my dumb town

A few months ago I did a strange thing.

I felt that it was strange.

I mean, even I.

(I realize that it's subjective)

The only reason I mention this right now - is, as a result I find myself walking blocks out of my way to avoid this piano bar that's in my neighborhood.

And if one is avoiding it, as piano bars go - it couldn't be situated more inconveniently.

Because this piano bar is everywhere I go.

Not that anyone is ever at this piano bar, not at least until very late at night.

But it's the bills - the bills posted all over the front of this piano bar, that I'm trying to avoid.

(not any actual people)

It's a long story.

(switching gears)

I found out definitively that Earwax is no longer renting movies.

At first they said things like, "We're remodeling the downstairs".

I thought, "..how nice."

Maybe they're having the mildew smell removed, too.

But then they started saying things like, "..we may or may not be renting movies ever again."

Which sounded like they weren't really remodeling anymore.

(and, I had suspected that they weren't)

Then, it was things like, "check back."

Which was hopeful.

Hopeful in a bullshit way, that - even though it's bullshit, one tends to accept (as though there must be some mystery going on that one must accept - because such mysteries are beyond the lay person: I don't know the inner workings of Earwax = I accept "check back" as a possible condition of the very mysteries of Earwax).

Because not everything is meant to be privy to one.

And that was ok with one - with me.

All I wanted was an answer.

Even if I was afraid of the answer. I wanted an answer.

But I didn't really want any answer.

Because I knew the answer and I didn't like the answer.

Then my boyfriend just went in and got an answer.

That was yesterday.

He told me the bad news while handing me a pint of Chunky Monkey.

To his credit, I had been relying heavily on Chunky Monkey for a while.

Meanwhile our Netflix had arrived - so there was that, too.

What with Earwax gone.

(the cafe is still up and running, but, truly, I never associated the two. Yes, I had eaten there, but it never felt like I was "eating at my movie rental place" - never did).

The guy at Earwax Cafe did offer my boyfriend a tip about another movie place located about a mile west of here.

I don't know - that's a mile away.

That's a whole other thing.

And he mentioned that many people have been upset by this turn of events.

But they "just weren't making enough money on the movie rentals anymore" kind of thing.

Which made me think of my late fees.

My late fees. Alone.

All those times I was late (every single time) I liked to think that my late fees made a difference - somehow.

And, I couldn't have been later.

Really.

(I couldn't have)

a recent email - proof that no case is ever really closed

Dear f,

I am currently dispatching to you from beneath my desk at work.
For this reason - and others that you will soon understand, I need to make this as brief as possible.

I wrote to you about three months ago. I was the woman having problems with three stalkers.

If you refer to that previous case, anything I fail to describe to you here (as I am rushing) will be outlined for you there.

Due to recent developments, I realize that I had not three, but five stalkers - all along.

Such a thing is unprecedented. I'm sure.

Despite our combined efforts to "handle" (what were) my three stalkers, the remaining two have recently made their presence known to me in ways both stealth-like and obvious.

Interestingly, the obvious ways in which I'm being manipulated - are far more disturbing to me than the stealth-like ways.

I guess it's the audacity. The outright boldness of such obvious maneuvers - clearly meant to confuse the victim into letting down her guard (a technique well documented in various military histories, as well as in at least two episodes of Bat Man) that frightens me.

Even though I can't account (despite meticulous record keeping) for their ability to remain under my radar (or yours) for the last three months - these goons are definitely connected to my first three stalkers. And are up to similar tricks.

Words like premeditated, and phrases like caught in the head lights, run amok through my mind all over again.

And I think, why me..?

I feel hunted.

Like a woodland creature (the similarity between me and Bambi not being lost on me) as they, as of this writing, are probably working together.

Not only do Four and Five (that's how I refer to them - as Four and Five) keep constant check on my every move - every second of my life, but seem almost virus-like in their ability to adapt.

With each twist and turn, they keep getting stronger, smarter and harder to out-wit (despite how skilled I am at all of this).

