I love to think about the future. I love to take lessons learned at the feet of brutal experience and apply them to decisions made firmly and securely, while smugly patting myself on the back for using previous adversity to achieve Perfect Bliss.
Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa.
Take home ownership. After my six years in a Chicago condo, a condo that I loved and condo politics I loathed, and some condo members I'd not have mourned had they shuffled off their mortal coil with or without assistance, after years of another Boston condo shared with two others who are frustratingly reticent to invest in necessary upkeep and repairs, or who are fairly inneffectual (but still stubborn!) I vowed I would never, ever buy another condo again. Never again would I throw my lot in with people who had the legal right to make decisions about my property, no matter how ill-informed or -motivated. Never. Ever. I would buy a mobile home before I had another argument about plumbing or electrical updates or noisy tenants.
And then I see a real-estate posting for a vintage condo, and one look at original bath tile and a shiny white enamel bathtub, and I'm swooning.
Here is my problem: I can see the ideal in every situation. In a condo, I see the closeness of neighbors, the sensibility of planning, and most of all, the ability to live in a property far nicer as a set of rooms than I could ever afford as a house.
I'm someone who likes vintage. Old. I watch house-flipping shows and I scream in outrage as one cute, cozy kitchen after another is ripped out and replaced by something that looks like the mutant result of a drunken congress between a spaceship and an army mess hall. No matter what the style of the house: cape, Victorian, bungalow, OUT goes the bead board and cute white cabinets, In goes the black granite counter tops, cherry cabinets, stainless-steel everything, and the ubiquitous island-slash-eating area.
When did we forsake the warmth of a kitchen as the heart of the home for something with all the charm of a rail car?
And the bathrooms! I watch as buyers enter a bathroom that has original tile and turn their noses up at the "ugly pink," and replace charming vintage color with something that has all the appeal of a surgery.
The modern kitchen and bathroom craze is the housing equivalent of Botox and boob jobs, and to both I say, fuck off. My tastes mean that a house others would disdain is right up my alley, and go me.
So I look at small homes that are fixer-uppers, and I have all kinds of jonesing to restore them to their original charm, and I desire yards and porches and a cellar, and space and boundaries and a driveway, and then I see a gorgeous vintage condo in my home town, the town I vowed to get the hell out of as soon as I can, only this place is in the upscale part, which is no small feat for this town, and is a block from the beach, and I see that big, uncluttered kitchen and the original bathroom, and I begin to think that maybe this condo won't be as bad...
I have condo battered-wife syndrome, is what it is.
I need to make a list of everything I want and don't want so that I can look at it like Guy Pearce in Memento and trust that Another Me has it under control if only Current Insane Me would let her.
Tonight I have a call scheduled with the friend that is the current board president in Chicago. She wants to decompress and update me on the insanity of the latest board meeting. This might do the trick.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Et tu, ovaries?
So I went to bed last night feeling anxious and Emo (as you all know, since you had to read my whine post). My feelings about the anxiety of a job hunt and of having fond memories of colleagues collapse in the face of indifference to my current job search are real. But this morning I woke up actually excited at the idea of a job. Not just that -- excited at the idea of being the right-hand person to a decision maker. What changed?
Well, yesterday afternoon I started having abdominal pain. At first I thought it might be back pain from doing next to nothing this past week, not getting to a gym. Then the pain grew worse, and I realized the pain was something else. It felt like I was ovulating.
I'm 51. My last period was last August, a kind of last hurrah, or so I thought. So unused to dealing with this was I that I was out of practice with regard to ignoring my emotional state when the symptoms present themselves.
Don't get me wrong -- I still have reservations, but they are in the context of an overall eagerness to get on with my life, to have an income that will allow me to start on the strategy for success I had in mind when I decided to move here. So I'll be doing a new kind of job -- that's not new for me. Will they like my big personality? Why not? I have a track record of ingratiating myself with even the most irascible.
I'm a hardier person than I was when I left Boston almost 10 years ago. I'm more resourceful, less put off by hardship, more confident in my ability to make my life happen. If my commute involves a bus to a commuter rail to a long subway ride, that's what it involves,and the fact that I can make it happen is more important than whether it's enjoyable. Once I get a car, I can stay in town to catch a movie or a play, catch up with friends and not worry about the bus service ending before I get home on the commuter rail. I can visit my best friend via the discount airline that flies right into Toronto. I can get to Chicago and see the kids. I know all of this is idealistic, but it helps to envision the scenarios I'm aiming for in order to appreciate the essential value that a job has in making them come true.
So tomorrow I dress up again and sally forth in frigid weather to sell myself to the big cheese. Its not a job; it's power.
Well, yesterday afternoon I started having abdominal pain. At first I thought it might be back pain from doing next to nothing this past week, not getting to a gym. Then the pain grew worse, and I realized the pain was something else. It felt like I was ovulating.
I'm 51. My last period was last August, a kind of last hurrah, or so I thought. So unused to dealing with this was I that I was out of practice with regard to ignoring my emotional state when the symptoms present themselves.
Don't get me wrong -- I still have reservations, but they are in the context of an overall eagerness to get on with my life, to have an income that will allow me to start on the strategy for success I had in mind when I decided to move here. So I'll be doing a new kind of job -- that's not new for me. Will they like my big personality? Why not? I have a track record of ingratiating myself with even the most irascible.
