So I've been looking for more shows to audition for. Here's the thing: I like being in shows. I can memorize lines, take direction, and I'm a solid, if not gifted, performer.
But when I mention a show I was in, and people say, "oh, you're an actress?" I feel like a fraud if I say yes. It's not that I don't like the stage; I do. But I don't love it. I'm comfortable being the center of attention, but I don't care if I am. I can walk into a party of strangers and have them eating out of my hand laughing in twenty minutes, but I'm just as happy sitting at home with a book.
I also prefer to be cast in plays without having to try to earn the role. In other words, I'm lazy.
When I'm around people who consider themselves actors, there's an edginess about them, a hunger for the next role, the next thespianic fix. A need to be taken seriously, to be validated. A profound inability to laugh at themselves. (Yes, I'm generalizing. It's what I do.) It also means they practice and take acting classes and well, improve.
Since my move to Chicago five years ago, I've done precious little, and most of it very bad (one of the drawbacks to a city that has a ton of theater is the corollary that there's a lot of bad theater).
My last show was a sketch show, and it was fun and decent. I recently saw an audition for a play, which appealed; I'd like to be able to play a single character and stay in that character. The notice said no monologues necessary; the audition would be short and sweet. Great; no need to dust off the comedic or serious or Shakespearian.
The bus took forever in Saturday traffic, and as an added treat, I had the two ghetto chicks right next to me. They'd been at the bus stop at North and Clybourn, and they were clearly friends. North and Clybourn is by where the old Cabrini-Green projects were; the buildings may be gone but the social etiquette is alive and well. They carried on simultaneous cell-phone conversations.
"What, you didn't hear your cellphone when I called you? Oh, OH, the ringer was OFF. Why is yo ringer always OFF when I call you?"
"Im not playing you -- I'm on the bus. ON THE BUS. *tooth suck* Shit, bitch, I ain't playing no games; I'm ON. The DAMN. BUS."
"No- NO. Every time I call you say yo ringer's off. What's that about? No, I'm on North Ave., on the bus."
"Hold on - she's talking loud right next to me. Why you gotta talk so damn LOUD for?"
"Hold on -- HOLD ON. What the hell is your problem? No, not you..."
This went on at full volume for a half-hour.
By the time I got to my stop, I had five minutes to get to the theater for my audition slot. I ran. I ran up Milwaukee Ave. past the bakery and a pub and a car shop and a South American restaurant, a tea shop, clothing store.
The theater is the same one I performed in last, a small, low-budget fun place that exits to rent space at an affordable cost to people wanting to mount their own shows. This is a great concept, but one of the unfortunate side effects is that anyone with a printer, some cash, and delusions of artistic genius can produce even the most undiluted crap.
When I arrived there was one other woman in the lobby. We smiled at each other while I filled out my form. Would I dye my hair? For Steppenwolf, yes; for a no-pay four-night show at Gorilla Tango, hell, no. Would I accept a nonspeaking role? Uh, no.
The other woman went in, was in for all of two minutes, then came back out. I went in, and faced the director and a woman. I was given a sheet, read one part, the director read the other. This happened three times. I gamely tried to bring nuance and meaning to lines such as, "I know you came to tell me that Im dead," but I don't know which of us was the most bored. I was disappointed to see that the sheets were typed, not from a published script.
"Is this an original work?" I asked.
"Yeah. It's kind of a post-apocalyptic Garden-of Eden thing," the director shrugged. Way to sell your show.
I got the usual, "We'll call people by...blah blah blah." I tuned it out, because I already knew I wasn't going to accept a role if one were offered, and I knew I wasn't going to be offered a role.
Afterward, I consoled myself with lunch at Sultan's Kitchen, where I had an amazing sandwich for all of three dollars. And read some monologues. And dreamed of a good script. Or of writing my own.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Getting off the property
Yesterday I decided I needed a day where all I did was whatever I wanted to do. I took the El to Lincoln Square, planning to sit at The Grind and read a bit, and then perhaps do some budget shopping.
At the counter I ordered a beverage and a bagel, but when I handed my debit card over, the cashier told me there was now a $10 minimum for plastic.
(A TEN-dollar minimum? At a COFFEE shop? What did they expect people to buy?)
"OK," I smiled, gritting my teeth. "Off to the bank."
Thus it was I paid a $3.00 ATM fee to take out cash for a purchase that cost just slightly more than the ATM fee. Cripes.
Gamely trying to hold onto my carefree-day buzz, I returned to the cafe, ordered my stuff, and sat down. I opened my book, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," by Stieg Larson. This is apparently a popular book, but I have to say, the translation from the Swedish is stilted, and well, a third of the way in I'm bored, not to mention confused by the endless relatives involved in this "mystery." The characters are flat and uninteresting, and they don't have to be.
After my stint at the cafe I took a walk to a local consignment shop. Although I'm on a budget, I'm also trying to intelligently re-outfit myself. I'm not a tall gal-- five feet, actually, and fairly petite. I have trouble finding clothes where the sleeves and shoulders fit, and as a result, I often buy clothing (usually from thrift stores) that almost fits. Lately I've decided enough is enough, that it's time to be more fastidious. More fabulous. So I tried on a number of clothes that looked unusual and promising.
