be killed. The appropriate answer here is, "Well Mr. Blank, I'd say my strengths are my good looks, my ability to seduce coworkers, and my organizational skills. My only weakness, however, is that I have no weaknesses. In fact, I dare you to find one." Make eye contact here and make sure the PFE is the first one to break it. If PFE looks away first, consider this a small victory.
QUESTION: Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
This is an important question and another opportunity for you to shine. A response I like to use is: "I see myself sitting right there, actually." Gesture towards PFE's chair, make and hold eye contact again until PFE looks away. You've made your point.
QUESTION: What would you say has been your greatest success?
A common mistake here is to assume the PFE is asking about your professional career. That's where you'd be wrong. Everyone else that has interviewed has discussed meeting challenging sales quotas, synergizing in a stressful environment, making their "numbers" against all odds, or spearheading some obscure thing no one cares about. Again, the key here is to stand out against all of the other driveling fools that have sat in that very same chair. Be exciting. Talk about the most sexual partners you've had in one night (sex sells), bungee jumping tequila shots in Mexico (you're athletic and know how to let your hair down), how many office supplies you stole from your previous company (you come equipped with your own office supplies). These things are memorable and serve as a way to say to the PFE, I'll get the job done, but I'm going to have fun doing it.
Job Interview Myth #4: Asking Questions
Most interview guides are right to tell you make sure you ask questions at the end of an interview. It's imperative, however, that you ask the RIGHT questions. Here is a list of appropriate and stimulating questions to ask your PFE:
1.) What is your policy on interoffice dating?
2.) Is the Christmas party open bar?
3.) What comes to mind when I say "office eye-candy"?
4.) What can I expect in the way of "fringe benefits" in this position? (Adding a flirty wink at this point is fun!)
5.) How does your company respond to sexual harassment lawsuits?
6.) How does your company respond to disgruntled former employee lawsuits?
7.) I assume you know I'll accept nothing less than six figures, correct?
These questions ensure that the interview ends on a strong, positive note, and that you've made a lasting impression on your PFE.
I hope this guide helps those of you in the job market. If you only take one thing away from this guide, remember to be the lion. Job hunting is a lot like regular hunting: it's kill or be killed. Welcome to the jungle.
There's a lot of information out there on "how to get a job" and "how to interview". All of this information is wrong. As an American, I can't stand idly by and allow those of you that are underemployed to be set adrift in a sea of misinformation. So without further ado, I will attempt to dispel common misconceptions about job interviews, and provide what I hope is an insightful and comprehensive guide to getting the job.
Job Interview Myth #1: Showing Up on Time
Are you a sheep? Because that's what a Potential Future Employer (PFE) will think if you show up on time. You don't want them to think you're a sheep. You want them to think you're a maverick, a rogue, a loose cannon! This makes you stand out against all of the other candidates, doesn't it? The key is to keep them waiting a good 15-20 minutes. Then, when you do show up, tell them you were late because you noticed a family of baby bunnies without a mother bunny on the side of the road, and had to stop to help them. (Unless you're applying for a job at an animal testing facility. In this case, replace "family of baby bunnies without a mother bunny on the side of the road" with "confused old woman drowning in the sewer" to avoid any doubt as to your ability to harm animals.) Then, sit back and watch the irritation dissolve off of PFE's face. You've just gone from maverick to lover of all living things. Now that's making a first impression!
Job Interview Myth #2: The Handshake
Most job interview guides will tell you to give a firm, but not overpowering handshake upon meeting your PFE. Wrong again. The key here is to crush their hand with brute force. The harder you squeeze, the better off you'll be. Research has shown that there's a clear correlation between how hard you squeeze and how much money you will make. If you give an average handshake, guess what? You're getting an average salary. It's science.
Job Interview Myth #3: Answering Questions
Forget what you know about answering interview questions. Here is a discussion of some questions you'll likely be asked during an interview, and how a PFE REALLY wants you to answer:
QUESTION: Please describe some of your strengths and weaknesses.
This is the oldest trick in the book. Never admit weakness. Think of the interview process as life in the Serengeti. Are you a wounded antelope or are you a lion? A PFE wants someone who will kill, not be killed. The appropriate answer here is, "Well Mr. Blank, I'd say my strengths are my good looks, my ability to seduce coworkers, and my organizational skills. My only weakness, however, is that I have no weaknesses. In fact, I dare you to find one." Make eye contact here and make sure the PFE is the first one to break it. If PFE looks away first, consider this a small victory.
QUESTION: Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
This is an important question and another opportunity for you to shine. A response I like to use is: "I see myself sitting right there, actually." Gesture towards PFE's chair, make and hold eye contact again until PFE looks away. You've made your point.
QUESTION: What would you say has been your greatest success?
A common mistake here is to assume the PFE is asking about your professional career. That's where you'd be wrong. Everyone else that has interviewed has discussed meeting challenging sales quotas, synergizing in a stressful environment, making their "numbers" against all odds, or spearheading some obscure thing no one cares about. Again, the key here is to stand out against all of the other driveling fools that have sat in that very same chair. Be exciting. Talk about the most sexual partners you've had in one night (sex sells), bungee jumping tequila shots in Mexico (you're athletic and know how to let your hair down), how many office supplies you stole from your previous company (you come equipped with your own office supplies). These things are memorable and serve as a way to say to the PFE, I'll get the job done, but I'm going to have fun doing it.
Job Interview Myth #4: Asking Questions
Most interview guides are right to tell you make sure you ask questions at the end of an interview. It's imperative, however, that you ask the RIGHT questions. Here is a list of appropriate and stimulating questions to ask your PFE:
1.) What is your policy on interoffice dating?
2.) Is the Christmas party open bar?
3.) What comes to mind when I say "office eye-candy"?
4.) What can I expect in the way of "fringe benefits" in this position? (Adding a flirty wink at this point is fun!)
5.) How does your company respond to sexual harassment lawsuits?
6.) How does your company respond to disgruntled former employee lawsuits?
7.) I assume you know I'll accept nothing less than six figures, correct?
These questions ensure that the interview ends on a strong, positive note, and that you've made a lasting impression on your PFE.
I hope this guide helps those of you in the job market. If you only take one thing away from this guide, remember to be the lion. Job hunting is a lot like regular hunting: it's kill or be killed. Welcome to the jungle.
The Unemployment Diaries
Am I Too Picky?
Not only does gainful employment continue to elude me, but now it's mocking me.
Most of my day is spent surfing various job sites: Craigslist, LATimes, Monster, HotJobs... you get the idea. I'm forced to compose cover letter after cover letter in an attempt to convince some power hungry (I have to envision them this way, otherwise it's too detrimental to my ego when they don't call me) HR person that, while I have no actual experience in this particular field, I would be a perfect fit for this position. Whatever.
