Friday, January 30, 2004
All Because of a Turkey Gobble
Today was a shitty morning, but out of shit comes roses (that's if you use it for fertilizer) - so this little story is a stinking rose. Before I get into why this morning was total shit, I must start with a preface of the events that occurred last night (well, very early this morning). I was in my apartment alone - I knew that Jen, my roommate, was spending the night over at Rob's, so when I went to bed, I left my bedroom door slightly ajar for Oscar to come and go at his leisure. Cats are nocturnal creatures, and they get ants in their pants at night. Oscar can't decide if he wants to sleep with me or go prowling around the place (a behaviour not so uncommon for many males), so he's developed this annoying habit of pawing at my door when he's decided he'll be happier on the other side.
I've had an exhausting week from working a ton - one night I worked until 1 AM. So last night, sleep settled in like dust on a country road. Around 1:30 in the AM, I'm awoken by a sound that I can only describe as a turkey being choked to death. This sound was coming from right outside my door - the same door I was happy, absolutely delighted, to leave open for the freedom of my cat's movement. The sound wasn't human, at least I didn't think such. But I was groggy - I had no idea if this was some kind of scare tactic an intruder was using to catch me off guard; or if it was possibly an injured animal who had found its way into the apartment through a forgotten open window - an animal soo injured that it may attack if you came near it. OR and potentially even worse - it maybe an alien. Memories of the movie, Signs, were creeping in - it's possible that an alien nation has decided to attack Mother Earth, and here they are talking in their turkey language with no warning from NASA. Can you imagine the sheer trauma caused by any one of these events? All of this running through my mind in less than one minute. And then a sinking feeling swept over me like a school girl's blush, I knew I had left the apartment door unlocked - Jen and I have developed this bad habit, because the building door automatically locks shut, providing us with an illusion of safety.
I had my cell phone right by me; there are a number of people I could have called, but I was afriad to make a sound and the liklihood of this turkey gobbling noise being any three of the above scenarios was a bet that a half-wit woudn't even make - the potential humiliation and razzing from my friends just wasn't worth it. The noise was incessant too - it continued for a good two minutes with a rhythm that had none. I was petrified in my bed, and Oscar, who decided to sleep with me last night, was sitting stiffly, perched in the direction of the noise - his hair semi-standing on end. The noise stopped abruptly...and then total silence. To make matters worse, I sleep in the nude - I didn't want to make any noise by putting on clothes, but at the same time, what if that retched noise is a perp? Oddly enough, my mind started to wonder onto other situations, where sleeping in the nude may cause some issues. If there was a perp and he decided to hold me hostage with a gun to my head, standing in front of a window facing out onto the street, so that the cops with their cop cars surrounding the building could see that he was serious in causing me harm, if he didn't get the 10 million dollars he was demanding - well, how fucking embarassing would that be? My exposed body would be displayed all over the local news stations. Or what if there was an earthquake or fire, where immediate evacuation was required? I remember seeing footage of a girl clinging to the branches of a tree to keep from falling into rapidly moving waters that had flooded the area. She was rescued by a helicopter with a dangling ladder, and as it took off with her in tow, the torrential winds blew her skirt up, exposing her wet, white britches to the whole world. Sure, she was probably just thinking of how fucking lucky she was to be alive. But goddamn - a good portion of the United States got to see her stuff. Don't call me shallow. You know when you've fallen in front of a lot of people, almost breaking your neck, that embarassment is the third emotion to take hold - fear being the first and relief being the second.
I sat in bed for a little longer trying to decide on the most feasible and least risky maneuver. With my thoughts as collected as they could be, I decided the noise was probably a bird or racoon that was badly injured and maybe even rabid with rabies and lice and stuff. Tonight I didn't feel like dealing with hours of catching a crazy animal in the dark all by myself - the morning would be a better time - a procrastinator I will always be. So shutting the door seemed to me to be the best option. Given that the animal could possibly fly or run at me, my movements should be quick like the flick of a lizard's tongue. I told Oscar to stay put - he was still staring in the direction of the door. Getting to the door isn't as easy as it may seem - I keep my room in total disorder - I'm not proud; it's just the way it is (see "Total Messes"). I have piles of CD's, that I'm intending to organize, scattered in their respective genres on the floor. They posed as the biggest hurdles, but in probably five shakes of a lamb's tail I made it to the door and slammed it shut. After my Florence Griffith show, I settled back into bed with Oscar. We both stared at the door - no noise - no turkey gobbling... A dust of sleep fell lazily over the ragged and trodden tracks traveled in my head, the tracks ragged and trodden by travel, the traveled tracks - ragged and trodden...