I'm a hardier person than I was when I left Boston almost 10 years ago. I'm more resourceful, less put off by hardship, more confident in my ability to make my life happen. If my commute involves a bus to a commuter rail to a long subway ride, that's what it involves,and the fact that I can make it happen is more important than whether it's enjoyable. Once I get a car, I can stay in town to catch a movie or a play, catch up with friends and not worry about the bus service ending before I get home on the commuter rail. I can visit my best friend via the discount airline that flies right into Toronto. I can get to Chicago and see the kids. I know all of this is idealistic, but it helps to envision the scenarios I'm aiming for in order to appreciate the essential value that a job has in making them come true.
So tomorrow I dress up again and sally forth in frigid weather to sell myself to the big cheese. Its not a job; it's power.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Post-interview blues
I had an interview today thanks to an introduction arranged by a neighbor, who is one of many people approached by my uncle in his one-man marketing campaign to get me a job.
I'm somewhat depressed.
Because the interview went well.
As some background: I need a job. I need a job really soon. I need an income, and a budget, and to stop putting everything on credit cards, and to get a used car so that I'm not a prisoner of Suburbia, and I need to be able to make plans, and for that I need a job.
So I was thrilled to get the interview, and hit it off with the people I met today. The problem is that they were the step before meeting with the person I'll be supporting, who is a high-level executive at a large Boston-area hospital.
I've always avoided being an Exec Assist because I don't relish the idea of spending my days managing a calendar and constantly being "on," and I'm concerned about my ability to focus on being someone's handler without losing my mind. I like being able to get tea without letting everyone know where I'll be. I like being invisible and head-down and working. The current EA has moved far away and the commute is untenable so she is leaving, but assures me she loves it there.
She and I have very different personalities; she's very serious. I'm serious about work, but I'm not heart-attack serious. I worry I'll get all Zen Big Picture and the minutiae of the job will seem petty and trivial and I won't toe the line, and adios.
I realize this is my perpetual Imposter Complex, my insecurity that, despite my achievements, this, THIS, will be the job that exposes me for the incompetent fraud I really am.
But nothing else has come along, aside from a phone interview last week that apparently went nowhere, which was fine because the commute would have been a nightmare. While this commute is rather long, it's not particularly complicated.
But nothing from the contacts of former colleagues, nothing from the chatty LinkedIn emails trying and failing to hide mercenary communication beneath too-casual suggestions to "get together and catch up." Nothing has come from the resume my clay instructor gave to her husband, whose company is "hiring like crazy." Nothing from anyone and everyone I've spoken to and asked to keep me in mind. I'm off Facebook for Lent, and it's a good thing, because it's all I can do not to post in a huge font HOW CAN I KNOW SO MANY PEOPLE AND STILL BE WITHOUT A JOB?!?!?! AND HOW CAN YOU POST YOUR F*CKING FAMILY PHOTOS FROM YET ANOTHER FAMILY VACATION WHEN YOU HAVE NOT GONE TO ANYONE IN YOUR COMPANY AND SAID, "THIS WOMAN IS AWESOME AND YOU MUST! HIRE! HER! NOW!"
*breathing*
So they liked me and now I'm going in for an 8:30am interview, because this person's schedule is so insane that this is what she can spare. And I will be the keeper of that insane schedule. I dread asking what my hours will be.
My uncle is over the moon. He broke his usual discreet silence to ask me whether I'd met with the VP, whether we'd discussed salary. What about benefits? What would my hours be? Maybe I could drive in with the neighbor, since she works there, but I should mention that he'd suggested it so I won't seem pushy, on second thought, no, he'd take me to the train. Then speculation on when we'd need to be out of the house to make the train with plenty of time, which meant calculating when we needed to be up...
I finally had to tell him to relax; it's an interview, not a Broadway audition.
I look at the rabbits and think, "They need a place to run around in again, and you need a place of your own again, and lord knows you've had much more awful jobs than this would be. Think of this not as a burden but as a gift, because it can give you your freedom."
I'm somewhat depressed.
Because the interview went well.
As some background: I need a job. I need a job really soon. I need an income, and a budget, and to stop putting everything on credit cards, and to get a used car so that I'm not a prisoner of Suburbia, and I need to be able to make plans, and for that I need a job.
So I was thrilled to get the interview, and hit it off with the people I met today. The problem is that they were the step before meeting with the person I'll be supporting, who is a high-level executive at a large Boston-area hospital.
I've always avoided being an Exec Assist because I don't relish the idea of spending my days managing a calendar and constantly being "on," and I'm concerned about my ability to focus on being someone's handler without losing my mind. I like being able to get tea without letting everyone know where I'll be. I like being invisible and head-down and working. The current EA has moved far away and the commute is untenable so she is leaving, but assures me she loves it there.
She and I have very different personalities; she's very serious. I'm serious about work, but I'm not heart-attack serious. I worry I'll get all Zen Big Picture and the minutiae of the job will seem petty and trivial and I won't toe the line, and adios.
I realize this is my perpetual Imposter Complex, my insecurity that, despite my achievements, this, THIS, will be the job that exposes me for the incompetent fraud I really am.
But nothing else has come along, aside from a phone interview last week that apparently went nowhere, which was fine because the commute would have been a nightmare. While this commute is rather long, it's not particularly complicated.