Sometimes I start scanning the part-time jobs on Craigslist. It's not ideal for me since I have no money, but I can't help but dream of some glamorous, making-a-difference-in-the-world, low-paid yet meaningful position that I'd find tucked away, waiting for me with baited breath, like a kid waiting for a ride home from school. Skimming over the posts, I see an add that reads, "Nit Picker - 25/hour to start!" I think, hmm... I have a pretty good eye for detail. Five years spent working in a lab will do that to ya! I chuckle to myself (never one to not appreciate my own self-deprecating humor) and click the link. It reads as follows:
"The Hair Whisperers Lice Removal Service is looking for employees to make house calls to remove lice and eggs from infected children and adults. Position calls for someone with excellent vision, extremely detailed oriented, patient, good with children, not squeamish, and have a great sense of humor, as well as a valid driver's license. We will train qualified candidates."
Let's all take a moment here and let that sink in. Ok, good.
Now, while most of the job description makes sense to me, I can't help but wonder what exactly they mean by needing a good sense of humor. Is one expected to come equipped with a repertoire of lice-related jokes when dealing with a lice client?
"A couple of nits walk into a bar..."
"A priest, a rabbi, and some head lice are on a plane..."
"Hey, what's the deal with body lice?"
"Did ya hear the one about the lice that worked for the Center for Disease Control?"
I pictured myself (on stage, for some reason) wielding one of those tiny combs and delivering jokes one after another to the lice-ridden and itchy hoi polloi. They're concerned but hopeful, and politely taking breaks from head scratching to applaud when the moment is right. The laughter would grow louder in a crescendo as I worked my way to the grand finale sure to leave them buckled over in hysterical disbelief. Can she SAY that?!
This thought process only led me to more questions: Is there a nit-pickers union? If a nit-picker gets lice, can they nit-pick themselves, or is that unethical? Is there any commission involved (based on pounds of nits picked)? Is there an employee helpline to call if there's been a particularly long, hard day of nit-picking? (Man, I just wish I could forget it, though I fear it's been etched into my memory forever. I've never seen so many lice. Just when I thought I had them all, there were so many more. There were always more...)
Though I'm not yet desperate enough to join the ranks of America's Nit Pickers (I will, however, admit 25 bucks an hour is enticing at this point) I realize that I must maintain a sense of humor through this soul-sucking process. Because god only knows what else I might find out there.
Not only does gainful employment continue to elude me, but now it's mocking me.
Most of my day is spent surfing various job sites: Craigslist, LATimes, Monster, HotJobs... you get the idea. I'm forced to compose cover letter after cover letter in an attempt to convince some power hungry (I have to envision them this way, otherwise it's too detrimental to my ego when they don't call me) HR person that, while I have no actual experience in this particular field, I would be a perfect fit for this position. Whatever.
Sometimes I start scanning the part-time jobs on Craigslist. It's not ideal for me since I have no money, but I can't help but dream of some glamorous, making-a-difference-in-the-world, low-paid yet meaningful position that I'd find tucked away, waiting for me with baited breath, like a kid waiting for a ride home from school. Skimming over the posts, I see an add that reads, "Nit Picker - 25/hour to start!" I think, hmm... I have a pretty good eye for detail. Five years spent working in a lab will do that to ya! I chuckle to myself (never one to not appreciate my own self-deprecating humor) and click the link. It reads as follows:
"The Hair Whisperers Lice Removal Service is looking for employees to make house calls to remove lice and eggs from infected children and adults. Position calls for someone with excellent vision, extremely detailed oriented, patient, good with children, not squeamish, and have a great sense of humor, as well as a valid driver's license. We will train qualified candidates."
Let's all take a moment here and let that sink in. Ok, good.
Now, while most of the job description makes sense to me, I can't help but wonder what exactly they mean by needing a good sense of humor. Is one expected to come equipped with a repertoire of lice-related jokes when dealing with a lice client?
"A couple of nits walk into a bar..."
"A priest, a rabbi, and some head lice are on a plane..."
"Hey, what's the deal with body lice?"
"Did ya hear the one about the lice that worked for the Center for Disease Control?"
I pictured myself (on stage, for some reason) wielding one of those tiny combs and delivering jokes one after another to the lice-ridden and itchy hoi polloi. They're concerned but hopeful, and politely taking breaks from head scratching to applaud when the moment is right. The laughter would grow louder in a crescendo as I worked my way to the grand finale sure to leave them buckled over in hysterical disbelief. Can she SAY that?!
This thought process only led me to more questions: Is there a nit-pickers union? If a nit-picker gets lice, can they nit-pick themselves, or is that unethical? Is there any commission involved (based on pounds of nits picked)? Is there an employee helpline to call if there's been a particularly long, hard day of nit-picking? (Man, I just wish I could forget it, though I fear it's been etched into my memory forever. I've never seen so many lice. Just when I thought I had them all, there were so many more. There were always more...)
Though I'm not yet desperate enough to join the ranks of America's Nit Pickers (I will, however, admit 25 bucks an hour is enticing at this point) I realize that I must maintain a sense of humor through this soul-sucking process. Because god only knows what else I might find out there.
Old Navy Facists
I hate shopping for dress clothes. It's the worst thing next to being forced to go shopping when you don't have any money. Yesterday, it was both for me. So, because of my financial situation (when I went to the ATM beforehand, my printed receipt contained only a sad face), I needed to buy dress clothes on somewhat of a budget. Enter Old Navy.
I'm ballin' through Old Navy like whoa. Picking out dress slacks, blouses, and other professional attire like the P-I-M-P that I am. I head back to the dressing room and am greeted by a woman, 5'1" at her tallest, donning Old Navy jeans, shirt, jacket, hat, and lanyard. She's an Old Navy Oompa Loompa. If they ever went to war with The Gap or Banana Republic, I know what side she'd be on. I can't help but imagine her amidst the armies of cuordoroy and turtleneck clad warriors, marching forward, bloodthirsty, in scarves and sensible footwear. She would be the Mel Gibson of the bunch, cavallierly slicing off heads with one fell swoop. And then, when all the enemy had fallen, she'd be there to victoriously stick the Old Navy flag in the muddy, blood soaked ground and raise up her weary arms in victory.
"How many you haaave?"
English is her second language. And I don't say this derogatorily, I can only speak one language which is significantly less than two, I say it because I can't totally understand her.
"Um.. let's see. Six?"
"Ooookaaayyeee."
She leads me to a dressing receptacle. Old Navy, in an effort to improve customer service, has added a nice touch. They've put dry erase boards on the outside of the dressing room door so one's name can be recorded. Then, the nominally specified Old Navy customer can be asked, "how's it going in there, (insert customer name here)?" Incredible. I can almost hear the champagne cork that certainly popped when some customer service wizard thought of that one.