For example, last night, I got a text from Four (4:37 pm central standard time, according to my cell phone). He asked that I meet him after work at a predetermined place. I waited twenty three minutes (an old trick of mine) and responded:

c! u! ther RoCkSTaR ! <3

My first red flag?

When Four was ten minutes late (that's when I start to consider a person late, at ten minutes).

Though Four is routinely late, something told me that this was a ruse.

I always know something is off when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

Then, like clock work, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

It wasn't long before Four was twenty minutes late.

Then, thirty minutes late.

And - you get the idea.

Let's just say that I continued to wait, continued to drink (and bravely continued to pay for my own drinks) until the place closed.

Meanwhile, where was Four?

Outside. Spying on me. The entire time.

That's right.

Call it instincts. Call it ESP. Call it whatever you want.

Call it chilling.

(I certainly do)

As I'm sure you can imagine, my life has become a constant state of dodging, hiding, and (as of last week) donning wigs and other disguises just to get to and from everywhere.

Note: Five might be dumber than Four (and, for that reason, even more dangerous).

Five is not only all over my Myspace account, but replies to my messages and texts within the hour (as though he is completely unable to pretend that he's busy).

Stalker!

Please respond quickly.

Thanks - and Go Cubbies!
Missy Smith

Missy,

Read this very carefully and do exactly as instructed:

STAY UNDER YOUR DESK.

Email your boss (don't touch your cell phone - it's bugged).

Ask your boss to come to your office immediately.

When he arrives - barricade the door.

Have him contact security.

Tell him that security already knows the situation.

They do.

I've briefed them on the matter. They're currently awaiting signals from you.

Have your boss tell security the code phrase:

We need help removing Missy Smith from the premises.

Security will know what this means.

Security has explicit instructions to make your departure appear like you are being reluctantly escorted out of the building.

Go along with it.

Not to frighten you - but much of the problem has been determined to be internal.

For this reason, any eyewitnesses should believe that they are seeing you being removed from the building against your will.

This is a safety measure meant to protect you through this - the first phase of our operation.

This requires you to be as convincing as possible:

Yell, fight, scream, bite. Be a total disgrace - whatever it takes.

After your departure I will meet you at a second location - which will be made known to you as soon as you have clearance.

At that point - we will begin the process of detaining your stalkers as well as providing you with your new identity.

Ironically, Bambi is in the works for your new secret name
(the government whole heartedly agrees that Bambi is fitting).

Until then, be brave
Go Cubbies!
f!

too many people on one computer becomes a hot button (literally)

Dear F,

I'm not sure if this has anything to do with etiquette - but here's my problem:

At work I have to share a computer with two other colleagues.

Lately, as I navigate through websites - via mouse and keyboard (though, especially mouse) I've noticed that my hands feel dirty.

As a result, it's difficult for me to focus on what I'm doing on the internet while at work.

I should mention that the keyboard and mouse at this computer don't actually look dirty (though, obviously, I don't have a microscope).

And, if it's possible, it's as though my (mouse) hand feels a few degrees hotter. That is, hotter than my other hand or the rest of my body.

Perhaps the microbes on the mouse (if not keyboard) are multiplying at an exaggerated rate due to multiple users.

Maybe, due to these distinct conditions, the temperature on the mouse actually rises (infinitesimally - but just enough for me to notice).

Am I'm just more sensitive to this rise in temperature than my co-workers are (for some reason)?

Could this be a health situation? Am I just the first one to notice this problem?

And, in what other circumstances (than sharing a computer) would I need to deal as directly with other people's microbes?

What steps should I take to try to get things back under control?

Signed,
just another cog in the Starbucks machine..
~ Patti ~

Dear Patti,

I must say that I'm not sure how it's supposed to be obvious to me (from where I sit, here at my desk) that you don't have a microscope.

I was similarly unaware that the waitresses at Starbucks needed computers for their research (you mentioned the internet).

Though knowing such makes me happier. Somehow.

(Moving on) it appears that you have reluctantly stumbled into the thankless position of the under recognized (all too often taken for granted) everyday hero.