But nothing from the contacts of former colleagues, nothing from the chatty LinkedIn emails trying and failing to hide mercenary communication beneath too-casual suggestions to "get together and catch up." Nothing has come from the resume my clay instructor gave to her husband, whose company is "hiring like crazy." Nothing from anyone and everyone I've spoken to and asked to keep me in mind. I'm off Facebook for Lent, and it's a good thing, because it's all I can do not to post in a huge font HOW CAN I KNOW SO MANY PEOPLE AND STILL BE WITHOUT A JOB?!?!?! AND HOW CAN YOU POST YOUR F*CKING FAMILY PHOTOS FROM YET ANOTHER FAMILY VACATION WHEN YOU HAVE NOT GONE TO ANYONE IN YOUR COMPANY AND SAID, "THIS WOMAN IS AWESOME AND YOU MUST! HIRE! HER! NOW!"
*breathing*
So they liked me and now I'm going in for an 8:30am interview, because this person's schedule is so insane that this is what she can spare. And I will be the keeper of that insane schedule. I dread asking what my hours will be.
My uncle is over the moon. He broke his usual discreet silence to ask me whether I'd met with the VP, whether we'd discussed salary. What about benefits? What would my hours be? Maybe I could drive in with the neighbor, since she works there, but I should mention that he'd suggested it so I won't seem pushy, on second thought, no, he'd take me to the train. Then speculation on when we'd need to be out of the house to make the train with plenty of time, which meant calculating when we needed to be up...
I finally had to tell him to relax; it's an interview, not a Broadway audition.
I look at the rabbits and think, "They need a place to run around in again, and you need a place of your own again, and lord knows you've had much more awful jobs than this would be. Think of this not as a burden but as a gift, because it can give you your freedom."
Sunday, February 22, 2015
My sister's keeper
I was recently and not for the first time re-evaluating my decision to move back to Mass.from Chicago. The reasons for my return were mostly family-based, in particular because of my sister, with whom I wasn't involved enough.
My sister is hard to describe. She's three years younger than I. As a child she was extremely emotionally volatile, with the kind of rigid requirements and temper tantrums you'd associate with autism. She has cognitive deficits. She has some motor issues. She can also remember numbers and names and circumstances like a human encyclopedia. She doesn't like to read, although she can. She's terrific about keeping secrets. She loves babies and animals.
As an adult, there are no more temper tantrums, and her behavior is much more appropriate; going out in public or taking trips is no longer a Russian Roulette of public scenes. She has a job at a major grocery store, bagging groceries. She can have a flat affect when she talks, and she scowls when she asks questions. She can give the impression of being less bright than she is.
She went through hell in school.
She is not is stupid or unobservant.
She smiles with more of her entire face than anyone I know.
She picks out the most appropriate, most hilarious greeting cards.
In the last year or so she's reconnected with a friend who used to work with her. The friend lives in a group home walking distance from where my sister lives with my parents, and is very independent. She has transformed my sister's life. They go to theme parties at the Knights of Columbus, church bazaars, fairs. They get pedicures. (Pedicures!) My sister, once monosyllabic, has become a chatterbox, asks me what's going on, makes small talks with cashiers. I am delighted.
My parents are frustrating. They don't advocate for my sister or encourage independence. We are currently in an argument about getting her a cell phone, Now, it might seem obvious that my sister should have a cell phone, but my mother is typically frustratingly contrary about it.
Did I mention there's a program where my sister can get a phone and service FOR FREE?
So my assumption is that it's a matter of control, because my mother has to be in everyone's business. We have a cordial relationship, but I can tell she senses that I'm not bully-able. My sister knows it, too. In fact, everyone knows it, and they stand spineless on the sidelines silently supporting me while I now push for my sister to have more access. There's a transit program in addition to the phone. I'm working on both for her, and my parents can go jump. My sister and I went clothes shopping for the upcoming trip to Puerto Rico, and when my mother started her querulous questioning as to why my sister bought Keds instead of the usual big white athletic sneakers, I took the phone from my sister and said, "Because she doesn't want to look like an old person or a member of a group home."
My parents love my sister, don't get me wrong, and they have cared for her her entire life. But they have stunted her, too.
Once upon a time, I'd have been caught up in the drama. Being away from my family and the negativity and criticism for decades has done wonders. Once upon a time, the notion of defying my mother and just going around her when she wasn't willing to cooperate would have been unthinkable.
I say all of this because I was wondering why I'd felt such a sense of rightness about coming back when things in Chicago, while not perfect, were certainly better than they are right now. I knew I was supposed to come back, that it was the right thing to do, but was looking for direction. And I was suddenly reminded of a prayer I used to make while I was in college. I made this prayer all the time; in Bible study, in the prayer room (yes we had one of those. Think Christian meditation -- it was, after all, a Christian college).
My prayer was, "please take care of my sister."
While I was contemplating my return, this memory came back suddenly and sharply, and with it, a message:
"I am answering your prayer."
My sister is hard to describe. She's three years younger than I. As a child she was extremely emotionally volatile, with the kind of rigid requirements and temper tantrums you'd associate with autism. She has cognitive deficits. She has some motor issues. She can also remember numbers and names and circumstances like a human encyclopedia. She doesn't like to read, although she can. She's terrific about keeping secrets. She loves babies and animals.
As an adult, there are no more temper tantrums, and her behavior is much more appropriate; going out in public or taking trips is no longer a Russian Roulette of public scenes. She has a job at a major grocery store, bagging groceries. She can have a flat affect when she talks, and she scowls when she asks questions. She can give the impression of being less bright than she is.
She went through hell in school.
She is not is stupid or unobservant.
She smiles with more of her entire face than anyone I know.
She picks out the most appropriate, most hilarious greeting cards.