"What's your naayeeeeme?"
"Magen."
"How you spell?"
Jesus Christ. I hate everything and everybody everywhere.
"M."
"EeeeehhM...?"
"A."
"Ayeee...?"
"G."
"Geeee...?"
So help me God, if you don't open that door in the next nanosecond...
"E."
"Eeeeee..?"
"N."
"EeeeehN. Good. Ok, Magen.."
She walks away, and mumbles something I am unable to discern. That sounded conspicuously like instructions, I think. Oh well.
I try on my clothes, decide on a couple of things, and walk out with my pile of stuff. She looks up from her folding and is clearly annoyed. Oh no. The standard operating procedure for dressing room attendees, as far as I know, typically involves the attendee asking excitedly, "how'd it go?", as if you've just emerged from birthing your first child because yes, it's that important to them that you've had a wonderful experience inside that dressing room. To which the dresser replies somewhat sheepishly, "Um.. it was ok. I don't think I'll take these." At which point the attendee slyly smiles, takes the unwanted garments, and nods with an air of understanding.
That is the protocol but the Old Navy Oompa Loompa does no such thing. I have somehow unknowingly disturbed the delicate balance that previously existed between dressing room attendants and dressing room attendees.
She huffs and goes back to her folding. Tail between my legs, I set my pile of unwanted stuff down on the table and scurry off, admonished, and not entirely sure of what had just occurred.
Then, the unthinkable happens. As I walk towards the register, I see a pair of pants I like. I sigh, stare at the ceiling for a bit (as if looking for divine guidance), and decide that I can't let this dressing room attendant run my life. I'm going to try these on.
I take a breath, push my shoulders back (to emphasize my height, I've got at least ten inches on her), and march back to the dressing room. She's not happy to see me.
"How manyeee?"
"Two."
"I already erase you naaeeeme. That's why you need to tell me."
My mistake, attendant. You're totally right. I should've said, "Hey, I'm pretty sure I'm leaving, but there's a 7 percent chance that I'll see something I like on the way out and I'll need to come back. So, it's up to you whether or not you erase my name from the board. I wouldn't want you to have to write my name twice, so really put some thought into it. The odds are against me coming back, but if you're the gambling type, you might just wanna go ahead and leave it up there for a few minutes. You know, let it ride."
This is of course what I'm thinking but all I can manage, in barely a whisper, is, "Ssssorry."
"Poot the theengs you don't want over the door. You know, like last time." She distinctly and deliberately pauses here, and then goes back to her folding.
OOOOH.. that's what she said the last time! I try the pants on, and to my great dismay, they look hideous. And now, I have a choice. I can leave the clothes in a pile in the room and really stick it to her once and for all, or I can do as she says and "poot" them over the door.
I take a moment to reflect on this. As Americans, we are taught to consume. We are taught that the key to our happiness is having all the money in the world to buy whatever it is that strikes our fancy. When, for whatever reason, our shopping experience does not fill us with sheer glee, all too often it is the retail employees that catch our wrath. In reality, these people are just the foot soldiers, a mere symptom of a virulent disease that is consumerism, and most of the time have done nothing to draw our ire.
My mini-attendant, I realize, is trying to earn a living like the rest of us. Sure, she's bit obnoxious, but so am I, I can't even follow basic instructions. I put my clothes over the door, thank her politely, and walk out.
I guess I prefer the "kill 'em with kindness" approach to things. After all, I'm not the one that works at Old Navy.
I'm ballin' through Old Navy like whoa. Picking out dress slacks, blouses, and other professional attire like the P-I-M-P that I am. I head back to the dressing room and am greeted by a woman, 5'1" at her tallest, donning Old Navy jeans, shirt, jacket, hat, and lanyard. She's an Old Navy Oompa Loompa. If they ever went to war with The Gap or Banana Republic, I know what side she'd be on. I can't help but imagine her amidst the armies of cuordoroy and turtleneck clad warriors, marching forward, bloodthirsty, in scarves and sensible footwear. She would be the Mel Gibson of the bunch, cavallierly slicing off heads with one fell swoop. And then, when all the enemy had fallen, she'd be there to victoriously stick the Old Navy flag in the muddy, blood soaked ground and raise up her weary arms in victory.
"How many you haaave?"
English is her second language. And I don't say this derogatorily, I can only speak one language which is significantly less than two, I say it because I can't totally understand her.
"Um.. let's see. Six?"
"Ooookaaayyeee."
She leads me to a dressing receptacle. Old Navy, in an effort to improve customer service, has added a nice touch. They've put dry erase boards on the outside of the dressing room door so one's name can be recorded. Then, the nominally specified Old Navy customer can be asked, "how's it going in there, (insert customer name here)
"What's your naayeeeeme?"
"Magen."
"How you spell?"
Jesus Christ. I hate everything and everybody everywhere.
"M."
"EeeeehhM...?"
"A."
"Ayeee...?"
"G."
"Geeee...?"
So help me God, if you don't open that door in the next nanosecond...
"E."
"Eeeeee..?"
"N."
"EeeeehN. Good. Ok, Magen.."
She walks away, and mumbles something I am unable to discern. That sounded conspicuously like instructions, I think. Oh well.
I try on my clothes, decide on a couple of things, and walk out with my pile of stuff. She looks up from her folding and is clearly annoyed. Oh no. The standard operating procedure for dressing room attendees, as far as I know, typically involves the attendee asking excitedly, "how'd it go?", as if you've just emerged from birthing your first child because yes, it's that important to them that you've had a wonderful experience inside that dressing room. To which the dresser replies somewhat sheepishly, "Um.. it was ok. I don't think I'll take these." At which point the attendee slyly smiles, takes the unwanted garments, and nods with an air of understanding.
That is the protocol but the Old Navy Oompa Loompa does no such thing. I have somehow unknowingly disturbed the delicate balance that previously existed between dressing room attendants and dressing room attendees.
She huffs and goes back to her folding. Tail between my legs, I set my pile of unwanted stuff down on the table and scurry off, admonished, and not entirely sure of what had just occurred.
Then, the unthinkable happens. As I walk towards the register, I see a pair of pants I like. I sigh, stare at the ceiling for a bit (as if looking for divine guidance), and decide that I can't let this dressing room attendant run my life. I'm going to try these on.
I take a breath, push my shoulders back (to emphasize my height, I've got at least ten inches on her), and march back to the dressing room. She's not happy to see me.
"How manyeee?"
"Two."
"I already erase you naaeeeme. That's why you need to tell me."