Thirty minutes later, a loud sound outside my window awakens me yet again - God Damnit!! I'm exhausted and way tired of being freaked out. I look out my window from the third floor and see a man with a garden hose in the courtyard down below. He's apparently and noisily watering the one tree growing out of the concrete patio - an urban forest, if you will (I hate it when people say "if you will" - if I will what? Suspend disbelief? Allow you to bore the crap out of me?...) Anyway, watering this late at night? Jesus... But who knows? There may be a water main break and all of the tenants will need to evacuate and he's using the hose to... I don't know, but to be sure that all is kosher, as well as to tell him to stick that hose up his ass, I must open my bedroom door and go out on the back patio. Well, opening the bedroom door would potentially expose me to a rabid animal/alien or possibly a murderer with an axe. I grab my umbrella for protection, swing open the door, scream out that I'm not going to take shit from anyone and run through the apartment checking all the closets and under every object that hovers close to the floor. It's clear - none of the three options are present... unless the aliens are invisible.
I was so relieved in not finding any strange creature in my apartment that I forgot to care about what the guy outside was doing with the garden hose. Since I was wide awake, I sat down in the front room for a smoke break to calm my nerves. I was smiling at Oscar realizing that his true color was yellow - he didn't come out of my room until all the lights were on - when suddenly, I heard the noise for a second time. It was coming out of the bathroom - I checked in there already!! Are there really invisible aliens? I bravely sneaked over to the hallway, got down on my hands and knees, crawled over to the bathroom doorway and peeked in. The choked turkey noise was coming from the bathtub drain!! I immediately recalled that Jen mentioned something about the rental company turning off the water earlier that day. So I start putting two and two together, then four and four... when I finally get to 128 I realize that asshole watering the urban forest was causing this horrid noise; well, mind you, this building is probably around 80 to 100 years old and I'm guessing the plumbing is only a couple of decades younger - plumbing that old probably can't take starting and stopping and then starting back up again without making some type of frustrated noise... hmmm, this may be the case for many types of plumbing. Anyway, regardless of the age of the plumbing, that dipshit scared me like I've never been scared before - I was scared enough to vow that if I lived through the night, I would never leave the apartment door unlocked. So out on the back patio I go, where the urban gardner and I exchanged a few obscenities regarding his nightly botanical exploits, after which I went to bed miffed as all Hell and utterly exhausted.
Finally the story of my shitty morning... I live in the City and work in the East Bay - it's opposite commuting, but it still takes me a good 45 minutes to get to my office - that's if I leave at the right time. To ensure, that I do leave at the right time, I park in the 7:00 AM tow away zone along Oak Street. I thought this was really clever a long time ago - it forces me to quit using the snooze button; I get to work on time; and not to mention, that the early AM tow away parking is all that's available by the time I get home. As the months have gone by, my snooze button usage has actually increased, and I have developed this habit of getting out of bed 10 minutes before 7, throwing on whatever clothes are laying on the floor, rushing out the door to get my car, and then parking it at one of the street corners in front of my building; at which point, I turn the hazard lights on to inform any parking nazis that I will be coming to remove it from its illegal position soon. I then run up to my apartment and hurriedly get ready for work. This morning was no exception. I slept through my alarm, probably hitting the snooze button more than twice - no big surprise there - but still managed to get up at 6:45. Phew, plenty of time to get my car out of the tow zone. I was soooo tired to the infinity power. My body was heavy and moving slowly like a mafia victim wearing concrete shoes submerged beneath the nearest body of water. Last night took a horrendous dent into my beauty sleep, as well as my cognitive awareness. I pulled on my jeans that I seriously should only wear while painting and a sweater that I stole from my dad when I was sixteen. I slipped my feet into my oversized flip flops and trudged out of the apartment. While I was shutting the door, I remembered the horrors that crossed my mind very early that morning, and how I had promised myself to lock the apartment door from now on. So like a good girl, I did just that. Running down the stairs I stopped midway and realized that my silly self had forgotten her keys. I trotted back up the steps, got to the door, and...
