After a cursory re-read of my most recent posts, I made a blog-related decision. While my relationship with LJ is an integral part of my life and my thinking, especially since he is part of the whole experience of living in this house and this neighborhood, I'm concerned because I seem to dwell on certain details and issues which are, in fact, quite boring. They're interesting to -me-, of course, but that's not why I'm writing this blog, entirely.
Therefore, the Life and Loves of Gladys posts--all the uncertainties, the LJ arguments, the why-doesn't-he-love-me stuff--have now been moved here, to my other blog, Quobble. A near-future cleanup will address my assorted historical posts, as I've recently made a second blog-related decision--the heroin posts are going to be moved to a separate blog. I've toyed with the idea for a while, of writing it all down before time erodes any more of it; what's stopped me up til now has been the unalloyed misery of missing JP. I won't say I don't miss him now--I fully expect to go to my grave missing him--but it's like a bad tooth: sometimes it's a stabbing pain, sometimes it's just a dull ache. I'm at the dull-ache stage, at the moment, and since I can't imagine it getting any better, I figure I'd better grab hold of the opportunity before the lull ends, or before I forget any more details.
Thus--if your reason for reading this blog is for the latest news about my ups and downs with LJ, then go next door to Quobble. Otherwise, you're a well-adjusted individual with good sense, and I don't blame you in the slightest for avoiding all that girly drama-crap.
Monday, May 31, 2004
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Assholes In The News
"Here we have this radical left-wing organization, whose logo should be more the hammer and sickle..." LA Supervisor Michael Antonovich, regarding the ACLU's petition to have the cross removed from the LA county seal, on the grounds that it is an endorsement of Christianity.heard on Fox News Chicago, 9:00 PM 5/29/04
(While I don't agree with the ACLU, isn't this typical of the right?? If someone dares to disagree with your position, they're automatically Communists. In fact--isn't it typical of the right to dismiss everything about Communism as uniformly negative and worthy of being demeaned?)
"Pat Tillman, the pro football player inspired by the Sept. 11 attacks to join the Army, apparently was killed by friendly fire when a fellow soldier mistakenly identified an Afghan fighter accompanying Tillman as the enemy and started shooting, senior defense officials said yesterday." Newsday,5/29/04
No, I'm not saying Tillman was an asshole. But isn't it amazing that the stories promulgated by the media, stories which have increasingly been used to define the "heroes" in this war, have almost uniformly been proven in time to be based on false pretenses? Jessica Lynch, and now Pat Tillman--I'm not saying they shouldn't be proud of what they did...but I -am- saying that they're not the "heroes" we make them out to be. Their ordeals happened because they were in a foreign country based on the unilateral decision of a corrupt government, and they both suffered because that government claims high moral reasons to "liberate" a group of people who in large part do not wish to be "liberated" in the way this government envisions. While I can't say I agree with the beliefs for which Tillman died and Lynch suffered, I can say that I admire the conviction that leads them to fight for those beliefs--and would defend their choice to fight for them. HOWEVER...I have to wonder if either of them would have the same respect for my beliefs--the beliefs which lead me to think this war is morally indefensible.
"Gay Catholics who plan to identify themselves by wearing a rainbow sash in church Sunday should be denied communion, according to a memo Cardinal Francis George has written to all pastors in the Archdiocese of Chicago....(T)he cardinal wrote that wearing the sash indicates disagreement with church teaching that gay sexual relations are sinful, and therefore those who wear the sash should not receive communion."Chicago Sun-Times, 5/25/04
A friend of mine finds herself in a position to have to deal with this issue; a devout Catholic with many gay friends (many of whom are Catholic priests!) I had a conversation with my mother today, in which I mentioned this situation. Her reply is one of several reasons this is placed in "Assholes in the News". "If they want Communion so badly, then let them go someplace else," she said.
So--in my mother's fucked-up alien universe, apparently it's okay to receive Communion as long as you PRETEND to agree with the principles of the Church. As long as no one KNOWS you disagree, it's fine to accept the most important sacrament in the Catholic Church, goes Mom's view--because after all, it's not what you believe that's important, but what people think you believe.
(Hey Mom...Remember when you asked me if LJ lives here, and I told you he doesn't? Well, see, it's not important whether I tell you the truth, right? Just whether you think I tell you the truth.)
And that's not even to get started on what I think of the actual ruling.
There are times I have to look forward to being dead, in the hopes that all my earthly questions will be answered, that all the unknowns will become known. (This hope, along with my hope of an eternal reunion with JP, is the main reason I hope for an afterlife (as detailed here.) Among the questions I hope to have answered is, "How can people claim that their intolerance is due to their belief in God/Allah/whatever, when all evidence and practical experience seems to indicate that these deities are themselves tolerant of any and all shortcomings? How can people claim to that they accept Jesus--arguably one of the most tolerant figures in all religious history--and then use that alleged belief in Jesus as the grounds for their intolerance of anyone who believes differently than they do?"
That the purveyor of all this intolerance is the nominal head of the Catholic Church only makes it all the more repulsive to me.
(While I don't agree with the ACLU, isn't this typical of the right?? If someone dares to disagree with your position, they're automatically Communists. In fact--isn't it typical of the right to dismiss everything about Communism as uniformly negative and worthy of being demeaned?)
"Pat Tillman, the pro football player inspired by the Sept. 11 attacks to join the Army, apparently was killed by friendly fire when a fellow soldier mistakenly identified an Afghan fighter accompanying Tillman as the enemy and started shooting, senior defense officials said yesterday." Newsday,5/29/04
No, I'm not saying Tillman was an asshole. But isn't it amazing that the stories promulgated by the media, stories which have increasingly been used to define the "heroes" in this war, have almost uniformly been proven in time to be based on false pretenses? Jessica Lynch, and now Pat Tillman--I'm not saying they shouldn't be proud of what they did...but I -am- saying that they're not the "heroes" we make them out to be. Their ordeals happened because they were in a foreign country based on the unilateral decision of a corrupt government, and they both suffered because that government claims high moral reasons to "liberate" a group of people who in large part do not wish to be "liberated" in the way this government envisions. While I can't say I agree with the beliefs for which Tillman died and Lynch suffered, I can say that I admire the conviction that leads them to fight for those beliefs--and would defend their choice to fight for them. HOWEVER...I have to wonder if either of them would have the same respect for my beliefs--the beliefs which lead me to think this war is morally indefensible.
"Gay Catholics who plan to identify themselves by wearing a rainbow sash in church Sunday should be denied communion, according to a memo Cardinal Francis George has written to all pastors in the Archdiocese of Chicago....(T)he cardinal wrote that wearing the sash indicates disagreement with church teaching that gay sexual relations are sinful, and therefore those who wear the sash should not receive communion."Chicago Sun-Times, 5/25/04
A friend of mine finds herself in a position to have to deal with this issue; a devout Catholic with many gay friends (many of whom are Catholic priests!) I had a conversation with my mother today, in which I mentioned this situation. Her reply is one of several reasons this is placed in "Assholes in the News". "If they want Communion so badly, then let them go someplace else," she said.
So--in my mother's fucked-up alien universe, apparently it's okay to receive Communion as long as you PRETEND to agree with the principles of the Church. As long as no one KNOWS you disagree, it's fine to accept the most important sacrament in the Catholic Church, goes Mom's view--because after all, it's not what you believe that's important, but what people think you believe.
(Hey Mom...Remember when you asked me if LJ lives here, and I told you he doesn't? Well, see, it's not important whether I tell you the truth, right? Just whether you think I tell you the truth.)
And that's not even to get started on what I think of the actual ruling.
There are times I have to look forward to being dead, in the hopes that all my earthly questions will be answered, that all the unknowns will become known. (This hope, along with my hope of an eternal reunion with JP, is the main reason I hope for an afterlife (as detailed here.) Among the questions I hope to have answered is, "How can people claim that their intolerance is due to their belief in God/Allah/whatever, when all evidence and practical experience seems to indicate that these deities are themselves tolerant of any and all shortcomings? How can people claim to that they accept Jesus--arguably one of the most tolerant figures in all religious history--and then use that alleged belief in Jesus as the grounds for their intolerance of anyone who believes differently than they do?"
That the purveyor of all this intolerance is the nominal head of the Catholic Church only makes it all the more repulsive to me.
Portrait of an Asshole
My plumbers were here today.
One of them brought his son, who I'm going to call "Jay". He's maybe 20, and reminds me of a slightly more-clueless version of Lou, the redneck blues guitarist who lived with JP and I in the summer of 95, and with me in the summer of '97. Lou at least had tolerance going for him, to the point it was humanly possible; for instance, while he had no problem with JP and I being together, and thought JP was an amazing person, he'd still assume that any black person standing on a corner was a potential heroin dealer....even if the "corner" in question was a bus stop.
Jay has come to help his father with the drywall in my bathroom. The other plumber sends him out into the yard to cut sheets of greenboard to size, and asks him to bring something in from the garage before he starts. Behind the house, probably coming from the next-door yard, I can hear the thumping of the bass from someone's radio.
"Whoo, man," he says, as he comes in. "If I have to listen to that shit all afternoon, I'm gonna kill them n-----s out there. You know?"
I give my noncommital laugh, which serves me well for situations ranging from "that's mildly funny" to "what a fucking ass you're making of yourself". In this situation, it decidedly signified the second choice.
Tony looks at him and says, "Come here a minute." Jay obeys. "Now, in the first place, you can't be using words like that. And in the second place, you better apologize..." (here he indicates me) "...because her boyfriend is black."
Jay squirrel-eyes me for a second, then decides that it might be wise to listen to his father. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it...."
Had he stopped here, he would have been a Forgiveable Asshole. A Forgiveable Asshole is an asshole who says something that shows his innate assholery, but who then realizes that he may have gone beyond the pale. He then apologizes and--here's the important distinction--takes steps to restrain his asshole-like tendencies. In other words--he shuts the hell up and doesn't make it worse.