My mistake, attendant. You're totally right. I should've said, "Hey, I'm pretty sure I'm leaving, but there's a 7 percent chance that I'll see something I like on the way out and I'll need to come back. So, it's up to you whether or not you erase my name from the board. I wouldn't want you to have to write my name twice, so really put some thought into it. The odds are against me coming back, but if you're the gambling type, you might just wanna go ahead and leave it up there for a few minutes. You know, let it ride."
This is of course what I'm thinking but all I can manage, in barely a whisper, is, "Ssssorry."
"Poot the theengs you don't want over the door. You know, like last time." She distinctly and deliberately pauses here, and then goes back to her folding.
OOOOH.. that's what she said the last time! I try the pants on, and to my great dismay, they look hideous. And now, I have a choice. I can leave the clothes in a pile in the room and really stick it to her once and for all, or I can do as she says and "poot" them over the door.
I take a moment to reflect on this. As Americans, we are taught to consume. We are taught that the key to our happiness is having all the money in the world to buy whatever it is that strikes our fancy. When, for whatever reason, our shopping experience does not fill us with sheer glee, all too often it is the retail employees that catch our wrath. In reality, these people are just the foot soldiers, a mere symptom of a virulent disease that is consumerism, and most of the time have done nothing to draw our ire.
My mini-attendant, I realize, is trying to earn a living like the rest of us. Sure, she's bit obnoxious, but so am I, I can't even follow basic instructions. I put my clothes over the door, thank her politely, and walk out.
I guess I prefer the "kill 'em with kindness" approach to things. After all, I'm not the one that works at Old Navy.
Farewell, Oreo
A Tribute to Pets Loved and Lost
Our pets are superheroes. Whether we recognize it or not, they represent us at our most basic, at our best. Like any true superhero, our pets exist for all that is good in life.
The first time I saw Oreo, I was 13 and taking a break from the strains of summer life in Vermont. My parents called my sister and I into their cabin to unveil their surprise, and I saw her. Her coat was as black and shiny as a polished lump of coal. She was so terrified and vulnerable, my heart ached with empathy for her. We vowed to give her a good home.
Her trepidation didn't last. It wasn't long before she was barreling around, making a complete fool of herself, and winning the hearts of everyone she encountered. It was impossible to resist falling in love with her kind and gentle spirit.
Oreo grew into her superpowers quickly. She could run faster than any dog she met and seemed to defy gravity with her bounding leaps. Chasing cars, barking at the UPS guy, and retrieving any and everything she could get her paws on were just a few of her many death-defying stunts. She was beautiful, brave, loyal, and stubborn. She was Oreo.
Like many dogs (and superheroes), Oreo had an uncanny ability to sense suffering and need. She would often come to my room to comfort me when I was sad and in the midst of clumsily bushwacking my way through the akward teenage years when molehills were almost always mountains. Even as I became an adult, I found answers through reflecting on her philosophy of life. She served as a constant reminder that what I needed was right in front of me. That life was never as complicated as I was making it, and that there was nothing a good belly rub couldn't fix.
People often argue that pets come to resemble their owners. I'm inclined to think it is the opposite. We often long for the simplicity of their lives, their ability to love so boldly, so fearlessly. We envy them lying belly up in a patch of sunshine allowed inside by the window, careless and without worry. To us, what they value is enviable: to enjoy a good meal, to be loved and show unabashed love to those most important to them, to provide safety. They will fight for what they believe in, because right and wrong to them is entirely black and white. Indeed, they are worthy of emulation.
This is what makes it so difficult when it comes time for them to leave us. They become our companions, and a representation of our best selves to the world. And when it was time for Oreo to go, true to character, she was stubborn to the end. She never would've given up the battle on her own. She would never admit defeat.
The consolation of her having lead a good, full life does little to muffle the sorrow that comes with her absence. But every superhero must fall. It is in their inevitable downfall that they become legend. As mere mortals, all we can do is remember who they were and what they stood for, and hope that each day we find the courage to be a little more like them.
Our pets are superheroes. Whether we recognize it or not, they represent us at our most basic, at our best. Like any true superhero, our pets exist for all that is good in life.
The first time I saw Oreo, I was 13 and taking a break from the strains of summer life in Vermont. My parents called my sister and I into their cabin to unveil their surprise, and I saw her. Her coat was as black and shiny as a polished lump of coal. She was so terrified and vulnerable, my heart ached with empathy for her. We vowed to give her a good home.
Her trepidation didn't last. It wasn't long before she was barreling around, making a complete fool of herself, and winning the hearts of everyone she encountered. It was impossible to resist falling in love with her kind and gentle spirit.
Oreo grew into her superpowers quickly. She could run faster than any dog she met and seemed to defy gravity with her bounding leaps. Chasing cars, barking at the UPS guy, and retrieving any and everything she could get her paws on were just a few of her many death-defying stunts. She was beautiful, brave, loyal, and stubborn. She was Oreo.
Like many dogs (and superheroes), Oreo had an uncanny ability to sense suffering and need. She would often come to my room to comfort me when I was sad and in the midst of clumsily bushwacking my way through the akward teenage years when molehills were almost always mountains. Even as I became an adult, I found answers through reflecting on her philosophy of life. She served as a constant reminder that what I needed was right in front of me. That life was never as complicated as I was making it, and that there was nothing a good belly rub couldn't fix.
People often argue that pets come to resemble their owners. I'm inclined to think it is the opposite. We often long for the simplicity of their lives, their ability to love so boldly, so fearlessly. We envy them lying belly up in a patch of sunshine allowed inside by the window, careless and without worry. To us, what they value is enviable: to enjoy a good meal, to be loved and show unabashed love to those most important to them, to provide safety. They will fight for what they believe in, because right and wrong to them is entirely black and white. Indeed, they are worthy of emulation.
This is what makes it so difficult when it comes time for them to leave us. They become our companions, and a representation of our best selves to the world. And when it was time for Oreo to go, true to character, she was stubborn to the end. She never would've given up the battle on her own. She would never admit defeat.
The consolation of her having lead a good, full life does little to muffle the sorrow that comes with her absence. But every superhero must fall. It is in their inevitable downfall that they become legend. As mere mortals, all we can do is remember who they were and what they stood for, and hope that each day we find the courage to be a little more like them.
Forbidden Fruit
If God wanted the forbidden fruit to remain forbidden, he would've made it a pomegranate.
The Almighty seriously dropped the ball on that one. Eve would've taken one look at that pomegranate and said, "Screw this! Adam, let's go play tennis."
As an American, I don't want to do anything that requires a lot of work, is confusing, will in any way get me dirty, or takes more than three steps to complete. So, when I picked up a couple pomegranates at the grocery today, I was reassured by the posted instructions that read, "1.) Score. 2.) Soak. 3.) Separate."
