The news says that this year is the worst for the flu since the Swine Flu epidemic of 2009. Explains why the cold I caught a month ago has been about as ephemeral as a Cher farewell tour.
My Christmas present was a house to myself. My uncle, parents, and sister made their annual pilgrimage to the Holy Land, also known as a casino in Connecticut, and the visiting relatives spent the day with their daughter and her family.
In our culture, the icon of loneliness is the person facing Christmas Day in solitude. To that I say: it's all about context. Besides, with a house full of animals, I'm not exactly alone (ammiright, BabyJesusInAManger?)
I watched an on-demand movie ("Birdbox." Meh) and organized my bedroom, which included some tough love regarding clothing I'd bought while having a good day ("I can SO pull off a stretch zip-up magenta top with chartreuse spots!" "Black corduroy mini skirts are ME!") all the while thankful I thrift shop, so the experiments carried more chagrin than real financial regret.
I got my estate-planning documents in order and emailed copies to relevant people ("On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me..... a Durable Power of Attorneeeeeeeeey!")
I visited my 92-YO great-aunt ("Auntie, have you been naughty or nice?" "Naughty!" "THAT's my girl!"), and took a hike in a state park where, true to form, I spent a half-hour walking some really weird paths that seemed to just run behind houses, then through a cemetery, until I returned to the parking lot to realize the trail heads were ACROSS the street, so I walked there until the sun started to go down, which only made me more manic with desire to buy a house in Maine with some honest-to-God Nature right out my back door.
And I coughed. Constantly. Maybe because of my asthma, which in turn may be because of allergies or may be just another side-effect of the stupid B-list autoimmune disease I have that nobody ever heard of because nobody ever dies from it, they just get really, really annoying symptoms, or maybe because of the lingering Cher-cold, or all three.
Last night I coughed a nonstop cough so classically dry I was sure an olive would fly out of my mouth, which meant I could not keep my CPAP mask on, so it was a free-for-all to see whether the coughing, congestion, apnea, or the cats who thought it therapeutic to encircle me in a claustrophobic cartouche would deprive me of the most oxygen/sleep.
Before I go on to the next part, some background.
In my 30s I was sitting in the South End apartment of a friend, and, while she finished up some things, I passed the time by opening a copy of Whitley Streiber's Communion. This was a big juicy book about his supposed experience with alien abduction. I figured it would be fluffy enough to pick up and put down with no regrets when it was time to leave. How deliciously, mindlessly sensational.
Twenty minutes into it I was in a pounding sweat. Whitley was describing in detail an event that had also happened to me when I was five. Now, I have no memories of abduction, but I do have his memories of gray men in my room, of being touched on the forehead by a wand and being paralyzed, being terrified almost to the point of hysteria while these beings moved in and out of my line of vision, of feeling their touch (never intimate) without being able to move from it. Experiencing the kind of terror that, if you were dreaming, would cause you to wake up. Only I never did.
I have no recollection of being taken out of my room, but I do remember having this experience with minor variations several times in my childhood. I'd chalked it up to being a nightmare-prone kid, and forgot it as an adult. Until Whitley brought it all back down from the dusty mental attic, cold terror and all.
I'm not saying it was aliens, but how did he experience the exact same things? Is there some Jungian effect at work here? Some strange default the mind takes when our sleep paralysis doesn't quit?
I mention this episode because last night I managed to doze off, finally, but was woken abruptly by a low, very loud thrumming. The head of my bed is in a corner of the room, with a window directly to my left, and one at my feet to the right. We live by a wooded area.
I felt my whole body vibrate with the thrumming, and saw a blindingly bright light (like LED headlights) through both windows. And -- this is important -- the cats jerked to attention.
I could not move. I could move my eyes, but not my head or my limbs or open my mouth.
The first thought I had was, "They're back." This time I wasn't so much terrified as nervously curious, and hoped that if they were going to do anything particularly unpleasant to me they'd have the good manners to knock me out first. So, not unlike a visit to the endodontist.
And then the lights dimmed and suddenly it was morning and I was looking out not at a blinding light but at daylight with a very confused sense that something had just been erased like a badly edited film. If you've had surgery you know the feeling: "100, 99 98...hey, how'd I end up here and yes, I will have that ginger ale!"
