I believe in art.
When JP was alive, the two of us saw our lives as art, a classic example of what NOT to do. We were two creative people, both with subversive streaks. He loved my poetry--the angrier and more confrontational, the better; I loved his music, especially the defiant, transgressive feedback and noise. The writers and artists we admired most were the ones who crossed the lines: Nan Goldin, William Burroughs, Robert Mapplethorpe, and their ilk.
So I am not an uptight, anti-free-expression sort of person. There is very little I will not tolerate for the sake of art, very little in the way of artistic expression that I cannot accept. I was okay with the guy who painted Harold Washington in negligee, okay with the guy who had people walking on the flag, okay with the crucifix-in-urine exhibit. None of them were really great, I thought, but I supported the artists' right to create those things, even if I thought they were controversy for the sake of controversy, and as such, kinda stupid. I didn't like them, but I didn't find them objectionable either.
But I have finally found something that crosses my line.
Background: I came across this because I was trying to fix someone's Windows Media Player here at work. When he played a clip, it came out in pink and green and all sorts of weird colors. So I went back to my desk and typed "windows media distorted image" into my handy-dandy Googlebar.
A few items down the list was a link to a blog. I clicked to read the article because from the little blurb in the Google listing, it seemed to me like some Puritannical right-winger was getting his undies in a bundle about somebody else's artistic expressions again, and I was curious to see what he was foaming at the mouth about.
I followed the link on Mr. Owen's blog, which took me to another blog and another article which told me more about what Mr. Owen was talking about. By this time I'd concluded that neither Mr. Owen nor Mr. Hawk are Puritannical or foaming at the mouth; I can't speak for their politics because frankly, politics don't matter in this situation, though I'm sure there are those who will say they matter a great deal. And from Mr. Hawk's blog post, I found a link to the topic of all this controversy.
Click this link, if you wish. It is "safe for work" in the traditional sense, but the subject matter may disturb you and those around you. The link connects to the work of Jill Greenberg, a photographer; this exhibit, called "End Times", is being featured at a New York gallery.
"End Times" consists of head-and-shoulders photos of children--maybe three or four years old at the most--expressing extreme sadness, anger, distress, and frustration. Each photo is titled with a phrase evoking images of the Bush administration ("Four More Years") or fundamentalist theology ("Tribulation", "Intelligent Design"). To create these photos, Ms. Greenberg provoked the children into by giving each child a lollipop, then taking it away and photographing the resulting outburst.
Both Mr. Hawk and Mr. Owen make much more well-reasoned points about the photos than I could make; my reaction is purely emotional, and so I make no claim to being unbiased in regards to the theory, the artistic value, or the means of obtaining these photos.
My reaction comes straight from the gut: These photos sicken me. These are little children, and they are obviously in pain--no matter how fleeting, no matter how minor. For an adult to intentionally inflict any emotional trauma on a small child, for any reason other than to ensure their continued safety, is cruel and unnecessary. When I see these pictures I want to comfort those children, because their pain has been inflicted upon them in the service of something they don't understand. These babies--for that's what they are--don't understand "art". They don't understand "protest". They don't know or care who George Bush is or what he's done; they only know that someone took something away from them and they want it back. And yes, it's a minor pain, and yes, they will forget it; that's not the point. The point is that someone who should know better used these children--one of whom was her own daughter, according to Mr. Hawk's post--to make a point. No matter how insignificant the pain, no matter how quickly the memory fades, that's still exploitation. These are babies, and they're hurting, and Jill Greenberg made them hurt on purpose as a way to express her own opinion, and to me that's wrong.
Those of you who have read me for a while know: I am a rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth left-wing liberal pinko. I make no apologies for this. But I am sickened that an opinion which I happen to share has been expressed this way. Far from speaking for me and strengthening my dislike of the current administration, these pictures just make me ashamed to share an opinion--ANY opinion--with the "artist". If I was just making up my mind about Bush, I'd seriously have to consider whether I wanted to hold an opinion that would be shared by people who would express themselves this way; in fact, seeing these pictures would be more likely to drive me to the OTHER side. Just as I'm ashamed of animal-rights advocates who destroy scientific equipment to express their views; just as I'm sure the majority of pro-lifers are ashamed of clinic bombers; when I see something like this I'm almost ashamed to loathe Bush as much as I do. Fortunately, he's so loathe-able that even this travesty against art can't shake my antipathy for him.
But I'm sure these pictures will serve as further fuel for the neocon's summary dismissal of any opinions from the left--"Look at this big-city lib'rul nutcase feminazi, torturing babies for pictures! but yet they'll tell us WE'RE wrong for taking those pictures at Abu Ghraib!" These pictures will serve as convenient shorthand for everything that average people fear about artists.
And they'll also feature prominently in my nightmares, I expect, for at least a day or two.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Rock Myth, Twelve Years Later
Had this article ever appeared while JP was alive, we would have spoken of nothing else for days and days. Kurt and Courtney were our rock myth, our role models, the all-consuming story into which we submerged ourselves as only art-struck twentysomethings can.
Reading this now just seems like a cruel joke. Frances Bean has been raised listening to crap bands (her favorite, according to one article, is Good Charlotte--a cheap ripoff of early Green Day); Courtney is a punch-line for every late-night comic and morning-drive radio zoo; and Billy is widely seen as being in the throes of a nostalgic delusion that the Pumpkins will rise again.
I miss the early 90's. I miss our innocent cynicism, our naive conviction that we'd seen and done everything, the feeling of been-there-done-that as a new and exciting sensation. Twelve years later I feel like we -have- been there, we -have- done that, the novelty is completely worn off and there's no fun to it anymore. The game of I've-seen-it-all,I-was-there-first has become deadly serious; the excitement of being the first one to find a new band or a new book has become the drudgery of being the ten-trillionth person to view "The Evolution of Dance" on YouTube. Happy accidents have become "viral marketing", and anything new is immediately pounced on by the media--both old and new; fed to us on a hundred different spoons, and then stamped out as inferior copies. "Lazy Sunday", a moderately-funny SNL skit, would have spawned a few imitations, maybe a couple of t-shirts in the early 90's; the people who had seen it could feel like they were part of a secret little club, the kind of pop-culture virtuosos who pride themselves on catching obscure references to hipster in-jokes. But now every Joe Schmuckboy and his great-aunt Maude can go around yelling "Chronic-WHAT?-cles of Narnia"; half of them have their own version of it on their MySpace page. Things that would have been outrageously hip in 1994 now become memes in a couple of days. And I guess that's natural; I guess it's just the evolution of the media...
...but I miss the old ways. I miss the secret clubs; I miss the feeling of belonging to things that not everyone knew about. And even if everyone knew about it--like Nirvana--there were still little details that only the true devotees knew. Mostly I miss the feeling of being relevant, of feeling that the things that mattered to me also mattered to the people who mattered to me. I miss 1994. I miss JP.
It really sucks, this getting-older thing.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
I Really Promise, This is NOT Becoming a Cat Blog...