Alliterative and simple! I thought to myself excitedly.
Feverish in my anticipation for my trendy new snack, I barely noticed that on the reverse side of the sign there were the same directions in French.
Well, if the French can do it..., I thought. Man, I'm funny. Why am I always alone when I think funny things? Probably because you ask yourself rhetorical questions and laugh at your own jokes. Ah, touche.
At home, I found myself patiently (ok, not at all patiently) following the now memorized pomegranate dismantling instructions. Only, my pomegranate didn't look like the one on the sign. Mine wasn't neatly scored, and the pomegranate corpuscles (or whatever the hell they are, I like to call them corpuscles) were certainly not assembling themselves cooperatively into the strainer.
Could I have possibly been mislead by the marking people of the pomegranate? Why would they do that? Are they French? Am I French for trying to eat a pomegranate? Actually, I think I am a little French. Or is it German? I've always wanted to learn French or German Why the hell did I take all those years of Spanish in high school? That was a waste. I don't even remember it. I wonder how you say "pomegranate" in Spanish. Probably pomegranito or something. Haha, that's funny too! I should really start writing this stuff down. I wonder how things are going with my pomegranate.
Crap.
My kitchen looked like a crime scene from one of those crime scene investigation shows. Like CSI, maybe. All that was missing was David Caruso tilting his birdlike head, removing his sunglasses and saying, "No lieutenant, this was more than just an attempt at a healthy snack: this was murder."
My hands, forearm, t-shirt, face, and counter top were all covered in sticky, blood-colored spatter. I cursed myself and Mother Nature, but finally resigned myself to the realization that my pomegranate was gone. There was nothing left to do but to pick up the pieces, and try to move on.
The Almighty seriously dropped the ball on that one. Eve would've taken one look at that pomegranate and said, "Screw this! Adam, let's go play tennis."
As an American, I don't want to do anything that requires a lot of work, is confusing, will in any way get me dirty, or takes more than three steps to complete. So, when I picked up a couple pomegranates at the grocery today, I was reassured by the posted instructions that read, "1.) Score. 2.) Soak. 3.) Separate."
Alliterative and simple! I thought to myself excitedly.
Feverish in my anticipation for my trendy new snack, I barely noticed that on the reverse side of the sign there were the same directions in French.
Well, if the French can do it..., I thought. Man, I'm funny. Why am I always alone when I think funny things? Probably because you ask yourself rhetorical questions and laugh at your own jokes. Ah, touche.
At home, I found myself patiently (ok, not at all patiently) following the now memorized pomegranate dismantling instructions. Only, my pomegranate didn't look like the one on the sign. Mine wasn't neatly scored, and the pomegranate corpuscles (or whatever the hell they are, I like to call them corpuscles) were certainly not assembling themselves cooperatively into the strainer.
Could I have possibly been mislead by the marking people of the pomegranate? Why would they do that? Are they French? Am I French for trying to eat a pomegranate? Actually, I think I am a little French. Or is it German? I've always wanted to learn French or German Why the hell did I take all those years of Spanish in high school? That was a waste. I don't even remember it. I wonder how you say "pomegranate" in Spanish. Probably pomegranito or something. Haha, that's funny too! I should really start writing this stuff down. I wonder how things are going with my pomegranate.
Crap.
My kitchen looked like a crime scene from one of those crime scene investigation shows. Like CSI, maybe. All that was missing was David Caruso tilting his birdlike head, removing his sunglasses and saying, "No lieutenant, this was more than just an attempt at a healthy snack: this was murder."
My hands, forearm, t-shirt, face, and counter top were all covered in sticky, blood-colored spatter. I cursed myself and Mother Nature, but finally resigned myself to the realization that my pomegranate was gone. There was nothing left to do but to pick up the pieces, and try to move on.
Power Outage
Californians (Namely Me) Suffer
No PlayStation, no hot water, no TV, no internet, no stereo, no refrigerator, no stove, no life. Losing power makes me realize that were time travel a possibility, its not one I'd soon explore. Forget cholera- I'd die of outright boredom.
As it turns out, California is ill-equipped for storms. In the other 355 days of near perfect weather, no one in California is saying to themselves, "hey, better stock up on batteries and canned food just in case!" Californians fail to realize and prepare for the possibility of foul weather. If you can even call it that. A couple days of rain and wind, and there are landslides, power outages, car wrecks, and rioting. Ok, not rioting. Only rioting in the form of bitching about bad weather.
We lost power with a bang last night. It was about 11.30, so after grabbing my camping headlamp and glancing out the window a couple of times to confirm that it was in fact the entire block that went out, I finished my book chapter and went to sleep. Back in New England, we lost power quite a bit, so it's nothing I hadn't been through before.
Waking up this morning, however, I was irritated to find out that my cell phone hadn't charged, confirming the fact that the power was still out. One hell of a quick cold shower later, I stumbled to the corner for Starbucks and the paper, in lieu of my usual homemade coffee and internet.
After completing the crossword (what else is the newspaper good for?) and watching my cat slump over from exhaustion (no doubt wondering the reason for all the extra attention), I realized I was insanely bored. With a grimace, I decided to clean the house. Usually to tackle these sorts of chores, I don underwear, sunglasses, and button down -- never one to miss an opportunity for a Risky Business homage-- but without music, what was the point?
"Life without electricity sucks," I said to myself in a whinier voice than I intended.
I cleaned for a bit, but without my usual fervor. Plus, I couldn't clean anything that required hot water. Really all I did was empty my suitcase that had been sitting on the bedroom floor for two weeks. I tried to wake the cat up with his favorite feather toy, but to no avail. I leafed through a people magazine. Boy, I'd expect it from Lohan, but not Mischa Barton. She seemed to have her head on straight, unlike the rest of those maniacs. And what the hell is Jamie Spears going to do with a baby?! That boyfriend of hers is going to bolt like a bat out of---
And there it was. The glorious beep of the microwave, the mellifluous hum of the refrigerator, the small red light of the Playstation beaming like a beacon from heaven above. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, checked my email, and felt normal again.
No PlayStation, no hot water, no TV, no internet, no stereo, no refrigerator, no stove, no life. Losing power makes me realize that were time travel a possibility, its not one I'd soon explore. Forget cholera- I'd die of outright boredom.
As it turns out, California is ill-equipped for storms. In the other 355 days of near perfect weather, no one in California is saying to themselves, "hey, better stock up on batteries and canned food just in case!" Californians fail to realize and prepare for the possibility of foul weather. If you can even call it that. A couple days of rain and wind, and there are landslides, power outages, car wrecks, and rioting. Ok, not rioting. Only rioting in the form of bitching about bad weather.