Jay, however, must have been unaware of this principle.
"...I mean, these guys stand on the corner and deal drugs, and they're just fuckin' USELESS...but you know, there are as many white n-----s as there are black ones, and I mean...It's like, I'm a working man, I work for a living, but still when we turn this corner they're all like 'What you want, man? what you lookin' for?' Can't a man just WORK and not have to deal with all that bullshit?" he finished.
"Well, I understand where you're coming from," I said, (and did not add you ignorant shitsack) "and I know what you mean. I mean, they try to sell me shit when I'm walking home from work, and..."
"You WALK in this neighborhood??!!??" he asked.
"All the time," I replied. Knowing what was coming.
"You got a pistol??" he asked.
Now, in the several hours since this conversation, I have pondered my own reactions in this conversation, both spoken and unspoken. My unspoken reactions were very much as I've detailed them here...I thought he was an ignorant piece of crap, and quite possibly a hypocrite as well--after all, I doubt very seriously that this fine upstanding young man has gone through his entire teen years and early twenties without ever once ingesting a controlled substance, if you get my drift. So these individuals who he derides as "useless" have in fact served his purposes in the past; it's only when they're not directly enhancing his personal pleasure and catering to his whims that they become "useless". (I'd love to hear his views on women, providing I could listen to them with an airsick bag in one hand and a large blunt object in the other.)
It's my outward reactions that I question the most. I have long known that I have a horribly self-serving need for people's approval and admiration; and also that I've had a long-standing antipathy for conflicts. I don't like confrontations, and I will generally go to almost any extreme to avoid them. (I can attribute this to my family--a topic for another post.)
But I also know that there are certain areas in which I have very deep convictions, race relations necessarily being among them. It bothers me that I'm not able to stand up for them to my own satisfaction--that my need to avoid in-person conflict is stronger than my beliefs. I'm quite able to defend my beliefs in writing--in fact, I can be splendidly vitriolic, when the occasion demands (and sometimes when it doesn't!) but when it comes to actually looking a person dead in the eye and saying, "You know, while you're entitled to your opinion, I'd appreciate it if you would vent it elsewhere." Or even just "Fuck the hell off, you intolerant shitsack." I think this might be the source of a lot of my problems--at work, with LJ, with my mother, even financially--I am so willing to allow everyone their own opinion, so intense about not impinging on the rights of others, that it's almost impossible for me to stand up and speak in my own interests--especially when they conflict with someone else's interests.
At any rate, it might be said that I've had at least a tiny bit of revenge against Jay the Unforgiveable Asshole. Before all the n-words, he had offered to run the lawnmower through my overgrown jungle of a back yard, and I'd told him I'd give him $20...when he came in, sweating and thirsty, and started dropping hints about how it was "the hardest $20 I ever made", I handed him -exactly- $20. No tip, no extra, no nothing. And he's offered to do my yardwork if I'll pay him....I'm thinking, not so much.
But the one and only thing that really makes me smile about this situation: I would dearly love to see Jay come in and repeat what he said, in its entirety, to LJ's face. Because if I were to see THAT, the next thing I would see would be Jay's scrawny little redneck frame, being stomped into an amorphous mass by a very large, very personally-affronted black man.
And that, my friends, would be sweet.
One of them brought his son, who I'm going to call "Jay". He's maybe 20, and reminds me of a slightly more-clueless version of Lou, the redneck blues guitarist who lived with JP and I in the summer of 95, and with me in the summer of '97. Lou at least had tolerance going for him, to the point it was humanly possible; for instance, while he had no problem with JP and I being together, and thought JP was an amazing person, he'd still assume that any black person standing on a corner was a potential heroin dealer....even if the "corner" in question was a bus stop.
Jay has come to help his father with the drywall in my bathroom. The other plumber sends him out into the yard to cut sheets of greenboard to size, and asks him to bring something in from the garage before he starts. Behind the house, probably coming from the next-door yard, I can hear the thumping of the bass from someone's radio.
"Whoo, man," he says, as he comes in. "If I have to listen to that shit all afternoon, I'm gonna kill them n-----s out there. You know?"
I give my noncommital laugh, which serves me well for situations ranging from "that's mildly funny" to "what a fucking ass you're making of yourself". In this situation, it decidedly signified the second choice.
Tony looks at him and says, "Come here a minute." Jay obeys. "Now, in the first place, you can't be using words like that. And in the second place, you better apologize..." (here he indicates me) "...because her boyfriend is black."
Jay squirrel-eyes me for a second, then decides that it might be wise to listen to his father. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it...."
Had he stopped here, he would have been a Forgiveable Asshole. A Forgiveable Asshole is an asshole who says something that shows his innate assholery, but who then realizes that he may have gone beyond the pale. He then apologizes and--here's the important distinction--takes steps to restrain his asshole-like tendencies. In other words--he shuts the hell up and doesn't make it worse.
Jay, however, must have been unaware of this principle.
"...I mean, these guys stand on the corner and deal drugs, and they're just fuckin' USELESS...but you know, there are as many white n-----s as there are black ones, and I mean...It's like, I'm a working man, I work for a living, but still when we turn this corner they're all like 'What you want, man? what you lookin' for?' Can't a man just WORK and not have to deal with all that bullshit?" he finished.
"Well, I understand where you're coming from," I said, (and did not add you ignorant shitsack) "and I know what you mean. I mean, they try to sell me shit when I'm walking home from work, and..."
"You WALK in this neighborhood??!!??" he asked.
"All the time," I replied. Knowing what was coming.
"You got a pistol??" he asked.
Now, in the several hours since this conversation, I have pondered my own reactions in this conversation, both spoken and unspoken. My unspoken reactions were very much as I've detailed them here...I thought he was an ignorant piece of crap, and quite possibly a hypocrite as well--after all, I doubt very seriously that this fine upstanding young man has gone through his entire teen years and early twenties without ever once ingesting a controlled substance, if you get my drift. So these individuals who he derides as "useless" have in fact served his purposes in the past; it's only when they're not directly enhancing his personal pleasure and catering to his whims that they become "useless". (I'd love to hear his views on women, providing I could listen to them with an airsick bag in one hand and a large blunt object in the other.)
It's my outward reactions that I question the most. I have long known that I have a horribly self-serving need for people's approval and admiration; and also that I've had a long-standing antipathy for conflicts. I don't like confrontations, and I will generally go to almost any extreme to avoid them. (I can attribute this to my family--a topic for another post.)
But I also know that there are certain areas in which I have very deep convictions, race relations necessarily being among them. It bothers me that I'm not able to stand up for them to my own satisfaction--that my need to avoid in-person conflict is stronger than my beliefs. I'm quite able to defend my beliefs in writing--in fact, I can be splendidly vitriolic, when the occasion demands (and sometimes when it doesn't!) but when it comes to actually looking a person dead in the eye and saying, "You know, while you're entitled to your opinion, I'd appreciate it if you would vent it elsewhere." Or even just "Fuck the hell off, you intolerant shitsack." I think this might be the source of a lot of my problems--at work, with LJ, with my mother, even financially--I am so willing to allow everyone their own opinion, so intense about not impinging on the rights of others, that it's almost impossible for me to stand up and speak in my own interests--especially when they conflict with someone else's interests.
At any rate, it might be said that I've had at least a tiny bit of revenge against Jay the Unforgiveable Asshole. Before all the n-words, he had offered to run the lawnmower through my overgrown jungle of a back yard, and I'd told him I'd give him $20...when he came in, sweating and thirsty, and started dropping hints about how it was "the hardest $20 I ever made", I handed him -exactly- $20. No tip, no extra, no nothing. And he's offered to do my yardwork if I'll pay him....I'm thinking, not so much.
But the one and only thing that really makes me smile about this situation: I would dearly love to see Jay come in and repeat what he said, in its entirety, to LJ's face. Because if I were to see THAT, the next thing I would see would be Jay's scrawny little redneck frame, being stomped into an amorphous mass by a very large, very personally-affronted black man.
And that, my friends, would be sweet.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Revelation
Rarely have I seen as neat a summary of my relationship with JP, and the machinery of our shared plans, as I've just found in this article. (from The Nation, Cutting Remarks)
A manifesto needs a goal, a green pasture where you'll presumably go when all your revolutionary acts are discharged. ... In the meantime, her happiness was made safely impossible by the unmanageable scope of her revolution. Solanas is saying she'll be happy personally after her political needs are met. Since this can never happen, she's perfectly justified in her misery and loneliness.
In a sense, Solanas's manifesto is an expression of powerlessness. Her revolution is so huge that it can never begin.
This is the clearest summation of why JP and I never could have been much happier than we were in 1995. All our plans revolved around our conviction that we would be well-known, famous, influential. There was no way we could have ever been as big as we wanted to be--because NO ONE could ever be as big as we wanted to be. We wanted to be larger than larger-than-life--even in this age of grossly bloated celebrity, no one has managed to be as enduring as we dreamed ourselves to be. And knowing that the goal we had set for ourselves was entirely unattainable, by us or anyone else, we were free in our own minds to quit trying and just take another shot.
One day we would have had to face up to the passage of time and the eventual knowledge that it was over, that our chance was gone, that we were too old to do what we'd planned on the scale which we'd planned to do it. We'd taken that into account, of course, in all our plans--faced with that, we planned to die together in some sweeping gesture of romance and contempt--but as I've learned over the past nine years, it takes a certain resolve to give up completely, and not everyone has that resolve--or the time to gain it. The living, for the most part, want to keep living, and the end is only sudden when you wish it wouldn't be; the rest of the time, death comes by slow steps, tiny abdications of will and volition. You think you're still fighting, and from where you stand you almost certainly are--getting up in the morning, going to work, doing what you do, coming home; sleeping and waking and cooking and eating and repairing and creating--and it certainly SEEMS like a fight--but then at some point you stop and look back and see what you'd hoped to be doing, instead of whatever it is that takes up all your time and energy now.