I am so sick of bad news involving cats. It makes it no easier, though it should, that they're OTHER people's cats, not mine.
First, Tim. He took Sosa to the emergency vet on Friday. The vet said it was probably some sort of poisoning; his liver was completely shut down, and he was too far gone to save. It breaks my heart to think of it--they were such sweet cats, and they were only the same age as Whitey--just about five years old.
Then there's my neighbors.
Now, I love Len and Phoebe, my neighbors. They're very nice people, they don't plague me, and they watch out for my house while I'm at work. But they seem to share the same view as most of the rest of the neighborhood when it comes to animals, particularly cats: they're nice, but disposable. A couple of years ago they had the cutest kitten; they let it out and it got away and was never seen again. The day after I got Snickers, LJ's friend brought one of his littermates over--my neighbors were having a problem with mice. He was around for a week or so before he got out; he came back later, but escaped again and hasn't been seen since. Phoebe seems to think someone took him into the house and is keeping him there.
Yesterday, when I was leaving for work, their oldest son was coming in from a night out. "We got a kitten," he said. "One of my guys cats had kittens...he's three weeks old." It wasn't til I got in the car that I thought three weeks? that's awfully young....
Last night, I was eating my dinner (and guarding it from Snick, who's getting to be quite an accomplished thief) when the doorbell rang, accompanied by a piercing "MEEEWW!" I opened the door to find Len and Phoebe's younger son standing on my porch, with a tiny ball of all-white fluff attached to his shirt and screeching in fear. "My momma says do you want another cat?" he said. Apparently the little one, along with the constant sonic assault, had taken an inappropriate crap in one of the bedrooms. I went out on the porch and held the kitten (who was quivering like a leaf) and attempted to explain to Phoebe and the older son: the kitten is too young. He should be with his mother for a couple more weeks at least. To which the son replied "My guy's mom said she was gonna put them out in the alley if he didn't get rid of them today." My reply was "Don't TELL me that!!" I told them the kitten was probably not even litter-trained yet; I told them to put him in the box and move his front paws for him, teaching him the way the mother-cat would have.
"He cries too much," they said. "He's terrified!" I told them. I suggested putting him in a carrier with a towel, a little litterbox, food and water, and playing a radio very very low to keep him company. Then I noticed: The kitty was all-white--not a mark on him. I snapped my fingers right behind him--no reaction. I tried a couple of other sounds--nothing. I told them the reason he wasn't responding to "no!", along with his youth, may be that he couldn't hear them--some white cats can't hear, I said, and he might be one of them. Meanwhile, I'm holding this poor little trembling kitty and thinking of Len and Phoebe's track-record with cats. I would have kept him, but one baby in the house is quite enough--and LJ would kill me stone dead, if he came home to find a THIRD cat. Enough is enough, you know?
I came home today and Phoebe was on the porch. "How's the kitten?" I asked. "We gave him away to the people across the street," she said. These are the same people whose older cat has spent much of the spring and summer up in the high branches of the big tree across the street. They say they TRY to keep him inside, but he gets out and heads straight for the treetops. I'm thinking this poor baby-cat hasn't got a prayer.
I know I've got the typical prosperous-white-liberal view of animals; I know it's hard to worry about the welfare of kittens when you're not sure how you're going to pay the bills that month. But still--it makes me sad. Very, very sad.
To offset the very very sadness of this post, I give you: the prince of the Catastrophe, who is getting REALLY big. Ain't he cute?? (The look of fixed intensity on his face is directed at my laundry basket, into which he is contemplating an ill-considered leap.)
LJ comes home tonight, so poor Snick is going to get exiled from the bed. Is it wrong that I'd rather sleep next to the cat?
First, Tim. He took Sosa to the emergency vet on Friday. The vet said it was probably some sort of poisoning; his liver was completely shut down, and he was too far gone to save. It breaks my heart to think of it--they were such sweet cats, and they were only the same age as Whitey--just about five years old.
Then there's my neighbors.
Now, I love Len and Phoebe, my neighbors. They're very nice people, they don't plague me, and they watch out for my house while I'm at work. But they seem to share the same view as most of the rest of the neighborhood when it comes to animals, particularly cats: they're nice, but disposable. A couple of years ago they had the cutest kitten; they let it out and it got away and was never seen again. The day after I got Snickers, LJ's friend brought one of his littermates over--my neighbors were having a problem with mice. He was around for a week or so before he got out; he came back later, but escaped again and hasn't been seen since. Phoebe seems to think someone took him into the house and is keeping him there.
Yesterday, when I was leaving for work, their oldest son was coming in from a night out. "We got a kitten," he said. "One of my guys cats had kittens...he's three weeks old." It wasn't til I got in the car that I thought three weeks? that's awfully young....
Last night, I was eating my dinner (and guarding it from Snick, who's getting to be quite an accomplished thief) when the doorbell rang, accompanied by a piercing "MEEEWW!" I opened the door to find Len and Phoebe's younger son standing on my porch, with a tiny ball of all-white fluff attached to his shirt and screeching in fear. "My momma says do you want another cat?" he said. Apparently the little one, along with the constant sonic assault, had taken an inappropriate crap in one of the bedrooms. I went out on the porch and held the kitten (who was quivering like a leaf) and attempted to explain to Phoebe and the older son: the kitten is too young. He should be with his mother for a couple more weeks at least. To which the son replied "My guy's mom said she was gonna put them out in the alley if he didn't get rid of them today." My reply was "Don't TELL me that!!" I told them the kitten was probably not even litter-trained yet; I told them to put him in the box and move his front paws for him, teaching him the way the mother-cat would have.
"He cries too much," they said. "He's terrified!" I told them. I suggested putting him in a carrier with a towel, a little litterbox, food and water, and playing a radio very very low to keep him company. Then I noticed: The kitty was all-white--not a mark on him. I snapped my fingers right behind him--no reaction. I tried a couple of other sounds--nothing. I told them the reason he wasn't responding to "no!", along with his youth, may be that he couldn't hear them--some white cats can't hear, I said, and he might be one of them. Meanwhile, I'm holding this poor little trembling kitty and thinking of Len and Phoebe's track-record with cats. I would have kept him, but one baby in the house is quite enough--and LJ would kill me stone dead, if he came home to find a THIRD cat. Enough is enough, you know?
I came home today and Phoebe was on the porch. "How's the kitten?" I asked. "We gave him away to the people across the street," she said. These are the same people whose older cat has spent much of the spring and summer up in the high branches of the big tree across the street. They say they TRY to keep him inside, but he gets out and heads straight for the treetops. I'm thinking this poor baby-cat hasn't got a prayer.
I know I've got the typical prosperous-white-liberal view of animals; I know it's hard to worry about the welfare of kittens when you're not sure how you're going to pay the bills that month. But still--it makes me sad. Very, very sad.