The dressing rooms at the back of this small storefront establishment consist of a hard-walled back panel divided at a right angle by another hard wall. The right wall of the store forms the outside wall of the right-hand stall, and a curtain, the left-side side wall of the left-hand stall. Curtains run across the front.
I was in the left-hand stall, stripped to bra and panties, when the curtains around me began puffing inward from the movement of a hand feeling for the opening. This happened around to the side, and then the curtain was wrenched back from the rear of the cubicle. A middle-aged Asian woman stopped, holding an armful of clothes, looking at me blankly.
"Hello!" I said brightly.
"This is individual, or group?" she asked in a heavily accented voice.
"Oh, it's individual, " I said, still standing in my underwear, briefly reflecting on this recurring public half-naked theme in my life.
She stood there, silently, for a moment.
"But," I chirped, "I'll be out in just a few minutes!"
"OK." And she was gone.
I found two (two!) reasonably priced dresses and left. And now I can't help, as I walk down the street, or at work, suddenly starting and looking down to see whether I've got on clothes.
At the counter I ordered a beverage and a bagel, but when I handed my debit card over, the cashier told me there was now a $10 minimum for plastic.
(A TEN-dollar minimum? At a COFFEE shop? What did they expect people to buy?)
"OK," I smiled, gritting my teeth. "Off to the bank."
Thus it was I paid a $3.00 ATM fee to take out cash for a purchase that cost just slightly more than the ATM fee. Cripes.
Gamely trying to hold onto my carefree-day buzz, I returned to the cafe, ordered my stuff, and sat down. I opened my book, "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo," by Stieg Larson. This is apparently a popular book, but I have to say, the translation from the Swedish is stilted, and well, a third of the way in I'm bored, not to mention confused by the endless relatives involved in this "mystery." The characters are flat and uninteresting, and they don't have to be.
After my stint at the cafe I took a walk to a local consignment shop. Although I'm on a budget, I'm also trying to intelligently re-outfit myself. I'm not a tall gal-- five feet, actually, and fairly petite. I have trouble finding clothes where the sleeves and shoulders fit, and as a result, I often buy clothing (usually from thrift stores) that almost fits. Lately I've decided enough is enough, that it's time to be more fastidious. More fabulous. So I tried on a number of clothes that looked unusual and promising.
The dressing rooms at the back of this small storefront establishment consist of a hard-walled back panel divided at a right angle by another hard wall. The right wall of the store forms the outside wall of the right-hand stall, and a curtain, the left-side side wall of the left-hand stall. Curtains run across the front.
I was in the left-hand stall, stripped to bra and panties, when the curtains around me began puffing inward from the movement of a hand feeling for the opening. This happened around to the side, and then the curtain was wrenched back from the rear of the cubicle. A middle-aged Asian woman stopped, holding an armful of clothes, looking at me blankly.
"Hello!" I said brightly.
"This is individual, or group?" she asked in a heavily accented voice.
"Oh, it's individual, " I said, still standing in my underwear, briefly reflecting on this recurring public half-naked theme in my life.
She stood there, silently, for a moment.
"But," I chirped, "I'll be out in just a few minutes!"
"OK." And she was gone.
I found two (two!) reasonably priced dresses and left. And now I can't help, as I walk down the street, or at work, suddenly starting and looking down to see whether I've got on clothes.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A whole new meaning for the term "Business Casual"
Friday promised to be a beautiful day, and I looked forward to my bicycle commute to work. After forgetting my work ID and misplacing my keys several times, I was determined to be more organized. The night before, I laid everything out. Since I pack my work clothes in panniers, I have to select clothes that won't wrinkle. I'd selected a simple black dress and a duster to wear over it in case the office was chilly. In the morning, I packed earrings and hair product and shoes and made sure I had my cell phone and work ID. Feeling put together and prepared, I headed off.
As usual, there was a headwind. (There are smug trivia buffs who claim that "Windy City" refers not to a meteorological phenomenon but to the breeze generated by the yakking of Chicago politicians. These people have never ridden a bike in Chicago.) I dug in and biked to work, making good time, feeling happy that it was Friday and warm and the beautiful lake was to my left along the way.
In my office I took my bags into the single-room bathroom that I use as a changing room. I laid out my things, and stopped. I looked in the bags again. I stared in disbelief.
I had forgotten to pack the dress.
I put on my heavy tights and donned the duster, but it was no use. The duster was a hoodie that fell to a few inches above my knee and closed by means of a belt. No buttons, no zipper. It was like a combination bathrobe and hospital gown.
And it didn't shut nearly well enough, especially around the hips. I put my black spandex bike shorts on over the tights. OK. I put on my shoes and fixed my hair, then carried my bags to my desk.
"Good morning," said James, the Scottish young man who sits next to me.
"Hi James," I said, rummaging through my drawer with one hand while clutching the duster shut with the other. I found one safety pin. Using it to close the duster across my chest, I asked him whether he had any safety pins.
"I seem to have forgotten my clothing today, " I explained.
We looked at each other and laughed. He had no pins. it was time to be creative.
"I'll be back," I said, grabbing my desk stapler and heading back to the bathroom. Once there, I tried stapling the front of the duster shut. The staples did not hold nearly well enough to instill confidence.
I returned to my desk. The other admin was gone for the day so I looked through her desk drawers for pins.
"Look at JC, poking through other people's desks! First she comes to work half naked, now petty crime!" crowed James.
