This way, ladies and gentlemen....

Come visit me here.

Is it me, or do all jobs suck these days?

Recap: After the temp-to-perm job didn't work out because the woman (not) running the company was bipolar and it was taking all I had to keep my tone civil; I had a three-month maternity-leave cover job was fine, if airless and depressing; the echoing silence from the job market was getting frightening, and then I got an intro from my neighbor to a job at the major Boston hospital where he worked. It was as the Executive Assistant to a Senior VP; her assistant was taking a job closer to home.

I loved the folks at my interview, the departing assistant told me it was a "really great job," and they offered me $5K over my top asking price.

I shared a small reception area with two other, younger admins, and the Boss Lady and her Chief of Staff sat in offices facing us. The CoS used to be the Boss Lady's assistant back in the day.

I started, I loved it, I was thrilled. Sure, the commute was a 1:45 each way, but hey! I had a real job!

It was great -- busy but great. The calendar-control alone was a full-time job, but I seemed to be picking it up. I was pretty much left to my own devices aside from weekly meetings with the CoS.

At one meeting, I asked whether she had any feedback; anything I should work on.

"Nope; you're doing a great job."

And then.

Sigh. I'll spare you most of the boring details. CoS comes back from vacation, and things are off. I notice that people aren't talking to me or making eye contact.

CoS and I have our meeting.

"So tell me what happened with this meeting you were supposed to schedule."

"Um, I asked her to look at her calendar with me because I was having a hard time finding a time that worked for everyone. She pointed to a couple of days and said that if the visiting person couldn't make it on these days, to schedule for another time he was in town. She said, 'he's not that important to me.' So when I couldn't schedule a time, I sent a message to all the parties suggesting we schedule for another time when he's in town."

"Why didn't you email me?"

"Because there wasn't a problem. I did as she said."

"Yes, but you don't know that between the time she spoke to you and the time you sent the message, there were other conversations."

"How would I have known that?"

"As I said, you should have contacted me."

"Why would I have ever thought to contact you since there was no apparent problem?"

By now I was more than perturbed, because I sensed An Agenda, and I sensed that I could not win for losing.

"OK, if you are telling me that if, regardless of the circumstances, I cannot get a meeting on her calendar, I should come to you, I can understand that and follow that. But that hadn't been made clear, and I did exactly what she asked."

Didn't matter. She already had the FORM FROM HR where I'd been written up. For doing what I'd been asked. Also tacked onto this was a laundry list of petty crimes that included singing (to the music blaring from Boss Lady's office), talking, and wiping off my desk when an executive was in the Big Boss's office. ("It looks like you have no work to do.")  Also My Tone (she overheard me talking to someone and saying "Yep Yep Yep," When I explained that it was with another admin and we were having a jokey conversation because we got on really well: "You haven't been here long enough to presume that kind of relationship." So how long do I need to be here, exactly, until people are allowed to like me?)

The best part was that the form began with, "We are very concerned that we are having so many problems with you so soon after your hire."

So many problems. Good Lord, Jenkins, she sang along to "Do You Know The Way To San Jose?"! She established rapport with other admins, and she organized her desk after working on a 100-person event so that she could think straight! And she did it while an executive was visiting her boss and totally not giving her a second glance!

Oh the humanity!!!!

I knew what was going on. Boss Lady, who I'd now realized was irrational, was pissed over the meeting (having completely forgotten her directive to me), and so CoS, whose job is to toe the party line, was building a case for my dismissal. The irony was that I wanted them to fire me at that point, because the dislike was now palpable. (Nothing like a tiny office and having people carry on conversations all around you while studiously not making eye contact with you.) When I spoke to admins I'd grown to know in other departments about my situation, they were aghast (my being written up for singing has become legend), and volunteered that there was no way they could work in my department. I'd also learned that nobody in the hospital wanted to work there; the reputation was well known. Go me.

So for two months I sucked it up, responded with "Thank you; I appreciate your guidance" to every snarky CoS email, bit my tongue while CoS held extraordinarily  loud, rowdy conversations about vacations ("BEST. CALAMARI. IN. MY. LIFE."), and basically stopped giving a shit. I was polite, I was responsive, but it was clear that I was phoning it in. I'd been invested, and been stabbed in the back, so now they got the very polite, flat affect that is my version of Fuck You. And they knew that's what they were getting, but I was polite. And I wasn't singing.

And I frantically called recruiters. I was to the point where I was applying to dog-walking companies and housecleaning organizations.

So I got a job as office manager with a startup. Less pay, crappier benefits, but hopefully less hassle. I've been there for two days, and it's OK. All guys, all much younger. Early days. They gave me access to the HR files but neglected to remove the notes about hiring for my position. (Basically, I was not their first choice, but the other person wanted more and had other offers. Great.)

What I like -- and as a feminist I hate to admit it -- is that coming from a mostly-women environment, I don't anticipate dealing with the emotional take-everything-personally BS I had to put up with from women who ran crying if they didn't feel validated enough by me in a phone call, and I will not miss the godawful cliquishness. Or the lack of a sense of humor (when I pointed out that it was amusing that OB/GYN had put in for money to change their carpets, I got blank stares).

I'm not at all excited about my new job. My only hope is that I don't get pains in my stomach as I travel to it each day. The bar is now that low.

It's spring, I'm working, I have a car.

Yeah, yeah, I need to start a new blog...all the clever Boston or Yankee or whatever names are too cloying, so I'll take suggestions.

So. Been at the new job for a month and a half. Going fine, I'm doing the job, head of department seems to like me. Also working through the apparently inevitable social bitchery that happens with a mostly female office.

I'll explain: I'm not oppressed. I'm not mistreated.

I sit in a reception area with two people, male and female, both around 30. Everyone else is closer to my age. They go to each other's offices, and colleagues visit their offices, and they chat and laugh and howl, and have a generally good time. The times I had information to deliver or tried to make small talk, you would think it would bring the walls down for them to relax or smile, and the invisible force field of the clique that only women can create holds strong, especially when it involves someone like me, who's outgoing and funny and threatens them with potential upstaging. Fine. Again, I'm not mistreated, and when people address me, it's perfectly polite, mostly. But in an office this small, the lack of initiation on everyone's part is hard to miss.

Interpersonal power dynamics fascinate me. I'm sensing from the admin director, who is very bright and very competent, an unwillingness to share a stage. So the rapport I thought I sensed during my interview is something that occurs randomly and on her terms, on her mood. When she needs an audience.

My uncle and I have been watching Mad Men on Netflix, and I'm learning a lot from it. I'm learning how a Peggy Olsen can either cave, or persevere through her pariah status and let her mistakes make her wiser and stronger. I'm learning from Don Draper when to talk and what to say. Or not. I'm a compulsive over-communicator; it's my way of bonding. I'm learning to be judicious in the social overtures I make, and to keep my cards close to my chest.

Lest I sound unhappy,I'm not. I'm so worn out from crazy people at dumb jobs that I'm happy to just come in and do my job and have people save their interactions for each other. There are other people in the place that I get along with well, and I get plenty of social contact there.

Socially, I pretty much hang out by myself. I find I have little desire to make efforts at friendship. People tire me. There are plenty of nice folks at the clay studio, and seeing people there is enough. I'm fine. My uncle helped me buy my very first new car, so I have wheels. Wheels and quiet and a job that will help me get out of debt, and Mad Men on Netflix, and spring is here. I'm doing just fine.