(I suppose it's clear from the tenor of this piece that, once again, I am at work.)
A manifesto needs a goal, a green pasture where you'll presumably go when all your revolutionary acts are discharged. ... In the meantime, her happiness was made safely impossible by the unmanageable scope of her revolution. Solanas is saying she'll be happy personally after her political needs are met. Since this can never happen, she's perfectly justified in her misery and loneliness.
In a sense, Solanas's manifesto is an expression of powerlessness. Her revolution is so huge that it can never begin.
This is the clearest summation of why JP and I never could have been much happier than we were in 1995. All our plans revolved around our conviction that we would be well-known, famous, influential. There was no way we could have ever been as big as we wanted to be--because NO ONE could ever be as big as we wanted to be. We wanted to be larger than larger-than-life--even in this age of grossly bloated celebrity, no one has managed to be as enduring as we dreamed ourselves to be. And knowing that the goal we had set for ourselves was entirely unattainable, by us or anyone else, we were free in our own minds to quit trying and just take another shot.
One day we would have had to face up to the passage of time and the eventual knowledge that it was over, that our chance was gone, that we were too old to do what we'd planned on the scale which we'd planned to do it. We'd taken that into account, of course, in all our plans--faced with that, we planned to die together in some sweeping gesture of romance and contempt--but as I've learned over the past nine years, it takes a certain resolve to give up completely, and not everyone has that resolve--or the time to gain it. The living, for the most part, want to keep living, and the end is only sudden when you wish it wouldn't be; the rest of the time, death comes by slow steps, tiny abdications of will and volition. You think you're still fighting, and from where you stand you almost certainly are--getting up in the morning, going to work, doing what you do, coming home; sleeping and waking and cooking and eating and repairing and creating--and it certainly SEEMS like a fight--but then at some point you stop and look back and see what you'd hoped to be doing, instead of whatever it is that takes up all your time and energy now.
(I suppose it's clear from the tenor of this piece that, once again, I am at work.)
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Overwhelmed
I'm so busy and pissed-off that I don't really know where to even begin writing. This job is really beginning to make me crazy; between RuthAnne and her giant attitude problem, the huge amount of work for one person, and the hypocrisy of the management, I'm about to do what everyone else here does sooner or later: quit, job or no job.
I got my evaluation yesterday, and that was really the last straw.
"A continuing issue...is her tendency to miss deadlines, exacerbated by her lack of communication regarding progress towards task completion."
So let me get this straight. I miss deadlines because I don't communicate--but how am I supposed to communicate with Amy when she's only here 2.5 days out of the week?
"...when under stress, she tends to respond curtly, in a way that is perceived as unhelpful by others."
So I'm being told to control my temper. I will accept that criticism--however, it's ironic to be told to control my temper in a document signed by Beverly, who can't even control her OWN temper. And what's even more entertaining still: of the entire 30-person staff, I can think of at least seven or eight who have SPECIFICALLY complimented me on my "helpful" attitude--and only three at the most who have ever said anything negative about my responses. But those three are Noreen, RuthAnne, and Joanie--and of THOSE three, I would absolutely put hard cash on the fact that it was RuthAnne who's been the squeaky wheel here. Noreen and I have managed a certain detente, and Joanie's pretty much marginalized anyway because RuthAnne doesn't like her. So basically, this criticism comes largely from my interaction with RuthAnne--and what's MOST hilarious is, SHE comes at ME with a bad attitude!!! She repeatedly implies that her mistakes (and everyone else's mistakes too!) are the fault of some omission on MY part; if I hear "it's a TRAINING issue" once more, I'm going to react very badly. Just because something is a training issue, that does NOT excuse her from correcting it!
I copied every single thing I did today onto my iCal, then printed out the page and set it on Amy's desk. There was no lunch; there was no break; there was nothing but a solid block of task after task, overlapping in many cases because I did two things at once, with a huge set of things at the end that I hadn't even touched. This is not an atypical day, and I'm amazed by the fact that it seems to surprise them that I don't have "task persistence" when I'm interrupted fifteen times a day and distracted whenever I attempt to work on any project requiring concentration. It just shows that for all their "empathy" for the stresses of my position, not one of them has the full picture of exactly what it is I do from day to day.
This has been one of those weeks that makes it exceedingly clear to me that I have to make some serious changes in my life. I think I've figured out the whole thing with LJ--I suspect he feels threatened by the fact that I don't -need- him, and upset by his own recent dire financial straits. I don't see anything wrong with the way he and I have been doing things, but I can see how a traditionally-cast male would find it distressing to be in the position he's in. He's broke while I have money; he has no job while I get up and go to work every day; his usual way of making money is crumbling because of strife and drama on the block. I think he's been thinking that he's somehow diminished because I'm the breadwinner--which in my view is TOTALLY not the case! but I think that's part of the reason he's been so quiet lately. That's changed over the past few days, though--Monday he was practically talking a blue streak, for him, and then tonight when he came home he actually THANKED me for picking up dinner! (Shortly thereafter, the sky opened up and a voice from above said "holy crap! THAT's a first...") Not only that, but the kitchen was clean when I came home AND the trash was emptied. I was quite impressed, amazed, and charmed.
Other than LJ, though, big chunks of my life have simply GOT to go. I've got to find something more to do with my life. I have three ideas, which just tells me that I'm interested in wayyyy too many things: home inspector, bakery/coffeeshop owner-operator, and FileMaker developer. (Now, I know those people who create "find your passion in life" manuals say you should make a list of the things you like to do and then combine those things into one job--but I defy anyone to come up with a home-inspecting pastry-making database-development job!!!) I think I'd be a very good home inspector, at least once I took the courses--especially now that I have a personal experience of what inspectors can miss, and how NOT to do the job, and how important it is to do it well. But the roof thing would probably kick my ass--I'm scared of heights. (I suppose for enough money, I could get over it.) I KNOW I'd be a good bakery owner, after some business training; but that's one of those things where the minute I think it, the immediately-following thought is "75% of all small businesses fail....". And I LOVE database development, and it's something I know I could be good at...but there's a large learning curve, and I'm not financially or emotionally equipped to be a consultant. Whereas home inspection is an empirical thing, database design is not--there are no right answers, only things that work better or worse--and I'm the sort of person who becomes emotionally invested in my work, particularly when it's a creative situation. I don't think I would do too well in situations where clients didn't like what I did, or when they made some tiny little arbitrary distinctions ("You called this field 'client name'. It should be 'customer name'...." And the next sound would be the sound of a consultant tearing the head off of their client.)
All I know is, I can't stay at this job for the rest of my life. It's the sort of job where, if the environment was tolerable, I COULD have stayed there; but the corporate culture is so dysfunctional--and I hate that word, but it's truly the best descriptor I can provide. What other word is there to describe a situation where there are two managers, and the people under one manager stay put for years and only leave if their spouses get a job out of state or if they have a baby, but the people under the other manager quit regularly, even if they don't even HAVE another job lined up--and in THIS economy??? I've been there four years next month. Since RuthAnne took over as a manager, about maybe two and a half years ago, I can--without too much thought--count at least fourteen people who have quit from positions she supervised. One had a baby and one's wife took an out of state job. At least four of those fourteen quit without having another job already--probably more. In that same time, Amy's side of the fence has lost maybe five or six people, and that's counting interns (in the one program that uses them.) And it's not as though the positions RuthAnne manages are naturally less-stable than Amy's; if anything, I can say that Amy's programs are staffed for the most part by more mature/older people. But that's the only real difference... And yet, even with this blatant and obvious difference, no one is doing anything about RuthAnne! I understand loyalty--but who does it serve to be loyal to someone whose management style aggravates people to the point that they quit? How does that serve the organization?
I can hope that something might change--Stella seemed to imply, after her lunch with Beverly, that something was happening that was going to cause stress at a management level and that I'd better tread light with Amy tomorrow, and since both Samantha and Kate have summarily quit within the past three weeks (and there was another position filled and emptied during the five-day period I was on vacation and getting my teeth pulled!) I can only imagine that Penny and Ella, Beverly's bosses, are going to say something....at least, I HOPE they bring it up!!! But if past actions are any evidence, I don't think it's going to happen--or if it does, I don't think it's going to change anything if they do bring it up.
I'm not perfect, but I'm good at what I do. And I'm much better at my job than that evaluation implies...which I'm going to try prove to them by keeping track of -exactly- what it is I do. I just don't think they're going to listen, and at that point I'm going to need to get out of that place. I'm not going to drive myself crazy for the rest of my life just because I'm scared that they're right about me--because I know they're not. I make mistakes, I'll admit--but most of the things they criticize me about are caused by the culture they allow and propagate. I think one of my strongest positive traits is that I -am- willing to accept responsibility when I'm wrong, and willing to work to correct my weaknesses...but I will be damned if I knuckle under and take the blame for deficiencies that are caused by things outside my control. You want me to react better in times of stress? Okay--then make it possible for me to do my job in such a way that "times of stress" is not "eight hours a day, five days a week, for ten months out of the year". You want me to be more organized and persistent in long-term tasks? Fine--then give me at least an hour a day where -I- am in control of my time, where I am allowed to concentrate without interruptions. And for god's sake, if I work a 40-hour week, DO NOT take up five hours of that week with meetings--and if you DO, then do not force me to use an additional five hours typing up the notes from those meetings! I am a tech-support person--not a stenographer!! You want me to communicate with my supervisor? Then either give me a supervisor who is actually on the premises for more than 20 of my 40-hour week, or tell the 20-hour-a-week supervisor that she MUST check her e-mail when she's not in the office. I do not have time to play phone tag to the degree required by the current situation. And you want me to treat people with more respect? Then speak to that minority of people who don't approve of the way I treat them, and explain to them that their own actions--repeatedly implying that I am not knowledgeable or capable of doing my job; questioning my professional judgement with no valid reason; implying that they know more than they do, or more than I do, about things that I am trained to do and do every day, and they do not--that these actions are the cause of my reactions. I don't understand why, when it's very clear that these stressful interactions are cause-and-effect relationships, that it's automatically assumed that _I_ am the cause!! I get a lot of praise and validation from the lower-rung members of the organization; the middle-level members are mostly either happy with my work or neutral; and basically there's only one person with whom I still have consistently bad interactions--but somehow that's MY fault??