In the last year or so she's reconnected with a friend who used to work with her. The friend lives in a group home walking distance from where my sister lives with my parents, and is very independent. She has transformed my sister's life. They go to theme parties at the Knights of Columbus, church bazaars, fairs. They get pedicures. (Pedicures!) My sister, once monosyllabic, has become a chatterbox, asks me what's going on, makes small talks with cashiers. I am delighted.
My parents are frustrating. They don't advocate for my sister or encourage independence. We are currently in an argument about getting her a cell phone, Now, it might seem obvious that my sister should have a cell phone, but my mother is typically frustratingly contrary about it.
Did I mention there's a program where my sister can get a phone and service FOR FREE?
So my assumption is that it's a matter of control, because my mother has to be in everyone's business. We have a cordial relationship, but I can tell she senses that I'm not bully-able. My sister knows it, too. In fact, everyone knows it, and they stand spineless on the sidelines silently supporting me while I now push for my sister to have more access. There's a transit program in addition to the phone. I'm working on both for her, and my parents can go jump. My sister and I went clothes shopping for the upcoming trip to Puerto Rico, and when my mother started her querulous questioning as to why my sister bought Keds instead of the usual big white athletic sneakers, I took the phone from my sister and said, "Because she doesn't want to look like an old person or a member of a group home."
My parents love my sister, don't get me wrong, and they have cared for her her entire life. But they have stunted her, too.
Once upon a time, I'd have been caught up in the drama. Being away from my family and the negativity and criticism for decades has done wonders. Once upon a time, the notion of defying my mother and just going around her when she wasn't willing to cooperate would have been unthinkable.
My prayer was, "please take care of my sister."
While I was contemplating my return, this memory came back suddenly and sharply, and with it, a message:
"I am answering your prayer."
At least the heater worked....
(I suppose I should start a new blog since I no longer live in Chicago and am therefore no longer chronicling my life there, but that will be for a day when I have initiative, which is not today.)
So...the car? The 20+-year-old car my dad gave me so I'd be mobile out here in suburbia? The car I'd already had to have repaired after I rear-ended someone, had to put a new battery in just about a week ago? That car?
That car's rear axle shit the bed as I was driving home this past week.
The good news is that when the very loud CLUNKGRINDSCRAPE occurred and I suddenly dropped about eight inches in my seat, I was driving home from the gym, not far from my house.
My uncle had added me to his AAA membership, which I thought was nice but a waste of money given my past experience with them (having the legal right to demand help is cold comfort when you are stuck somewhere and the dispatcher says they can't find anyone to come out), but it made him feel better that I had it.
So of course I'd waited three hours for the AAA tow truck to arrive -- they were very busy because they were providing supplemental help to the state and oh yes, for the time being, the 200-mile tow service covered under my subscription was reduced to ten miles. Because when you pay for something that you turn to when you have NO OTHER OPTIONS, it's perfectly acceptable for the option of last resort to change the terms of the contract. Did I mention how much I hate AAA?
I was on a main road in suburbia, and while I was only about a half-hour walk from home, feared leaving the car to an unpredictable fate that might involve the state towing it to places too remote for even IKEA to consider, and exorbitant tow/storage storage bills. I passed the time calling a friend who'd once called me under similar circumstances ("You hear The Noise, and as you pull over, you also hear Satan laughing. Oh, yeah, I know the feeling.") I read the maps in my car, napped and, not for the first time, wished for a neighborhood library like Chicago, which had pretty much ensured I always had a book going.
A police car finally pulled behind me, and the trim uniformed figure that walked to my car sent my disinterest in men out to get some coffee while I had a chat with Hot Officer Rescue.
He said he'd gotten all kinds of calls about my car (I imagined terrified neighbors at the bay windows of their ranches and capes, furtively peering through the sheer curtains and wondering aloud to their also-retired spouses about the suspicious-looking car in the street).
Did I also mention that in all that time only one car stopped to make sure I was OK?
Officer I Was The Kind of Man Uniforms Were Made For took my license and returned to The Vehicle, where he did the radio thing they do. He came back.
"AAA has no record of the call."
"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?! THEY SAID IT COULD BE UP TO THREE HOURS, SO I JUST ASSUMED---"
"I called the tow; they're affiliated with AAA and are on their way. Don't worry about it; you're all set."
"I can't thank you enough. You are a life saver."
"Well, if you really mean that, maybe I could take you out for dinner some time -- I could pick you up, of course, given the state of your car. I'm not supposed to ask people out when I'm on duty, but you seem like a fun, resilient person who can roll with things, and I don't meet many women like that in my job. It's refreshing. I don't know whether you're into vegetarian food, but I know a great place in Salem."
OK, he didn't really say that. But dammit, I'd been in a car for three hours reading A MAP and having nosebleeds from the dry air of the car heater, and can't be blamed for wanting a storybook ending for once.
I told him that in Chicago I'd lived two blocks from the El.
"You should move back to Chicago," he said, directing traffic around me.
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," I sighed.
I rode with the tow to the mechanic, and my uncle met me there to give me a ride home.
Later that day the mechanic, who is the most affectless guy I've ever spoken to, called with the bad news.
"The rear axle is shot; it came loose completely. I called around to see if anyone had the part, and after they stopped laughing, they said no. Not that there's even anything to attach it to any more," he deadpanned into the phone.