"M--- has let me in these drawers before, " I called. "And she would understand my dilemma."
No pins.
Just then another co-worker, a woman, came in. She had safety pins and, should I need to resort to it, a sewing kit. I went to the bathroom and pinned the entire front of the duster shut. The total effect was actually pretty stylish. I returned to my desk.
"Looking sharp there," said James, still very much enjoying my predicament.
"I think so," I said. "If I were on a runway in Milan or Paris, couturiers would be gasping at the bold urban edge of this design. People would shell upwards of five thousand dollars for this look."
At one point during the day I lost one of the safety pins fastened across my chest, so I grabbed a paper clip and worked it through the fabric. The head of the department came over to talk about something and as we talked, I saw her eyes flicker periodically to the paper clip. I wasn't sure whether she'd registered that I was wearing bike shorts over my tights. I considered explaining, but opted instead to preserve the mystery, and to carefully cultivate a reputation as a brilliant but eccentric admin.
As I prepared to leave at the end of the day, gathering my bike bag and gear to change for the ride home, James offered to text me a reminder on Sunday to bring my clothes.
"Why don't I just surprise you," I replied.
As usual, there was a headwind. (There are smug trivia buffs who claim that "Windy City" refers not to a meteorological phenomenon but to the breeze generated by the yakking of Chicago politicians. These people have never ridden a bike in Chicago.) I dug in and biked to work, making good time, feeling happy that it was Friday and warm and the beautiful lake was to my left along the way.
In my office I took my bags into the single-room bathroom that I use as a changing room. I laid out my things, and stopped. I looked in the bags again. I stared in disbelief.
I had forgotten to pack the dress.
I put on my heavy tights and donned the duster, but it was no use. The duster was a hoodie that fell to a few inches above my knee and closed by means of a belt. No buttons, no zipper. It was like a combination bathrobe and hospital gown.
And it didn't shut nearly well enough, especially around the hips. I put my black spandex bike shorts on over the tights. OK. I put on my shoes and fixed my hair, then carried my bags to my desk.
"Good morning," said James, the Scottish young man who sits next to me.
"Hi James," I said, rummaging through my drawer with one hand while clutching the duster shut with the other. I found one safety pin. Using it to close the duster across my chest, I asked him whether he had any safety pins.
"I seem to have forgotten my clothing today, " I explained.
We looked at each other and laughed. He had no pins. it was time to be creative.
"I'll be back," I said, grabbing my desk stapler and heading back to the bathroom. Once there, I tried stapling the front of the duster shut. The staples did not hold nearly well enough to instill confidence.
I returned to my desk. The other admin was gone for the day so I looked through her desk drawers for pins.
"Look at JC, poking through other people's desks! First she comes to work half naked, now petty crime!" crowed James.
"M--- has let me in these drawers before, " I called. "And she would understand my dilemma."
No pins.
Just then another co-worker, a woman, came in. She had safety pins and, should I need to resort to it, a sewing kit. I went to the bathroom and pinned the entire front of the duster shut. The total effect was actually pretty stylish. I returned to my desk.
"Looking sharp there," said James, still very much enjoying my predicament.
"I think so," I said. "If I were on a runway in Milan or Paris, couturiers would be gasping at the bold urban edge of this design. People would shell upwards of five thousand dollars for this look."
At one point during the day I lost one of the safety pins fastened across my chest, so I grabbed a paper clip and worked it through the fabric. The head of the department came over to talk about something and as we talked, I saw her eyes flicker periodically to the paper clip. I wasn't sure whether she'd registered that I was wearing bike shorts over my tights. I considered explaining, but opted instead to preserve the mystery, and to carefully cultivate a reputation as a brilliant but eccentric admin.
As I prepared to leave at the end of the day, gathering my bike bag and gear to change for the ride home, James offered to text me a reminder on Sunday to bring my clothes.
"Why don't I just surprise you," I replied.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Is it Monday yet?
I woke up happy that it was Monday. No, I had not had a large pipe of crack before bedtime.
Friday night I set out to see a 10pm sketch show a friend of mine was in. My car started sluggishly, and I made a mental note to have the battery checked.
On the way realized I was very low on gas, so I pulled into a station. After putting gas n the tank, I tried to start the car, but all I got was a mournful ROOOOOoooooooorrr. ..rrr...r and then... nothing. Great.
Now, one of the upsides to always having owned old cars is that you become accustomed to things like this, and to feeling comfortable messing with your car (I once had an ancient Toyota that had a spark plug that would pop out; I'd stop, shove it back in, and keep going; a VW Rabbit with a wonky choke that I adjusted with metal trash-bag ties.)
I can change a tire, and I can jump a car. Jumping a car will always make me nervous, but it's simple and as long as you're not color-blind, you can do it without blowing anything up. I went into the gas station convenience store, where an older man sat behind a window dealing with paying customers, and a younger man was putting sunglasses on a revolving display rack. I watched as he took each set from a box, removed the plastic wrapping, and stuck the side pieces into slots on the display.
"Excuse me," I aid to the younger man, "My car has died, and need a jump. I have cables, but I need a car to jump me. it will take two minutes. Can you help?"
The man looked confused, then called out to the older man something in a language I didn't recognize. The man, never looking up, replied. His tone didn't sound promising.
"No," the younger guy said, holding out his hands in demonstration, "I don't have the cables."