To offset the very very sadness of this post, I give you: the prince of the Catastrophe, who is getting REALLY big. Ain't he cute?? (The look of fixed intensity on his face is directed at my laundry basket, into which he is contemplating an ill-considered leap.)
LJ comes home tonight, so poor Snick is going to get exiled from the bed. Is it wrong that I'd rather sleep next to the cat?
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Panic! At the Catastrophe
Angry as I am about the Tim's-cats situation, I haven't even had time to think of it for 24 hours now, because Mr. Snickers-cat decided it was time to give Mommy a heart attack.
It's hot here in Chicago right now; uncomfortable, yes, but certainly not the hottest it's been, or is likely to get. Just garden-variety sticky-sweaty-hot. And it was stuffy in the house, even with the windows open. And yes, Snick WAS running around like a small fur-bearing maniac for most of the morning and early afternoon.
But we'd been in the air-conditioned bedroom for a good hour or so when I noticed...something wasn't right. I coaxed him out from under the bed by a tug at the scruff--problem 1, because he normally comes right out when I call. I picked him up and he made this little gacky puke-face and let out a "meep" of indignation. When I put him down--straight back under the bed. I peered under the bed and he was still making the "I've got a hairball" face. I pulled him back out--straight under the bed. I tried the Ultimate Cat-Attractant Which Absolutely Never Fails: the earplug-on-a-string gambit. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He just...lay there.
I picked him up, now verging on panic, and brought him downstairs and put him next to Whitey. Snickers is physically incapable of passing Whitey without a pounce. He just can't do it. Except...nothing. He was just flat, completely listless. That was when I freaked. I grabbed the phone and called my regular vet--who was booked up for the night. I begged, I pleaded. There was no way. They gave me the number of an emergency vet, not exactly nearby, but better than the one I knew about which was a good 90 minutes away. I called them and they said "bring him in".
My main worries were: 1) he ate a string and he's now in distress. 2)He ate a bug and it was poisonous. 3) He injured himself bounding and backflipping all over the house, and it's just now manifesting. 4) He's got some inherited defect and it's just now manifesting.
After a 45-minute ride in the truck, which was hot even with the A/C, we got to the emergency vet. He panted the whole ride, in that panicked-kitty way that breaks my heart even when I know it's a put-on, which in this case it wasn't.
The vet listened to his chest and his stomach and looked in his eyes and ears--usual vet stuff--and then took his temperature. Bingo--his temp was about three degrees above high normal. Diagnosis: very mild heatstroke. Treatment: a night with the vet, a cool bath, and lots of attention. "Of course," the vet said, "that's assuming he improves. If not, then we'll have to do bloodwork, and so on..."
I left him there and went to my mom's, where I was spending the night--I'd promised to take her to the doctor for the colonoscopy she'd scheduled for this morning. I ate dinner and went to bed, but not really to sleep. I was too worried about Snick. I called before bed, and they said he was still running a fever, though it was lower; they were going to give him a cool bath and see if that helped. I woke up about a hundred times during the night, worried as could be. I've grown very attached to this little kitty, you see. He's one of the few creatures who I'm willing to risk loving, at the moment, and if anything happened to him....
I woke up at 5 AM and called the vet. "Oh, Snickers?" said the nurse. "He's doing wonderful. He's been entertaining me for a couple of hours now--I taped a syringe-cover to the top of his cage, and he's been batting it around and purring...And his temp is normal," she said.
More wonderful words I have never heard. I thanked her about fifty times, asked a bunch of questions, and told the nurse I'd call back around 10:00. And then--finally--I went to sleep.
For forty minutes, til Mom woke me to take her to the doctor. She's fine, too.
I picked Snickers up this afternoon, and (after an eventful ride home, a story for later perhaps) we made it back to the Catastrophe. Snick is in the one air-conditioned room for the moment, til the house cools down a wee bit, and I'll be watching him closely to make sure he doesn't run around too much. But he seems absolutely fine, which is possibly the best news I could imagine.
It's hot here in Chicago right now; uncomfortable, yes, but certainly not the hottest it's been, or is likely to get. Just garden-variety sticky-sweaty-hot. And it was stuffy in the house, even with the windows open. And yes, Snick WAS running around like a small fur-bearing maniac for most of the morning and early afternoon.
But we'd been in the air-conditioned bedroom for a good hour or so when I noticed...something wasn't right. I coaxed him out from under the bed by a tug at the scruff--problem 1, because he normally comes right out when I call. I picked him up and he made this little gacky puke-face and let out a "meep" of indignation. When I put him down--straight back under the bed. I peered under the bed and he was still making the "I've got a hairball" face. I pulled him back out--straight under the bed. I tried the Ultimate Cat-Attractant Which Absolutely Never Fails: the earplug-on-a-string gambit. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He just...lay there.
I picked him up, now verging on panic, and brought him downstairs and put him next to Whitey. Snickers is physically incapable of passing Whitey without a pounce. He just can't do it. Except...nothing. He was just flat, completely listless. That was when I freaked. I grabbed the phone and called my regular vet--who was booked up for the night. I begged, I pleaded. There was no way. They gave me the number of an emergency vet, not exactly nearby, but better than the one I knew about which was a good 90 minutes away. I called them and they said "bring him in".
My main worries were: 1) he ate a string and he's now in distress. 2)He ate a bug and it was poisonous. 3) He injured himself bounding and backflipping all over the house, and it's just now manifesting. 4) He's got some inherited defect and it's just now manifesting.
After a 45-minute ride in the truck, which was hot even with the A/C, we got to the emergency vet. He panted the whole ride, in that panicked-kitty way that breaks my heart even when I know it's a put-on, which in this case it wasn't.
The vet listened to his chest and his stomach and looked in his eyes and ears--usual vet stuff--and then took his temperature. Bingo--his temp was about three degrees above high normal. Diagnosis: very mild heatstroke. Treatment: a night with the vet, a cool bath, and lots of attention. "Of course," the vet said, "that's assuming he improves. If not, then we'll have to do bloodwork, and so on..."
I left him there and went to my mom's, where I was spending the night--I'd promised to take her to the doctor for the colonoscopy she'd scheduled for this morning. I ate dinner and went to bed, but not really to sleep. I was too worried about Snick. I called before bed, and they said he was still running a fever, though it was lower; they were going to give him a cool bath and see if that helped. I woke up about a hundred times during the night, worried as could be. I've grown very attached to this little kitty, you see. He's one of the few creatures who I'm willing to risk loving, at the moment, and if anything happened to him....
I woke up at 5 AM and called the vet. "Oh, Snickers?" said the nurse. "He's doing wonderful. He's been entertaining me for a couple of hours now--I taped a syringe-cover to the top of his cage, and he's been batting it around and purring...And his temp is normal," she said.
More wonderful words I have never heard. I thanked her about fifty times, asked a bunch of questions, and told the nurse I'd call back around 10:00. And then--finally--I went to sleep.
For forty minutes, til Mom woke me to take her to the doctor. She's fine, too.