I experienced the familiar shame, imagining what a mechanic must think about a person who drives such a wreck of a car. I know I shouldn't care, but I do. I missed my Chicago mechanic Dac Tran, who'd looked at my used Honda Accord and said, "Honda good cah." I wanted a professional pat on the head for being savvy enough to pay reasonable cash for a reliable if aging car. I wanted Mechanic Kenny to understand that this car isn't who I am; I make better choices than this. My soul is a Honda Fit, a Ford Focus Wagon. I'm Roadworthy! I wanted to tell him.
I thanked him and said I'd be down with my dad the next day to transfer the car to them to be hauled away.
When I called my dad, I said, "I just bought a new battery, so I'll have them remove that and give it to you. I also just filled the tank, so I'll have them take that out and put it in your car."
My Dad, ever the ray of optimism, said, "I don't think they can do that."
No, Dad, of course not. Mechanics have no clue how to take gas out of a tank.
"We can ask them," I said, once again forcing myself to sound neutral.
"Well, my tank is topped up anyway."
"OK, then, they can keep the gas for themselves, because either they or the junkyard will."
He met us there -- he'd cleaned out the car (I need to get my map back), and that was that. I'm still trying to figure out whether it bothers me that it didn't seem to bother him that I'd been riding in a deathtrap, that it could have happened just the day before while I was doing 60 on Route 1.
I look on the bright side: It didn't happen while I was on a major highway, and it didn't happen far from home. And while I'm now dependent on a bus service that is not at all frequent and doesn't run on Sundays, I no longer have to worry about whether to pull the plug or keep paying for treatment.
I did have a good phone interview for a temp-to-perm job, and the timing is good. New priority is to get a job so I can get a reliable used car, from a dealer, with a warranty. Meanwhile, I bought a new T Pass, and my credit-card company is happy.
So...the car? The 20+-year-old car my dad gave me so I'd be mobile out here in suburbia? The car I'd already had to have repaired after I rear-ended someone, had to put a new battery in just about a week ago? That car?
That car's rear axle shit the bed as I was driving home this past week.
The good news is that when the very loud CLUNKGRINDSCRAPE occurred and I suddenly dropped about eight inches in my seat, I was driving home from the gym, not far from my house.
My uncle had added me to his AAA membership, which I thought was nice but a waste of money given my past experience with them (having the legal right to demand help is cold comfort when you are stuck somewhere and the dispatcher says they can't find anyone to come out), but it made him feel better that I had it.
So of course I'd waited three hours for the AAA tow truck to arrive -- they were very busy because they were providing supplemental help to the state and oh yes, for the time being, the 200-mile tow service covered under my subscription was reduced to ten miles. Because when you pay for something that you turn to when you have NO OTHER OPTIONS, it's perfectly acceptable for the option of last resort to change the terms of the contract. Did I mention how much I hate AAA?
I was on a main road in suburbia, and while I was only about a half-hour walk from home, feared leaving the car to an unpredictable fate that might involve the state towing it to places too remote for even IKEA to consider, and exorbitant tow/storage storage bills. I passed the time calling a friend who'd once called me under similar circumstances ("You hear The Noise, and as you pull over, you also hear Satan laughing. Oh, yeah, I know the feeling.") I read the maps in my car, napped and, not for the first time, wished for a neighborhood library like Chicago, which had pretty much ensured I always had a book going.
A police car finally pulled behind me, and the trim uniformed figure that walked to my car sent my disinterest in men out to get some coffee while I had a chat with Hot Officer Rescue.
He said he'd gotten all kinds of calls about my car (I imagined terrified neighbors at the bay windows of their ranches and capes, furtively peering through the sheer curtains and wondering aloud to their also-retired spouses about the suspicious-looking car in the street).
Did I also mention that in all that time only one car stopped to make sure I was OK?
Officer I Was The Kind of Man Uniforms Were Made For took my license and returned to The Vehicle, where he did the radio thing they do. He came back.
"AAA has no record of the call."
"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?! THEY SAID IT COULD BE UP TO THREE HOURS, SO I JUST ASSUMED---"
"I called the tow; they're affiliated with AAA and are on their way. Don't worry about it; you're all set."
"I can't thank you enough. You are a life saver."
"Well, if you really mean that, maybe I could take you out for dinner some time -- I could pick you up, of course, given the state of your car. I'm not supposed to ask people out when I'm on duty, but you seem like a fun, resilient person who can roll with things, and I don't meet many women like that in my job. It's refreshing. I don't know whether you're into vegetarian food, but I know a great place in Salem."
OK, he didn't really say that. But dammit, I'd been in a car for three hours reading A MAP and having nosebleeds from the dry air of the car heater, and can't be blamed for wanting a storybook ending for once.
I told him that in Chicago I'd lived two blocks from the El.
"You should move back to Chicago," he said, directing traffic around me.
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," I sighed.
I rode with the tow to the mechanic, and my uncle met me there to give me a ride home.
Later that day the mechanic, who is the most affectless guy I've ever spoken to, called with the bad news.
"The rear axle is shot; it came loose completely. I called around to see if anyone had the part, and after they stopped laughing, they said no. Not that there's even anything to attach it to any more," he deadpanned into the phone.
I experienced the familiar shame, imagining what a mechanic must think about a person who drives such a wreck of a car. I know I shouldn't care, but I do. I missed my Chicago mechanic Dac Tran, who'd looked at my used Honda Accord and said, "Honda good cah." I wanted a professional pat on the head for being savvy enough to pay reasonable cash for a reliable if aging car. I wanted Mechanic Kenny to understand that this car isn't who I am; I make better choices than this. My soul is a Honda Fit, a Ford Focus Wagon. I'm Roadworthy! I wanted to tell him.