First Real Day

Yesterday was orientation, where I sat in a room all day and listened to necessary but dry presentations broken by short but moving videos that yes, had me teary, dammit,  and glared at the backs of the heads of people who couldn't bring themselves to put their smart phones away for any length of time.

Today, the person I'm supporting was out in meetings all day, so I met with other supervisors on the team, who warned me that my boss does not tolerate looking at phones during meetings.

"A person after my own heart," I said.

My boss, it seems, also subscribes to the theory that nobody is that important, and that it's reasonable to expect people to pay attention.

We then talked about how it was hard to find people who, although they they know how to text with their thumbs, don't know how to use a keyboard, and once again I had a vision of how easy it will be to take over the world one day.

So right now I get up at 5:30 to catch a ride with the neighbor, who works in the same building as I but whose schedule begins an hour earlier than mine. So no quality nap time on the train or subway for me.

This arrangement is basically because public transport in Boston has been less than reliable. At this week's traditional pre-St. Patrick's Day parade breakfast, a local politician spoofed the MBTA with such slogans as, "The MBTA: 100% on time 20% of the time," and "The MBTA: where every day is a 'walk to work' day."

So until some things change, like me getting a car, carpooling it is. I know my neighbor doesn't want to do ti forever and I get that, but I think I've grown on her and why not? I'm delightful.

This morning I had my first taste of Ideal Meets Real. One of the public hallway bathrooms was out of  toilet paper, so I took the number assigned to the toilet, as indicated by the plaque on the wall, put a Post-It to warn people of the dearth of TP, and called Maintenance.

"There's no toilet paper in bathroom 26A," I said.

"Where is the bathroom?"

"It's 26A."

"Yes, but where is it!"

Confused and somewhat taken aback, I gave the building, and the office number next to the bathroom.

"BUT WHERE IS THE BATHROOM."

"I just told you where the bathroom is!"

"That office number -- so it's on the 2nd floor."

"Tell them the hallway," one of the other assistants whispered. So I did. That seemed to work.

"What is the purpose of numbering your bathrooms if you're not going to maintain a directory of them, searchable by their DESIGNATED NUMBER?" I asked the assistant. And if you need something more specific, why don't you say, "Is it in an office, a hallway, what?" if that's what you want to know, rather than just asking the same question, phrased the same way?

World Domination. I tell you, it won't be hard.

Cootie-free

"Please be advised the JC has completed the initial medical clearance for employment."

Thus read the email I was copied on, informing the powers that be at the hospital where I start Monday that I am an unlikely vector or potential victim of disease.

I had had most of the childhood diseases: mumps, measles, chicken pox, the first two when I was three and ten, respectively, and the last when I was about 15.  I'm pretty sure I've since had the MMR vaccine afterward  to cover the remaining "German" measles.

I contracted measles the same week they were vaccinating kids in my school, back in the days when keeping kids from contracting and spreading horrible and potentially fatal diseases was more important than satisfying paranoid college-educated parents who equate unfounded conspiracy theories and willful medical ignorance with esoteric and secret truths. When I hear of parents refusing to vaccinate their kids, I want to force them into a week of neck and throat pain so bad they can't open their mouth, followed by a week of a fever so agonizing they feel like their bones are smoldering under their blistered flesh. And then have someone open a shade, because then they get the fun brain damage.

Anyway.

Because I had no record of childhood tests and/or vaccinations, I had to go into the Employee Health Office for a TB test and a blood draw for the MMR titre. I did this the day before yesterday, and was told to return any time today so that they could look at my TB-test site.

I decided to use today as a test run of my work commute. To be at work by my appointed 8:30 am start time, I'd cross-referenced bus and train schedules to see, happily, that if I took the first bus of the morning, it would bring me to the commuter train by 7:03, giving me ample time to make the  train that arrived in Boston with enough time to pick up the subway line to work with time to spare, Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Here's what really happened.

I got up a 6, was out the door  and at the bus stop two blocks at the end of the street with plenty of time to spare. Caught the bus, got to the train station, and five minutes before the train was due, the sign flashed that it was going to be delayed and arrive in 30 minutes. I walked to a new coffee shop, had a muffin and coffee (both vegan!!!), then walked back to the platform, caught the train, then the subway, and arrived at my destination a full three hours after I'd left my house.

As I checked in with the same woman I'd met the first time, I suggested that maybe Skype would be a good alternative.

"Oh, people send us pictures," she nodded.

"I could have sent a picture?" I asked. "That would have been cool."

"Where did you come in from?" she asked,

I told her.

Her eyes bulged. "You came all the way here from there just for a read?"

"Yep. I was also using it as a test run to see whether I could avoid involving my uncle, but given what happened today, I'll need to plan on taking the earlier train since any delay on the one that would normally be perfect means I'm screwed in terms of getting in on time, and the buses don't run any earlier."

A nurse had poked her head around the corner of her desk cubicle. "I come in from the South Shore. It happens to me all the time. Everyone who works here commutes. They understand."

"I know, but for starting a new job? Working for [name of person]? I don't want to be That Girl."

"Oh [my boss's name] is AWESOME," said the first woman.

"That whole team is great," said the nurse.

This was great to hear. But still. I don't want to worry about being late. I need to find a better way. There are condos right near where I'll be working. A 1-BR costs only $495K.

I got back to my home town, and, thanks to the amazing transit planning of whoever designed the local system, the bus I needed left the station as scheduled, three minutes before the commuter train arrived. So back to the cafe for some black-bean soup and a conversation with the owner. Then back to the bus stop and home.

I walked in the door exactly five hours since leaving.

Heaven is a place with lots of angels, fluffy clouds, and no paperwork.

Because I'll be working at a hospital, the pre-employment screening is fairly extensive. I'm having flashbacks to the sea of forms my then-husband and I had to fill out to get him legal entry into the U.S. Like then, my reaction is a mix of "none of your business!" and "Yeah, I see why you need it, but who the hell has records of their last TB test?!?"  My only recollection of a TB test was being about five years old and watching the pediatrician draw a smiley face around the spot on my arm where he'd done the pricking thing that was the test. So if I'd come back positive, the smiley face would have looked leprous. (Also, what kind of a chump was I that I could have my flesh pierced and be placated so easily.) I can tell you the doctor's name, the town his office was in, but the exact date? Maybe my mother has records in some dark recess of the clutter she's accumulated over 70 years, but if so, the likelihood of her finding it by tomorrow is somewhat lower than her quitting smoking.

The badass in me takes some pleasure in responding to questions about measles, mumps, and chicken-pox vaccinations. ("I got my immunity the Old School way -- I had the diseases. My immunity? SURVIVAL, yo. That's right -- Holla!")

One of the drawbacks to the kind of peripatetic life I've led is that the documentation that defines me is fragmented. The number of doctors and medical centers that have to be involved increases with the lookback time. "Yeah, I now have this doctor, but we only met once. The doctor who really knows me, knows my soul, is two doctors back. We had a good run together, until an HMO drove us apart. Oh, and she's in another state."  You'd think the online patient portals they have now would solve this, but turns out my main records site is being closed down and replaced by another, for which I may or may not have been sent the access code. I've got digital and paper records, but I liked thinking that I could always access my records from a site legally obligated to keep them under top security.