*sigh.*
"I have cables, I just need a car to jump." OK, and here is a customer of yours, stranded, and you are a SERVICE station, I thought. You could at least be concerned. And what the hell?!?!? You don't have cables? I would so revoke his man-license.
"Oh, OK. Yes, I can help, but it will be a few minutes." and he returned to the sunglasses.
I went back to my car and called a friend of mine in PA on my cell.
"I am sitting at a gas station at 9:30 at night waiting to have my car jumped. Why am I waiting? Lots of customers? Only one man at the till? No. Because the guy has to finish putting cheap plastic glasses on a display case in preparation for the 10pm gas-station sunwear fashion rush. Oh wait; here he comes -- I'll call you later."
False alarm; he was only getting a notepad out of his van. I called my friend back.
"Can one of the other customers help you?" she asked.
"Yeah, but it's a hassle, and for crying out loud, it's THEIR station. Their GAS station. Whatever happened to service and chivalry? "
Still, I kept a lookout for promising-looking customers. Obama bumper stickers.
Finally, Gas Guy came out and pulled his van up. He did apologize for keeping me waiting, and I was nice because what else was there to do? He seemed a little nervous and unsure of the cables, which made me uneasy about letting him near my car, so I took them and clipped them to his engine, likewise to mine, started my car, and voila.
I drove the car to the street next to my mechanic's shop, parked it, and took the train home. Then I remembered I had a vet appt for Amie, my rabbit, the next morning, an appointment I couldn't miss. By a stroke of luck, an iGo car was free three stations away, near the mechanic, so I reserved it and crashed into bed.
The next morning I got up, took the train to the iGo car, picked it up, drive home, picked up Amie, and headed for the vet.
Her teeth were problematic, as I thought, and she got a trim. But.
"Is that a flake I see?" the vet asked.
CRAP. Crap, crap CRAP.
She did a skin crape and yes, our pals the mites were back. Or had never really left.
So I left with doses of Revolution for both rabbits and both cats, and a weekend that would now be devoted to de-infesting my house. Not to mention the bill.
Dropped Amie off, returned the car, walked to my mechanic. I love this place. I told one of the guys where my car was. "You have the Honda, right?" he asked. They are amazing. He took my key and got the car, and while he checked it I chatted with the owner, whom I just adore. We talked about sleep patterns and taking care of yourself, and he gave me tips for my foot problems that he learned, oh, when he was back in Vietnam studying under the Buddhist priests. In the end I got a new battery and paid the bill.
Next stop, pet-supply store for flea spray and a fogger.
Back home I began dismantling the hutch for sterilization, and cleaning in preparation for spraying on Sunday.
Sunday, bleached the hutch pieces in the tub and let them sit while I vacuumed like mad. Then I put the rabbits in the bathroom, cats in the bedroom, turned on the fogger in the main room and left to meet a friend to explore Hyde Park while the stuff did its work. Returned home later, aired out the room, returned the cats and rabbits to the main room, and wiped the floors of the other rooms with bleach water. Followed up with hand-held flea-spray bottle. Sanitized litter boxes, replacing old litter with new. Did ridiculous amounts of laundry to sanitize bedding, area rugs, towels, clothing.
Re-assembled hutch. Sprayed vacuum and floor sweeper with flea spray. Collapsed into bed at 11:30 pm.
Woke up today thinking, "All I have to do today is sit at a desk."
Biked to work. It was a good Monday.
Friday night I set out to see a 10pm sketch show a friend of mine was in. My car started sluggishly, and I made a mental note to have the battery checked.
On the way realized I was very low on gas, so I pulled into a station. After putting gas n the tank, I tried to start the car, but all I got was a mournful ROOOOOoooooooorrr. ..rrr...r and then... nothing. Great.
Now, one of the upsides to always having owned old cars is that you become accustomed to things like this, and to feeling comfortable messing with your car (I once had an ancient Toyota that had a spark plug that would pop out; I'd stop, shove it back in, and keep going; a VW Rabbit with a wonky choke that I adjusted with metal trash-bag ties.)
I can change a tire, and I can jump a car. Jumping a car will always make me nervous, but it's simple and as long as you're not color-blind, you can do it without blowing anything up. I went into the gas station convenience store, where an older man sat behind a window dealing with paying customers, and a younger man was putting sunglasses on a revolving display rack. I watched as he took each set from a box, removed the plastic wrapping, and stuck the side pieces into slots on the display.
"Excuse me," I aid to the younger man, "My car has died, and need a jump. I have cables, but I need a car to jump me. it will take two minutes. Can you help?"
The man looked confused, then called out to the older man something in a language I didn't recognize. The man, never looking up, replied. His tone didn't sound promising.
"No," the younger guy said, holding out his hands in demonstration, "I don't have the cables."
*sigh.*
"I have cables, I just need a car to jump." OK, and here is a customer of yours, stranded, and you are a SERVICE station, I thought. You could at least be concerned. And what the hell?!?!? You don't have cables? I would so revoke his man-license.
"Oh, OK. Yes, I can help, but it will be a few minutes." and he returned to the sunglasses.
I went back to my car and called a friend of mine in PA on my cell.
"I am sitting at a gas station at 9:30 at night waiting to have my car jumped. Why am I waiting? Lots of customers? Only one man at the till? No. Because the guy has to finish putting cheap plastic glasses on a display case in preparation for the 10pm gas-station sunwear fashion rush. Oh wait; here he comes -- I'll call you later."