I thanked him and said I'd be down with my dad the next day to transfer the car to them to be hauled away.
When I called my dad, I said, "I just bought a new battery, so I'll have them remove that and give it to you. I also just filled the tank, so I'll have them take that out and put it in your car."
My Dad, ever the ray of optimism, said, "I don't think they can do that."
No, Dad, of course not. Mechanics have no clue how to take gas out of a tank.
"We can ask them," I said, once again forcing myself to sound neutral.
"Well, my tank is topped up anyway."
"OK, then, they can keep the gas for themselves, because either they or the junkyard will."
He met us there -- he'd cleaned out the car (I need to get my map back), and that was that. I'm still trying to figure out whether it bothers me that it didn't seem to bother him that I'd been riding in a deathtrap, that it could have happened just the day before while I was doing 60 on Route 1.
I look on the bright side: It didn't happen while I was on a major highway, and it didn't happen far from home. And while I'm now dependent on a bus service that is not at all frequent and doesn't run on Sundays, I no longer have to worry about whether to pull the plug or keep paying for treatment.
I did have a good phone interview for a temp-to-perm job, and the timing is good. New priority is to get a job so I can get a reliable used car, from a dealer, with a warranty. Meanwhile, I bought a new T Pass, and my credit-card company is happy.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Freedom of Movement
My car was in my cousin's shop (my cousin is my mother's cousin). My cousin and his father had had this business my entire life. That, plus the knowledge that in this family if you screw up you become a byword forever made me confident in my cousin's abilities, since it was easier to do a good job than face the wrath of my 87-year-old mostly-blind-and-deaf 95-pound great aunt. Trust me.
There was still the matter of me getting to the commuter rail to get to my assignment, which had a week left. My father was driving the four-plus miles to my uncle's before dawn, driving me to the station that's all of a mile from his house, then picking me up in the evening. My dad is retired and is up at 4am. He also has zero hobbies, so I wasn't putting a crimp in his style and in fact was probably giving him something to do, but that didn't change the fact that I hated being so completely dependent, and inconveniencing him, although he never complained. I was, of course, immensely grateful, but I hated this situation. For the first time in twenty years my living situation was nowhere near workable public transportation, a shared-car service, or decent biking options, although I'd taken my bike out one evening to go to clay class, and the sense of freedom had been intoxicating.
Another issue is the dynamic between my father and me. Since he stopped drinking, things have improved dramatically, but some essentials remain.
Among these is his expectation that everyone in the world is out to screw him, accompanied by his generally crude commentary on society. So as we ride the longest four miles on the planet, I hear comments about ragheads and Japs. It's an old conflict of ours, and I wonder whether he does it just to provoke me, but that would entail him actually paying attention to me, which has never been the case. So I've become an expert on redirecting conversation by asking him about his siblings, of which there are many, and their kids, of which there are a very many.
The other button I have to jump on when it gets pushed is more complicated. When I was growing up, my dad spent his time at work, and the rest of his time at bars. My mother went to bingo games. My parents effectively bowed out of active parenting. (Once, when I was twelve and at a friend's house, two bullies waited outside to beat me up; I called my mother to come get me and bring me home. We lived less than 10 minutes away by car, but she refused to come get me, claiming she'd started dinner. I begged, but to no avail. I waited for 45 minutes and then snuck home through backyards and side streets.)
When they moved us five miles to the house in which I now live with my uncle, I was stranded. My mother refused to drive me anywhere because it inconvenienced her very busy stay-at-home soap-opera watching, so it fell to friends' parents to take pity on me and drive me the five-plus miles home after dark rather than make me walk over a mile to a crime-infested downtown bus station to wait for the hourly bus. Knowing your parents didn't give a rat's ass was one thing; to have other people see it was humiliating.
So when my father talks to me about my home city, it's as if his indifference and lack of attention extends to not noticing his indifference and lack of attention. It's as if it never occurred to him to question his and my mother's lack of involvement or investment. He mentions streets and locales as though I visit them every week, as though I actually had some kind of life growing up here. Fighting the urge to be nasty, I took a different tack one evening:
"Do you know I've never been to the commons?"
"What?"
"I mean, I've driven by them, but I've never been to them."
"You've never been to the commons?"
"Well, I didn't have a car as a teenager, and none of my friends did, so we were pretty much confined to our neighborhoods and the route to school, and the beach. I'm completely ignorant about 99% of this city."
Then there's the fact that I moved away for good - hallelujah-- thirty years ago, which they still haven't seemed to grasp, perhaps in part because in all that time they have visited an actual place where I've lived all of three times. Not that I'm unhappy about that, considering the alternative. As one grows up, one discovers the many upsides to parental distance, not the least of which is a guilt-free release from obligation.
Some parents might be concerned that they know so little about their kid, or recognize the isolation they describe. Those parents are not my parents.
Some parents might be concerned that they know so little about their kid, or recognize the isolation they describe. Those parents are not my parents.
So the trip time was doubled as we drove at my father's signature 15 mph while I resisted the urge to scream at him to for god's sake PICK IT UP, and I developed my Grownup Conversations with Dysfunctional Parent skills. And afterward my mother would call to probe and pry and mis-relay information that she hoarded for power.
In short, this whole situation was forcing me to deal with my parents in a way that I'd planned to avoid in order to stay sane when I moved back and was in transition. (I will say, though, that the 5-mile inconvenience now works in my favor, as my parents never come up here aside from planned card-game nights, when I disappear.)