We lost power with a bang last night. It was about 11.30, so after grabbing my camping headlamp and glancing out the window a couple of times to confirm that it was in fact the entire block that went out, I finished my book chapter and went to sleep. Back in New England, we lost power quite a bit, so it's nothing I hadn't been through before.
Waking up this morning, however, I was irritated to find out that my cell phone hadn't charged, confirming the fact that the power was still out. One hell of a quick cold shower later, I stumbled to the corner for Starbucks and the paper, in lieu of my usual homemade coffee and internet.
After completing the crossword (what else is the newspaper good for?) and watching my cat slump over from exhaustion (no doubt wondering the reason for all the extra attention), I realized I was insanely bored. With a grimace, I decided to clean the house. Usually to tackle these sorts of chores, I don underwear, sunglasses, and button down -- never one to miss an opportunity for a Risky Business homage-- but without music, what was the point?
"Life without electricity sucks," I said to myself in a whinier voice than I intended.
I cleaned for a bit, but without my usual fervor. Plus, I couldn't clean anything that required hot water. Really all I did was empty my suitcase that had been sitting on the bedroom floor for two weeks. I tried to wake the cat up with his favorite feather toy, but to no avail. I leafed through a people magazine. Boy, I'd expect it from Lohan, but not Mischa Barton. She seemed to have her head on straight, unlike the rest of those maniacs. And what the hell is Jamie Spears going to do with a baby?! That boyfriend of hers is going to bolt like a bat out of---
And there it was. The glorious beep of the microwave, the mellifluous hum of the refrigerator, the small red light of the Playstation beaming like a beacon from heaven above. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, checked my email, and felt normal again.
Diary of a Mad Black Cat
The day Major brought me home, I was eternally grateful. I was young at the time, barely old enough to walk, but I remember some silent force pulling me to her. I remember her picking me up, drawing me close, and smiling affectionately as she patted me on the head. I squirmed away, but couldn't ignore the connection between us. She was genuine and sweet. Though I acted indifferent, I secretly hoped she'd be the one.
And so it was. On a bright and sunny April afternoon, Major took me home for good. I was ecstatic. I couldn't even begin to hold in my excitement. Finally, I would be in a place I could call my own, with a new family that loved me. This was going to be great.
Major and I were inseparable. Even though the summer heat had begun its smothering stay, Major and I played all day long. She marveled at how much energy I had and how quickly I learned to do things. She was constantly rewarding me with what seemed to be an endless supply of delicious foodstuffs. If I grew tired and needed a nap, I'd awake to find Major patiently sitting nearby, waiting with a smile. Though I couldn't tell her, I always appreciated her not going too far. She somehow knew it was still scary for me to wake up in strange place. At night, Major would let me sleep with her. I'd put my head on her chest and drift off to sleep while she chuckled at The Late Show.
Then, in the fall, as though triggered by the changing leaves, things changed for Major and I. The clutter that once made our apartment feel homey and safe was being organized, labeled, and packed away into boxes. Major explained that we "had to go somewhere different now," and that everything would be just fine. I protested as best I could, but it fell on deaf ears, and Major went on with her plan undeterred.
I was more scared than ever when we arrived. This place was huge and everything totally different than our old neighborhood. Different smells, different people, a different life. I hated Major in the instant I realized that I would have to start all over again.
In far too much of a sales pitch, Major showed me around. Her hands reached up in a Vanna White-like flourish as she said, "this is where you sleep, and here is the bathroom." As if I couldn't have figured it out on my own. I noticed there were two other people there, older than Major. She had hugged them when she walked in. Now, they stood looking on as Major gave me the tour, marveling at how "big" I'd gotten. Whatever.
That was when I saw HER.
I had noticed her kind before in our old neighborhood, but I'd never come face-to-face with one of them. Did Major seriously expect me to live here with HER? We were totally different. There was no way we'd ever get along. I silently pledged to myself that I would never even try to be civil; that from now on, I'd exist only to make her life a living hell. I hated the way Major seemed to get along with her so well, as if they'd known each other forever. Didn't she know what she was?! It disgusted me. I stalked off and found a place to take a nap.
Major was gone for long parts of the day. I was stuck with the older two I'd seen, who I'd now figured out were in some way related to Major. The Evil One, as I'd dubbed her, also was there all the time, lounging around and always in my way. As it turns out, Evil disliked me as much as I disliked her. Our venom for each other was mutual and severe. We fought a lot, in loud, heated bouts which almost always resulted in one of us yelping and scampering off bloodied in one way or another. It got to the point where the rest of the family didn't want to leave us alone together. It was hard on me. I only found solace in the increasingly few alone moments between Major and I.
As time passed, things, as they almost always do, found an equilibrium. The older two, though initially averse to my presence, seemed to have discovered a newly found appreciation for me. They cooked delicious food that I couldn't get enough of, and often included me in activities when Major wasn't around. Sometimes I'd go outside and help with yard work, which usually involved me trying to catch bees by the azalea bushes, and the older two laughing at my antics.
Even The Evil One and I had found a middle ground. We kept a suspicious eye on each other, but the fighting seemed to have ceased for the time being. Evil was older than I, so I'd often look to her when I was uncertain about how to act in a given situation. Though I'd never give her the satisfaction of knowing it, somewhere along the lines I'd begun respect Evil. I might have even liked her.
One day, the all too familiar boxes showed up again. I didn't like the looks of it one bit. I cried and cried and begged Major not to do this. But she continued. It was as if she was protected by a force field, my pleadings not nearly strong enough to penetrate. It was different this time though. Major didn't bother packing up any of my things. When I asked her about it, Major would only scoop me into her arms and hold me for a while. She never gave an explanation. She never said a real goodbye.
Then, she was gone. I heard the word "California" a lot, though I had no idea what it meant. To me, California was the enemy. It had taken Major away and was holding her hostage against her will. Everyday, alone in her cell, she dreamed of ways to escape and return to me. I knew this wasn't true though. Major had gone, of her own accord, and I was uncertain if I'd ever see her again.
Almost a year went by and I adjusted to my new life without Major. I was comfortable and well looked after. I would even say I was happy. But every now and again, my thoughts would drift to her. It was the little things between the two of us that had built our bond. I missed the way she'd pick me up after I'd been sleeping. She'd hold me upside down and I'd stretch all my limbs at once. No one else could do it quite like her. I missed the way she'd always let me read over her shoulder, though I couldn't understand the words. I missed her kindness.
The older two had a visitor one day. I heard my name and "California" mentioned several times, and I knew the Major had sent for me. Whoever this visitor was, it didn't matter. He was now merely a vessel of passage back to Major. Back to my true home. My things were packed and the date was set.