Take a bow.

A quick, pretend bow.

Now, may I remind you (darling - before we pop open any wine coolers, or break out the Lionel Richie - as all good leaders are entitled to do) that you do indeed deal directly "with other people's microbes" in a number of ways at work.

The restroom. The register. The coffee making equipment. The exchange of money.

Not to mention the air that you (all three of you) breathe.

I suggest that you call an informal meeting with your colleagues.

Close the door behind you when you do this. This will not only unnerve your co-workers, but will underscore everything you say from that point on.

Tell these two (soon to be friends for life) that you would like it if they washed their hands before using the computer from now on.

Just make sure to say it with a smile.

Between the dirrectness of your speech, the smile on your face, and the closing of the door - Your co-workers will be confused. Maybe a little alarmed.

Which is good.

They will see you as serious and genuine.

And they will understand your concerns (even if they don't admit it - ever).

And what's not to understand?

Now do the following:

1. March right down to the nearest dollar store.

2. Invest in the biggest bottle of disinfectant you can find.

3. Place it near the computer that the three of you share.

4. Attach a note explaining that, due to unique microbe mingling, and the resulting (though infinitesimal) temperature changes detected by you on the mouse - a disinfectant will be employed by all users of the computer from now on - bla bla bla.

5. Sign it Patti.

And, Patti, keep smiling..

(no matter what)

Consider politely informing your customers that microbes are probably everywhere. They have a right to know. Ask them not touch anything unless absolutely necessary.

Also, email HQ detailing your intentions to clean up the microbes at work!

Use the word manifesto in the subject line, run a spell check, then copy it to every single person at Starbucks.

All done?

Good.

Now go ahead and break out those wine coolers, Patti!

And as always..
Youuuuu're welcome!
f !

I love lamp

I have this desk.

I got it when my grandmother died.

It's a large 1920's office desk.

I've had it for about ten years. I'm sitting at it right now.

It was some time before I felt comfortable about removing any of the files that what were in it.

At first I ignored the files entirely (around two years).

Then (as boring as they were) I sorted through them.

Then (about a year later) I shred them.

The files.

Goodbye. Kaput. Never coming back.

They were mostly old check stubs, anyway. And a manuscript. Something about my grandfather's secret double life.

But they were taking up valuable desk space. And if I was ever going to really "live" my "life" it was important that I actually use this desk.

Besides, the check stubs were ridiculous. Checks were really big back in the 1940's. At least three times the size they are today.

I did keep a few things found in those files, though.

Like the check stubs from my mother's ballet classes.

Somehow they cost twice as much as my (modern day) ballet classes cost.

So weird.

So, some of it was kept.

Some of it.

Not all.

I had to be heartless.

Because (as it turns out) my mother is completely incapable of throwing anything away.

I've done the math:

my mom = (a happy childhood) + (baby boomer) + (luxury)
x (WWII did not happen to me) + (free to be you and me) + (small apartment) + (guilt) + (incredulousness)
= I am a bad daughter from the future
= my mom lives in the past (infinity)

So, I never tell my mom anything. Ever (about any files).

Strangely, back in the mid nineties, when I first received the desk - my apartment suddenly smelled like grandmother's house.

It did.

For a couple of months.

This fell somewhere between ok and disconcerting.

It wasn't a bad smell.

Just not at all the way my apartment smelled (at the time).

That is, not a vodka smell, not an acne medicine smell - but more of a Rive Gauch, instant coffee, mildew and bananas smell.

My grandmother's house.

Right there.

In my living room.

All the time.

Which felt like a constant half frown from my grandmother.

Yes, I'm here.. yes, I completely disapprove..

But, like so many ghost related issues, it resolved itself.

It went away.

And whole years past.

I moved.. I went on a trip to Ireland.. I went back to school..

I celebrated the turn of the millenium..

I got a job.. I got a phone.. I changed my hair..

And life went on.

But (then) just yesterday - I realized something has been bothering me.

For about a week.

The smell (Rive Gauch, instant coffee, mildew, bananas)
has returned..