I'm exhausted by the thought of going in there tomorrow--particularly since this is one of Amy's two-and-a-half days in the office, which means....that's right, MEETINGS! I've just stopped doing work at home, because the stress of my job is currently such that I don't feel comfortable doing anything at home other than relaxing and enjoying the fruits of my labors--but the end result is, more work at work!
Only two more days til payday and a long weekend; then only four days and a Saturday project before my vacation...and even with those few little days, that short little bit of time, I question whether or not I'm gonna make it without snapping someone's head off.
I got my evaluation yesterday, and that was really the last straw.
"A continuing issue...is her tendency to miss deadlines, exacerbated by her lack of communication regarding progress towards task completion."
So let me get this straight. I miss deadlines because I don't communicate--but how am I supposed to communicate with Amy when she's only here 2.5 days out of the week?
"...when under stress, she tends to respond curtly, in a way that is perceived as unhelpful by others."
So I'm being told to control my temper. I will accept that criticism--however, it's ironic to be told to control my temper in a document signed by Beverly, who can't even control her OWN temper. And what's even more entertaining still: of the entire 30-person staff, I can think of at least seven or eight who have SPECIFICALLY complimented me on my "helpful" attitude--and only three at the most who have ever said anything negative about my responses. But those three are Noreen, RuthAnne, and Joanie--and of THOSE three, I would absolutely put hard cash on the fact that it was RuthAnne who's been the squeaky wheel here. Noreen and I have managed a certain detente, and Joanie's pretty much marginalized anyway because RuthAnne doesn't like her. So basically, this criticism comes largely from my interaction with RuthAnne--and what's MOST hilarious is, SHE comes at ME with a bad attitude!!! She repeatedly implies that her mistakes (and everyone else's mistakes too!) are the fault of some omission on MY part; if I hear "it's a TRAINING issue" once more, I'm going to react very badly. Just because something is a training issue, that does NOT excuse her from correcting it!
I copied every single thing I did today onto my iCal, then printed out the page and set it on Amy's desk. There was no lunch; there was no break; there was nothing but a solid block of task after task, overlapping in many cases because I did two things at once, with a huge set of things at the end that I hadn't even touched. This is not an atypical day, and I'm amazed by the fact that it seems to surprise them that I don't have "task persistence" when I'm interrupted fifteen times a day and distracted whenever I attempt to work on any project requiring concentration. It just shows that for all their "empathy" for the stresses of my position, not one of them has the full picture of exactly what it is I do from day to day.
This has been one of those weeks that makes it exceedingly clear to me that I have to make some serious changes in my life. I think I've figured out the whole thing with LJ--I suspect he feels threatened by the fact that I don't -need- him, and upset by his own recent dire financial straits. I don't see anything wrong with the way he and I have been doing things, but I can see how a traditionally-cast male would find it distressing to be in the position he's in. He's broke while I have money; he has no job while I get up and go to work every day; his usual way of making money is crumbling because of strife and drama on the block. I think he's been thinking that he's somehow diminished because I'm the breadwinner--which in my view is TOTALLY not the case! but I think that's part of the reason he's been so quiet lately. That's changed over the past few days, though--Monday he was practically talking a blue streak, for him, and then tonight when he came home he actually THANKED me for picking up dinner! (Shortly thereafter, the sky opened up and a voice from above said "holy crap! THAT's a first...") Not only that, but the kitchen was clean when I came home AND the trash was emptied. I was quite impressed, amazed, and charmed.
Other than LJ, though, big chunks of my life have simply GOT to go. I've got to find something more to do with my life. I have three ideas, which just tells me that I'm interested in wayyyy too many things: home inspector, bakery/coffeeshop owner-operator, and FileMaker developer. (Now, I know those people who create "find your passion in life" manuals say you should make a list of the things you like to do and then combine those things into one job--but I defy anyone to come up with a home-inspecting pastry-making database-development job!!!) I think I'd be a very good home inspector, at least once I took the courses--especially now that I have a personal experience of what inspectors can miss, and how NOT to do the job, and how important it is to do it well. But the roof thing would probably kick my ass--I'm scared of heights. (I suppose for enough money, I could get over it.) I KNOW I'd be a good bakery owner, after some business training; but that's one of those things where the minute I think it, the immediately-following thought is "75% of all small businesses fail....". And I LOVE database development, and it's something I know I could be good at...but there's a large learning curve, and I'm not financially or emotionally equipped to be a consultant. Whereas home inspection is an empirical thing, database design is not--there are no right answers, only things that work better or worse--and I'm the sort of person who becomes emotionally invested in my work, particularly when it's a creative situation. I don't think I would do too well in situations where clients didn't like what I did, or when they made some tiny little arbitrary distinctions ("You called this field 'client name'. It should be 'customer name'...." And the next sound would be the sound of a consultant tearing the head off of their client.)
All I know is, I can't stay at this job for the rest of my life. It's the sort of job where, if the environment was tolerable, I COULD have stayed there; but the corporate culture is so dysfunctional--and I hate that word, but it's truly the best descriptor I can provide. What other word is there to describe a situation where there are two managers, and the people under one manager stay put for years and only leave if their spouses get a job out of state or if they have a baby, but the people under the other manager quit regularly, even if they don't even HAVE another job lined up--and in THIS economy??? I've been there four years next month. Since RuthAnne took over as a manager, about maybe two and a half years ago, I can--without too much thought--count at least fourteen people who have quit from positions she supervised. One had a baby and one's wife took an out of state job. At least four of those fourteen quit without having another job already--probably more. In that same time, Amy's side of the fence has lost maybe five or six people, and that's counting interns (in the one program that uses them.) And it's not as though the positions RuthAnne manages are naturally less-stable than Amy's; if anything, I can say that Amy's programs are staffed for the most part by more mature/older people. But that's the only real difference... And yet, even with this blatant and obvious difference, no one is doing anything about RuthAnne! I understand loyalty--but who does it serve to be loyal to someone whose management style aggravates people to the point that they quit? How does that serve the organization?
I can hope that something might change--Stella seemed to imply, after her lunch with Beverly, that something was happening that was going to cause stress at a management level and that I'd better tread light with Amy tomorrow, and since both Samantha and Kate have summarily quit within the past three weeks (and there was another position filled and emptied during the five-day period I was on vacation and getting my teeth pulled!) I can only imagine that Penny and Ella, Beverly's bosses, are going to say something....at least, I HOPE they bring it up!!! But if past actions are any evidence, I don't think it's going to happen--or if it does, I don't think it's going to change anything if they do bring it up.
I'm not perfect, but I'm good at what I do. And I'm much better at my job than that evaluation implies...which I'm going to try prove to them by keeping track of -exactly- what it is I do. I just don't think they're going to listen, and at that point I'm going to need to get out of that place. I'm not going to drive myself crazy for the rest of my life just because I'm scared that they're right about me--because I know they're not. I make mistakes, I'll admit--but most of the things they criticize me about are caused by the culture they allow and propagate. I think one of my strongest positive traits is that I -am- willing to accept responsibility when I'm wrong, and willing to work to correct my weaknesses...but I will be damned if I knuckle under and take the blame for deficiencies that are caused by things outside my control. You want me to react better in times of stress? Okay--then make it possible for me to do my job in such a way that "times of stress" is not "eight hours a day, five days a week, for ten months out of the year". You want me to be more organized and persistent in long-term tasks? Fine--then give me at least an hour a day where -I- am in control of my time, where I am allowed to concentrate without interruptions. And for god's sake, if I work a 40-hour week, DO NOT take up five hours of that week with meetings--and if you DO, then do not force me to use an additional five hours typing up the notes from those meetings! I am a tech-support person--not a stenographer!! You want me to communicate with my supervisor? Then either give me a supervisor who is actually on the premises for more than 20 of my 40-hour week, or tell the 20-hour-a-week supervisor that she MUST check her e-mail when she's not in the office. I do not have time to play phone tag to the degree required by the current situation. And you want me to treat people with more respect? Then speak to that minority of people who don't approve of the way I treat them, and explain to them that their own actions--repeatedly implying that I am not knowledgeable or capable of doing my job; questioning my professional judgement with no valid reason; implying that they know more than they do, or more than I do, about things that I am trained to do and do every day, and they do not--that these actions are the cause of my reactions. I don't understand why, when it's very clear that these stressful interactions are cause-and-effect relationships, that it's automatically assumed that _I_ am the cause!! I get a lot of praise and validation from the lower-rung members of the organization; the middle-level members are mostly either happy with my work or neutral; and basically there's only one person with whom I still have consistently bad interactions--but somehow that's MY fault??
I'm exhausted by the thought of going in there tomorrow--particularly since this is one of Amy's two-and-a-half days in the office, which means....that's right, MEETINGS! I've just stopped doing work at home, because the stress of my job is currently such that I don't feel comfortable doing anything at home other than relaxing and enjoying the fruits of my labors--but the end result is, more work at work!
Only two more days til payday and a long weekend; then only four days and a Saturday project before my vacation...and even with those few little days, that short little bit of time, I question whether or not I'm gonna make it without snapping someone's head off.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Frequently Unasked Questions
I've been keeping this blog for a few months now, mostly just as my own personal sounding-board and ranting space; more recently, as a tenative paw-pat on the nose of the universe. (God, I've been spending WAY too much time around my cats.) But since I put this blog out there, put it on chicagobloggers and the webring, I've been much more self-conscious about how it presents me. Not so much through the style--I've never really cared whether people like my writing style or not, as I'm perfectly happy with it and it's served me well thus far. Nor with the content; to be self-conscious about the content would imply that I have regrets, and truly I don't. I have "things which I would have rather had turn out differently", but that's not the same as a regret, I don't believe.