What bothered me most? I still had the cough. If they could manage interstellar travel, inflict paralysis at will, and erase memory, couldn't they have at least given me some advanced goddamn Space Robitussin? Or would that have been the metaphorical butterfly wing-flap that tore the fabric of space and time?
Stupid aliens.
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Monday, December 10, 2018
Don't break it down for me
I work with a crew member whom I adore, and who also sometimes drives me nuts, and at one point had me considering looking for a new job. But I decided to make it work, figured out her hot buttons, and learned how to accommodate them. And practiced being less impatient. It helps that it's obvious that she cares and wants everyone to be happy, and is essentially a kind, generous soul.
Our communication styles are diametrically opposed. I'm direct, usually too much so; she is deferentially circuitous to the point of abstraction. An example of how our styles contrast:
Me: "Those shastas look like crap; I'll cut them back."
She: "I'm thinking that we could offer our assistance to those poor shastas over there, which look a wee bit forlorn, so do you think that you could perhaps give them some attention so that they don't look so yucky?"
While she's giving instructions like this, I'm practically doing a jitterbug of impatience. She also has to hunt for words a lot, so her instructions are loaded with "uhs" and "ums," making it all the more brutal. I've learned to just wait it out, breathing deliberately, because I get paid either way.
She also constantly forgets two key things about me:
1. I have no sense of direction. Unless the direction is for a location within a block of where I am, please just give me an address I can plug into my phone, or some really unique landmarks to guide my way. Even though I've been to a location a dozen times over the summer, I will not know how to get to it on my own. Do not tell me to go to Main street and take a right on 122 and then left on Wing, because I'm lost already. I've explained that it's like dyslexia, and just accept that I have a learning issue when it comes to directions.
"At any given point in our day," I explained to her, "I could not begin to tell you how I would drive home; I could not even tell you in what direction I'd head. I cannot visualize how the streets relate to one another. My brain forms no mental map as I travel."
After about three of these explanations, she still insists on giving me directions, so I treat it like her learning disability that she can't understand my disability, so, resisting the urge to Lindy Hop, I listen to her directions and say, "Great, thanks! And the address?"
2. I'm having some serious bladder issues related to other conditions. I have no problem using the outdoor executive washroom, so I usually just give a heads up that I'm heading into the woods/behind a huge rhododendron/storage shed. I've become adept at sight lines and stealth squatting.
No matter how many times I've explained that when the urge hits, I have to answer it pretty quickly, she stops and delays me by offering stammering suggestions on the nearest coffee shops that I could use instead, or, when the location does require me to drive to a coffee shop, starts giving me directions (!!!) rather than let me use my phone. One day our conversation went like this:
Me: "I'm heading to Dunks to use the restroom--"
She: "Oh! If you want, um, um, there's a coffee shop close by, um, about oh, two miles or so. There's one down by the um - the um --Panera on Route 3, you know that one? You um --go down the street--"
Me: "I've just peed myself."
She: "Oh! Oh, well I'll let you go."
Me: "Thanks; be right back."
Then there are the house descriptions. She avoids the most obvious clues, using streets once again fortheloveofGodMontresor.
She: "The big house at the end of the street."
Me: "Gonna need more."
She: "They have the two containers."
Me: "Still nothing."
She: "They have the little front porch with the tiny boxes."
Me: "You mean the house with the two German Shepherds?"
She: "Yes, that's the one."
Another time:
She: "The house on Main Street."
Me: "Not getting a visual."
She: You cut back all the amsonia."
Me:"You mean the Dead Rabbit house?"
She: "That's the one."
For me, two big dogs who run up and slobber all over you, or discovering two dead (likely poisoned) rabbits in the bed you were weeding would be the lead. Not "The brown house on the corner."
I also have a much fouler mouth, and I hate maintaining day lilies. So the one day when I looked over to see her yell, "FUCKING DAY LILIES!!" I knew we'd finally come to a meeting of the minds.
Our communication styles are diametrically opposed. I'm direct, usually too much so; she is deferentially circuitous to the point of abstraction. An example of how our styles contrast:
Me: "Those shastas look like crap; I'll cut them back."