False alarm; he was only getting a notepad out of his van. I called my friend back.
"Can one of the other customers help you?" she asked.
"Yeah, but it's a hassle, and for crying out loud, it's THEIR station. Their GAS station. Whatever happened to service and chivalry? "
Still, I kept a lookout for promising-looking customers. Obama bumper stickers.
Finally, Gas Guy came out and pulled his van up. He did apologize for keeping me waiting, and I was nice because what else was there to do? He seemed a little nervous and unsure of the cables, which made me uneasy about letting him near my car, so I took them and clipped them to his engine, likewise to mine, started my car, and voila.
I drove the car to the street next to my mechanic's shop, parked it, and took the train home. Then I remembered I had a vet appt for Amie, my rabbit, the next morning, an appointment I couldn't miss. By a stroke of luck, an iGo car was free three stations away, near the mechanic, so I reserved it and crashed into bed.
The next morning I got up, took the train to the iGo car, picked it up, drive home, picked up Amie, and headed for the vet.
Her teeth were problematic, as I thought, and she got a trim. But.
"Is that a flake I see?" the vet asked.
CRAP. Crap, crap CRAP.
She did a skin crape and yes, our pals the mites were back. Or had never really left.
So I left with doses of Revolution for both rabbits and both cats, and a weekend that would now be devoted to de-infesting my house. Not to mention the bill.
Dropped Amie off, returned the car, walked to my mechanic. I love this place. I told one of the guys where my car was. "You have the Honda, right?" he asked. They are amazing. He took my key and got the car, and while he checked it I chatted with the owner, whom I just adore. We talked about sleep patterns and taking care of yourself, and he gave me tips for my foot problems that he learned, oh, when he was back in Vietnam studying under the Buddhist priests. In the end I got a new battery and paid the bill.
Next stop, pet-supply store for flea spray and a fogger.
Back home I began dismantling the hutch for sterilization, and cleaning in preparation for spraying on Sunday.
Sunday, bleached the hutch pieces in the tub and let them sit while I vacuumed like mad. Then I put the rabbits in the bathroom, cats in the bedroom, turned on the fogger in the main room and left to meet a friend to explore Hyde Park while the stuff did its work. Returned home later, aired out the room, returned the cats and rabbits to the main room, and wiped the floors of the other rooms with bleach water. Followed up with hand-held flea-spray bottle. Sanitized litter boxes, replacing old litter with new. Did ridiculous amounts of laundry to sanitize bedding, area rugs, towels, clothing.
Re-assembled hutch. Sprayed vacuum and floor sweeper with flea spray. Collapsed into bed at 11:30 pm.
Woke up today thinking, "All I have to do today is sit at a desk."
Biked to work. It was a good Monday.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
"Obvious" can be so relative.
Been at the new job for one month now. The people remain very, very nice, I'm in love with the Dutch machine that dispenses free cocoa, and the work itself is not that demanding. What is demanding however (and I find this is usually the case) is the almost endemic aversion to efficiency. A preference for slogging through something in the most labor-intensive way possible rather than ask, for example, "Hey, do I really need to print my emails so JC can file them in a drawer?'
Today I sat with a claims guy to try and see whether there was a better way to maintain internal files (Damn you Sarbanes-Oxley!!!" It was tortuous, and by the end I realized my snappy little process proposal was going in the bin. At one point, he showed me insurance web sites he uses, with the idea that I could look up statuses myself.
"Why don't you just email me a list of the sites," I said. "Start with the one on your screen."
He looked at me blankly.
"Just paste the URL into an email," I prompted.
Confused hand gesture added to blank stare.
So it was today that I realized that part of this guy's problem vis a vis being overwhelmed with work is that he's horribly inefficient. I had to show him how to copy and paste a url (a general ignorance of keyboard shortcuts is widespread in the department; I've had to fight down screams watching people mouse all over menu commands rather than just hit two keys. I came dangerously close to a breakdown sitting next to someone who was showing me something, and who deleted entire sentences by holding down the DELETE key for ten minutes as the letters streamed into oblivion.)
Then there was the guy whose phone bill was tossed accidentally by me into the recycling and was lost. I suggested he just print it out from online. He'd never done this before (he is not an old person). I offered to show him how. Rather than do this, which would have entailed doing something unfamiliar, he called the phone company and had them MAIL HIM A NEW BILL.
I am sent emails by my boss. Emails with attachments. My instructions? Print them. Why? Because there are many of them. Or they are zipped, and rather than ask how to unzip them (two clicks), she sends them to me. Or because she doesn't realize you can highlight them all and print them all at once. This is the same person who has me file her emails in a drawer. Said files moved to offsite storage after a year. Yes, we pay money to store printed emails.
I've given up the germ of a notion that I may be able to help things. I will have a positive impact, but I'm not worrying about the big picture. I don't get paid to.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
The Goose
As I've mentioned, I'd been feeling a bit cooped up now that I was working in an office each day, so to recharge I would take walks during my lunch hour.
Last Wednesday I decided to walk south, following the parks along the lakefront. It was a mild day, and it felt good to be outside. I walked along a path, looking at the trees, imagining how beautiful it would be in spring and summer. I ended up at Monroe, east of Columbus. It's a fairly busy street, with two lanes each way. At this time of day, however it was pretty quiet.