The trip to the place called California was terrifying. The details of which I won't utter here. Suffice it to say that I saw, heard, and smelled things that I wouldn't wish on my worse enemy. The comforts of home were stripped from me as I was thrust into a bizarre world of transportation I hope to never experience again. I took small consolation in knowing that, if I survived, I would see Major gleaming like a beacon of light at the end of the darkest tunnel. I would finally be back home.
The two of us are as inseparable as ever. Major tells me I'm her "Hollywood Cat". She lets me climb the tree and flounce around in the lavender plants in the courtyard. After I wake from a nap, I'll let her pick me up for our special stretch that she calls "kitty yoga". She still lets me sleep with her at night, just like when I was little and our lives had newly crossed paths. Though Major gets a kick out of it, being a Hollywood Cat doesn't mean much to me. I'm just glad to be home.
And so it was. On a bright and sunny April afternoon, Major took me home for good. I was ecstatic. I couldn't even begin to hold in my excitement. Finally, I would be in a place I could call my own, with a new family that loved me. This was going to be great.
Major and I were inseparable. Even though the summer heat had begun its smothering stay, Major and I played all day long. She marveled at how much energy I had and how quickly I learned to do things. She was constantly rewarding me with what seemed to be an endless supply of delicious foodstuffs. If I grew tired and needed a nap, I'd awake to find Major patiently sitting nearby, waiting with a smile. Though I couldn't tell her, I always appreciated her not going too far. She somehow knew it was still scary for me to wake up in strange place. At night, Major would let me sleep with her. I'd put my head on her chest and drift off to sleep while she chuckled at The Late Show.
Then, in the fall, as though triggered by the changing leaves, things changed for Major and I. The clutter that once made our apartment feel homey and safe was being organized, labeled, and packed away into boxes. Major explained that we "had to go somewhere different now," and that everything would be just fine. I protested as best I could, but it fell on deaf ears, and Major went on with her plan undeterred.
I was more scared than ever when we arrived. This place was huge and everything totally different than our old neighborhood. Different smells, different people, a different life. I hated Major in the instant I realized that I would have to start all over again.
In far too much of a sales pitch, Major showed me around. Her hands reached up in a Vanna White-like flourish as she said, "this is where you sleep, and here is the bathroom." As if I couldn't have figured it out on my own. I noticed there were two other people there, older than Major. She had hugged them when she walked in. Now, they stood looking on as Major gave me the tour, marveling at how "big" I'd gotten. Whatever.
That was when I saw HER.
I had noticed her kind before in our old neighborhood, but I'd never come face-to-face with one of them. Did Major seriously expect me to live here with HER? We were totally different. There was no way we'd ever get along. I silently pledged to myself that I would never even try to be civil; that from now on, I'd exist only to make her life a living hell. I hated the way Major seemed to get along with her so well, as if they'd known each other forever. Didn't she know what she was?! It disgusted me. I stalked off and found a place to take a nap.
Major was gone for long parts of the day. I was stuck with the older two I'd seen, who I'd now figured out were in some way related to Major. The Evil One, as I'd dubbed her, also was there all the time, lounging around and always in my way. As it turns out, Evil disliked me as much as I disliked her. Our venom for each other was mutual and severe. We fought a lot, in loud, heated bouts which almost always resulted in one of us yelping and scampering off bloodied in one way or another. It got to the point where the rest of the family didn't want to leave us alone together. It was hard on me. I only found solace in the increasingly few alone moments between Major and I.
As time passed, things, as they almost always do, found an equilibrium. The older two, though initially averse to my presence, seemed to have discovered a newly found appreciation for me. They cooked delicious food that I couldn't get enough of, and often included me in activities when Major wasn't around. Sometimes I'd go outside and help with yard work, which usually involved me trying to catch bees by the azalea bushes, and the older two laughing at my antics.
Even The Evil One and I had found a middle ground. We kept a suspicious eye on each other, but the fighting seemed to have ceased for the time being. Evil was older than I, so I'd often look to her when I was uncertain about how to act in a given situation. Though I'd never give her the satisfaction of knowing it, somewhere along the lines I'd begun respect Evil. I might have even liked her.
One day, the all too familiar boxes showed up again. I didn't like the looks of it one bit. I cried and cried and begged Major not to do this. But she continued. It was as if she was protected by a force field, my pleadings not nearly strong enough to penetrate. It was different this time though. Major didn't bother packing up any of my things. When I asked her about it, Major would only scoop me into her arms and hold me for a while. She never gave an explanation. She never said a real goodbye.
Then, she was gone. I heard the word "California" a lot, though I had no idea what it meant. To me, California was the enemy. It had taken Major away and was holding her hostage against her will. Everyday, alone in her cell, she dreamed of ways to escape and return to me. I knew this wasn't true though. Major had gone, of her own accord, and I was uncertain if I'd ever see her again.
Almost a year went by and I adjusted to my new life without Major. I was comfortable and well looked after. I would even say I was happy. But every now and again, my thoughts would drift to her. It was the little things between the two of us that had built our bond. I missed the way she'd pick me up after I'd been sleeping. She'd hold me upside down and I'd stretch all my limbs at once. No one else could do it quite like her. I missed the way she'd always let me read over her shoulder, though I couldn't understand the words. I missed her kindness.
The older two had a visitor one day. I heard my name and "California" mentioned several times, and I knew the Major had sent for me. Whoever this visitor was, it didn't matter. He was now merely a vessel of passage back to Major. Back to my true home. My things were packed and the date was set.
The trip to the place called California was terrifying. The details of which I won't utter here. Suffice it to say that I saw, heard, and smelled things that I wouldn't wish on my worse enemy. The comforts of home were stripped from me as I was thrust into a bizarre world of transportation I hope to never experience again. I took small consolation in knowing that, if I survived, I would see Major gleaming like a beacon of light at the end of the darkest tunnel. I would finally be back home.
The two of us are as inseparable as ever. Major tells me I'm her "Hollywood Cat". She lets me climb the tree and flounce around in the lavender plants in the courtyard. After I wake from a nap, I'll let her pick me up for our special stretch that she calls "kitty yoga". She still lets me sleep with her at night, just like when I was little and our lives had newly crossed paths. Though Major gets a kick out of it, being a Hollywood Cat doesn't mean much to me. I'm just glad to be home.
Global Recession: Christmas Suffers
Rudolph Reacts
North Pole, Inc. (formerly Claus Enterprises) announced plans today to lay-off approximately 20% of its work force due to corporate downsizing. The Island of Misfit Toys, a subsidiary of North Pole, Inc. was among the plants that were closed.
CEO and Chairman Santa Claus said in a statement, "The resizing of the work force is an effort to streamline our manufacturing processes and explore new options. As an organization, we hate to lose valued employees, but feel a reallocation of resources is necessary at this time."