I picked Snickers up this afternoon, and (after an eventful ride home, a story for later perhaps) we made it back to the Catastrophe. Snick is in the one air-conditioned room for the moment, til the house cools down a wee bit, and I'll be watching him closely to make sure he doesn't run around too much. But he seems absolutely fine, which is possibly the best news I could imagine.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
So Sad I Could Spit, So Mad I Could Cry
Tim called me today, after leaving messages that he was "worried" about me. Finally I answered the phone, and he informed me that Mikey, one of the cats, died yesterday, and that Sosa, his brother, will probably be gone within a few days.
These are the same cats who, not two months ago, were living here and THRIVING. You can see in the pictures--they were big, sleek, healthy cats. They leave here, and two months later one is dead and the other is dying.
He says Mikey got "depressed" from living in an attic apartment, and that Sosa is "all yellow like Tiger was". (Tiger was my tabby, who died of liver cancer when Tim and CR and I were roomies.) He also said that they were "covered in soot" from living in that apartment (what the HELL kind of "apartment" IS this?) and that their eyes were infected (a problem which they'd had here, but which was never really serious.) So basically, no one was taking care of these cats AT ALL, is what I'm hearing here. And Tim PAID the person they were staying with, which is more than he did for me.
I know these cats were not my responsibility. I KNOW they weren't. I know I did way more than anyone else would have done, and took much better care of them than anyone else would have. But I feel so, so bad about this. They were sweet kitties. I didn't want anything bad to happen to them--that's why I refused to take them to a shelter, because I was afraid of what might happen. Now I'm thinking that would have been a more humane way for them to go, than spending two months in god-knows-what conditions and going through whatever brought them to this state.
I know it's not my fault. But I feel guilty--guilty, and sad, and angry as hell. People suck. They suck, they suck, they suck. It's just not fair.
I hugged Whitey and Snickers about a hundred times, after I got off the phone. Snickers tried to chew my nose off, and Whitey let out a "brrrt?" and shed about three pounds of fur on me--I'm pretty sure they didn't get the point of all that hugging.
God, I love these cats.
These are the same cats who, not two months ago, were living here and THRIVING. You can see in the pictures--they were big, sleek, healthy cats. They leave here, and two months later one is dead and the other is dying.
He says Mikey got "depressed" from living in an attic apartment, and that Sosa is "all yellow like Tiger was". (Tiger was my tabby, who died of liver cancer when Tim and CR and I were roomies.) He also said that they were "covered in soot" from living in that apartment (what the HELL kind of "apartment" IS this?) and that their eyes were infected (a problem which they'd had here, but which was never really serious.) So basically, no one was taking care of these cats AT ALL, is what I'm hearing here. And Tim PAID the person they were staying with, which is more than he did for me.
I know these cats were not my responsibility. I KNOW they weren't. I know I did way more than anyone else would have done, and took much better care of them than anyone else would have. But I feel so, so bad about this. They were sweet kitties. I didn't want anything bad to happen to them--that's why I refused to take them to a shelter, because I was afraid of what might happen. Now I'm thinking that would have been a more humane way for them to go, than spending two months in god-knows-what conditions and going through whatever brought them to this state.
I know it's not my fault. But I feel guilty--guilty, and sad, and angry as hell. People suck. They suck, they suck, they suck. It's just not fair.
I hugged Whitey and Snickers about a hundred times, after I got off the phone. Snickers tried to chew my nose off, and Whitey let out a "brrrt?" and shed about three pounds of fur on me--I'm pretty sure they didn't get the point of all that hugging.
God, I love these cats.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Will You Still Love Me...
...if I tell you something filthy?
(Those of you who immediately thought "I might love you MORE if you tell me something filthy"...keep it in yer pants, pervo. It's not THAT kind of filthy.)
Several weeks ago, we had a barbecue here at the Catastrophe. It was Thug Central Station for many, many hours, and though I spent the last half of it watching "West Side Story" and napping in the bedroom far away from the sound and fury, I did make three small contributions: a pan of mac-and-cheese, a pan of brownies, and a great big pot of spaghetti.
After the party, having at the very least a sense of justice, LJ cleaned up the mess. And so, when I saw all the dishes arrayed on the "clean" side of the counter, I was very pleased. There was the casserole dish, the tongs, the various implements and colanders and pans that had been used during the day...and the big spaghetti pot, with the lid sitting on it, right in the middle of it all.
We don't always put dishes away, here at the Catastrophe; we generally just pick them out of the dish drainer as we need them. It's a domestic sin, I know, but a small one. And the big spaghetti pot doesn't get used very often--generally only for tall food like corn or, well, spaghetti. So it sat there for a good long while, and I didn't really think about it, or look too closely at it...until a couple of weeks ago, when I noticed condensation on the inside of the glass lid. I looked closer...not only was there condensation, but there was also something that looked like...fur, sticking to the inside of the lid.
I looked even closer. Apparently a few bites of spaghetti had been left in the bottom of the pot after everyone was done. And rather than throwing them away, like any average person, LJ...just left them there. And put the lid on the pot, and moved it over to the "clean" counter.
Okay. That's scary enough. Here's what's worse:
That was a couple of weeks ago. And I haven't done a thing about it. I haven't lifted the lid, though I did move the pot, because it was in the way...but as far as actually attacking the problem? Not at all.
Yes, I know that's gross. I TOLD you it was gonna be filthy. But the fact of the matter is, I'm scared of this thing. I'm scared to open it, scared of having to deal with the contents. This is reminiscent of the times that ex-hubby #1 would drink half a glass of milk, then put the half-empty glass behind the computer monitor where no one could see it. I'd only find it a few days later when I smelled it. This is worse, though---worse by far.
If I suddenly stop posting, you'll know that I have been devoured by the Creature That Used to Be Spaghetti. (Firefly, I'm leaving you the kitties.) Because I'm going to tackle it...
...tomorrow.
(Those of you who immediately thought "I might love you MORE if you tell me something filthy"...keep it in yer pants, pervo. It's not THAT kind of filthy.)
Several weeks ago, we had a barbecue here at the Catastrophe. It was Thug Central Station for many, many hours, and though I spent the last half of it watching "West Side Story" and napping in the bedroom far away from the sound and fury, I did make three small contributions: a pan of mac-and-cheese, a pan of brownies, and a great big pot of spaghetti.
After the party, having at the very least a sense of justice, LJ cleaned up the mess. And so, when I saw all the dishes arrayed on the "clean" side of the counter, I was very pleased. There was the casserole dish, the tongs, the various implements and colanders and pans that had been used during the day...and the big spaghetti pot, with the lid sitting on it, right in the middle of it all.
We don't always put dishes away, here at the Catastrophe; we generally just pick them out of the dish drainer as we need them. It's a domestic sin, I know, but a small one. And the big spaghetti pot doesn't get used very often--generally only for tall food like corn or, well, spaghetti. So it sat there for a good long while, and I didn't really think about it, or look too closely at it...until a couple of weeks ago, when I noticed condensation on the inside of the glass lid. I looked closer...not only was there condensation, but there was also something that looked like...fur, sticking to the inside of the lid.