Now, one side effect of the city being bordered by an enormous lake, one lined with parks at the city's edge, is that there are lots of Canada geese that like to hang out. They're very common, kind of like pigeons, only larger and a bit louder.
As I waited to cross Monroe, I saw some in the street, and as the light changed and traffic started to move, they all flew off. All but one. It stood there, directly across from me, staring at the oncoming cars.
I don't know why it stood there. I don't know why it never moved. Maybe it was frozen. Maybe it was confused and disoriented by the cars speeding towards it. I don't know.
The vehicle that hit it was a silver SUV. I'd like to think that it was too hemmed in by other cars to stop or maneuver or slow down. I don't know why it didn't beep its horn; perhaps it was as stunned as the goose. I'd like to think it was something like that.
I stood there as, no more than thirty feet away, the SUV hit the goose full-on. The sound of the impact was like a bat hitting an empty cardboard box at full force. I saw the goose get hit, then fall under the wheels of the vehicle. It rolled underneath from front to back, bouncing between the pavement and the bottom of the vehicle, rolling like a load of laundry in a dryer.
The SUV never slowed or stopped. It kept going. The other cars swerved to avoid the goose and they, too, kept going. I had my hands pressed against either side of my head, yelling, "NO NO NO!" When the cars had all passed, the goose lay in the street.
"Please let it be dead, please let it be dead," I chanted, trying to make it so.
Its head came up.
Oh God.
There was almost no traffic, but I held my hands up and yelled "STOPSTOPSTOP!!" as I ran across to the goose. It was on its stomach mostly. I could see its black webbed feet crumpled under it, a small amount of bright-red blood contrasting against them. Intestines showed from under its wings. I wanted to get it out of the street, but I was afraid of hurting it further. Its head was weaving around, its beak wide open in a soundless scream. I noticed that there were ridges on the edges of its beak, and felt that I was looking at something intimate, private, a secret I should not know, because I should not be sitting next to a broken goose gaping in disoriented agony.
"Okay, okay, okay," I said softly. I didn't know what else to say. I knew my presence was probably making it more afraid, and I felt as helpless as the goose. I circled its neck gently to prevent it from being able to bite me, and kept talking gently to it, looking at its ruined body and wondering how to move it. Then its head slowly faded to the pavement, and, mercifully, it was gone.
All of this -- from the initial impact to the death -- took less than a minute. We talk about a short time feeling like it lasts forever; I think that what really happens is that most of the time we register every third or fourth second. With this, I registered every single second in perfect clarity, and was present in every one. I felt every second from beginning to end, no distractions, no condensing.
I vaguely registered that my back was to where traffic would come from when the light changed, but I didn't seem to care, although part of me found it curious that I didn't. I picked the goose up by getting my fingers under the edges of its wings and sort of pressing my hands together to suspend it. Its feathers were so very soft. They were mottled white and brown and looked so clean. I placed the goose's body on the sidewalk and arranged its head so that it wasn't crumpled. Its insides still peeked out from under its body, but there was very little blood. A minute ago it had been this beautiful, sentient thing; one car had turned it into trash.
I walked away into the park on the other side, my body feeling like a jangling mass of pieces that all wanted to explode in separate directions. I decided to call SP, knowing that he would understand and not make some remark about what a nuisance geese are. While I looked at my keypad for the number, I saw a man walking toward me out of the corner of my eye. I was in a pretty busy area, but my section of the park was deserted. I could see the goose beyond, lying on the sidewalk, people reacting with revulsion as they passed it.
The man was closer, and he was walking straight toward me. I was in no mood to be mugged. He had on some ID around his neck. He was wearing a T-shirt and had long hair. I turned to face him, bracing myself.
"I saw that you tried to help that bird," he said. "That was nice."
I was caught off guard. "I think the Park Department will come pick him up now. He didn't have a chance, but I couldn't just let him lie there. At least he died quickly," I stammered.
"Well, anyway, that was a nice thing to do."
"Thanks."
I walked away and called SP, who was a good listener, and who knows that sometimes I just need to talk.
And then I went back to my office another way. I haven't walked that way since.
Last Wednesday I decided to walk south, following the parks along the lakefront. It was a mild day, and it felt good to be outside. I walked along a path, looking at the trees, imagining how beautiful it would be in spring and summer. I ended up at Monroe, east of Columbus. It's a fairly busy street, with two lanes each way. At this time of day, however it was pretty quiet.
Now, one side effect of the city being bordered by an enormous lake, one lined with parks at the city's edge, is that there are lots of Canada geese that like to hang out. They're very common, kind of like pigeons, only larger and a bit louder.
As I waited to cross Monroe, I saw some in the street, and as the light changed and traffic started to move, they all flew off. All but one. It stood there, directly across from me, staring at the oncoming cars.
I don't know why it stood there. I don't know why it never moved. Maybe it was frozen. Maybe it was confused and disoriented by the cars speeding towards it. I don't know.
The vehicle that hit it was a silver SUV. I'd like to think that it was too hemmed in by other cars to stop or maneuver or slow down. I don't know why it didn't beep its horn; perhaps it was as stunned as the goose. I'd like to think it was something like that.