No, I'm more self-conscious of the gaps, of everything I haven't said...and of how things appear. For example: If I were to stumble across this blog, my first reaction--based on appearance alone, not content-- would probably be Eeeeewwwww....why the HELL is this blog PINK?
Well, there's a very good reason. And unlike 99% of my recent posts, it actually fits in with the original rationale for this blog, at least somewhat.
My blog is pink because it is MINE, in a way my house will never be. Nothing in my house is pink; very early on in the relationship, even before I moved out of my old North Side apartment, LJ established his very clear antipathy for the color. Not, mind you, that I was planning on girly-ing up my house like that, pinkifying it all over or anything like that. It was a compromise, and I accepted it; and honestly, it was a very small compromise.
But in everyone's life there needs to be ONE spot where there is no compromise, and in my life, this is that place. I know I've taken pains to conceal my identity; that's more to -allow- this space to remain uncompromised, not a compromise on its own. I have a job, neighbors, a nosy-ass extended family, and two ex-husbands, at least one of whom has Googled me repeatedly and called it "accidental". (There is NO SUCH THING as an "accidental Google"!) And even though I have no regrets, I would really rather not hear from any of these jerks, a category in which I include a substantial portion of my local relatives....especially if they're armed with the knowledge that I'm a twice-divorced former heroin addict in an interracial relationship, living in the middle of the murder capital of Chicago. Plus, my mom would pitch a giant electric FIT if she knew I was publicizing the details of my life. (Not that my mother's disapproval upsets me; but I sort of consider it as analogous to mosquito bites: they don't kill you, but they're irritating, and should be avoided wherever possible.)
Back when I was still married and JP and I were just getting together, in order to enable myself to function, I borrowed a notion that seems to have echoes here. Back then, once I walked into that 3rd-floor apartment, the rules of my "normal" life were suspended and I was free to do and say whatever I wanted. That room in the turret was our own personal autonomous zone, a sanctuary without judgements...or, even if there were those who wanted to judge, while we were in that room they could be ignored. That was the first place in my life where I remember feeling free...well, this blog is another one. No one in my real life knows it exists, and so I can write what I want to write without worrying about who it might offend.
And because it's mine, because I don't have to worry about anyone else's opinion of it--that's why it's pink, at least for the moment. If you're reading this and it -isn't- pink, it's because I got tired of pink and moved on to something else....because I can.
No, I'm more self-conscious of the gaps, of everything I haven't said...and of how things appear. For example: If I were to stumble across this blog, my first reaction--based on appearance alone, not content-- would probably be Eeeeewwwww....why the HELL is this blog PINK?
Well, there's a very good reason. And unlike 99% of my recent posts, it actually fits in with the original rationale for this blog, at least somewhat.
My blog is pink because it is MINE, in a way my house will never be. Nothing in my house is pink; very early on in the relationship, even before I moved out of my old North Side apartment, LJ established his very clear antipathy for the color. Not, mind you, that I was planning on girly-ing up my house like that, pinkifying it all over or anything like that. It was a compromise, and I accepted it; and honestly, it was a very small compromise.
But in everyone's life there needs to be ONE spot where there is no compromise, and in my life, this is that place. I know I've taken pains to conceal my identity; that's more to -allow- this space to remain uncompromised, not a compromise on its own. I have a job, neighbors, a nosy-ass extended family, and two ex-husbands, at least one of whom has Googled me repeatedly and called it "accidental". (There is NO SUCH THING as an "accidental Google"!) And even though I have no regrets, I would really rather not hear from any of these jerks, a category in which I include a substantial portion of my local relatives....especially if they're armed with the knowledge that I'm a twice-divorced former heroin addict in an interracial relationship, living in the middle of the murder capital of Chicago. Plus, my mom would pitch a giant electric FIT if she knew I was publicizing the details of my life. (Not that my mother's disapproval upsets me; but I sort of consider it as analogous to mosquito bites: they don't kill you, but they're irritating, and should be avoided wherever possible.)
Back when I was still married and JP and I were just getting together, in order to enable myself to function, I borrowed a notion that seems to have echoes here. Back then, once I walked into that 3rd-floor apartment, the rules of my "normal" life were suspended and I was free to do and say whatever I wanted. That room in the turret was our own personal autonomous zone, a sanctuary without judgements...or, even if there were those who wanted to judge, while we were in that room they could be ignored. That was the first place in my life where I remember feeling free...well, this blog is another one. No one in my real life knows it exists, and so I can write what I want to write without worrying about who it might offend.
And because it's mine, because I don't have to worry about anyone else's opinion of it--that's why it's pink, at least for the moment. If you're reading this and it -isn't- pink, it's because I got tired of pink and moved on to something else....because I can.
Pingu Returns
Now HERE, should you wonder, is my personal definition of "Sick Bastard With Way Too Much Time On His Hands". (But I have to admit, it's kinda fun anyway.....)
Albino Blacksheep / Flash / Bloody Pingu Throw
Albino Blacksheep / Flash / Bloody Pingu Throw
Further Proof, As If Any Was Needed, That I Am Wasting My Life
This is taken from _The Nation_ online. -I- should be the one out there doing all the shit-stirring.....
Who Let the Punks Out?
Who Let the Punks Out?
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Strays
This afternoon, as I sat checking my mail, I heard a distinctly pained "MEOW." I looked around; White Cat was eating (as usual); Foof was asleep on the sofa. Neither of them was responsible for the sound, which I promptly followed to the basement.
I opened the door and walked down the rickety stairs to find myself staring into the face of a small gray and white skinny cat; "MEOW," she replied. (It HAS to be a female, and I'm sure she's in heat--I've never heard a male cat emit that particular tone before.)
I tried to get close, but she ran for her point of entry--the broken jalousie window with the metal plate, which was now sitting on the sill, having been knocked out of the window space by the cat. (Apparently I didn't do such a great job of putting it back after moving it yesterday.)
As I worked in the front yard, I was accompanied by the continuing cat-song, punctuated by her return to my basement through the window. I saw her going in, but when I tried to chase her out, she jumped in instead.
At the end of the day, when I put all the tools away, I went down to make sure she was out and the window was back in place....
She wasn't. And the entire basement just REEKED of cat piss--including several of my recently-washed pieces of laundry, which had endured the misfortune of being left at the bottom of the hamper.
LJ said later that he'd heard a massive catfight in the basement earlier, but thought it was just Foof having her ass kicked by White Cat; judging from Whitey's reaction to the interloper when she came back around and perched on the kitchen windowsill, I would guess SHE was the victim and provocateur, not Foof.
And she hasn't left yet.
I opened the door and walked down the rickety stairs to find myself staring into the face of a small gray and white skinny cat; "MEOW," she replied. (It HAS to be a female, and I'm sure she's in heat--I've never heard a male cat emit that particular tone before.)
I tried to get close, but she ran for her point of entry--the broken jalousie window with the metal plate, which was now sitting on the sill, having been knocked out of the window space by the cat. (Apparently I didn't do such a great job of putting it back after moving it yesterday.)
As I worked in the front yard, I was accompanied by the continuing cat-song, punctuated by her return to my basement through the window. I saw her going in, but when I tried to chase her out, she jumped in instead.
At the end of the day, when I put all the tools away, I went down to make sure she was out and the window was back in place....
She wasn't. And the entire basement just REEKED of cat piss--including several of my recently-washed pieces of laundry, which had endured the misfortune of being left at the bottom of the hamper.
LJ said later that he'd heard a massive catfight in the basement earlier, but thought it was just Foof having her ass kicked by White Cat; judging from Whitey's reaction to the interloper when she came back around and perched on the kitchen windowsill, I would guess SHE was the victim and provocateur, not Foof.
And she hasn't left yet.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Backstory
Having been unofficially exiled to the upstairs of the Catastrophe--it's House-Full-O'-Thugs Night, as the Roy Jones fight is on pay per view--I'm left with a laptop, the Nextel Cup race, "Oklahoma!" on Turner Classic Movies, and a great deal of time. So--preparatory to some upcoming musings on my hardcore days-- I offer this bit of history.
From December of 1994 til December of 1999, I was a heroin addict. On December 30th 1999, I took my last shot and I have been clean ever since; by December of this year, I hope to be off methadone completely. In October of 1995, I lost JP--my fiance' and best friend--when he got a shot of contaminated heroin. He was the one who introduced me to it, and there are those who would blame him for that, but I am not among them; I was 24 years old, already married and divorced, self-supporting for the most part. I was a grown woman, able to make my own decisions, and when he said to me Baby, you gotta try this, I only hesitated for a moment. I'd lived a sheltered life, where I had to ask for permission to do anything; I wanted to see.
Well, I did. And I don't regret it. The only thing that I would change if I could would be the outcome--JP would be alive and still with me--but I'm also not stupid enough to think that I would be where I am if he HAD lived. Sophia always said it was hard for couples to get sober together, and she would know--she lost her man because he got straight and she didn't. I wouldn't have wanted JP and I to end like that...though I don't think we would have, because we were far too much alike. If one of us got sober, we would have dragged the other behind; more likely, though, we each would have talked the other back into the fold...in the end, that's just what happened, really. The only way it could have ended was if both of us got sober--unlikely--or with one or both of us dead. And that's just how it -did- end. My only regret, and it's a regret that has receded since my life has started to improve, was that it was him and not me...I always felt that he had way more talent and potential than I had. I'll tell you this: JP wouldn't be in a dead-end job just trying to keep his head above water, doing almost nothing that meant anything to him. He'd be playing music, taking over the world somewhere. I believe that, and I also believe he would have been as horrified as I am by the turn the world has taken. The jocks and assholes have reclaimed their supremacy, after a brief time when the misfits ruled; Kurt Cobain spins in his grave while Courtney dates movie stars and makes a fool of herself in the endless search for publicity. That's what we've come to, and it sickens me; and JP would have hated it too.