(end of disc one)

I'm lovin' it

I'm on a roller coaster.

The roller coaster in my repetitive dream about the old/sad/abandoned carnival.

It's the only recurring theme in my dreams.

And this carnival is smudgy, oily, creaky, dark and scary.

(actually, it's closed down)

Have I posted about this before?

Oh. And it's cold.

And the roller coaster is actually an El train.

Hi.

I'm upset.

I can't remember certain details about my childhood kitchen.

But, when I tape all of these photos together, the result is almost a kitchen.

A skewed, multi-perspective, nearly round image of my childhood kitchen.

Why on earth am I doing this?

I don't know.

I guess I'm feeling sentimental.

Mostly, I love it when I can't remember something. And there are serious gaps in my memory about my childhood kitchen.

It was in a shot gun two-flat that my family lived in for sixty years.

I was six years old when we moved away.

Today, I drew a floor plan of it (finally) thinking this might jog my memory.

In doing so, I relied heavily on the fact that things like door ways, bathtubs, and bed sizes are standard.

But mostly I relied on memory.

Of course, my brain was reluctant to produce such a memory.

My brain - it's always busy or preoccupied.

(or powering down)

I've noticed that when I appeal directly to my psyche, I can side-step my brain's usual excuses.

I just tell my psyche that it's important.

And my psyche believes it.

My psyche!

So dumb. So literal.

It never registers sarcasm (which might explain some problems I've been having lately).

Still, this takes some time.

And today was no different.

My psyche said:

one moment please..

thinking

thinking

thinking

..I poured myself a glass of wine..

thinking

..did the dishes..

thinking

..made some split pea soup..

thinking

thinking

..got a phone call from a friend who said she was in serious trouble..

thinking

thinking

..listened sympathetically as she described to me what she had done..

thinking

thinking

..told her she could trust me..

thinking

thinking

..went into a drawer, get out my other cell phone and called the police..

thinking

thinking

thinking

..checked the mail..

thinking

thinking

..watered the ficus..

thinking

thinking

..went to bed..

Memory accessed
Memory complete

Yep. That's pretty much how it goes.

Update: the photo that I lost a few posts ago was found while looking for another photo (also found). Thank you for your concern..

who is protecting our forty-somethings?

AOL. That's who.

I just read, What Not To Wear Over Forty!

This article, complete with No-No's, reminded me of the experience I had recently of sorting through hundreds of pieces clothing.

This was at work. These were prop clothes. Things worn once by models of every age.

The closet that was built for these clothes was getting a little cramped.

So, my boss asked me to prepare half of the clothes for charity.

I spent about a week sorting through everything.

As I organized what we were keeping, there were many instances where I couldn't determine whether an item was meant for a woman or a child.

Which is funny. I recall the distinct difference between my clothes and my mother's clothes when I was twelve years old.

So, I'm sure some of the prop clothes got put back in the wrong place.

Because women, tweens, and their younger sisters are all now dressing in a similar fashion.

From the world of design (that world which dictates what is available in the stores) I imagine a collective, resounding, almost snickering, who cares!

Well, AOL cares.

Deeply. About forty-somethings.

Because,

What Not To Wear Under Eighteen!

Complete with No-No's (a term better reserved for those under eighteen, anyway) is something I have yet to see on AOL.

AOL? I wonder, aren't the implications of a teenager dressing too old for her age at least as serious as, say, those of a woman in her forties dressing too young for her age?

Isn't one actually dangerous, while the other merely embarrassing (at least in your estimation)?

PS: belly-shirts looked bad on everyone.

While they were in style (were, AOL, were - they've been out of style for some time now) I kept having to invent new ways to cover my midriff.

I was in good shape. I just didn't find it attractive.

I wonder, exactly what age group were belly-shirts intended for, anyway?

Twenty-somethings hated them. Thirty-somethings hated them.

Oh, that's right. Belly-shirts looked good on teen-aged girls.

But, that can't be right.

I mean, no one wanted teen-aged girls to wear revealing clothes, did they?