I'm also not good at remembering things like the dates I traveled. I can remember the weather and approximate the time of year, but geez. I've even tried looking back through blog posts, but I disappoint there, also. I'll call SP, since he was there for most of it. He is much better at these things than I. I attribute this to his genetic German love of precision.

And her record remains perfect.

Because of a planned taxi strike in San Juan between 9am and 1pm  in response to the Uber situation, we decided to leave much earlier than originally planned, so that we could take an early taxi and avoid the possibility of missing our flight. In front of my sister, I set my phone alarm, and told my uncle I'd set my alarm for 6am.

In the dark the next morning, I awoke to my sister's hand rubbing my arm.

"JC. JC."

"What is it Jane."

"It's almost six o'clock."

"It's not six o'clock yet though, is it?"

"No."

"OK. My alarm is set to six. It will wake me at six."

"Oh. OK."

"Thank you for letting me know, though."

"You're welcome."

Well, I almost made it.

I'd been proud that I'd managed to not blow my stack at my sister the entire week. I love my sister. I worry for her. She also drives me right up the wall at times. Much of it she can't help, some of it she can. Sometimes I'm not sure which is really which.

Tonight the hotel left letters under our doors letting us know of a taxi strike taking place tomorrow, at about the time we'd need to get to the airport, and offering to help with alternate transport. I was in the room when my sister came in. She was dropping off her purse before going back out for a walk.

"Uncle J -- is at the Blackjack table. He freaked out when I told him about the taxi strike," she said.

"Here. Bring him this letter, so he can read about the hotel's offer to find alternate transportation."

"I don't want to interrupt his game."

"You won't interrupt his game. Just hand him this and he'll read it when he wants to, and since the desk is right there, he can take care of it."

"He probably has one in his room." She was balking.

"Yeah, but he's not in his room, so he can't read it. Just bring this so he can read it sooner rather than later, so he can address it earlier."

Head shaking. "I don't wanna."

"You will not be bothering him. Is Ma with him?"

"Yeah."

"Then give it to Ma."

More rapid head shaking. "I don't wanna."

I'd had it. I'd had it not with the inability to problem solve, but with the lack of empathy for all the pain-in-the-assness it was causing, and the lack of appreciation for how her unwillingness to do things she was perfectly capable of doing was inconveniencing others. Me. The ease with which she switches from capable adult who demands the right to have her own choices accommodated to emotionally volatile (and therefore manipulative) scene-maker, insisting on her inviolate right to avoid discomfort, even at the expense of others. She is so very difficult to describe accurately, and it's so hard to explain why she's frustrating in spite of being lovable, without sounding like an asshole.

A good friend of mine who works for an agency that serves mentally-challenged adults did warn me that empathy is not a quality often found in the mentally disabled, but my sister does appear to have empathy, and takes pleasure from pleasing people, although that may be more a case of her being pleased at finding ways to receive positive feedback, learning how to elicit good responses and avoid bad ones, but I don't think so. I've sen her complete 20-mile fundraiser walks "for the hungry children," despite getting tired to the point where she cried the entirety of the last three miles, and despite ending up in an ER after puking uncontrollably after one. And when the supermarket she works for asked for volunteers to load donated food on a truck, my sister was the only one who answered the call.

Today she brought us free snow cones at the pool, and keeps reminding my uncle that she owes him a drink. She's not completely selfish or without sensitivity. I firmly believe this, and see evidence of it all the time. The trick is to find the line where you aren't holding her accountable for things she's inherently unable to deliver, while at the same time not conditioning her to think she gets a pass just because something strikes her as difficult, unpleasant, or unappealing.

At any rate, I'd had it.

"I AM NOT GOING DOWN TWELVE FLOORS AGAIN WHEN YOU ARE ALREADY WALKING RIGHT PAST HIM."

Her face started to crumple, which happens with reallyreallyreally irritating speed and ease. "But he has one in his room. He can read it."

"IS HE IN HIS ROOM?"

"No."

"SO HE CAN'T READ IT NOW, CAN HE? WHAT IF HE DOESN'T COME BACK TO HIS ROOM UNTIL 1AM? WHAT IF HE WAITS TOO LONG AND WE CAN'T GET A RIDE TO THE AIRPORT? BRING. HIM. THE. LETTER."

She went into the bathroom, managed to pull it together, came out, and in a perfectly normal voice told me she'd give the letter to our mother.

"Perfect. Enjoy your walk, and be careful."

"I will."

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Saint Francis. Give me strength.

Alone at Last

Yesterday I walked alone to Old San Juan, and spent the day browsing, chatting with people, and generally decompressing. Alone, with nobody to look after, no decisions to make on behalf of anyone  but myself, I felt free and relaxed. I do better on my own, am more social.

I went into a sort of junk shop, with warrens of old books, tea sets, clothing, and yes, a bust of Adolph Hitler (?!?)

In a case an antique woman's watch caught my eye. It was unusual and, for some reason, I was drawn to it. After explaining that it didn't work, the man got it out for me. Neither he nor I could make out the name on the face. The body and clasp, which was small like for a child, was gold, including pink gold, and there was a stone of some sort on the winding knob. He estimated it as being made in the '40s. I bought it, wondering whether this was my Antiques Road Show moment. ("And how much did you pay for it?" "Sixty Dollars." "Well, I can tell you that, properly restored, at auction I'd expect this to go for about one hundred thousand dollars!" "Wow, who'd have thought that a watch from a junk shop in Old San Juan would be such a find!")

When I got back to the hotel I saw it was missing a hand, so maybe this was just a dumb purchase.

I went into the Church of St. Francis. St. Francis has always been my favorite saint because of his love of animals.

I walked and didn't get lost. I bought some cheap earrings from Velma at a great vintage shop. I walked through a small book fair at what looked like a parochial-school courtyard, and came out to a street where at least a half-dozen cats were lying around. There are a lot of street cats in PR; at the visitor center at the Camuy Caves, two sweet cats were lying around, full of fleas and ear mites. Not neutered. It kills me.

These cats were well-fed and very friendly, including one large black guy who let out a long "MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEow!" before sauntering over to have his back scratched. A sign on the door to an upscale house asked for donations to help "fix" and care for the cats. As  I was rubbing my third cat, a man came out of the building. We started talking -- he's born and bred Puerto Rico, full European blood, by the looks of him, perfect English. He talked about how they took care of the cats, and how people were starting to drop theirs off, knowing they'd be cared for better. The downside of success.

"That's Paz," he said, when an orange-and-white guy flopped down in front of me. "His name means 'Peace.'" He also pointed out a cat who was 14 years on the street. The cat looked ancient, and as the result of an ear infection (since cured), his ears looked like two kettle-cooked potato chips on his head. Didn't stop him from being a love.

We talked about cats and their unfortunate lesser status, I gave him a little money, and got his email and address to give to friends who might also want to help. He continued on to do his errands and I hung out with the cats a bit more before, with a final scratch to each one, I was on my way.