He's better off, really; I know he is; I'm just feeling sorry for myself.
From December of 1994 til December of 1999, I was a heroin addict. On December 30th 1999, I took my last shot and I have been clean ever since; by December of this year, I hope to be off methadone completely. In October of 1995, I lost JP--my fiance' and best friend--when he got a shot of contaminated heroin. He was the one who introduced me to it, and there are those who would blame him for that, but I am not among them; I was 24 years old, already married and divorced, self-supporting for the most part. I was a grown woman, able to make my own decisions, and when he said to me Baby, you gotta try this, I only hesitated for a moment. I'd lived a sheltered life, where I had to ask for permission to do anything; I wanted to see.
Well, I did. And I don't regret it. The only thing that I would change if I could would be the outcome--JP would be alive and still with me--but I'm also not stupid enough to think that I would be where I am if he HAD lived. Sophia always said it was hard for couples to get sober together, and she would know--she lost her man because he got straight and she didn't. I wouldn't have wanted JP and I to end like that...though I don't think we would have, because we were far too much alike. If one of us got sober, we would have dragged the other behind; more likely, though, we each would have talked the other back into the fold...in the end, that's just what happened, really. The only way it could have ended was if both of us got sober--unlikely--or with one or both of us dead. And that's just how it -did- end. My only regret, and it's a regret that has receded since my life has started to improve, was that it was him and not me...I always felt that he had way more talent and potential than I had. I'll tell you this: JP wouldn't be in a dead-end job just trying to keep his head above water, doing almost nothing that meant anything to him. He'd be playing music, taking over the world somewhere. I believe that, and I also believe he would have been as horrified as I am by the turn the world has taken. The jocks and assholes have reclaimed their supremacy, after a brief time when the misfits ruled; Kurt Cobain spins in his grave while Courtney dates movie stars and makes a fool of herself in the endless search for publicity. That's what we've come to, and it sickens me; and JP would have hated it too.
He's better off, really; I know he is; I'm just feeling sorry for myself.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Bus Stop, Wet Day
Today I had one of the strangest conversations I've had in recent years.
I had to go to the bank, and after chasing all over creation trying to get a $20 cash advance on my credit card--apparently my bank doesn't do such menial things--then going back to the bank, making my deposit, and THEN spending the better part of an hour hunting for a place to pee, I finally was done with that part of the day. I needed to get to Clark and Lake, so I stood on the corner of Broadway, Fullerton, and Clark, near the stop for the southbound #36.
I pause here to paint a picture of myself.
I'm 5'6", about 220 lbs. I don't LOOK 220, but I do look at least 180; I'm not as fat as my height/weight ratio makes it sound, but I'm definitely fat, no question about it. I am fashion-impaired to a high degree, and my mid-spring wardrobe varies not at all from day to day: jeans, a gray sweatshirt, navy blue running shoes, and an olive-green messenger bag worn bandolier-wise across my chest. My hair is shoulder-length, and though on sunny days it has a bunch of interesting highlights in it, on a day like today it's just plain brown--and frizzy, instead of wavy. By the end of the day, I generally look like something the dogs have had under the house--tired, limp, in need of nothing more than a shower and some downtime.
This is all to say: I am not a terribly attractive woman, but even if I was, by 6:30 PM on a rainy Friday, I STILL wouldn't be a traffic-stopper.
So here I am, damp and frazzled, standing on the corner waiting for the bus, ignoring most of the people who walk past.
Barely within the range of my peripheral vision, a man walks past--then stops and spins to look at me. "Hello!" he says.
He's tall, gangly, skinny, unshaven; obviously suffering from some sort of neurological deficit, maybe cerebral palsy, maybe Parkinson's, something that affects his motion and his speech. But he's not threatening, and he has a sweet smile. Charming, in an odd sort of way.
"Hello," I say.
"You have the" (something garbled) "incredible sense of feminine beauty," he tells me. Typical of me, I duck my head, blushing, and smile. "Thank you," I say; he reminds me a little bit of Carlos, how taken he was with me.
"I have this friend, Peter?" he says, "I'm Tom, by the way--but I have this friend Peter, and he's" (something else I miss completely) "...but YOU'RE even better than HE is! So you MUST be actuated," he continues. I'm still blushing, still grinning; even if he's some sort of lunatic-fringe philosopher, even if what he's saying doesn't entirely make sense, it's still clear that he means it as a compliment. "That's a nice thing to hear on a Friday afternoon," I say.
He then goes into a lengthy exposition about how he's "just one WORD in the book, but you're, like, the WHOLE BOOK!" and how at least that means he's part of SOMETHING good; between the traffic and his difficult speech, I catch maybe 40% of it, but again--judging from his expression and his tone--it's CLEARLY complimentary.
Finally, he turns to go. "Later," he says, with the same big smile. "Take care," I say, still smiling too. As I watch him walk away, I think to myself: I bet you say that to all the girls.
And later, I wonder: What is it, exactly, that makes me so reluctant to interact with people in situations like that? I know lots of people--Kim, for example--who would have struck up a whole conversation with the guy, and they would have ended up hanging out or something. But I'm not like that...I have this overwhelming defense mechanism, that keeps me from letting anyone in, even if they manage to get through my initial barriers enough to strike up a conversation. I can see, too, that I'm not yet the person I want to be, that there are still some things where my tolerance is not quite what it should be.
Regardless, it's nice to know that someone finds me beautiful. It's kinda like what me and JP used to talk about: There's a hell of a lot of good to see in me, and some people can even see beauty--but you have to be pretty goddamn unusual to even see it.
I had to go to the bank, and after chasing all over creation trying to get a $20 cash advance on my credit card--apparently my bank doesn't do such menial things--then going back to the bank, making my deposit, and THEN spending the better part of an hour hunting for a place to pee, I finally was done with that part of the day. I needed to get to Clark and Lake, so I stood on the corner of Broadway, Fullerton, and Clark, near the stop for the southbound #36.
I pause here to paint a picture of myself.
I'm 5'6", about 220 lbs. I don't LOOK 220, but I do look at least 180; I'm not as fat as my height/weight ratio makes it sound, but I'm definitely fat, no question about it. I am fashion-impaired to a high degree, and my mid-spring wardrobe varies not at all from day to day: jeans, a gray sweatshirt, navy blue running shoes, and an olive-green messenger bag worn bandolier-wise across my chest. My hair is shoulder-length, and though on sunny days it has a bunch of interesting highlights in it, on a day like today it's just plain brown--and frizzy, instead of wavy. By the end of the day, I generally look like something the dogs have had under the house--tired, limp, in need of nothing more than a shower and some downtime.
This is all to say: I am not a terribly attractive woman, but even if I was, by 6:30 PM on a rainy Friday, I STILL wouldn't be a traffic-stopper.
So here I am, damp and frazzled, standing on the corner waiting for the bus, ignoring most of the people who walk past.
Barely within the range of my peripheral vision, a man walks past--then stops and spins to look at me. "Hello!" he says.
He's tall, gangly, skinny, unshaven; obviously suffering from some sort of neurological deficit, maybe cerebral palsy, maybe Parkinson's, something that affects his motion and his speech. But he's not threatening, and he has a sweet smile. Charming, in an odd sort of way.
"Hello," I say.
"You have the" (something garbled) "incredible sense of feminine beauty," he tells me. Typical of me, I duck my head, blushing, and smile. "Thank you," I say; he reminds me a little bit of Carlos, how taken he was with me.
"I have this friend, Peter?" he says, "I'm Tom, by the way--but I have this friend Peter, and he's" (something else I miss completely) "...but YOU'RE even better than HE is! So you MUST be actuated," he continues. I'm still blushing, still grinning; even if he's some sort of lunatic-fringe philosopher, even if what he's saying doesn't entirely make sense, it's still clear that he means it as a compliment. "That's a nice thing to hear on a Friday afternoon," I say.
He then goes into a lengthy exposition about how he's "just one WORD in the book, but you're, like, the WHOLE BOOK!" and how at least that means he's part of SOMETHING good; between the traffic and his difficult speech, I catch maybe 40% of it, but again--judging from his expression and his tone--it's CLEARLY complimentary.
Finally, he turns to go. "Later," he says, with the same big smile. "Take care," I say, still smiling too. As I watch him walk away, I think to myself: I bet you say that to all the girls.
And later, I wonder: What is it, exactly, that makes me so reluctant to interact with people in situations like that? I know lots of people--Kim, for example--who would have struck up a whole conversation with the guy, and they would have ended up hanging out or something. But I'm not like that...I have this overwhelming defense mechanism, that keeps me from letting anyone in, even if they manage to get through my initial barriers enough to strike up a conversation. I can see, too, that I'm not yet the person I want to be, that there are still some things where my tolerance is not quite what it should be.
Regardless, it's nice to know that someone finds me beautiful. It's kinda like what me and JP used to talk about: There's a hell of a lot of good to see in me, and some people can even see beauty--but you have to be pretty goddamn unusual to even see it.
Commutants and commutiny
Hypothesis (as yet untested): I would write much less about trains and busses if I spent less time on them. However, with a 90-minute one-way commute...well, you get the picture.
Actually I'm -glad- I don't have a car, at the moment. (I'm not even going to touch on the issues of cost, insurance, repairs, hassles, and $2.50/gal for gas--I'd say my carlessness was an act of compassion to the environment, but the sad truth is just that I'm broke as hell and incapable of changing that fact despite working 45-50-hour weeks.)
To begin with, if I had a car, I'd never get any sleep. I consider the rides to and from work as an extra three net hours of sleep--no small potatoes, for one who loves sleep as much as I do.
And then, too--there are the things I'd miss, if I had a car. Such as....
Purple Line Train Sketch #1
Davis Street. Girl gets on, fashionable. Olive-skinned, blondish-streaked dark hair; maybe Hispanic, maybe Italian, maybe not. Pretty, in the way that expensive clothes and accessories can make girls pretty. She sits in one of the sidewise seats, plops her satchel next to her. This satchel costs more than my cable bill, probably.