Certainly no one at AOL wanted teen-aged girls to wear revealing clothes.

Because that would be a No-No, wouldn't it?

I'm sure your cracker-jack team of fashion editors remembers how wearing three shirts at a time became a style as a result (of every woman everywhere trying desperately to cover her midriff).

Victims of fashion? Definitely. Because a long shirt could not be found anywhere.

Yes, I am forty. Interesting you should ask.

No, I haven't changed the way I dress.

I know that worries you, AOL.

And if you're reading this, you might feel compelled to publish more articles in order to build awareness (vulnerable as forty-somethings can be in this modern world).

And it's timely (because, seriously, who is protecting our forty-somethings other than AOL?)

But, you see, I don't need to adjust anything. As it happens, I'm still a grown woman. And the last time I checked, the clothing that I wear (that no doubt your daughters are wearing) were designed for grown women.

Seriously, AOL, I'm forty. I can do whatever I want.

this is your building

It's funny.

Just now I was walking past my old building.

I didn't move very far away. I can see my old building from my living room right now.

Usually I forget all about it. My old building.

Even (especially) when I'm spacing out. Like when I'm having coffee in the morning.

Actually, I catch myself looking at my old building all the time.

I just slowly I realize that my mind has wandered. That I've been looking at my old building.

At the very windows that were once my windows.

At the very door that once was my front door.

Where I used to live.

So weird. Not weird enough.

Like part of me still lives there. Yet I behave like I never lived there at all.

How did this happen?

Sometimes I see the hippies that were once my downstairs neighbors. Usually early in the morning, as I stand out front and wait for my ride to work.

I see them standing out front - waiting for their rides to work.

And we never acknowledge each other.

With less than a hundred feet between us. As we wait for our repective rides. In the cold. In the snow.

Yes. We see each other.

But, it's just enough distance to ignore each other.

No I never really hated you. You got me out of jams. I got you out of jams.

I gave you some metal shelves. That one time.

And you were nice enough to come out when I fell down the entire flight of stairs.

That was embarassing.

Most of all, you gave me the landlord's cell phone number.

That was big. My furnace had broken and it was a holiday weekend.

The cell phone number. I'll never foget that.

Yes.

You were ok. I was ok.

But in the end, you rejected my request to use of your composte heap.

Which was weird. For hippies, I mean.

(and I would have followed all the composte rules to the T, too, you have no idea)

Then I caught you folding my laundry that famous day (later, in my post about you folding my laundry, I would change the ending for comic effect, but it turns out that life is never as funny as blog posts about said life).

As a result, I did not agree to babysit your millions of cats when you went out of town.

Fair enough.

We were neighbors.

We are neighbors. Forever, it seems.

quit smoking

As I mentioned last week, it helps me to write down those things that make me want to smoke.

By make me want to smoke, I mean that moment when the thought of having a cigarette has its death grip on me, where nothing else matters, where the idea that "I'm gonna die anyway" isn't so much of a cop-out, as it is a soothing, rescuing, all-absolving mantra.

I think the act of stopping everything, getting out my notebook (stupid notebook) and writing it down - weakens the hold those moments have over me.

(because it's working)

The things that make me want to smoke are stupid. And countless.

Example:

While on the train, thinking about the role Catherine Keener played in Being John Malkovich (in fact, any of her roles), I decide that she was motivated by pure, unchecked bitchiness..

[An incredible urge to smoke washes over me.]

While walking past a convenience store, I deliberate whether or not to go in. That is, whether or not I'm quitting right now..

[The idea of going in and buying a pack of cigarettes actually brings tears to my eyes.]

While listening to two co-workers start yelling over each other - as the subject of "John Lennon glasses" gets heated..

[How annoying - and probably because I'm going through withdrawal, though (and this is where cravings get tricky) the topic of John Lennon glasses in general makes me want to smoke (independently of my being annoyed by the yelling) and no - I don't like John Lennon glasses at all.]

While seeing a beautiful wall paper pattern in a book..