I looked even closer. Apparently a few bites of spaghetti had been left in the bottom of the pot after everyone was done. And rather than throwing them away, like any average person, LJ...just left them there. And put the lid on the pot, and moved it over to the "clean" counter.
Okay. That's scary enough. Here's what's worse:
That was a couple of weeks ago. And I haven't done a thing about it. I haven't lifted the lid, though I did move the pot, because it was in the way...but as far as actually attacking the problem? Not at all.
Yes, I know that's gross. I TOLD you it was gonna be filthy. But the fact of the matter is, I'm scared of this thing. I'm scared to open it, scared of having to deal with the contents. This is reminiscent of the times that ex-hubby #1 would drink half a glass of milk, then put the half-empty glass behind the computer monitor where no one could see it. I'd only find it a few days later when I smelled it. This is worse, though---worse by far.
If I suddenly stop posting, you'll know that I have been devoured by the Creature That Used to Be Spaghetti. (Firefly, I'm leaving you the kitties.) Because I'm going to tackle it...
...tomorrow.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Happy Birthday To Me
Today I am 36 years old. There's no denying it anymore; I am officially middle-aged. Which is fine, I guess, though I certainly don't FEEL middle-aged; I guess no one ever does.
I took three days off work, in an effort to compensate for that long week of moving, and so I spent my birthday catnapping with Snickers and watching PBS cartoon shows. LJ is out of town--fine and dandy with me!--and so I took myself to dinner at Leona's.
Some of you might be saying "What a crappy birthday!" And by most people's standards, I guess it is. But I was happy with it--a long day of lounging in my pajamas, a purring kitten in one ear, comfort-food on the television...I can live with that, you know?
I think about the other birthdays I've had, trying to remember them all.
My 18th birthday, my boyfriend gave me roses.
My 19th birthday, he picked up our favorite Mexican food, just in time for me to eat before leaving for my night-shift factory job.
I don't remember 20.
My 21st birthday, I was away at summer school, trying to pick up my elusive last few credit hours before student teaching. Firefly was my roomie at the time, and two of our friends came down for the weekend. We went to the bars and they decorated my car, but I remember being sad that my fiance couldn't make it down to Champaign.
I don't remember 22. I remember that everything had changed; that in the space of that last year, I'd broken off my engagement, fallen in love with someone else, moved in with him, pissed off Carol--my roommate at the time--and then stood by aghast while she hooked up with Darius, who (as she knew) I secretly loved. She moved out not long after. I remember it was a lonely birthday.
I don't remember 23, though I do remember that David--who I'd married a couple of months before--didn't get me anything for my birthday. That was a lonely birthday too.
24 was an angry birthday. I wanted to spend it with JP--we had admitted that we were in love with each other, but we hadn't yet done anything irrevocable--but David wanted me to go with him to some pizza place in Zion that a "business associate" of his owned. I remember watching "John Larroquette" on the bar TV and wishing I could do what I wanted, instead of what David wanted.
I don't remember details of my 25th birthday. I remember I was with JP, and we had money, so we had food; and I know that because we had money, we got high. But I don't remember details. Maybe if I'd known what was coming, I would have remembered more carefully.
The night before my 26th birthday, I'd dragged Sophia out of a drunken fight with two guys, and so the next morning I went with her bright and early to retrieve the purse she'd dropped as she left. That was a few months after JP's death, and it was also the day my mother told me that on the morning of the day he'd died, she'd prayed for a "miracle" to bring me home. I was packing for North Carolina when she told me this; otherwise I don't know what I would have done in response to that information. I left the next morning.
On the morning of my 27th birthday I left again; this time to come back to Chicago. I hadn't realized how homesick I would become. This time I left with Lou, JP's and my old roommate, who had come to Charlotte to drive back with me--and who, in the space of only a few days staying with us, had managed to piss off our conservative, family-oriented minority neighbors by asking around as to where he might locate some crack. Lou was stupid, sometimes, but that didn't stop me from sleeping with him.
My 28th birthday was spent getting home from downstate Illinois; Sophia had enlisted me to ride along with her to the family's ranch in Texas, but we had stopped over for the night at her grandmother's house, and sometime during the night I decided that it was more important to go back to the city and score. And so I did.
The night of my 29th birthday, Tim showed up on my front doorstep with his only surviving cat--the other had perished in a hot car as he returned from Arizona--and walked in the door with the following sentence: "It wasn't my idea; I had nothing to do with it, it was his decision." I didn't know what he meant, but I knew that CR was supposed to be with him, and wasn't, and so it was easy to fill in the blanks and figure out that he'd gone back to his old girlfriend, instead of me.
My 30th birthday was right around the time CR was coming back into my life, but I don't remember the details.
My 31st birthday, I worked--because I didn't want to think about what was happening at home that night. That was the night that the 400-Pound Woman moved in with us.
My 32nd birthday was a few weeks after CR had left me for good. My mother took me out to dinner (at Leona's, now that I think about it!), but that was all I did for that birthday. Except cry--I know I cried. (And when I think about that now, I wonder what the hell for? I was SO much better off without him.)
My 33rd birthday, LJ stayed over at my apartment and I was completely happy.
My 34th birthday--the first one in the new house--I took myself to see "Shrek 2", since LJ had completely forgotten it was my birthday. So much for romance!
And my birthday last year--number 35--was spent in the hospital, having my pancreas suctioned, and thus ranks as the Worst Birthday Ever. In fact, barring even WORSE medical shit happening on some future birthday, I'm thinking 35 is going to take the prize permanently.
So to spend 36 at home, quiet and peaceful, napping with an adorable fluffy kitten on my shoulder--hey, that's bliss. Of course I'd RATHER be in the arms of some beautiful, brilliant, passionate man whom I adore and who can't keep his hands off me...but hey, we can't have everything. This will do just fine.
Tomorrow, off to Mom's for the night. She's having an angiogram Thursday morning, and she's understandably worried; it might be nothing, and then again it might not. Since I was on vacation anyway, she asked me to take her for the angiogram; I think she needs moral support. We're both expecting a not-so-good result. She's had too many unexplained symptoms for too long. We'll see what happens.
She turned 77 the other day. She could live another 25 years...or not. And then I will really be alone, which is not something I like to contemplate. But she's conscientious about her health, and she has good doctors. Hopefully everything will turn out all right. Everyone important in my life is having medical issues of one sort or another--Mom's heart problems, Firefly's calcifications-that-might-be-something-more; even Debbi has heel spurs and can't walk well. I've suddenly reached an age where even my friends are vulnerable--that's the part of middle-age I'm not prepared for. I've been so lucky, and I know it.
Is it possible to be lonely and happy at the same time? Because if it is, I am. A little more lonely than I'd rather be, but I'm counting my blessings. And if that passionate, beautiful man isn't among those blessings right now...well, that can change. And his absence, no matter how long it lasts, doesn't make the other good things any less.