I had a homemade popsicle, found another snow-cone vendor and had my coveted Anise-flavored ice, wandered to a book store, practiced my Spanish, then headed to Cafe Berlin, the only place I'd found that had a full vegetarian/vegan section that rocks out loud. ("Authentic Puerto Rican Food" is not vegan-friendly. On our tours, at the roadside eateries to which we'd been brought, my option was basically fried plantains. I love fried ripe plantains, don't get me wrong, but when it's 85 and humid, fried carbs don't really work.)

I parked myself on a bench in Christopher Columbus Square with a book, and read peacefully while a pigeon who'd adopted me rested in the shade at my feet.

I then walked back, and was addressed by a middle-aged woman who asked whether I spoke English, and when I said yes, explained that she was "a native New Yorker lost my husband two years ago thank you V.A., and I haven't eaten in two days I go to the beach to talk to God and my dead husband and collect things to make these out of (indicating a conglomeration of shells and sea grass), sober fourteen years do you think you can help."

I sensed the entire story was a fabrication, but she was tiny, well-dressed, in great shape, and the gravelly voice, New York accent and cigarette dangling from her hand only underscored the theater of her story, so I explained that I feared her creation wouldn't make the trip in my suitcase, but I had a couple of dollars I was happy to give her, and we both parted a little happier. The exchange felt all "Treasure of The Sierra Madre."

Back to the hotel, where I met up with my family, had a sandwich in my room, then -- as promised-- went with my sister to the casino where she showed me her favorite slot machine, a Bally-created device called "Better off Ed," Ed being a cute cartoon zombie who shows up to bestow wild cards and free spins. There are lots of lights and music, and various bonus exercises ("pick three graves!")  Music plays and bells ring, which is fun, even though it happens when you win ten cents. So entertaining is the machine that you don't mind going basically nowhere.

Then my uncle bought my sister and I drinks at the bar (her selection of pina colada is as predictable as her orders of burgers, french fries, and Sprite), and I had a chocolate martini. My uncle had a dirty martini, and we listened to the live Salsa band in the lounge across the way and shared our opinion that there is, in fact, only one salsa song, played over and over.

We crashed, and this morning I was awakened by the sound of my sister snuffling and her breath catching. I waited. It continued.

"Jane." (not her real name)

"What."

"Do you realize that there has not been a single morning this week that you have not woken me up?"

It's true. The various ways in which she has woken me up include turning on the light, turning on the TV, and waking me up to ask when i want to be woken up. I wish to mention also that my sister wakes before the sun is up, and that I haven't yet raised my voice or thrown her off the balcony.

My sister snuffled. "I locked the bathroom door and now I can't get in."

This is the kind of mind-bogglingly stupid thing my sister does all the time. She can find her way up and down a busy San Juan Street, remember all the signs, figure out how a slot-machine works while I'm still staring, stupefied, at the screen, but door locks have always been a stumbling block.

"So pick up the phone, press 0, tell them what room you are in, and explain that you locked yourself out of the bathroom. They will come up and open it."

She didn't move. Louder snuffling. I was not going to fix this; it was on her.

"What does Ma say about problems?"

Teary-voiced. "That they can be fixed."

"Right. So call 0 and tell them, and they will fix the problem. You can do it."

"The thing is, I've never used this phone."

"It's like any other phone. Pick it up and dial 0. You've worked in hotels. You know how it works."

She still didn't move. I realized I'd need to take a different tack to get her moving, because I felt my patience, like my sleeping in, reaching an end.

"Or you can go downstairs to the front desk in person and explain it."

Pause. "Maybe I'll do that."

"OK. Put on your Muu Muu and go down."

The sniffling stopped, she went down, and was pleased with herself.

She told me later she was crying because she knew I'd be mad about the lock. She was sort-of right, but what she didn't realize is that it's not the situation that annoys me, it's her refusal or inability to fix it that drives me up the wall, her randomly unimaginative reaction to new situations. And most of all, what annoys me is that I haven't slept in one single morning this trip without being woken several times by her or other members of my family.

But like I said, I haven't lost my temper. Yet. We still have a morning to go.

Puerto Rico: etc.

I don't have the energy to go day by day, so I'll just give a melange of impressions:

Let me be clear: the people here are wonderful. The climate is also wonderful. I mean, hell, it's a tropical island, right? And did I mention the people are beautiful, especially the men? Puerto Ricans are a mix of Spanish, African, and Taino indian.

Mocha. Chocolata. Ya. Ya.

And perhaps it would be a different vacation for me if I had a pal that I grooved with. Perhaps.  The other day my sister and I just walked around -- my sister is of course company, but she's also not company. I have to make pretty much everything happen. Anyway, we found a contemporary art museum with a few small, earnest but not very impressive installations, mostly having to do with the displacement of people from a local neighborhood when developers took over.

 I'm not a touristy person. I can understand why my family loves it: the weather, the casino, the pool and the beach. But I'm not someone who travels to gamble or sit on a beach or by a pool, or to shop. I'm not someone who wants to be surrounded by thousands of my compatriots who marvel over a mango.

I've taken two all-day tours with my father and sister. (Did I mention my father is drinking again? Yessirree Bob. That, and my sister's generally mentally exhausting tendencies have made me a one-woman tongue-biting squad.)

 Let me say a couple of things.

1. If you have kids under 10, leave them home. I don't care what your argument is, you're wrong. Leave them home, or take them to Disney World, where they are less likely to ruin the vacations of other people. If you want them to appreciate other places like the huge underground caves the rest of us wanted to enjoy, wait until they are old enough to focus on the majesty and beauty of the caves, rather than being engaged for three minutes at a time before being demanding and noisy and making it impossible for the rest of us to stay focused. I also don't need to see you breast feed on the tram. I just don't. Wear a loose shirt and try a little discretion, or I'm going to start taking a crap or screwing in front of you to see how much you love watching Nature in action. Read my lips: I. Do. Not. Worship. Motherhood.

2. If you are visiting a place, especially a spot of natural beauty, for the love of God, shut up. Stop turning every corner of the planet into just one more backdrop for a Facebook-bound selfie. That rain forest we just left was a sacred place for people who were slaughtered by greedy, brutal invaders. It's a natural wonder, unique in the world, and I wanted to hear it speak to me, to experience its magic, cripes, hear some birds, but I couldn't because of the nonstop chatter and horseplay and the endless photo-taking. Stop performing and start engaging. Have a little respect.

3. A beach, no matter how blue the water and no matter how palmy the trees, is still just some sand and water, and unless you have good company to chat with as you walk along it, is boring as fuck.

 So it's pretty clear I'm not digging my trip. Here's the thing: I've lived in major cities, and it is not novel for me to be served by a Puerto Rican at a restaurant; it's just another day in Chicago. I guess if you live in a homogeneous area, if your idea of ethnic food is Italian or Chinese, then this may seem novel or exotic. If, like me, you've lived in a neighborhood where there is more than one person of color and your local market serves Caribbeans and Africans, you are not a stranger to the cherimoya or to plantains. So I put on my Pleasant Face, try to have something positive to say ("I like that, despite being a big tourist destination, they don't try to gouge you." "Wow, this weather is great.") and struggle to find things to do in an area overrun with tourists. At night I watch TY. Yeah. I watch TV. Why? Because it doesn't involve being by the pool or in the lobby bar or in the casino or anywhere else outside crammed with tons of noisy, boisterous people and/or screeching kids.

