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.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, March 13, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, March 9, 2015
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."
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."
Sunday, March 8, 2015
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.
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.
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.
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