I cease to notice her--the buildings and roads outside are more interesting to me--but then I notice: something smells funny. Like something Ted the Consultant brings for lunch when he comes to work on the database; a salad, maybe. Not a good salad.
I look up and the girl has a little plastic tray perched on one crossed knee...Sushi. Little leaf-wrapped rice-centered vinegary blobs of stinky sushi. She picks her way, delicately (of course), through the entire tray, opens the little Wash-n-Dri wipe, wipes her hands.
I go back to watching the graveyard by Irving Park. (I once looked at an apartment with a view of the cemetery; at that point in time I think it would have suited my attitude pretty well. But they turned down my credit.)
A few minutes later, I look up. The girl has just taken, out of her Big Expensive Bag, a Small Expensive Bag. From this bag she removes an eyelash curler, and proceeds to curl her eyelashes. Lash by lash by lash. It takes a good three, four stops, plus a five-minute "waiting for signals" delay at Belmont. Then, mascara, blush, lipstick, lip gloss.
Between the nasty sushi, the expensive gear, and the eyelash curlers--why, I wonder, was I not surprised
to see her get off at Fullerton??? If I'd been looking for a character-sketch of the Lincoln Park Trixie in its native habitat, I don't think I could have come up with anything better. The one thing that would have made it perfect would have been a long, shrill, highly-detailed personal call on a teeny little cell phone, in concert with all the rest.
Actually I'm -glad- I don't have a car, at the moment. (I'm not even going to touch on the issues of cost, insurance, repairs, hassles, and $2.50/gal for gas--I'd say my carlessness was an act of compassion to the environment, but the sad truth is just that I'm broke as hell and incapable of changing that fact despite working 45-50-hour weeks.)
To begin with, if I had a car, I'd never get any sleep. I consider the rides to and from work as an extra three net hours of sleep--no small potatoes, for one who loves sleep as much as I do.
And then, too--there are the things I'd miss, if I had a car. Such as....
Purple Line Train Sketch #1
Davis Street. Girl gets on, fashionable. Olive-skinned, blondish-streaked dark hair; maybe Hispanic, maybe Italian, maybe not. Pretty, in the way that expensive clothes and accessories can make girls pretty. She sits in one of the sidewise seats, plops her satchel next to her. This satchel costs more than my cable bill, probably.
I cease to notice her--the buildings and roads outside are more interesting to me--but then I notice: something smells funny. Like something Ted the Consultant brings for lunch when he comes to work on the database; a salad, maybe. Not a good salad.
I look up and the girl has a little plastic tray perched on one crossed knee...Sushi. Little leaf-wrapped rice-centered vinegary blobs of stinky sushi. She picks her way, delicately (of course), through the entire tray, opens the little Wash-n-Dri wipe, wipes her hands.
I go back to watching the graveyard by Irving Park. (I once looked at an apartment with a view of the cemetery; at that point in time I think it would have suited my attitude pretty well. But they turned down my credit.)
A few minutes later, I look up. The girl has just taken, out of her Big Expensive Bag, a Small Expensive Bag. From this bag she removes an eyelash curler, and proceeds to curl her eyelashes. Lash by lash by lash. It takes a good three, four stops, plus a five-minute "waiting for signals" delay at Belmont. Then, mascara, blush, lipstick, lip gloss.
Between the nasty sushi, the expensive gear, and the eyelash curlers--why, I wonder, was I not surprised
to see her get off at Fullerton??? If I'd been looking for a character-sketch of the Lincoln Park Trixie in its native habitat, I don't think I could have come up with anything better. The one thing that would have made it perfect would have been a long, shrill, highly-detailed personal call on a teeny little cell phone, in concert with all the rest.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
CTA wishes and bus-route dreams...
Just for once, I'd like to hear the CTA Etiquette-Enforcement VoiceBot say something like this:
"Did you know that it's now perfectly acceptable to rip the cell-phone out of the hands of the yammering ninny in the next row? For more information, call 1-800-YOUR-CTA, or visit our website at www.transitchicago.com..."
"Did you know that it's now perfectly acceptable to rip the cell-phone out of the hands of the yammering ninny in the next row? For more information, call 1-800-YOUR-CTA, or visit our website at www.transitchicago.com..."
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
David Reimer's death
New Zealand News - World - Tragic end for boy brought up as girl
I read this book a few years ago. (This news story gets at least one fact egregiously wrong; David Reimer's birth name was Bruce, not Brian. Brian was his twin brother.)
Now, as rightfully as the article and all the others like it focus on David and the pain of HIS life, what I really want to know is this: why did BRIAN kill himself? Was it related to the stress of being part of this experiment?
If so, there's more blood on John Money's hands than anyone is saying.
I read this book a few years ago. (This news story gets at least one fact egregiously wrong; David Reimer's birth name was Bruce, not Brian. Brian was his twin brother.)
Now, as rightfully as the article and all the others like it focus on David and the pain of HIS life, what I really want to know is this: why did BRIAN kill himself? Was it related to the stress of being part of this experiment?
If so, there's more blood on John Money's hands than anyone is saying.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Lynndie England is NOT a victim.
I should not be blogging right now. I should be showering or sleeping right now. Had LJ not brought his 7-yr-old nephew over to stay til after 8:00 PM, had I gotten to do things in the timeframe I normally do them, I probably would be sleeping. But he did, and I didn't, and I ate dinner after 9:00 PM and now my sense of time is all befucked, and what's worse is, I'm a night person to begin with and I'm not tired. TOMORROW I will be tired. Tomorrow I will be EXHAUSTED, actually. But since Amy is out of the office for a whole week (shout Hallelujiah, come on get happy) I stand a chance of being able to have a reasonable day tomorrow, if the server would just quit fucking CRASHING.
But I digress.
RE: all the torture-in-Iraq stories: Aside from making me think But what the hell did everyone THINK was happening in those prisons? Intramural basketball and crafts classes? This is the MILITARY, for god's sake, and if you hold illusions about the sanctity, honor, and humaneness of the average member of the armed forces, then I urge you to catch the next screening of Waco--The Rules Of Engagement , which should disabuse you of that notion. No matter what you think/thought about David Koresh and his followers, the fact of the matter is that the military personnel on site during that siege made total asses of themselves--mooning the windows, playing Nancy Sinatra and "Achy Breaky Heart" at the people inside, and just generally being a pack of fools. When I see the Iraq prison pix, to me it seems all of a piece....
But aside from that knee-jerk reaction, here's what I think: In many of the most-publicized pictures, we see that same pixie-cut hairdo, that same grin, that same girl's face. She wasn't in just ONE shot, or even just a handful; she was all over those pictures. Now, in all the articles where they quote her family, or people who "know" her, they all say the same thing: paraphrased--"Oh, Lynndie isn't like that. She would NEVER do such a thing on her own. She was coerced. She was framed. She wouldn't have been in those pictures if it wasn't for that man"--the superior officer whose child she's apparently now carrying.
But here's the thing, see: First off, the look on her face is not a look of reluctant participation. That girl is ENJOYING herself. Believe me. I've seen a lot of pictures people whose heart wasn't in whatever activity they were being photographed in; even if the mouth is grinning, there's a look in the eyes that says "Get me outta here, please!" That look is conspicuously absent on Lynndie England's face. Whether she's pointing at the crotch of a hooded prisoner as he simulates jacking off, or holding the leash of another naked man, or posed with her buddies behind a pyramid of Iraqi backsides--that girl looks like she's having the time of her fucking life.
Then they try to play it off as "Oh, she was victimized by her superior officer." Well, unless I've missed a whole lot of news briefs, no one has alleged that there was any force or threat involved in the establishment of this relationship. No one has said "She felt like she had to screw him or there would be consequences." No one has shouted "Rape". So the implication here is, this woman had the requisite free will to choose to engage in a consensual sexual relationship with her superior officer--and to continue this relationship to the point that she became pregnant (despite the potential consequences to her military career!) No one, so far, has said that Lynndie England was forced to continue the relationship, or that she was prohibited from breaking it off, or that she was forced to conceive and carry this officer's child. She had the wherewithal to make those decisions on her own. So how the hell are we then supposed to believe that she wouldn't have the backbone to say, if she so chose, "No, I will not pose for your pictures"? Or "No, I will not participate in the humiliation and dehumanization of these men, even if I disagree with their way of life"?
Now, I'm sure her poor judgement, as illustrated by her relationship with her superior officer, could be seen as an indication that she would probably show similarly-poor judgement faced with the issue of how prisoners should be treated--but that's not the point I'm making here. The point here is, her supporters paint the portrait of a girl who was accustomed to speaking her mind and exercising her free will in decisionmaking. She's clearly no shrinking violet; there's every indication that she COULD have stood up, in both situations, and yet it seems she CHOSE not to. THAT's my point here.
Which brings me to the issue that most gets my goat: The image that's being spun by Lynndie England's supporters is "sweet little girl led astray by baaaaaad man". And that fits seamlessly into the Bush view of women: we're all brainless lumps of protoplasm, devoid of our own volition or moral reasoning. If we encounter good men, then we're safe (because, after all, good men will only tell/allow us to do good things); however, woe to the girl who encounters a BAAAAAD man. Since we have no good sense or intelligence to guide us, if we encounter one of these bad men, we're doomed to carry out whatever evil, twisted, unAmerican orders he gives us. According to this myth, Lynndie England just met a bad man, that's all. And he just twisted up her poor little head soooooo bad that she THOUGHT she was having fun torturing prisoners, and could smile that way in those pictures. She was really SUFFERING, though--because Lynndie was a GOOD girl.