She: "I'm thinking that we could offer our assistance to those poor shastas over there, which look a wee bit forlorn, so do you think that you could perhaps give them some attention so that they don't look so yucky?"
While she's giving instructions like this, I'm practically doing a jitterbug of impatience. She also has to hunt for words a lot, so her instructions are loaded with "uhs" and "ums," making it all the more brutal. I've learned to just wait it out, breathing deliberately, because I get paid either way.
She also constantly forgets two key things about me:
1. I have no sense of direction. Unless the direction is for a location within a block of where I am, please just give me an address I can plug into my phone, or some really unique landmarks to guide my way. Even though I've been to a location a dozen times over the summer, I will not know how to get to it on my own. Do not tell me to go to Main street and take a right on 122 and then left on Wing, because I'm lost already. I've explained that it's like dyslexia, and just accept that I have a learning issue when it comes to directions.
"At any given point in our day," I explained to her, "I could not begin to tell you how I would drive home; I could not even tell you in what direction I'd head. I cannot visualize how the streets relate to one another. My brain forms no mental map as I travel."
After about three of these explanations, she still insists on giving me directions, so I treat it like her learning disability that she can't understand my disability, so, resisting the urge to Lindy Hop, I listen to her directions and say, "Great, thanks! And the address?"
2. I'm having some serious bladder issues related to other conditions. I have no problem using the outdoor executive washroom, so I usually just give a heads up that I'm heading into the woods/behind a huge rhododendron/storage shed. I've become adept at sight lines and stealth squatting.
No matter how many times I've explained that when the urge hits, I have to answer it pretty quickly, she stops and delays me by offering stammering suggestions on the nearest coffee shops that I could use instead, or, when the location does require me to drive to a coffee shop, starts giving me directions (!!!) rather than let me use my phone. One day our conversation went like this:
Me: "I'm heading to Dunks to use the restroom--"
She: "Oh! If you want, um, um, there's a coffee shop close by, um, about oh, two miles or so. There's one down by the um - the um --Panera on Route 3, you know that one? You um --go down the street--"
Me: "I've just peed myself."
She: "Oh! Oh, well I'll let you go."
Me: "Thanks; be right back."
Then there are the house descriptions. She avoids the most obvious clues, using streets once again fortheloveofGodMontresor.
She: "The big house at the end of the street."
Me: "Gonna need more."
She: "They have the two containers."
Me: "Still nothing."
She: "They have the little front porch with the tiny boxes."
Me: "You mean the house with the two German Shepherds?"
She: "Yes, that's the one."
Another time:
She: "The house on Main Street."
Me: "Not getting a visual."
She: You cut back all the amsonia."
Me:"You mean the Dead Rabbit house?"
She: "That's the one."
For me, two big dogs who run up and slobber all over you, or discovering two dead (likely poisoned) rabbits in the bed you were weeding would be the lead. Not "The brown house on the corner."
I also have a much fouler mouth, and I hate maintaining day lilies. So the one day when I looked over to see her yell, "FUCKING DAY LILIES!!" I knew we'd finally come to a meeting of the minds.
The Adventures of Plant Girl, Part I
[This is a draft I didn't publish at the time it was originally written, in the first part of 2018. I thought it might be interesting to document my experiences as an interior plant technician, and then decided you didn't need to hear about over-watered dracaenas and mealybug. You're welcome.]
Plant Girl is covering a new office today, because the plant girl previously assigned there got tired of being stalked by a partner of the firm whose apparent aspiration is to be the Justin Bateman character from Juno.
Plant Girl has promised her supervisor that she will not get into it with Stalker Man, but in her fantasies:
[STALKER MAN becomes highly agitated at the realization that his stalkee is gone for good. PLANT GIRL closes door to his office and faces him with a cool, level stare.]
PG: You're an attorney, aren't you?
SM: Yes...
PG [leaning on desk, crime-drama style]: So you'll understand when I say: Cease. And. Desist.
SM [leaning back, a cornered rat]: I- I don't know what your'e talking about! I was just sharing some music I thought she might be interested in! I was just being friendly! I-
PG [silences him with a long stare]: I think we both know that's not true. So. Those pothos aren't going to water themselves. I'll be going.