During all of this, my cousin did not call me. My dad assured me he had my number, but it turned out that he had my uncle's home phone number, which was useless since I was at work all day.
One evening, my dad picked me up and said my cousin couldn't find a part, that he'd done a search everywhere.
"Did he look online?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay measured.
"He checked some people he uses."
"Did he do an online search, and why didn't he call me?" I asked, my voice rising.
"Don't get mad at me; I'm just the messenger."
"I'm not mad at you, Dad, I'm just frustrated because it's been a week, and if someone had just spoken directly to me as I asked a number of times, I could have sorted this out, and I don't understand how someone who has a business doesn't use the internet."
I got home, and my mother called.
"He did a search on all the places that body-shops use," she said, making sure to use the word "search" as though she understood what I meant, which she didn't, because God forbid I know something she doesn't. "He can't find the housing, so he can't put the light in. So we're picking it up tomorrow, and you need to decide what you're going to do. What are you going to do?"
Seriously?
"I guess I'll have to give that some thought," I said, unwilling to let her hear the panic in my voice, which would only heighten the pleasure this drama was giving her.
I got off the phone and Googled "year/make/model passenger-side headlight housing."
First on the list. $11.52, shipped in 1-2 days.
I called my mother back and told her I was printing something out for dad to give to the cousin. On the printout I wrote my cell phone and CALL ME on it. (He never did, BTW.)
What I did not do was scream at a single person that had they just for once, for ONCE, given me an inch of credit and simply fucking LISTENED to me instead of assuming that they knew all there is to know despite every indication to the contrary, this would have been resolved much earlier. And so I no longer pitied my father his morning pre-dawn taxi service.
My cousin called the number, the part came in, he did a great job of fixing the car, and I'm back on the road. And all I have to do is download an attachment from email for my uncle and he's telling people I'm a tech genius.
Little victories.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Let's get this out of the way so I can enjoy the rest of the year.
Yesterday I had a hair appointment with a new stylist at a salon recommended by a friend. I told the friend I'd made the appointment. It went like this:
Me: "I've got an appointment at the salon.
Her:"Which one are you seeing?"
Me: "Erin."
Her: (pause.) "Be very specific. I used to go to her."
Me: "Used to?"
Her: "Yeah. I go to another salon now."
On what planet does a woman recommend a salon that she no longer patronizes? What criteria are being applied here? "It doesn't matter because you clearly don't care how you look"? "You don't need anyone especially skilled to look that way you do"? As with a gynecologist, a recommendation for a stylist must be without blemish or reservation. Somebody clearly has not read her Chick Playbook lately.
But OK. Maybe she was just too picky (she can be), and is more easily dissatisfied with trivial things. Could be. But just in case, I printed out pictures of what I wanted. Front and side shots. Easy.
Yesterday I set out on Route 1 towards Boston and my hair appointment. Something caught my eye, and I saw the lid of my trunk flapping in my rearview mirror. I pulled over into the breakdown lane, hopped out, shut the trunk securely, and hopped back to the driver's side door -- to find that I'd unconsciously done what I always do: I'd hit the lock before I closed the door.
Only my keys were still in the ignition.
I stood at my driver's door, looking into the car at the keys and my purse containing my spare key sitting on the passenger seat.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" I screamed, with cars whizzing behind me at 60 mph.
This wasn't a complicated situation: I was completely locked out of my car on the side of a highway where there was nothing but embankments. And I had a hair appointment to make. I'd have to break a window.
I climbed the embankment looking for a good-sized stone. Nothing. I kicked aside leaves, looked under sticks. Growing up, our American History teachers loved drilling into our heads that the reason New England was such tough land to settle and farm was because of the rocky New England soil. Oh, those poor farmers and all those rocks. Rocks that had to constantly be pulled out, rocks that went into ubiquitous stone walls lauded by Robert Frost for their contribution to neighborly harmony. Oh,we loved the history of of forefathers' grim triumph over the cruel, remorseless soil with its many stones. If Shakespeare had grown up in New England, Hamlet's line would have been, "Rocks, rocks, rocks."
Rocks that apparently were not to be found alongside highways.
"Where the hell are all the farmer-breaking rocks?!?" I cried out to the indifferent New England sky. I had a fleeting moment of panic as my entire public-school education was thrown into doubt.
I finally saw one (!), and next to it a discarded rusted length of metal. I grabbed the metal and hopped back down to the highway. My car is old and has one of those opera windows in the back - a small, triangular stationary window behind the back-seat window that rolls down.
I had to hit the window four times before it broke, and once it did I was in and away.
I got to the salon, but remembered that I had in my back seat a pair of cross-country skis I'd been given 20 years ago and had salvaged from the basement of the rental unit in Dorchester.
So I strolled into my appointment carrying the skis.
Erin was young and aloof, although i got her to warm up with my tale of misfortune and my relentless questioning of her personal life. How someone can go into such an intensely interactive profession and be so reserved baffled me, but I kept at it and she began to melt.
As for the cut: I showed her the picture. I explained I wanted a short hairline with some length from the crown, some texture. Not too butch
She looked at the picture. "You want short and choppy."
Bottom line: I have essentially the same cut I've had for the past 5 years. It's very, very short. Annie Lennox short, which works well if you have an angular face, but for mine, which is rather fleshy.... I'll break out the big earrings.
It's not like the picture. But it's fine, well done, and it only cost $35, so for now I'll give her another try unless I find someone better.