Shareholders are speculating that the lay-offs came as a result of a recent contract with an Indian company. Outsourcing and machination of manufacturing processes has contributed to the attrition of many American companies over the past several years.
"Isn't it a little weird to be making toys in India for Christmas?!" said an employee who did not wish to be identified. He says his plans to attend dental school in the fall may have made him a target. He plans to sue North Pole, Inc. for discrimination.
Rudolph, once Santa's right-hand reindeer, was also amongst the employees laid off.
"It's just business. I knew once those GPS's came out, my red nose was a thing of the past. It will be hardest for the reindeer that have families, especially around this time of year."
The Abominable Snowman, the former outspoken owner of The Island of Misfit Toys stepped down from his current position of VP of Operations. Amidst great media pressure and swirling rumors, he only said, "ARGGHHHHHHFHHD!"
He then threw a giant icicle.
North Pole, Inc. (formerly Claus Enterprises) announced plans today to lay-off approximately 20% of its work force due to corporate downsizing. The Island of Misfit Toys, a subsidiary of North Pole, Inc. was among the plants that were closed.
CEO and Chairman Santa Claus said in a statement, "The resizing of the work force is an effort to streamline our manufacturing processes and explore new options. As an organization, we hate to lose valued employees, but feel a reallocation of resources is necessary at this time."
Shareholders are speculating that the lay-offs came as a result of a recent contract with an Indian company. Outsourcing and machination of manufacturing processes has contributed to the attrition of many American companies over the past several years.
"Isn't it a little weird to be making toys in India for Christmas?!" said an employee who did not wish to be identified. He says his plans to attend dental school in the fall may have made him a target. He plans to sue North Pole, Inc. for discrimination.
Rudolph, once Santa's right-hand reindeer, was also amongst the employees laid off.
"It's just business. I knew once those GPS's came out, my red nose was a thing of the past. It will be hardest for the reindeer that have families, especially around this time of year."
The Abominable Snowman, the former outspoken owner of The Island of Misfit Toys stepped down from his current position of VP of Operations. Amidst great media pressure and swirling rumors, he only said, "ARGGHHHHHHFHHD!"
He then threw a giant icicle.
Why the Yankees Suck
Passive Aggression at Its Best
I hate them because they're pretty. I hate them because they're everything we're not. The handsome, radiant (glowing, even) goliath of a baseball team that JUST WON'T LOSE. Like the villain of any good horror movie, there they are, coming back after you're certain they couldn't have survived that fall, that blow, that car wreck. BOO! Back for another round of gut-wrenching violence. Which in this case is baseball in September. I'm sick of playing them, I'm sick of them constantly nipping at our heels, and mostly I'm sick of them playing smarter baseball than us.
Can anyone explain to me why Curt Schilling didn't get yanked in the 8th last night? Especially once there were two baserunners on? Clemens wasn't still pitching in the 8th. That's because Joe Torre understands something. Joe Torre, that vapid, sunken in, skeletor of a manager understands that Clemens is, among other things, OLD. Something our beloved "Tito" has apparently failed to notice about Schilling. For Schilling to go 7 innings at this point and to have only given up one run is tremendous. It's enough. Have we not learned from Grady Little? The manager that led us gloriously into the post-season, only to be run out of town by a mob of fans with pitchforks and flaming baseball bats? Hello?! Why, oh why, is it in Red Sox blood to constantly over-extend our starting pitchers? The Yankees don't do it. Ever. EVER. I know we hate them, but by golly, with 18 rings under their belt, maybe they're doing something right. Maybe it's time to (dare I say it?) be just a little more like the Yankees. Gasp! I said just a little...
Or maybe that's our fate. Maybe we're eternally destined to be the mighty Prometheus of baseball, chained to a rock for all time with an eagle pecking at our liver ( ironic, considering the amount of booze Sox fans consume.) Bound and frozen, unwilling to give in, unwilling to play with our heads instead of our hearts. Destined to suffer then heal in a dramatic and tragic cycle that the Greek's surely would've loved.
I guess I can accept that. For one thing, it's much more exciting. So the Yanks are smart. But they're a boring, robotic, sell-out of a baseball team. (And if I have to see Derek Jeter on Sportscenter doing that goddamned fist pump one more time, so help me god, I can't be responsible for my actions.) And I want no part of that. There's a lot of season left and there's no question about it... it's gonna be a wild ride.
At least the Patriots won yesterday, right? Even though they probably cheated.
I hate them because they're pretty. I hate them because they're everything we're not. The handsome, radiant (glowing, even) goliath of a baseball team that JUST WON'T LOSE. Like the villain of any good horror movie, there they are, coming back after you're certain they couldn't have survived that fall, that blow, that car wreck. BOO! Back for another round of gut-wrenching violence. Which in this case is baseball in September. I'm sick of playing them, I'm sick of them constantly nipping at our heels, and mostly I'm sick of them playing smarter baseball than us.
Can anyone explain to me why Curt Schilling didn't get yanked in the 8th last night? Especially once there were two baserunners on? Clemens wasn't still pitching in the 8th. That's because Joe Torre understands something. Joe Torre, that vapid, sunken in, skeletor of a manager understands that Clemens is, among other things, OLD. Something our beloved "Tito" has apparently failed to notice about Schilling. For Schilling to go 7 innings at this point and to have only given up one run is tremendous. It's enough. Have we not learned from Grady Little? The manager that led us gloriously into the post-season, only to be run out of town by a mob of fans with pitchforks and flaming baseball bats? Hello?! Why, oh why, is it in Red Sox blood to constantly over-extend our starting pitchers? The Yankees don't do it. Ever. EVER. I know we hate them, but by golly, with 18 rings under their belt, maybe they're doing something right. Maybe it's time to (dare I say it?) be just a little more like the Yankees. Gasp! I said just a little...
Or maybe that's our fate. Maybe we're eternally destined to be the mighty Prometheus of baseball, chained to a rock for all time with an eagle pecking at our liver ( ironic, considering the amount of booze Sox fans consume.) Bound and frozen, unwilling to give in, unwilling to play with our heads instead of our hearts. Destined to suffer then heal in a dramatic and tragic cycle that the Greek's surely would've loved.
I guess I can accept that. For one thing, it's much more exciting. So the Yanks are smart. But they're a boring, robotic, sell-out of a baseball team. (And if I have to see Derek Jeter on Sportscenter doing that goddamned fist pump one more time, so help me god, I can't be responsible for my actions.) And I want no part of that. There's a lot of season left and there's no question about it... it's gonna be a wild ride.
At least the Patriots won yesterday, right? Even though they probably cheated.
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