[EXIT PLANT GIRL, victorious, watering can in hand, leaving STALKER MAN speechless and terrified]
Plant Girl is covering a new office today, because the plant girl previously assigned there got tired of being stalked by a partner of the firm whose apparent aspiration is to be the Justin Bateman character from Juno.
Plant Girl has promised her supervisor that she will not get into it with Stalker Man, but in her fantasies:
[STALKER MAN becomes highly agitated at the realization that his stalkee is gone for good. PLANT GIRL closes door to his office and faces him with a cool, level stare.]
PG: You're an attorney, aren't you?
SM: Yes...
PG [leaning on desk, crime-drama style]: So you'll understand when I say: Cease. And. Desist.
SM [leaning back, a cornered rat]: I- I don't know what your'e talking about! I was just sharing some music I thought she might be interested in! I was just being friendly! I-
PG [silences him with a long stare]: I think we both know that's not true. So. Those pothos aren't going to water themselves. I'll be going.
[EXIT PLANT GIRL, victorious, watering can in hand, leaving STALKER MAN speechless and terrified]
Friday, December 7, 2018
Hire me. Oh, wait.
Not only is the frost on the pumpkin, the squirrels have eaten it beyond recognition. Winter is coming to New England, but thanks to a lot of rainy non-work days last month we are still out there, cutting back frozen day-lily leaves and stabbing winter greens into rock-hard planters.I have perfected my layering configuration, and keep a ready supply of hand warmers in my car.
Still, work days are numbered, so I've begun the ritual hunt for seasonal work. I live in an expensive state, a state which constantly boats a good economy, yet the job wages that are posted would not keep a teenager in school clothes. I am stunned (STUNNED) that whether I manned a cash register at a supermarket or supported an office of highly paid professional services staff, the difference in pay if any, would be minimal. I don't mind lower pay for a relatively easy job, but if you want to use all my mad skills, there is a price tag on that.
I was commiserating with a woman I know. She has an advanced degree, is an adjunct professor at a big-name college in Boston, has published a book, and she works part-time at a well-known clothier for $14 an hour to make ends meet. A clothier whose shirts routinely cost $100.
The other problem is that given my extensive job history I've become adept at decoding job postings, determining what exactly will make me hate the job, and how quickly. Some phrases that set me off:
"Bright, enthusiastic worker greeting people with a ready smile." I kid you not. Guess which gender usually holds the kind of job this description is attached to? Translation: "Be a nice and non-confrontational girlfriend surrogate for a bunch of fragile egos." Since when is it my job to make you feel good? What ever happened to a courteous, professional demeanor?
"A sense of humor is a must." Translation: "You will routinely be involved in our version of the Caucasian Chalk Circle, with you in the role of the baby. Be prepared to be pulled in several directions at once by rude, inconsiderate colleagues with a grossly overdeveloped sense of importance, or one high-level manager with a reputation as a Grade-A douchebag who can't be fired because he owns the place/makes us a lot of money. Also, you must make coffee and keep the break room stocked, brightly and enthusiastically, wearing a ready smile."
I will not make travel arrangements. This is for people either functionally illiterate in the online world, or who just can't be bothered, neither of which inspires. I have a terrible poker face/body language when being asked to perform pointless tasks for lazy people.
I will not work for less competent/professional people who make more money than I. So if your web site has typos or has clearly not had its content reviewed by a professional, or if you think it's really important for the public to know which health club you belong to, move along.
Lest you think I'm lazy (well, I am when I'm not engaged), I do apply for jobs with a reasonable commute, good working conditions, and reasonable duties.
But we haven't yet talked about age discrimination.
Age discrimination is the delusion that because I'm not under 35, I'm a doddering fool with no mental agility who thinks technology is proof that aliens exist. The reality is that I've adapted many, many times to a world constantly changed by technology, I don't live on my phone, and I understand that you don't look at your phone while on the job, or while someone is talking to you.
I read goddamned books. I READ.
I was encouraged by a posting by a well-known and respected nonprofit organization that operates fitness centers and residences, but while looking at the job description, a flag went up when I read a line about "enforcing policies even if disagreeing with them." Hmmm. Clearly this has been an issue, or why in the job posting?