I stood there as, no more than thirty feet away, the SUV hit the goose full-on. The sound of the impact was like a bat hitting an empty cardboard box at full force. I saw the goose get hit, then fall under the wheels of the vehicle. It rolled underneath from front to back, bouncing between the pavement and the bottom of the vehicle, rolling like a load of laundry in a dryer.
The SUV never slowed or stopped. It kept going. The other cars swerved to avoid the goose and they, too, kept going. I had my hands pressed against either side of my head, yelling, "NO NO NO!" When the cars had all passed, the goose lay in the street.
"Please let it be dead, please let it be dead," I chanted, trying to make it so.
Its head came up.
Oh God.
There was almost no traffic, but I held my hands up and yelled "STOPSTOPSTOP!!" as I ran across to the goose. It was on its stomach mostly. I could see its black webbed feet crumpled under it, a small amount of bright-red blood contrasting against them. Intestines showed from under its wings. I wanted to get it out of the street, but I was afraid of hurting it further. Its head was weaving around, its beak wide open in a soundless scream. I noticed that there were ridges on the edges of its beak, and felt that I was looking at something intimate, private, a secret I should not know, because I should not be sitting next to a broken goose gaping in disoriented agony.
"Okay, okay, okay," I said softly. I didn't know what else to say. I knew my presence was probably making it more afraid, and I felt as helpless as the goose. I circled its neck gently to prevent it from being able to bite me, and kept talking gently to it, looking at its ruined body and wondering how to move it. Then its head slowly faded to the pavement, and, mercifully, it was gone.
All of this -- from the initial impact to the death -- took less than a minute. We talk about a short time feeling like it lasts forever; I think that what really happens is that most of the time we register every third or fourth second. With this, I registered every single second in perfect clarity, and was present in every one. I felt every second from beginning to end, no distractions, no condensing.
I vaguely registered that my back was to where traffic would come from when the light changed, but I didn't seem to care, although part of me found it curious that I didn't. I picked the goose up by getting my fingers under the edges of its wings and sort of pressing my hands together to suspend it. Its feathers were so very soft. They were mottled white and brown and looked so clean. I placed the goose's body on the sidewalk and arranged its head so that it wasn't crumpled. Its insides still peeked out from under its body, but there was very little blood. A minute ago it had been this beautiful, sentient thing; one car had turned it into trash.
I walked away into the park on the other side, my body feeling like a jangling mass of pieces that all wanted to explode in separate directions. I decided to call SP, knowing that he would understand and not make some remark about what a nuisance geese are. While I looked at my keypad for the number, I saw a man walking toward me out of the corner of my eye. I was in a pretty busy area, but my section of the park was deserted. I could see the goose beyond, lying on the sidewalk, people reacting with revulsion as they passed it.
The man was closer, and he was walking straight toward me. I was in no mood to be mugged. He had on some ID around his neck. He was wearing a T-shirt and had long hair. I turned to face him, bracing myself.
"I saw that you tried to help that bird," he said. "That was nice."
I was caught off guard. "I think the Park Department will come pick him up now. He didn't have a chance, but I couldn't just let him lie there. At least he died quickly," I stammered.
"Well, anyway, that was a nice thing to do."
"Thanks."
I walked away and called SP, who was a good listener, and who knows that sometimes I just need to talk.
And then I went back to my office another way. I haven't walked that way since.
Friday, March 12, 2010
First Two Weeks
I'd been nervous about how I'd adjust to a return to a regular office job. The answers: very well and not so well.
Day one: "Onboarding," in which a twenty something woman hands out some prepared information packages and proceeds to be unable to answer any questions after rapid-fire run down of every item in the package. The group (there are about ten of us) sits in stunned silence. Once again, my theory that HR people fill any Special Needs EOE requirements is reinforced.
We did go around the room, introducing ourselves and saying our new role. I noticed a far more diverse group than at my previous company, which pleased me, not least because I got to hear the Chinese woman next to me say "catastrophe analyst."
An hour or so later and I was upstairs at the client's office, situated at my desk. It's a mellow crowd. I work in the Risk Management group, not known for spontaneity and horseplay. The admin who is teaching me is a lovely woman, and we get along very well. She's about ten years older than I. The thing about it, though, is that she has a trait that I've found often in my travels: she knows her job but cannot explain something to save her life. Worse, she can't glean from my questions exactly what I'm not understanding, and adjust her information accordingly. Here's a sample exchange:
HER: Oh, they don't need to fill that part out. It's IFM. We don't have an agreement with them.
ME: What's IFM?
HER: Facilities Management.
ME: We manage the facilities for a chain of retailers and we don't have a written agreement with them?
HER: Well, we probably do, but we don't have it with the person requesting the certificate.
ME: But isn't the person sending me the request one of our people?
HER: Yes, but they're not the ones asking for it.
ME: They're not? They sent it to me.
HER: Yes, but they're only asking because the mall asked for it. We don't have an agreement with the mall, so they don't have to put it in.
ME: So if we don't have an agreement with the mall, why are we sending them a certificate?
HER: So we can go on the premises.
ME: Of the people we are contracted with already.
Her: Yes.
You get the idea. This entire conversation could have been avoided if she had said, "Our client, whose facilities we manage, rents space in a mall, which is the property owner. We need to go into our client's shop to fix their air conditioner, but before we go onto the property, the property owner, the mall, needs to see a certificate of insurance to show we're covered in case we do any damage while we're there. So our employee is requesting it to give to the mall so that we can go onto the property."