(But he COULD speed it up a bit, if he's out there...)
I took three days off work, in an effort to compensate for that long week of moving, and so I spent my birthday catnapping with Snickers and watching PBS cartoon shows. LJ is out of town--fine and dandy with me!--and so I took myself to dinner at Leona's.
Some of you might be saying "What a crappy birthday!" And by most people's standards, I guess it is. But I was happy with it--a long day of lounging in my pajamas, a purring kitten in one ear, comfort-food on the television...I can live with that, you know?
I think about the other birthdays I've had, trying to remember them all.
My 18th birthday, my boyfriend gave me roses.
My 19th birthday, he picked up our favorite Mexican food, just in time for me to eat before leaving for my night-shift factory job.
I don't remember 20.
My 21st birthday, I was away at summer school, trying to pick up my elusive last few credit hours before student teaching. Firefly was my roomie at the time, and two of our friends came down for the weekend. We went to the bars and they decorated my car, but I remember being sad that my fiance couldn't make it down to Champaign.
I don't remember 22. I remember that everything had changed; that in the space of that last year, I'd broken off my engagement, fallen in love with someone else, moved in with him, pissed off Carol--my roommate at the time--and then stood by aghast while she hooked up with Darius, who (as she knew) I secretly loved. She moved out not long after. I remember it was a lonely birthday.
I don't remember 23, though I do remember that David--who I'd married a couple of months before--didn't get me anything for my birthday. That was a lonely birthday too.
24 was an angry birthday. I wanted to spend it with JP--we had admitted that we were in love with each other, but we hadn't yet done anything irrevocable--but David wanted me to go with him to some pizza place in Zion that a "business associate" of his owned. I remember watching "John Larroquette" on the bar TV and wishing I could do what I wanted, instead of what David wanted.
I don't remember details of my 25th birthday. I remember I was with JP, and we had money, so we had food; and I know that because we had money, we got high. But I don't remember details. Maybe if I'd known what was coming, I would have remembered more carefully.
The night before my 26th birthday, I'd dragged Sophia out of a drunken fight with two guys, and so the next morning I went with her bright and early to retrieve the purse she'd dropped as she left. That was a few months after JP's death, and it was also the day my mother told me that on the morning of the day he'd died, she'd prayed for a "miracle" to bring me home. I was packing for North Carolina when she told me this; otherwise I don't know what I would have done in response to that information. I left the next morning.
On the morning of my 27th birthday I left again; this time to come back to Chicago. I hadn't realized how homesick I would become. This time I left with Lou, JP's and my old roommate, who had come to Charlotte to drive back with me--and who, in the space of only a few days staying with us, had managed to piss off our conservative, family-oriented minority neighbors by asking around as to where he might locate some crack. Lou was stupid, sometimes, but that didn't stop me from sleeping with him.
My 28th birthday was spent getting home from downstate Illinois; Sophia had enlisted me to ride along with her to the family's ranch in Texas, but we had stopped over for the night at her grandmother's house, and sometime during the night I decided that it was more important to go back to the city and score. And so I did.
The night of my 29th birthday, Tim showed up on my front doorstep with his only surviving cat--the other had perished in a hot car as he returned from Arizona--and walked in the door with the following sentence: "It wasn't my idea; I had nothing to do with it, it was his decision." I didn't know what he meant, but I knew that CR was supposed to be with him, and wasn't, and so it was easy to fill in the blanks and figure out that he'd gone back to his old girlfriend, instead of me.
My 30th birthday was right around the time CR was coming back into my life, but I don't remember the details.
My 31st birthday, I worked--because I didn't want to think about what was happening at home that night. That was the night that the 400-Pound Woman moved in with us.
My 32nd birthday was a few weeks after CR had left me for good. My mother took me out to dinner (at Leona's, now that I think about it!), but that was all I did for that birthday. Except cry--I know I cried. (And when I think about that now, I wonder what the hell for? I was SO much better off without him.)
My 33rd birthday, LJ stayed over at my apartment and I was completely happy.
My 34th birthday--the first one in the new house--I took myself to see "Shrek 2", since LJ had completely forgotten it was my birthday. So much for romance!
And my birthday last year--number 35--was spent in the hospital, having my pancreas suctioned, and thus ranks as the Worst Birthday Ever. In fact, barring even WORSE medical shit happening on some future birthday, I'm thinking 35 is going to take the prize permanently.
So to spend 36 at home, quiet and peaceful, napping with an adorable fluffy kitten on my shoulder--hey, that's bliss. Of course I'd RATHER be in the arms of some beautiful, brilliant, passionate man whom I adore and who can't keep his hands off me...but hey, we can't have everything. This will do just fine.
Tomorrow, off to Mom's for the night. She's having an angiogram Thursday morning, and she's understandably worried; it might be nothing, and then again it might not. Since I was on vacation anyway, she asked me to take her for the angiogram; I think she needs moral support. We're both expecting a not-so-good result. She's had too many unexplained symptoms for too long. We'll see what happens.
She turned 77 the other day. She could live another 25 years...or not. And then I will really be alone, which is not something I like to contemplate. But she's conscientious about her health, and she has good doctors. Hopefully everything will turn out all right. Everyone important in my life is having medical issues of one sort or another--Mom's heart problems, Firefly's calcifications-that-might-be-something-more; even Debbi has heel spurs and can't walk well. I've suddenly reached an age where even my friends are vulnerable--that's the part of middle-age I'm not prepared for. I've been so lucky, and I know it.
Is it possible to be lonely and happy at the same time? Because if it is, I am. A little more lonely than I'd rather be, but I'm counting my blessings. And if that passionate, beautiful man isn't among those blessings right now...well, that can change. And his absence, no matter how long it lasts, doesn't make the other good things any less.
(But he COULD speed it up a bit, if he's out there...)
Friday, June 9, 2006
Reality TV of a Different Sort
I have a new guilty pleasure.
Tonight I was flipping channels and I came across a show on Animal Planet called "Meerkat Manor". You guys, you have simply GOT to watch this show!! It's the story of an extended family of meerkats living near the Kalahari Desert, their struggles to survive, and the workings of their society. If you'd tried to tell me yesterday that I'd be caught up in the social machinations of a bunch of exotic rodents, I would have looked at you like you'd lost your everlovin' mind--but I seriously can't wait for next week's episode! And it's not even a cute-little-animal thing; they look like vertically-oriented ferrets, really, which does nothing for me. It's just really interesting, what they go through and how they relate to each other.
It's not "Deadwood", but I'm still hooked.
Tonight I was flipping channels and I came across a show on Animal Planet called "Meerkat Manor". You guys, you have simply GOT to watch this show!! It's the story of an extended family of meerkats living near the Kalahari Desert, their struggles to survive, and the workings of their society. If you'd tried to tell me yesterday that I'd be caught up in the social machinations of a bunch of exotic rodents, I would have looked at you like you'd lost your everlovin' mind--but I seriously can't wait for next week's episode! And it's not even a cute-little-animal thing; they look like vertically-oriented ferrets, really, which does nothing for me. It's just really interesting, what they go through and how they relate to each other.