Using my Old People Internet Skills, I found a copy of their Employee Handbook. They do not allow (among other things): "elaborate" hairstyles, visible tattoos, or facial piercings such as nose piercings. It should have just said, "Nothing that scares suburban white people." Made me want to dye my hair blue, get a "Mama Tried" neck tattoo, and show up in a suit. But Hey! You do get a half-hour lunch break!
I went to another job site for a package-delivery company where I was told there was a hiring fair. I had been told there was a hiring fair because I'd started an online application and didn't complete it, but was nonetheless stalked by this company that behaved like a needy ex-boyfriend. Emails reminding me to complete my application were replaced by voicemails encouraging me to apply, finally telling me of this "hiring fair."
When I hear the words "hiring fair" I envision a clean, bright conference room in neutral tones, tables staffed with smiling, overeager employers ready to win you over with logo-printed ballpoint pens and reusable shopping bags. Given the relentless pursuit by this company, I assumed they were desperate, and expected an enthusiastic welcome, a negotiable wage, maybe even free coffee and snacks (that's when you know you have them).
I went to the address given but found only a dingy distribution center with two haggard women in company sweatshirts manning the front desk. The younger one was too busy looking at her phone to acknowledge me (SEE??!!??) They had no idea about a hiring fair. Considering grimly that this was a sampling of my potential coworkers, I followed the older woman through swinging doors into the main warehouse, a place devoid of natural light and heat, barely illuminated by some weak, invisible fluorescents high overhead. (If you have seen the movie "Alien," I think I've discovered the inspiration for the Nostromo.) There were no balloons, no bright colors, no enthusiastic welcome.
No pens.
We turned left in the gloom, and I had to step over a conveyor belt to be led into the break room, where a guy named "Mitch" was supposed to meet me. The woman instructed me to wait, and left. The room was a small, airless, cold place of laminate tables with attached benches and a vending machine in the corner. Two men looked at me curiously. My mind turned to unmarked graves.
"Is one of you Mitch?" I asked. I was told no, but he would be right back.
I turned my attention to a poster with, among other things, the company dress code. This company also had the heebie-jeebies about tattoos, ears with more than one earring (women), earrings in more than one ear (men). Mustaches were allowed, but no beards or goatees. Apparently HQ was in a warmer climate that did not understand the protective benefits of facial hair in winter, or that mustaches went out with the pedophile/70s Porn Star fashion craze.
As I read the list of style prohibitions, a scene from the movie "Moonstruck" came into my head, specifically the phrase, "A wolf with no foot."
I took out my cell phone, went back into the dim warehouse cavern, clambered back over the conveyor belt, and re-entered the service area. I explained I'd just gotten an emergency text that I had to address, but I'd be back. I hustled to my car, drove out of the chain-link-and-barbed-wire-enclosed parking lot, and headed home.
A wolf with all her feet.
Still, work days are numbered, so I've begun the ritual hunt for seasonal work. I live in an expensive state, a state which constantly boats a good economy, yet the job wages that are posted would not keep a teenager in school clothes. I am stunned (STUNNED) that whether I manned a cash register at a supermarket or supported an office of highly paid professional services staff, the difference in pay if any, would be minimal. I don't mind lower pay for a relatively easy job, but if you want to use all my mad skills, there is a price tag on that.
I was commiserating with a woman I know. She has an advanced degree, is an adjunct professor at a big-name college in Boston, has published a book, and she works part-time at a well-known clothier for $14 an hour to make ends meet. A clothier whose shirts routinely cost $100.
The other problem is that given my extensive job history I've become adept at decoding job postings, determining what exactly will make me hate the job, and how quickly. Some phrases that set me off:
"Bright, enthusiastic worker greeting people with a ready smile." I kid you not. Guess which gender usually holds the kind of job this description is attached to? Translation: "Be a nice and non-confrontational girlfriend surrogate for a bunch of fragile egos." Since when is it my job to make you feel good? What ever happened to a courteous, professional demeanor?
"A sense of humor is a must." Translation: "You will routinely be involved in our version of the Caucasian Chalk Circle, with you in the role of the baby. Be prepared to be pulled in several directions at once by rude, inconsiderate colleagues with a grossly overdeveloped sense of importance, or one high-level manager with a reputation as a Grade-A douchebag who can't be fired because he owns the place/makes us a lot of money. Also, you must make coffee and keep the break room stocked, brightly and enthusiastically, wearing a ready smile."