Bull-everlovin'-crap, if you ask me. Lynndie England is not a victim; she is, however, one hell of a Bush-era Amurr'can. (After all, they're just Ay-rabs, right? Just "Sodom" Hussein's little minions, all of 'em, right?? Just "the Axis of Evil"--and scratch an Iraqi, you're just BOUND to find an al-Qaeda sympathizer. Because, as we all know, al-Qaeda was based out of IRAQ, right? and supported by "Sodom" Hussein. The House of Saud? Um....This press-conference is now over.)
But I digress.
RE: all the torture-in-Iraq stories: Aside from making me think But what the hell did everyone THINK was happening in those prisons? Intramural basketball and crafts classes? This is the MILITARY, for god's sake, and if you hold illusions about the sanctity, honor, and humaneness of the average member of the armed forces, then I urge you to catch the next screening of Waco--The Rules Of Engagement , which should disabuse you of that notion. No matter what you think/thought about David Koresh and his followers, the fact of the matter is that the military personnel on site during that siege made total asses of themselves--mooning the windows, playing Nancy Sinatra and "Achy Breaky Heart" at the people inside, and just generally being a pack of fools. When I see the Iraq prison pix, to me it seems all of a piece....
But aside from that knee-jerk reaction, here's what I think: In many of the most-publicized pictures, we see that same pixie-cut hairdo, that same grin, that same girl's face. She wasn't in just ONE shot, or even just a handful; she was all over those pictures. Now, in all the articles where they quote her family, or people who "know" her, they all say the same thing: paraphrased--"Oh, Lynndie isn't like that. She would NEVER do such a thing on her own. She was coerced. She was framed. She wouldn't have been in those pictures if it wasn't for that man"--the superior officer whose child she's apparently now carrying.
But here's the thing, see: First off, the look on her face is not a look of reluctant participation. That girl is ENJOYING herself. Believe me. I've seen a lot of pictures people whose heart wasn't in whatever activity they were being photographed in; even if the mouth is grinning, there's a look in the eyes that says "Get me outta here, please!" That look is conspicuously absent on Lynndie England's face. Whether she's pointing at the crotch of a hooded prisoner as he simulates jacking off, or holding the leash of another naked man, or posed with her buddies behind a pyramid of Iraqi backsides--that girl looks like she's having the time of her fucking life.
Then they try to play it off as "Oh, she was victimized by her superior officer." Well, unless I've missed a whole lot of news briefs, no one has alleged that there was any force or threat involved in the establishment of this relationship. No one has said "She felt like she had to screw him or there would be consequences." No one has shouted "Rape". So the implication here is, this woman had the requisite free will to choose to engage in a consensual sexual relationship with her superior officer--and to continue this relationship to the point that she became pregnant (despite the potential consequences to her military career!) No one, so far, has said that Lynndie England was forced to continue the relationship, or that she was prohibited from breaking it off, or that she was forced to conceive and carry this officer's child. She had the wherewithal to make those decisions on her own. So how the hell are we then supposed to believe that she wouldn't have the backbone to say, if she so chose, "No, I will not pose for your pictures"? Or "No, I will not participate in the humiliation and dehumanization of these men, even if I disagree with their way of life"?
Now, I'm sure her poor judgement, as illustrated by her relationship with her superior officer, could be seen as an indication that she would probably show similarly-poor judgement faced with the issue of how prisoners should be treated--but that's not the point I'm making here. The point here is, her supporters paint the portrait of a girl who was accustomed to speaking her mind and exercising her free will in decisionmaking. She's clearly no shrinking violet; there's every indication that she COULD have stood up, in both situations, and yet it seems she CHOSE not to. THAT's my point here.
Which brings me to the issue that most gets my goat: The image that's being spun by Lynndie England's supporters is "sweet little girl led astray by baaaaaad man". And that fits seamlessly into the Bush view of women: we're all brainless lumps of protoplasm, devoid of our own volition or moral reasoning. If we encounter good men, then we're safe (because, after all, good men will only tell/allow us to do good things); however, woe to the girl who encounters a BAAAAAD man. Since we have no good sense or intelligence to guide us, if we encounter one of these bad men, we're doomed to carry out whatever evil, twisted, unAmerican orders he gives us. According to this myth, Lynndie England just met a bad man, that's all. And he just twisted up her poor little head soooooo bad that she THOUGHT she was having fun torturing prisoners, and could smile that way in those pictures. She was really SUFFERING, though--because Lynndie was a GOOD girl.
Bull-everlovin'-crap, if you ask me. Lynndie England is not a victim; she is, however, one hell of a Bush-era Amurr'can. (After all, they're just Ay-rabs, right? Just "Sodom" Hussein's little minions, all of 'em, right?? Just "the Axis of Evil"--and scratch an Iraqi, you're just BOUND to find an al-Qaeda sympathizer. Because, as we all know, al-Qaeda was based out of IRAQ, right? and supported by "Sodom" Hussein. The House of Saud? Um....This press-conference is now over.)
In Which Gladys, Our Intrepid Explorer, Comes Out Of The Blog Closet
Well, I did it. I wasn't going to publish this bad boy--publishing bloggers, at least of the not-political-or-current-events-ish variety, have always struck me as useless in theory if not in practice--and yet here I am. I have identified myself on chicagobloggers.com, which (if you're reading this) is probably WHY you're reading this, as I've made no indication elsewhere that this blog even exists.
Why? Well, why the hell not? Why is anyone else's solipsistic navel-gazing any more important or eyeball-worthy than mine? Why are anyone else's unsubstantiated blorts of opinion any more valid than mine? Yes, yes, I know: just because I -can- doesn't mean I -should-...but since everything (EVERYTHING) is a pseud, this indulgence harms no one. If you choose to thusly waste your time, more power to you; if you get something out of it, even if it's an unearned sense of your own superiority over a lonely little potato like myself...well, so much the better.
Now, if you want to keep reading, go on then. I'm willing to offer a summary here:
I am 34 years old, or nearly. I work with computers, and I've been at the same job for not quite four years, which is notable because not only is it my own personal best tenure at a job, but it's also my job's organization-record for retaining a tech. Nobody else with the brains to do what they need done can stand the monotony of what they demand from their tech--nor can they stand the hierarchy. The hierarchy sucks ass.
I live in K-Town. K-Town, for you non-Chicago types, is one of the "bad" neighborhoods; "bad", for you I-live-in-a-perfect-world-and-don't-know-about-euphemisms-either people, means "non-Caucasian". I bought a house here in October 2003. The "Why" in "The Story of Why" refers to that decision, for which I got an amount of flak that is simply not to be believed. The original intent of this blog was to justify and explain my reasoning; it's grown more into The Life And Loves Of Gladys.
Oh, and incidentally, my name ain't Gladys. Everything, as I said, is pseudonymous. This is more to protect my mom from my nosyfucking relatives than it is to protect me from the brutal court of public disapprobation. There's an exception to this rule--some first names are real, but only tangential characters, and there's one whole name which I am not going to obscure because if anyone deserves to be flayed alive and subjected to any wrath I can generate, it's Thomas A. Slaughter.
Thomas A. Slaughter sold me this house. To give you an idea: This house (which is an integral part of this whole experience inasmuch as, if it wasn't what and where it is, neither would I be who and where I am) has now been officially nicknamed The Catastrophe With A Roof On. The things that are wrong with this house are legion; plumbing, furnace, basement, floors, water damage, joists, roof damage, all sorts of evil shit. He knowingly concealed these things and conspired to commit fraud--so I have no interest in protecting his interests.
Anyway. I have promised myself that I will maintain this blog more diligently now that I've admitted its existence. God knows I've got enough opinions.
Why? Well, why the hell not? Why is anyone else's solipsistic navel-gazing any more important or eyeball-worthy than mine? Why are anyone else's unsubstantiated blorts of opinion any more valid than mine? Yes, yes, I know: just because I -can- doesn't mean I -should-...but since everything (EVERYTHING) is a pseud, this indulgence harms no one. If you choose to thusly waste your time, more power to you; if you get something out of it, even if it's an unearned sense of your own superiority over a lonely little potato like myself...well, so much the better.
Now, if you want to keep reading, go on then. I'm willing to offer a summary here:
I am 34 years old, or nearly. I work with computers, and I've been at the same job for not quite four years, which is notable because not only is it my own personal best tenure at a job, but it's also my job's organization-record for retaining a tech. Nobody else with the brains to do what they need done can stand the monotony of what they demand from their tech--nor can they stand the hierarchy. The hierarchy sucks ass.
I live in K-Town. K-Town, for you non-Chicago types, is one of the "bad" neighborhoods; "bad", for you I-live-in-a-perfect-world-and-don't-know-about-euphemisms-either people, means "non-Caucasian". I bought a house here in October 2003. The "Why" in "The Story of Why" refers to that decision, for which I got an amount of flak that is simply not to be believed. The original intent of this blog was to justify and explain my reasoning; it's grown more into The Life And Loves Of Gladys.
Oh, and incidentally, my name ain't Gladys. Everything, as I said, is pseudonymous. This is more to protect my mom from my nosyfucking relatives than it is to protect me from the brutal court of public disapprobation. There's an exception to this rule--some first names are real, but only tangential characters, and there's one whole name which I am not going to obscure because if anyone deserves to be flayed alive and subjected to any wrath I can generate, it's Thomas A. Slaughter.
Thomas A. Slaughter sold me this house. To give you an idea: This house (which is an integral part of this whole experience inasmuch as, if it wasn't what and where it is, neither would I be who and where I am) has now been officially nicknamed The Catastrophe With A Roof On. The things that are wrong with this house are legion; plumbing, furnace, basement, floors, water damage, joists, roof damage, all sorts of evil shit. He knowingly concealed these things and conspired to commit fraud--so I have no interest in protecting his interests.
Anyway. I have promised myself that I will maintain this blog more diligently now that I've admitted its existence. God knows I've got enough opinions.
Picture: My Second Quilt
This is my second quilt. It's not currently hanging here--I've yet to hang -anything- on the walls of The Catastrophe With A Roof On--but once I paint a wall or two, this is -definitely- going in the Art Room.
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