I'd really like to go back to Old San Juan, sit alone at a cafe and read the horrible book I borrowed from my mother, but it will be Saturday and even more overrun with tourists. I have no idea where I'll find refuge. Normally, I'd rent a bike and go somewhere, but three words: Puerto Rican drivers.

You know what PR is like? It's like a cruise ship on land. That's the best way to put it. It doesn't feel like a real place.

And now we seem to have new people in the room next to us who have brought a baby. A baby that cries loud enough to be heard through the wall. And my sister is back and watching "Glee." And the next circle of hell has opened.

Puerto Rico - Day 1: Departure

My uncle lives not far from an express bus to the airport. The plan was that friends would pick up my uncle, sister, and me from my uncle's house, and another friend would drive my parents.

The bus left at 6:15 am, and the station is bout a ten-minute drive from my uncles, so I set my alarm for 5.

Everyone else was up at 4. Loudly.

The friend who was driving, "Dan," had to be reminded to slow down so as not to miss the turn, which he of course did, meaning we had to go to the next exit, where he got back on the highway and began speeding again.

I wanted to smack Dan. Wanting to smack someone before 6am is not a good way to start the day.

We all got to the airport. My uncle and parents had apparently never used anything but curbside check-in, so I had to show them the very complicated process of waiting in line to hand over your ID and be handed a boarding pass.

I'd had a bagel before I left the house, but everyone else wanted to grab a bite. All but my father and I were headed for the restrooms, so they told us what to get them.

The choice of eateries was: a Sbarro, a Japanese place, Burger King, and a burrito place.

They wanted coffee cake.

coffee cake?!?

"Where are we going to get them coffee cake?" asked my father.

"I have no idea," I replied.

My father began to get agitated. Have I mentioned that I have a neurotic family?

"Dad, we'll just let them decide what they want when they come back," I said. A headache was starting already.

When everyone arrived, they got blueberry muffins from the Sbarro. We went through Security fairly easily (one of the friends called my cell at this point to make sure we'd gotten there OK and safely (as opposed to what? The bus getting lost in the half-hour it took to get there? A Logan Express hostage situation?) and on the other side was a refreshment cart. With coffee and coffee cake.

The passengers at our gate were comprised of an alarming percentage of young couples with kids and babies.

Our plane had been diverted at the last minute when it arrived from an international flight, and they needed to clean it first. We finally got on the plane, which smelled like ripe cold cuts, and there was a delay because we had too much fuel, which meant too much weight. They resolved that, then they had to have the wings de-iced. I recalled that this procedure seems to be mentioned frequently in news recounts of pre-takeoff events when talking of planes that plummeted to earth.  I thought about The Day The Music Died. The constant irregular CLUNK-CLUNKCLUNK below me in the fuselage did not ease my mind. My headache was getting worse.

We took off, there were no babies behind me, and I managed to sleep a bit, which gave me a stiff neck and amplified the headache. My sister kept turning up the volume on the TV screen on the back of the seat in front of her and sticking her face close to it before I explained three times that you need a headset to hear it.  She finally got one, and relaxed.

At one point I used the restroom, and to give you an idea of how old this plane was, it had an ASHTRAY in the door.

At San Juan, we debarked, got our luggage, and caught a taxi at the stand. I don't recall the formal name of ours, so let's just call it Not The Cleanest Taxi taxi. It was driven by Not The Slowest Non-Heart-Attack-Inducing Driver.

I was in the back, and I had a speaker literally next to my arm, so during the entire 20-minute ride my headache was bathed in amplified merengue, followed by the rapid-fire Spanish of a demented raving DJ whom I quickly wanted to disembowel.

The hotel is lovely, as is the staff, and they give you rummy fruity drinks as you check in. My sister and I are in one room, and in a connected room next door are my parents and my uncle. Our room balcony overlooks the front, which is a main street and pretty noisy, but the glass doors are pretty sound proof.

We split up and my sister and I took a walk up the main drag, which is very touristy (thank goodness the Hard Rock Cafe planned across the street is not yet there) and oddly shabby. My headache was worse, so we stopped for food at a small indie burger joint that had a delicious black-bean burger. As we sat eating, I saw my uncle walk by. He had a smile on his face and was clearly happier than a pig in the most fragrant, creamiest of ordure. I ran out and surprised him. He was just out "checking things out," and I could tell he was so happy to be back here.  That look on his face, the one he had when he thought no one was watching, made me determined to enjoy this trip as much as I can, although frankly, beautiful weather and beaches aside, I can't see what the big deal is about. Chicago in summertime has hot weather, gorgeous beaches, and all the Spanish-speaking people you want. Although here they speak English, too. Unlike Chicago.

After eating, my sister and I walked about a mile to the bridge that leads to Old San Juan, and then came back. My head was hurting very badly so I took a couple of pills, a hot relaxing bath, and was in bed by 6:30. I slept pretty much to the next morning.

Card Night

Please let them all go home soon. 

It's not even my house, and I hate having people over.


I got the job, by the way. First step: a car.

He was, and always shall be, our friend.

Leonard Nimoy died today.

I have loved Leonard Nimoy since I first saw him as science officer Spock on "Star Trek" when I was six. Many have speculated on Spock's appeal: we wish we could be more logical; we wish were were more in control of our emotions.

None of this was ever true for me. What I loved most about Spock was that you could trust him. With Spock, there was no subtext; he was loyal, principled, honest, wasn't mean, and didn't gossip. He told it like it was, and the human side of him gave him humor and compassion.

I know that one is the actor and the other the character, but I love the actor for bringing me the character. I loved Nimoy for staying a class act and for not ruining the character of Spock for me, and for being a good actor who knew how to mock himself.  Who remained someone who deserved our love.

When we played the "who would you have dinner with, if you could have dinner with anyone?" game, Nimoy was always on the list.  I knew it was extremely unlikely, but I did  harbor hopes of one day meeting him in person to thank him for everything. That is, if I could speak at all.

Goodbye, Leonard. You are not dead if we find a way to remember you. And we most certainly shall.

Waiting for go,Houston.

Had my interview with the Big Cheese I'd be supporting, and I loved her. Absolutely loved her. Met privately with the current admin who, unless she is a world-class lair, seemed very sincere when she said, "My new job will be walking distance from my house. But I'll really miss this job. It really is a great job."

They also loved me, so I expect an offer once the reference thing is done. No problems expected there -- one of my colleagues emailed me and said, "They want three areas of improvement -- I can't think of any. Can you?"

"I talk too fast?" I suggested, after thinking a bit.

So she put that I can sometimes talk too fast when I'm passionate about something. Oh, the humanity.

From conversations with The Boss and and their HR person, I have every confidence I'll get the pay I want, and I hear the benefits are very good. We're trying to get things wrapped up today before my family trip next week, although I said I'd take my laptop to be on email, just in case.

This could be the job -- the job that incorporates my strengths and allows me a variety of real responsibility. Lord, let it be.

This time for sure!

I love to think about the future. I love to take lessons learned at the feet of brutal experience and apply them to decisions made firmly and securely, while smugly patting myself on the back for using previous adversity to achieve Perfect Bliss.

Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa.