I will not make travel arrangements. This is for people either functionally illiterate in the online world, or who just can't be bothered, neither of which inspires. I have a terrible poker face/body language when being asked to perform pointless tasks for lazy people.
I will not work for less competent/professional people who make more money than I. So if your web site has typos or has clearly not had its content reviewed by a professional, or if you think it's really important for the public to know which health club you belong to, move along.
Lest you think I'm lazy (well, I am when I'm not engaged), I do apply for jobs with a reasonable commute, good working conditions, and reasonable duties.
But we haven't yet talked about age discrimination.
Age discrimination is the delusion that because I'm not under 35, I'm a doddering fool with no mental agility who thinks technology is proof that aliens exist. The reality is that I've adapted many, many times to a world constantly changed by technology, I don't live on my phone, and I understand that you don't look at your phone while on the job, or while someone is talking to you.
I read goddamned books. I READ.
I was encouraged by a posting by a well-known and respected nonprofit organization that operates fitness centers and residences, but while looking at the job description, a flag went up when I read a line about "enforcing policies even if disagreeing with them." Hmmm. Clearly this has been an issue, or why in the job posting?
Using my Old People Internet Skills, I found a copy of their Employee Handbook. They do not allow (among other things): "elaborate" hairstyles, visible tattoos, or facial piercings such as nose piercings. It should have just said, "Nothing that scares suburban white people." Made me want to dye my hair blue, get a "Mama Tried" neck tattoo, and show up in a suit. But Hey! You do get a half-hour lunch break!
I went to another job site for a package-delivery company where I was told there was a hiring fair. I had been told there was a hiring fair because I'd started an online application and didn't complete it, but was nonetheless stalked by this company that behaved like a needy ex-boyfriend. Emails reminding me to complete my application were replaced by voicemails encouraging me to apply, finally telling me of this "hiring fair."
When I hear the words "hiring fair" I envision a clean, bright conference room in neutral tones, tables staffed with smiling, overeager employers ready to win you over with logo-printed ballpoint pens and reusable shopping bags. Given the relentless pursuit by this company, I assumed they were desperate, and expected an enthusiastic welcome, a negotiable wage, maybe even free coffee and snacks (that's when you know you have them).
I went to the address given but found only a dingy distribution center with two haggard women in company sweatshirts manning the front desk. The younger one was too busy looking at her phone to acknowledge me (SEE??!!??) They had no idea about a hiring fair. Considering grimly that this was a sampling of my potential coworkers, I followed the older woman through swinging doors into the main warehouse, a place devoid of natural light and heat, barely illuminated by some weak, invisible fluorescents high overhead. (If you have seen the movie "Alien," I think I've discovered the inspiration for the Nostromo.) There were no balloons, no bright colors, no enthusiastic welcome.
No pens.
We turned left in the gloom, and I had to step over a conveyor belt to be led into the break room, where a guy named "Mitch" was supposed to meet me. The woman instructed me to wait, and left. The room was a small, airless, cold place of laminate tables with attached benches and a vending machine in the corner. Two men looked at me curiously. My mind turned to unmarked graves.
"Is one of you Mitch?" I asked. I was told no, but he would be right back.
I turned my attention to a poster with, among other things, the company dress code. This company also had the heebie-jeebies about tattoos, ears with more than one earring (women), earrings in more than one ear (men). Mustaches were allowed, but no beards or goatees. Apparently HQ was in a warmer climate that did not understand the protective benefits of facial hair in winter, or that mustaches went out with the pedophile/70s Porn Star fashion craze.
As I read the list of style prohibitions, a scene from the movie "Moonstruck" came into my head, specifically the phrase, "A wolf with no foot."
I took out my cell phone, went back into the dim warehouse cavern, clambered back over the conveyor belt, and re-entered the service area. I explained I'd just gotten an emergency text that I had to address, but I'd be back. I hustled to my car, drove out of the chain-link-and-barbed-wire-enclosed parking lot, and headed home.
A wolf with all her feet.
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