This has been going on for two weeks.
How shall I describe my job? In a word: mindless. I take large Excel sheets and break them up into separate files for people. I organize hard files that have been neglected forever. I scan old binder contents to send to storage. I print files for people who email them to me (yes, I do). I take requests for certificates and forward them to insurers, and when I get them I send them back to requesters.
So on one hand, it's not stressful, and for that I'm grateful. It's just a lot of data, and learning what data goes to whom, and in what form.
So it's not crazy, and the day goes by pretty quickly, and they are being careful not to overburden me. Nice. But it's not exciting, not by a long shot. After a year of living on unemployment, I'm thrilled that I'll be getting a paycheck come Monday (yay!!!) Im also happy to see that my skills have held up, and that my work standards remain high. I think I could be a rock star here. Famous last words, I know. It has been only two weeks, after all.
The not-so-good: Adjusting to being inside all day, at one place, SITTING. The sitting all day is awful. No matter how many trips to the beverage station or the bathroom, I still feel like a big slug. My legs ache from the inactivity, and I've put on a few pounds. I look at the other women, at the prevalence of what I call "office butt," (and the male equivalent, "office gut,") and I vow to start riding my bike in next week. The city bike garage is directly across the street from our building.
The people in my department are all exceptionally nice. I think one of the guys has a little crush on me, mostly, I suspect, because I've walked out with him and chatted with him, making conversation. We share an interest in cycling. He's very sweet but socially awkward and very stiff in his affect and his motions. I suspect a bit of Asperger's. I've had another person with this crush out on me before; I guess I have enough affect for the both of us...
Happy Weekend!!!
Day one: "Onboarding," in which a twenty something woman hands out some prepared information packages and proceeds to be unable to answer any questions after rapid-fire run down of every item in the package. The group (there are about ten of us) sits in stunned silence. Once again, my theory that HR people fill any Special Needs EOE requirements is reinforced.
We did go around the room, introducing ourselves and saying our new role. I noticed a far more diverse group than at my previous company, which pleased me, not least because I got to hear the Chinese woman next to me say "catastrophe analyst."
An hour or so later and I was upstairs at the client's office, situated at my desk. It's a mellow crowd. I work in the Risk Management group, not known for spontaneity and horseplay. The admin who is teaching me is a lovely woman, and we get along very well. She's about ten years older than I. The thing about it, though, is that she has a trait that I've found often in my travels: she knows her job but cannot explain something to save her life. Worse, she can't glean from my questions exactly what I'm not understanding, and adjust her information accordingly. Here's a sample exchange:
HER: Oh, they don't need to fill that part out. It's IFM. We don't have an agreement with them.
ME: What's IFM?
HER: Facilities Management.
ME: We manage the facilities for a chain of retailers and we don't have a written agreement with them?
HER: Well, we probably do, but we don't have it with the person requesting the certificate.
ME: But isn't the person sending me the request one of our people?
HER: Yes, but they're not the ones asking for it.
ME: They're not? They sent it to me.
HER: Yes, but they're only asking because the mall asked for it. We don't have an agreement with the mall, so they don't have to put it in.
ME: So if we don't have an agreement with the mall, why are we sending them a certificate?
HER: So we can go on the premises.
ME: Of the people we are contracted with already.
Her: Yes.
You get the idea. This entire conversation could have been avoided if she had said, "Our client, whose facilities we manage, rents space in a mall, which is the property owner. We need to go into our client's shop to fix their air conditioner, but before we go onto the property, the property owner, the mall, needs to see a certificate of insurance to show we're covered in case we do any damage while we're there. So our employee is requesting it to give to the mall so that we can go onto the property."
This has been going on for two weeks.
How shall I describe my job? In a word: mindless. I take large Excel sheets and break them up into separate files for people. I organize hard files that have been neglected forever. I scan old binder contents to send to storage. I print files for people who email them to me (yes, I do). I take requests for certificates and forward them to insurers, and when I get them I send them back to requesters.
So on one hand, it's not stressful, and for that I'm grateful. It's just a lot of data, and learning what data goes to whom, and in what form.
So it's not crazy, and the day goes by pretty quickly, and they are being careful not to overburden me. Nice. But it's not exciting, not by a long shot. After a year of living on unemployment, I'm thrilled that I'll be getting a paycheck come Monday (yay!!!) Im also happy to see that my skills have held up, and that my work standards remain high. I think I could be a rock star here. Famous last words, I know. It has been only two weeks, after all.
The not-so-good: Adjusting to being inside all day, at one place, SITTING. The sitting all day is awful. No matter how many trips to the beverage station or the bathroom, I still feel like a big slug. My legs ache from the inactivity, and I've put on a few pounds. I look at the other women, at the prevalence of what I call "office butt," (and the male equivalent, "office gut,") and I vow to start riding my bike in next week. The city bike garage is directly across the street from our building.
The people in my department are all exceptionally nice. I think one of the guys has a little crush on me, mostly, I suspect, because I've walked out with him and chatted with him, making conversation. We share an interest in cycling. He's very sweet but socially awkward and very stiff in his affect and his motions. I suspect a bit of Asperger's. I've had another person with this crush out on me before; I guess I have enough affect for the both of us...
Happy Weekend!!!
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