Take home ownership. After my six years in a Chicago condo, a condo that I loved and condo politics I loathed, and some condo members I'd not have mourned had they shuffled off their mortal coil with or without assistance, after years of another Boston condo shared with two others who are frustratingly reticent to invest in necessary upkeep and repairs, or who are fairly inneffectual (but still stubborn!) I vowed I would never, ever buy another condo again. Never again would I throw my lot in with people who had the legal right to make decisions about my property, no matter how ill-informed or -motivated. Never. Ever. I would buy a mobile home before I had another argument about plumbing or electrical updates or noisy tenants.

And then I see a real-estate posting for a vintage condo, and one look at original bath tile and a shiny white enamel bathtub, and I'm swooning.

Here is my problem: I can see the ideal in every situation. In a condo, I see the closeness of neighbors, the sensibility of planning, and most of all, the ability to live in a property far nicer as a set of rooms than I could ever afford as a house.

I'm someone who likes vintage. Old. I watch house-flipping shows and I scream in outrage as one cute, cozy kitchen after another is ripped out and replaced by something that looks like the mutant result of a drunken congress between a spaceship and an army mess hall. No matter what the style of the house: cape, Victorian, bungalow, OUT goes the bead board and cute white cabinets, In goes the black granite counter tops, cherry cabinets, stainless-steel everything, and the ubiquitous island-slash-eating area.

When did we forsake the warmth of a kitchen as the heart of the home for something with all the charm of a rail car?

And the bathrooms! I watch as buyers enter a bathroom that has original tile and turn their noses up at the "ugly pink," and replace charming vintage color with something that has all the appeal of a surgery.

The modern kitchen and bathroom craze is the housing equivalent of Botox and boob jobs, and to both I say, fuck off. My tastes mean that a house others would disdain is right up my alley, and go me.

So I look at small homes that are fixer-uppers, and I have all kinds of jonesing to restore them to their original charm, and I desire yards and porches and a cellar, and space and boundaries and a driveway, and then I see a gorgeous vintage condo in my home town, the town I vowed to get the hell out of as soon as I can, only this place is in the upscale part, which is no small feat for this town, and is a block from the beach, and I see that big, uncluttered kitchen and the original bathroom, and I begin to think that maybe this condo won't be as bad...

I have condo battered-wife syndrome, is what it is.

I need to make a list of everything I want and don't want so that I can look at it like Guy Pearce in Memento and trust that Another Me has it under control if only Current Insane Me would let her.

Tonight I have a call scheduled with the friend that is the current board president in Chicago. She wants to decompress and update me on the insanity of the latest board meeting. This might do the trick.

Et tu, ovaries?

So I went to bed last night feeling anxious and Emo (as you all know, since you had to read my whine post).  My feelings about the anxiety of a job hunt and of having fond memories of colleagues collapse in the face of indifference to my current job search are real. But this morning I woke up actually excited at the idea of a job. Not just that -- excited at the idea of being the right-hand person to a decision maker. What changed?

Well, yesterday afternoon I started having abdominal pain. At first I thought it might be back pain from doing next to nothing this past week, not getting to a gym. Then the pain grew worse, and I realized the pain was something else. It felt like I was ovulating.

I'm 51. My last period was last August, a kind of last hurrah, or so I thought. So unused to dealing with this was I that I was out of practice with regard to ignoring my emotional state when the symptoms present themselves.

Don't get me wrong -- I still have reservations, but they are in the context of an overall eagerness to get on with my life, to have an income that will allow me to start on the strategy for success I had in mind when I decided to move here.  So I'll be doing a new kind of job -- that's not new for me. Will they like my big personality? Why not? I have a track record of ingratiating myself with even the most irascible.

I'm a hardier person than I was when I left Boston almost 10 years ago. I'm more resourceful, less put off by hardship, more confident in my ability to make my life happen. If my commute involves a bus to a commuter rail to a long subway ride, that's what it involves,and the fact that I can make it happen is more important than whether it's enjoyable. Once I get a car, I can stay in town to catch a movie or a play, catch up with friends and not worry about the bus service ending before I get home on the commuter rail. I can visit my best friend via the discount airline that flies right into Toronto. I can get to Chicago and see the kids. I know all of this is idealistic, but it helps to envision the scenarios I'm aiming for in order to appreciate the essential value that a job has in making them come true.

So tomorrow I dress up again and sally forth in frigid weather to sell myself to the big cheese. Its not a job; it's power.

Post-interview blues

I had an interview today thanks to an introduction arranged by a neighbor, who is one of many people approached by my uncle in his one-man marketing campaign to get me a job.

I'm somewhat depressed.

Because the interview went well.

As some background: I need a job. I need a job really soon. I need an income, and a budget, and to stop putting everything on credit cards, and to get a used car so that I'm not a prisoner of Suburbia, and I need to be able to make plans, and for that I need a job.

So I was thrilled to get the interview, and hit it off with the people I met today. The problem is that they were the step before meeting with the person I'll be supporting, who is a high-level executive at a large Boston-area hospital.

I've always avoided being an Exec Assist because I don't relish the idea of spending my days managing a calendar and constantly being "on," and I'm concerned about my ability to focus on being someone's handler without losing my mind.  I like being able to get tea without letting everyone know where I'll be. I  like being invisible and head-down and working. The current EA  has moved far away and the commute is untenable so she is leaving, but assures me she loves it there.

She and I have very different personalities; she's very serious. I'm serious about work, but I'm not heart-attack serious. I worry I'll get all Zen Big Picture and the minutiae of the job will seem petty and trivial and I won't toe the line, and adios.

I realize this is my perpetual Imposter Complex, my insecurity that, despite my achievements, this, THIS, will be the job that exposes me for the incompetent fraud I really am.

But nothing else has come along, aside from a  phone interview last week that apparently went nowhere, which was fine because the commute would have been a nightmare. While this commute is rather long, it's not particularly complicated.

But nothing from the contacts of former colleagues, nothing from the chatty LinkedIn emails trying and failing to hide mercenary communication beneath too-casual suggestions to "get together and catch up." Nothing has come from the resume my clay instructor gave to her husband, whose company is "hiring like crazy." Nothing from anyone and everyone I've spoken to and asked to keep me in mind. I'm off Facebook for Lent, and it's a good thing, because it's all I can do not to post in a huge font HOW CAN I KNOW SO MANY PEOPLE AND STILL BE WITHOUT A JOB?!?!?! AND HOW CAN YOU POST YOUR F*CKING FAMILY PHOTOS FROM YET ANOTHER FAMILY VACATION WHEN YOU HAVE NOT GONE TO ANYONE IN YOUR COMPANY AND SAID, "THIS WOMAN IS AWESOME AND YOU MUST! HIRE! HER! NOW!"

*breathing*

So they liked me and now I'm going in for an 8:30am interview, because this person's schedule is so insane that this is what she can spare. And I will be the keeper of that insane schedule. I dread asking what my hours will be.

My uncle is over the moon. He broke his usual discreet silence to ask me whether I'd met with the VP, whether we'd discussed salary. What about benefits? What would my hours be?  Maybe I could drive in with the neighbor, since she works there, but I should mention that he'd suggested it so I won't seem pushy, on second thought, no, he'd take me to the train. Then speculation on when we'd need to be out of the house to make the train with plenty of time, which meant calculating when we needed to be up...

I finally had to tell him to relax; it's an interview, not a Broadway audition.