It's not "Deadwood", but I'm still hooked.
Thursday, June 8, 2006
Isn't It Always the Way?
Isn't it just my luck, as always--the day I decide to return from my self-imposed hiatus is the day Blogger decides to turn its little toes up to the sky.
Stoopid Blogger.
Stoopid Blogger.
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
A Serious Breach of Discipline and Other Stories
(I feel sorta guilty posting this, in light of what's going on over at Pisser's place. Everybody go give her a hug.)
As you can see, we here at TSOW are experiencing a serious breakdown of the natural order of things. Or maybe it's actually the natural order of things reasserting itself. That's probably closer to the truth.
Exhibit A:
Mister Personality, on the left, is now known as Snickers, and he is the catalyst for all this newfound chaos. The picture you DON'T see, because it happened too quickly for me to take it, followed this one by about eight seconds, and involved Snickers doing a backflip off the table, through the rungs of the yellow chair at the right, and landing on his feet. He's a regular Carl Edwards, is this one. It was only today, after two weeks of cohabitation, that I caught this little guy actually SLEEPING for the first time. I'm assuming the rest of the time he only sleeps when no one's looking.
I've been lacking quality time with Mr. Kitten for the past ten days or so, however, thanks to The Job.
The Job moved from the south side of Chicago, where it had been for many many years, to a new facility in the west suburbs, near Darien. This coincided with an announcement of a shift in priorities, from manufacturing to marketing. Accordingly, they closed the factory, outsourced the manufacturing, and...
You thought I was going to say "hired more marketing people," didn't you. Because that would be what YOU would do, if you were thinking of taking your moderately-successful company in a more marketing-oriented direction. Which is why you don't work for Place Where I Work, apparently, because what they did was to FIRE, rapidly and entirely without warning, 80% of the marketing staff.
Okay, says I. Whatever. Because frankly, the firing of four people who I didn't really like all that much was, by that point, the least of my worries.
See, out in the factory that was closed? Were a lot of computers, and a lot of printers, and a lot of other technical crap which we needed. And most of it had been there for a long, long time, and was wired behind desks, and under equipment, and through fields of dirt and yuck and mouse-doots and the crumbs of innumerable lunches, and it was partly my responsibility to retrieve the useable computers from this morass, and to move the rest to an elephant’s graveyard of technological relics. In other words: heavy lifting. Lots of it. And it was HOT out there, in case you were wondering.
We were told to expect to work this past weekend—the official weekend of the move. So when Jim, my immediate boss, came to my desk and asked me what my availability for the weekend was, I was a little surprised. “For whatever hours you need me,” I said. “I hadn’t made any plans.”
“Okay, so you’re okay for Friday night late? Like, til midnight?”
I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t.
So all last week we packed, filling orange and black moving crates with the contents of our offices, our data center, and our storage areas. It was a lot of stuff, and that’s after we threw out a bunch of trash and unneeded crap. By Friday, we had all the stuff from the office together, except for the computers and printers which were still in use. All day Thursday, my co-worker Kelly and I hauled equipment out of the factory, unplugging cords, and winding cables thick with grime and schmutz. I think I washed my hands fifty times in the course of eight hours. And—did I mention?—it was hot. About ninety degrees in the factory, and the A/C in the offices was none too robust either.
One of the side effects of methadone—and there are many, none of them much fun—is excessive sweating. If it gets to be much above seventy degrees, I am simply POURING with sweat. I come from a long line of people who run about ten degrees warmer than the rest of the populace just by nature, so put a good dose of methadone on top of that and I’m like a little pink water-fountain. On Thursday? My shirt was soaked through to the waist. Add to this the muck of the factory, which was coating every available inch of skin and clothing, and you can imagine: I was a soggy, grungy, gross and grimy girl.
There are some showers in a woman’s life which eclipse all others. For example, there’s the shower-after-pulling-up-those-godawful-weeds-that-took-over-the-yard.
Then there’s the shower-after-sex-with-that-guy-you-never-would-have-slept-with-had-you-not-been-drunk; or the shower-after-scraping-and-painting-the-entire-garage-in-one-afternoon.
However, I’m here to tell you: the shower-after-collecting-computer-equipment-from-a-moldy-old-factory-in-million-degree-heat? Leaves them all in the dust, so to speak.
By the time we were ready to move on Friday, the total collection included about fifty crates, plus an abundance of monitors and CPUs and ancient printers. And then we started unhooking the office machines. By the time everything was ready to go, it was ten PM, and my affection for Frank, the uber-boss, had been irrevocably damaged.
Around seven that night, you see, a good six hours after lunch, long after the soda machines had been hauled away and the water-fountains disconnected, Jim-my-immediate-boss took a look at his grimy, sweaty, dishevelled crew and decided to go perform an errand of mercy. “I’m going to the gas station down the street to buy drinks for everyone,” he said. “What do you want?” After putting in an order for a tanker-truck sized cup of Pepsi with lots of ice, I went back to work disconnecting computers.
About an hour later, I went into the data center and was surprised to see Jim, working on removing cabling from a server. “I thought you were going for drinks?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, “well…” And he looked at Frank, who was perched on a counter a few feet away, watching the action. Under the noise of the servers and the fans, he said, “He says we can drink when we’re done.”
“Frank?” I said. “Can Jim go get us drinks?”
“Well, the good news is, the pop machines and everything are all filled up at the new building, ready to go,” said Frank. And the bad news, he didn’t say, is that we’ve got a good two or three hours left before we can even THINK of going over to that building. Because apparently, in his book, that wasn’t bad news at all.
When he left, Jim said “You thought I was kidding?” I said “I thought you HAD to be kidding.”
I wasn’t the only one incensed by Frank’s answer; it’s become the most oft-repeated story of our working conditions in this move. It just kills me; no one was asking him to do anything, and it wasn’t as though it would have taken more than ten minutes, or taken more than one person away from work—and it would have been a good managerial gesture, a nice morale-builder, a “thanks”. Not from Frank, though—that wasn’t important to him.
We worked til 12:30 Friday night, and then 10-6 on Saturday and Sunday, and back to work at 8:00 sharp on Monday. And when the rest of the employees showed up Monday morning for the first day in the new digs, ours was the ONLY department who had come through completely; Maintenance had left desks disassembled, and the janitors hadn’t even vacuumed, and the movers were in and out through the whole first day of work. One of the department heads said she would give I.T an A-plus, and Moving, Facilities, and Maintenance a D for this move. Which was a better “thank you” than even a large Pepsi would have been, although on Friday night I would have given up that A-plus without a second thought, even for a Diet Coke.
But it’s over—we’re in the new building—and I’ve got to say I like it better than the old one. We have a bathroom on our floor, for one thing, which we didn’t at the old place; and it’s not on the South Side of Chicago, which is a big plus for any place, ever. (I grew up on the South Side, and it’s not a place I like to frequent. That’s a blog post for another day.)