Today I visited a new friend in Gloucester so she could show me around. We had fun, and I had a good time. On my way back I was driving along a two-way road that essentially services industrial parks and it being Sunday, was pretty deserted. Except for the car in front of me going very, very slowly. I figured they were figuring out where they were or were looking for a turn, and anyway, it was a totally empty street, so I just went around them.
Except the road wasn't deserted; there was a cop right behind me.
"License and registration."
"What's the problem?"
He explained my illegal passing, and he added that I'd done it right in front of him which was, I suspect, the greater affront to civil order.
"The green car? I thought they were turning."
"They were going very slowly but they weren't turning, and you crossed a double-yellow to pass them."
"Oh, OK. My bad."
He looked at my license and my father's registration, then noticed the window.
"What happened to your window?"
I gave him the condensed version, and he said, "You're having a rough couple of days."
"Yeah, you could say that."
He let me off with a warning in a Stern Voice, I thanked him, and headed home.
I'm trying to believe that somewhere there's an adage that if the first weekend of the new year is crappy, it means the rest of the year will be full of spectacular success and happiness.
Me: "I've got an appointment at the salon.
Her:"Which one are you seeing?"
Me: "Erin."
Her: (pause.) "Be very specific. I used to go to her."
Me: "Used to?"
Her: "Yeah. I go to another salon now."
On what planet does a woman recommend a salon that she no longer patronizes? What criteria are being applied here? "It doesn't matter because you clearly don't care how you look"? "You don't need anyone especially skilled to look that way you do"? As with a gynecologist, a recommendation for a stylist must be without blemish or reservation. Somebody clearly has not read her Chick Playbook lately.
But OK. Maybe she was just too picky (she can be), and is more easily dissatisfied with trivial things. Could be. But just in case, I printed out pictures of what I wanted. Front and side shots. Easy.
Yesterday I set out on Route 1 towards Boston and my hair appointment. Something caught my eye, and I saw the lid of my trunk flapping in my rearview mirror. I pulled over into the breakdown lane, hopped out, shut the trunk securely, and hopped back to the driver's side door -- to find that I'd unconsciously done what I always do: I'd hit the lock before I closed the door.
Only my keys were still in the ignition.
I stood at my driver's door, looking into the car at the keys and my purse containing my spare key sitting on the passenger seat.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" I screamed, with cars whizzing behind me at 60 mph.
This wasn't a complicated situation: I was completely locked out of my car on the side of a highway where there was nothing but embankments. And I had a hair appointment to make. I'd have to break a window.
I climbed the embankment looking for a good-sized stone. Nothing. I kicked aside leaves, looked under sticks. Growing up, our American History teachers loved drilling into our heads that the reason New England was such tough land to settle and farm was because of the rocky New England soil. Oh, those poor farmers and all those rocks. Rocks that had to constantly be pulled out, rocks that went into ubiquitous stone walls lauded by Robert Frost for their contribution to neighborly harmony. Oh,we loved the history of of forefathers' grim triumph over the cruel, remorseless soil with its many stones. If Shakespeare had grown up in New England, Hamlet's line would have been, "Rocks, rocks, rocks."
Rocks that apparently were not to be found alongside highways.
"Where the hell are all the farmer-breaking rocks?!?" I cried out to the indifferent New England sky. I had a fleeting moment of panic as my entire public-school education was thrown into doubt.
I finally saw one (!), and next to it a discarded rusted length of metal. I grabbed the metal and hopped back down to the highway. My car is old and has one of those opera windows in the back - a small, triangular stationary window behind the back-seat window that rolls down.
I had to hit the window four times before it broke, and once it did I was in and away.
I got to the salon, but remembered that I had in my back seat a pair of cross-country skis I'd been given 20 years ago and had salvaged from the basement of the rental unit in Dorchester.
So I strolled into my appointment carrying the skis.
Erin was young and aloof, although i got her to warm up with my tale of misfortune and my relentless questioning of her personal life. How someone can go into such an intensely interactive profession and be so reserved baffled me, but I kept at it and she began to melt.
As for the cut: I showed her the picture. I explained I wanted a short hairline with some length from the crown, some texture. Not too butch
She looked at the picture. "You want short and choppy."
Bottom line: I have essentially the same cut I've had for the past 5 years. It's very, very short. Annie Lennox short, which works well if you have an angular face, but for mine, which is rather fleshy.... I'll break out the big earrings.
It's not like the picture. But it's fine, well done, and it only cost $35, so for now I'll give her another try unless I find someone better.
Today I visited a new friend in Gloucester so she could show me around. We had fun, and I had a good time. On my way back I was driving along a two-way road that essentially services industrial parks and it being Sunday, was pretty deserted. Except for the car in front of me going very, very slowly. I figured they were figuring out where they were or were looking for a turn, and anyway, it was a totally empty street, so I just went around them.
Except the road wasn't deserted; there was a cop right behind me.
"License and registration."
"What's the problem?"
He explained my illegal passing, and he added that I'd done it right in front of him which was, I suspect, the greater affront to civil order.
"The green car? I thought they were turning."
"They were going very slowly but they weren't turning, and you crossed a double-yellow to pass them."
"Oh, OK. My bad."
He looked at my license and my father's registration, then noticed the window.
"What happened to your window?"
I gave him the condensed version, and he said, "You're having a rough couple of days."
"Yeah, you could say that."
He let me off with a warning in a Stern Voice, I thanked him, and headed home.
I'm trying to believe that somewhere there's an adage that if the first weekend of the new year is crappy, it means the rest of the year will be full of spectacular success and happiness.
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