I look at the rabbits and think, "They need a place to run around in again, and you need a place of your own again, and lord knows you've had much more awful jobs than this would be. Think of this not as a burden but as a gift, because it can give you your freedom."

My sister's keeper

I was recently and not for the first time re-evaluating my decision to move back to Mass.from Chicago. The reasons for my return were mostly family-based, in particular because of my sister, with whom I wasn't involved enough.

My sister is hard to describe. She's three years younger than I. As a child she was extremely emotionally volatile, with the kind of rigid requirements and temper tantrums you'd associate with autism. She has cognitive deficits. She has some motor issues. She can also remember numbers and names and circumstances like a human encyclopedia. She doesn't like to read, although she can. She's terrific about keeping secrets. She loves babies and animals.

As an adult, there are no more temper tantrums, and her behavior is much more appropriate; going out in public or taking trips is no longer a Russian Roulette of public scenes. She has a job at a major grocery store, bagging groceries. She can have a flat affect when she talks, and she scowls when she asks questions. She can give the impression of being less bright than she is.

She went through hell in school.

She is not is stupid or unobservant.

She smiles with more of her entire face than anyone I know.

She picks out the most appropriate, most hilarious greeting cards.

In the last year or so she's reconnected with a friend who used to work with her. The friend lives in a group home walking distance from where my sister lives with my parents, and is very independent. She has transformed my sister's life. They go to theme parties at the Knights of Columbus, church bazaars, fairs. They get pedicures. (Pedicures!)  My sister, once monosyllabic, has become a chatterbox, asks me what's going on, makes small talks with cashiers. I am delighted.

My parents are frustrating. They don't advocate for my sister or encourage independence. We are currently in an argument about getting her a cell phone, Now, it might seem obvious that my sister should have a cell phone, but my mother is typically frustratingly contrary about it.

Did I mention there's a program where my sister can get a phone and service FOR FREE?

So my assumption is that it's a matter of control, because my mother has to be in everyone's business. We have a cordial relationship, but I can tell she senses that I'm not bully-able. My sister knows it, too. In fact, everyone knows it, and they stand spineless on the sidelines silently supporting me while I now push for my sister to have more access. There's a transit program in addition to the phone. I'm working on both for her, and my parents can go jump. My sister and I went clothes shopping for the upcoming trip to Puerto Rico, and when my mother started her querulous questioning as to why my sister bought Keds instead of the usual big white athletic sneakers, I took the phone from my sister and said, "Because she doesn't want to look like an old person or a member of a group home."

My  parents love my sister, don't get me wrong, and they have cared for her her entire life. But they have stunted her, too.

Once upon a time, I'd have been caught up in the drama. Being away from my family and the negativity and criticism for decades has done wonders. Once upon a time, the notion of defying my mother and just going around her when she wasn't willing to cooperate would have been unthinkable.

I say all of this because I was wondering why I'd felt such a sense of rightness about coming back when things in Chicago, while not perfect, were certainly better than they are right now. I knew I was supposed to come back, that it was the right thing to do, but was looking for direction. And I was suddenly reminded of a prayer I used to make while I was in college. I made this prayer all the time; in Bible study, in the prayer room (yes we had one of those. Think Christian meditation -- it was, after all, a Christian college).

My prayer was, "please take care of my sister."

While I was contemplating my return, this memory came back suddenly and sharply, and with it, a message:

"I am answering your prayer."

At least the heater worked....

(I suppose I should start a new blog since I no longer live in Chicago and am therefore no longer chronicling my life there, but that will be for a day when I have initiative, which is not today.)

So...the car? The 20+-year-old car my dad gave me so I'd be mobile out here in suburbia? The car I'd already had to have repaired after I rear-ended someone, had to put a new battery in just about a week ago? That car?

That car's rear axle shit the bed as I was driving home this past week.

The good news is that when the very loud CLUNKGRINDSCRAPE occurred and I suddenly dropped about eight inches in my seat, I was driving home from the gym, not far from my house.

My uncle had added me to his AAA membership, which I thought was nice but a waste of money given my past experience with them (having the legal right to demand help is cold comfort when you are stuck somewhere and the dispatcher says they can't find anyone to come out), but it made him feel better that I had it.

So of course I'd waited three hours for the AAA tow truck to arrive -- they were very busy because they were providing supplemental help to the state and oh yes, for the time being, the 200-mile tow service covered under my subscription was reduced to ten miles. Because when you pay for something that you turn to when you have NO OTHER OPTIONS, it's perfectly acceptable for the option of last resort to change the terms of the contract.  Did I mention how much I hate AAA?

 I was on a main road in suburbia, and while I was only about a half-hour walk from home, feared leaving the car to an unpredictable fate that might involve the state towing it to places too remote for even IKEA to consider, and exorbitant tow/storage storage bills. I passed the time calling a friend who'd once called me under similar circumstances ("You hear The Noise, and as you pull over, you also hear Satan laughing. Oh, yeah, I know the feeling.") I read the maps in my car, napped and, not for the first time, wished for a neighborhood library like Chicago, which had pretty much ensured I always had a book going.

A police car finally pulled behind me, and the trim uniformed figure that walked to my car sent my disinterest in men out to get some coffee while I had a chat with Hot Officer Rescue.

He said he'd gotten all kinds of calls about my car (I imagined terrified neighbors at the bay windows of their ranches and capes, furtively peering through the sheer curtains and wondering aloud to their also-retired spouses about the suspicious-looking car in the street).

Did I also mention that in all that time only one car stopped to make sure I was OK?

Officer I Was The Kind of Man Uniforms Were Made For took my license and returned to The Vehicle, where he did the radio thing they do. He came back.

"AAA has no record of the call."

"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?! THEY SAID IT COULD BE UP TO THREE HOURS, SO I JUST ASSUMED---"

"I called the tow; they're affiliated with AAA and are on their way. Don't worry about it; you're all set."

"I can't thank you enough. You are a life saver."

"Well, if you really mean that, maybe I could take you out for dinner some time -- I could pick you up, of course, given the state of your car. I'm not supposed to ask people out when I'm on duty, but you seem like a fun, resilient person who can roll with things, and I don't meet many women like that in my job. It's refreshing. I don't know whether you're into vegetarian food, but I know a great place in Salem."

OK, he didn't really say that. But dammit, I'd been in a car for three hours reading A MAP and having nosebleeds from the dry air of the car heater, and can't be blamed for wanting a storybook ending for once.

I told him that in Chicago I'd lived two blocks from the El.

"You should move back to Chicago," he said, directing traffic around me.

"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," I sighed.

I rode with the tow to the mechanic, and my uncle met me there to give me a ride home.

Later that day the mechanic, who is the most affectless guy I've ever spoken to, called with the bad news.

"The rear axle is shot; it came loose completely. I called around to see if anyone had the part, and after they stopped laughing, they said no. Not that there's even anything to attach it to any more," he deadpanned into the phone.

I experienced the familiar shame, imagining what a mechanic must think about a person who drives such a wreck of a car. I know I shouldn't care, but I do. I missed my Chicago mechanic Dac Tran, who'd looked at my used Honda Accord and said, "Honda good cah." I wanted a professional pat on the head for being savvy enough to pay reasonable cash for a reliable if aging car. I wanted Mechanic Kenny to understand that this car isn't who I am; I make better choices than this. My soul is a Honda Fit, a Ford Focus Wagon. I'm Roadworthy! I wanted to tell him.