More kitten stories to come, I’m sure, to say nothing of pictures. This little guy is a constant source of entertainment; I’m beginning to think that everyone should always have a kitten around, just for the sheer joy of them.
As you can see, we here at TSOW are experiencing a serious breakdown of the natural order of things. Or maybe it's actually the natural order of things reasserting itself. That's probably closer to the truth.
Exhibit A:
Mister Personality, on the left, is now known as Snickers, and he is the catalyst for all this newfound chaos. The picture you DON'T see, because it happened too quickly for me to take it, followed this one by about eight seconds, and involved Snickers doing a backflip off the table, through the rungs of the yellow chair at the right, and landing on his feet. He's a regular Carl Edwards, is this one. It was only today, after two weeks of cohabitation, that I caught this little guy actually SLEEPING for the first time. I'm assuming the rest of the time he only sleeps when no one's looking.
I've been lacking quality time with Mr. Kitten for the past ten days or so, however, thanks to The Job.
The Job moved from the south side of Chicago, where it had been for many many years, to a new facility in the west suburbs, near Darien. This coincided with an announcement of a shift in priorities, from manufacturing to marketing. Accordingly, they closed the factory, outsourced the manufacturing, and...
You thought I was going to say "hired more marketing people," didn't you. Because that would be what YOU would do, if you were thinking of taking your moderately-successful company in a more marketing-oriented direction. Which is why you don't work for Place Where I Work, apparently, because what they did was to FIRE, rapidly and entirely without warning, 80% of the marketing staff.
Okay, says I. Whatever. Because frankly, the firing of four people who I didn't really like all that much was, by that point, the least of my worries.
See, out in the factory that was closed? Were a lot of computers, and a lot of printers, and a lot of other technical crap which we needed. And most of it had been there for a long, long time, and was wired behind desks, and under equipment, and through fields of dirt and yuck and mouse-doots and the crumbs of innumerable lunches, and it was partly my responsibility to retrieve the useable computers from this morass, and to move the rest to an elephant’s graveyard of technological relics. In other words: heavy lifting. Lots of it. And it was HOT out there, in case you were wondering.
We were told to expect to work this past weekend—the official weekend of the move. So when Jim, my immediate boss, came to my desk and asked me what my availability for the weekend was, I was a little surprised. “For whatever hours you need me,” I said. “I hadn’t made any plans.”
“Okay, so you’re okay for Friday night late? Like, til midnight?”
I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t.
So all last week we packed, filling orange and black moving crates with the contents of our offices, our data center, and our storage areas. It was a lot of stuff, and that’s after we threw out a bunch of trash and unneeded crap. By Friday, we had all the stuff from the office together, except for the computers and printers which were still in use. All day Thursday, my co-worker Kelly and I hauled equipment out of the factory, unplugging cords, and winding cables thick with grime and schmutz. I think I washed my hands fifty times in the course of eight hours. And—did I mention?—it was hot. About ninety degrees in the factory, and the A/C in the offices was none too robust either.
One of the side effects of methadone—and there are many, none of them much fun—is excessive sweating. If it gets to be much above seventy degrees, I am simply POURING with sweat. I come from a long line of people who run about ten degrees warmer than the rest of the populace just by nature, so put a good dose of methadone on top of that and I’m like a little pink water-fountain. On Thursday? My shirt was soaked through to the waist. Add to this the muck of the factory, which was coating every available inch of skin and clothing, and you can imagine: I was a soggy, grungy, gross and grimy girl.
There are some showers in a woman’s life which eclipse all others. For example, there’s the shower-after-pulling-up-those-godawful-weeds-that-took-over-the-yard.
Then there’s the shower-after-sex-with-that-guy-you-never-would-have-slept-with-had-you-not-been-drunk; or the shower-after-scraping-and-painting-the-entire-garage-in-one-afternoon.
However, I’m here to tell you: the shower-after-collecting-computer-equipment-from-a-moldy-old-factory-in-million-degree-heat? Leaves them all in the dust, so to speak.
By the time we were ready to move on Friday, the total collection included about fifty crates, plus an abundance of monitors and CPUs and ancient printers. And then we started unhooking the office machines. By the time everything was ready to go, it was ten PM, and my affection for Frank, the uber-boss, had been irrevocably damaged.
Around seven that night, you see, a good six hours after lunch, long after the soda machines had been hauled away and the water-fountains disconnected, Jim-my-immediate-boss took a look at his grimy, sweaty, dishevelled crew and decided to go perform an errand of mercy. “I’m going to the gas station down the street to buy drinks for everyone,” he said. “What do you want?” After putting in an order for a tanker-truck sized cup of Pepsi with lots of ice, I went back to work disconnecting computers.
About an hour later, I went into the data center and was surprised to see Jim, working on removing cabling from a server. “I thought you were going for drinks?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, “well…” And he looked at Frank, who was perched on a counter a few feet away, watching the action. Under the noise of the servers and the fans, he said, “He says we can drink when we’re done.”
“Frank?” I said. “Can Jim go get us drinks?”
“Well, the good news is, the pop machines and everything are all filled up at the new building, ready to go,” said Frank. And the bad news, he didn’t say, is that we’ve got a good two or three hours left before we can even THINK of going over to that building. Because apparently, in his book, that wasn’t bad news at all.
When he left, Jim said “You thought I was kidding?” I said “I thought you HAD to be kidding.”
I wasn’t the only one incensed by Frank’s answer; it’s become the most oft-repeated story of our working conditions in this move. It just kills me; no one was asking him to do anything, and it wasn’t as though it would have taken more than ten minutes, or taken more than one person away from work—and it would have been a good managerial gesture, a nice morale-builder, a “thanks”. Not from Frank, though—that wasn’t important to him.
We worked til 12:30 Friday night, and then 10-6 on Saturday and Sunday, and back to work at 8:00 sharp on Monday. And when the rest of the employees showed up Monday morning for the first day in the new digs, ours was the ONLY department who had come through completely; Maintenance had left desks disassembled, and the janitors hadn’t even vacuumed, and the movers were in and out through the whole first day of work. One of the department heads said she would give I.T an A-plus, and Moving, Facilities, and Maintenance a D for this move. Which was a better “thank you” than even a large Pepsi would have been, although on Friday night I would have given up that A-plus without a second thought, even for a Diet Coke.
But it’s over—we’re in the new building—and I’ve got to say I like it better than the old one. We have a bathroom on our floor, for one thing, which we didn’t at the old place; and it’s not on the South Side of Chicago, which is a big plus for any place, ever. (I grew up on the South Side, and it’s not a place I like to frequent. That’s a blog post for another day.)
More kitten stories to come, I’m sure, to say nothing of pictures. This little guy is a constant source of entertainment; I’m beginning to think that everyone should always have a kitten around, just for the sheer joy of them.
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