[This seeing of patterns (or colors, textures, designs) happens all the time at work - so this accounts for probably 20% of my cravings. I don't know why seeing something beautiful makes me want to smoke - other than I must have always smoked in response to great wall paper patterns in the past.]

While throwing together a made up steak sauce (very tasty)..
[Maybe it was the "emergency" of discovering that I was out of steak sauce and then creating one in the nick of time.]
Anyway, on another topic: I love the blog zenhabits.
The author, who has been blogging for one year, now has a book deal and just recently quit his day job to concentrate solely on his blog.
Now that makes me want to smoke!

can't we be a bit more French about this?

Now with spell check! Now making sense!
I realize that a part of my brain is dedicated to trying to get me to smoke.

A very clever, relentless part of my brain.

I can't put my finger on that thing that makes me want to smoke. Because an actual trigger can be anything.

Example:

I see the words Johnny Rotten = I want to smoke

I see the words financial setback = I want to smoke

I think of a new way to do something (anything) = I want to smoke

I switch on a lamp and the light bulb burns out = I want to smoke

It was a forty year old lamp. A forty year old light bulb. That still worked. Until today.

A forty year old, very possibly German lamp and light bulb (that I've never seen anywhere else ever before).

A very possibly irreplaceable lamp and light bulb.

I think about smoking a lot.

In an aside, I should mention that I have a lamp guy who can sort all of this out for me.

Though, he is such a realist (depressive) that I can already hear the disappointing news (in that voice of his), that:

"there is no way" he can locate such light bulbs, bla, bla (on and on).

This lamp guy tends to err on the side of (reality) practicality.

And he's the only lamp guy in Chicago.

(I'd do anything for a more upbeat lamp guy)

(chorus)

Then there's France.

My mind will tell me - someone in France is smoking right now.

She (this French smoker) says, "..ah life, what are you going to do?", and lights another cigarette with the burning end of her last cigarette.

She is living her life. Her French life.

Can't I live my French life, too?Can't I ?

Can't I ?

in and out of boxes, continuously

Two hours ago everything was fine. I was happy.

But something has been bothering me.

Where is that photo?

That one photo.

All photos being packed carefully away in various places.

With the absolute favorites all piled loosely together in one particular box.

As it's always been.

But established patterns got thrown off.

I became overwhelmed with all that I inherited from my dad.

Namely his photos. His millions of books and pieces of paper and mechanical drawing tools.

His bottles of windex.

His bottles of wine.

His jars filled with nuts and bolts (and sometimes just jars filled with smaller jars).

His furniture.

His millions of business cards.

His plaster-of-paris death mask of his own face.

His method of perspective.

His endless recipes and personal notes on everything.

His literal shoes.

His figurative sweater.

(and on and on)

Just boxes upon boxes of another person's life.

Cherished. And too much.

So I decided to move.

I just wanted to halt what was happening.

With all of these boxes.

I needed more space, yes, but, really, at that point (with all the dad-related boxes that had accumulated around me) I just wanted everything to be in boxes.

To make all things equal.

So I packed up everything and moved to another apartment (down the street).

This was so each kind of box could be unpacked with the same measure of (practicality, love, detachment) attention.

It was around this point that I met my boyfriend, Tom.

And I began ignoring the few left over dad-related boxes (as well, moving-related boxes).

Really, any boxes.

I was "living my life"

And I was in love.

And it went like that for a few months.

Then one night Tom was robbed and nearly killed in our neighborhood.

And we had always been so mindful about local criminal activity.

Really. Truly.

We had discussed the situation so many times.

Almost too many times.

But it was in the air.

So when he got attacked, lots of "things" were lost, shuffled around and ignored. But none of that mattered.

He made it out alive.

Which is incredible.

So, somewhere along the way, I lost a photo.

So what.

It's a picture of my mom and dad walking down a familiar street taken by me when I was little.

Just of them from their knees down.

I'm not sure why it's so important to me.

It's somewhere.

One day it will fall out of a book.

Or be found in that one last box I have yet to unpack.

Yes.