I thanked him and said I'd be down with my dad the next day to transfer the car to them to be hauled away.

When I called my dad, I said, "I just bought a new battery, so I'll have them remove that and give it to you. I also just filled the tank, so I'll have them take that out and put it in your car."

My Dad, ever the ray of optimism, said, "I don't think they can do that."

No, Dad, of course not. Mechanics have no clue how to take gas out of a tank.

"We can ask them," I said, once again forcing myself to sound neutral.

"Well, my tank is topped up anyway."

"OK, then, they can keep the gas for themselves, because either they or the junkyard will."

He met us there -- he'd cleaned out the car (I need to get my map back), and that was that. I'm still trying to figure out whether it bothers me that it didn't seem to bother him that I'd been riding in a deathtrap, that it could have happened just the day before while I was doing 60 on Route 1.

I look on the bright side: It didn't happen while I was on a major highway, and it didn't happen far from home. And while I'm now dependent on a bus service that is not at all frequent and doesn't run on Sundays, I no longer have to worry about whether to pull the plug or keep paying for treatment.

I did have a good phone interview for a temp-to-perm job, and the timing is good. New priority is to get a job so I can get a reliable used car, from a dealer, with a warranty. Meanwhile, I bought a new T Pass, and my credit-card company is happy.

Freedom of Movement

My car was in my cousin's shop (my cousin is my mother's cousin). My cousin and his father had had this business my entire life. That, plus the knowledge that in this family if you screw up you become a byword forever made me confident in my cousin's abilities, since it was easier to do a good job than face the wrath of my 87-year-old mostly-blind-and-deaf 95-pound great aunt. Trust me.

There was still the matter of me getting to the commuter rail to get to my assignment, which had a week left. My father was driving the four-plus miles to my uncle's before dawn, driving me to the station that's all of a mile from his house, then picking me up in the evening. My dad is retired and is up at 4am. He also has zero hobbies, so I wasn't putting a crimp in his style and in fact was probably giving him something to do, but that didn't change the fact that I hated being so completely dependent, and inconveniencing him, although he never complained. I was, of course, immensely grateful, but I hated this situation. For the first time in twenty years my living situation was nowhere near workable public transportation, a shared-car service, or decent biking options, although I'd taken my bike out one evening to go to clay class, and the sense of freedom had been intoxicating.

Another issue is the dynamic between my father and me. Since he stopped drinking, things have improved dramatically, but some essentials remain. 

Among these is his expectation that everyone in the world is out to screw him, accompanied by his generally crude commentary on society. So as we ride the longest four miles on the planet, I hear comments about ragheads and Japs. It's an old conflict of ours, and I wonder whether he does it just to provoke me, but that would entail him actually paying attention to me, which has never been the case. So I've become an expert on redirecting conversation by asking him about his siblings, of which there are many, and their kids, of which there are a very many.

The other button I have to jump on when it gets pushed is more complicated. When I was growing up, my dad spent his time at work, and the rest of his time at bars. My mother went to bingo games. My parents effectively bowed out of active parenting. (Once, when I was twelve and at a friend's house, two bullies waited outside to beat me up; I called my mother to come get me and bring me home. We lived less than 10 minutes away by car, but she refused to come get me, claiming she'd started dinner. I begged, but to no avail. I waited for 45 minutes and then snuck home through backyards and side streets.) 

When they moved us five miles to the house in which I now live with my uncle, I was stranded. My mother refused to drive me anywhere because it inconvenienced her very busy stay-at-home soap-opera watching, so it fell to friends' parents to take pity on me and drive me the five-plus miles home after dark rather than make me walk over a mile to a crime-infested downtown bus station to wait for the hourly bus. Knowing your parents didn't give a rat's ass was one thing; to have other people see it was humiliating.

So when my father talks to me about my home city, it's as if his indifference and lack of attention extends to not noticing his indifference and lack of attention. It's as if it never occurred to him to question his and my mother's lack of involvement or investment.  He mentions streets and locales as though I visit them every week, as though I actually had some kind of life growing up here. Fighting the urge to be nasty, I took a different tack one evening:

"Do you know I've never been to the commons?"

"What?"

"I mean, I've driven by them, but I've never been to them."

"You've never been to the commons?"

"Well, I didn't have a car as a teenager, and none of my friends did, so we were pretty much confined to our neighborhoods and the route to school, and the beach. I'm completely ignorant about 99% of this city."

Then there's the fact that I moved away for good - hallelujah-- thirty years ago, which they still haven't seemed to grasp, perhaps in part because in all that time they have visited an actual place where I've lived all of three times. Not that I'm unhappy about that, considering the alternative. As one grows up, one discovers the many upsides to parental distance, not the least of which is a guilt-free release from obligation.

Some parents might be concerned that they know so little about their kid, or recognize the isolation they describe. Those parents are not my parents.

So the trip time was doubled as we drove at my father's signature 15 mph while I resisted the urge to scream at him to for god's sake PICK IT UP, and I developed my Grownup Conversations with Dysfunctional Parent skills. And afterward my mother would call to probe and pry and mis-relay information that she hoarded for power.

In short, this whole situation was forcing me to deal with my parents in a way that I'd planned to avoid in order to stay sane when I  moved back and was in transition. (I will say, though, that the 5-mile inconvenience now works in my favor, as my parents never come up here aside from planned card-game nights, when I disappear.)

During all of this, my cousin did not call me. My dad assured me he had my number, but it turned out that he had my uncle's home phone number, which was useless since I was at work all day.

One evening, my dad picked me up and said my cousin couldn't find a part, that he'd done a search everywhere.

"Did he look online?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay measured.

"He checked some people he uses."

"Did he do an online search, and why didn't he call me?" I asked, my voice rising.

"Don't get mad at me; I'm just the messenger."

"I'm not mad at you, Dad, I'm just frustrated because it's been a week, and if someone had just spoken directly to me as I asked a number of times, I could have sorted this out, and I don't understand how someone who has a business doesn't use the internet."

I got home, and my mother called.

"He did a search on all the places that body-shops use," she said, making sure to use the word "search" as though she understood what I meant, which she didn't, because God forbid I know something she doesn't. "He can't find the housing, so he can't put the light in. So we're picking it up tomorrow, and you need to decide what you're going to do. What are you going to do?"

Seriously?

"I guess I'll have to give that some thought," I said, unwilling to let her hear the panic in my voice, which would only heighten the pleasure this drama was giving her.

I got off the phone and Googled "year/make/model passenger-side headlight housing." 

First on the list. $11.52, shipped in 1-2 days.

I called my mother back and told her I was printing something out for dad to give to the cousin. On the printout I wrote my cell phone and CALL ME on it. (He never did, BTW.)

What I did not do was scream at a  single person that had they just for once, for ONCE, given me an inch of credit and simply fucking LISTENED to me instead of assuming that they knew all there is to know despite every indication to the contrary, this would have been resolved much earlier. And so I no longer pitied my father his morning pre-dawn taxi service.

My cousin called the number, the part came in, he did a great job of fixing the car, and I'm back on the road. And all I have to do is download an attachment from email for my uncle and he's telling people I'm a tech genius.

Little victories.