This isn't FUCKING happening!! This isn't FUCKING happening!!! FUCK!!! This is really happening! My brain scattered like pieces of a completed puzzle that accidently was knocked down from a card table. I gathered the pieces the best I could, but the picture, once two Golden Retriever puppies, now exhibited their tails hanging from their mouths and their tongues wagging from their behinds. The reality of my dire situation permeated through the particles of my body, and complete panic now surrounded every cell. Shit... There's a window in the hallway (it, actually, was unlocked) that opens to the outside stairwell descending to the courtyard. Climbing through this window, I can access the back door of our apartment. Maybe I left that door unlocked when I went out to yell at the guy with the garden hose?... I knew I locked it - the possibility of an intruder last night ensured it, but just maybe... I had to try it. Fuck! It's locked. What to do? My car was going to be towed in 5 minutes. My car keys - all of my keys - are inside my locked apartment. It's funny how my last name is Locke (I didn't think of this until now) Did I mention that I park in the tow away zone forcing my ass to be at work on time? Oh, the irony pissing on me from the Parking God!
I went outside in the rain, knowing my ass was completely shut out of the building. Thank God I had my umbrella - San Francisco winter weather was in full swing that morning. What else could make this morning shittier? Keep reading. While running to Oak Street, I was preparing, in my head, a plea for my case with the intention of coercing the parking ticketer person to give me a break. I really thought my circumstances would gain enough sympathy thereby preventing the towing of my car and a ticket. I mean come on - think of the karma that would eventually bite this parking ticketer person in the ass - not to mention, their conscience being haunted from knowing that they contributed to a sweet girl's having a really bad fucking day AND the depletion of the meager funds in her puddle of a bank account. I got to Oak Street and saw the parking ticketer's vehicle resting along side the road. It looked like a covered, cartoon-like, mini-police motorcycle. The parking clock was ticking. Soon it would chime its alarm, signaling the demon tow trucks to cause a really bad fucking day for probably several nice and well-intentioned people, like myself. I ran up to the blue and white bubble on wheels, and Ms. Parking Ticketer opens her window - I can feel the heat eminating from inside the bubble - she takes a good look at me with her eyes checking me out from head to toe. She stares at my Adidas flip-flopped feet and exclaims, "Girl, you got only one sock on!" The other one was most likely snuggled between the nice, warm, dry sheets tucked in my bed. Good - that adds to my pitiful situation. I explain to her what transpired this morning, leaving out the turkey gobble part. In hindsight, maybe telling her about invisible aliens would have contributed to my cause - nobody likes to piss off a crazy person. I could tell from looking into her eyes, a bit of compassion was brewing underneath her warm, puffy, probably down-filled, water proof jacket. I, on the other hand, stood there - freezing with no coat, hair and teeth unbrushed, holding a dripping umbrella, and in disheveled clothes that the Salvation Army wouldn't even accept - tyring to keep calm. She was thinking, tapping her long purple finger nails on the petite steering wheel. She asked if there was anyone I could call. Well, there's my roommate, but I don't have a phone. Ms. Parking Ticketer reached inside her puffy jacket and took out her cell phone, offering it to me. Man, parking ticketer persons really do have hearts beneath their down-filled, city government issued jackets. I thanked her like I was a starving Ethopian child in the 1980's when given a small bowl of mush. I called Jen - no answer - in fact, there wasn't even a ring; the call went straight to her voicemail. Fuck!! She's sleeping, and Rob's house is a good 2 miles away - not happening. Ms. Parking Ticketer (I later found out that her initials are A.D. which were printed on the rain-soaked parking ticket stuck beneath my windshield wipers) radioed her supervisor to see what options were available - pretty much none. My car would be a road hazard due to its being parked in a lane that soon would open up to traffic. Fuck again!! So I asked A.D. what she thought of my begging the tow truck driver to cut me some slack. She shook her head, "Honey, they make money off towing cars." They make money off of causing a really bad fucking day for nice, community-contributing people, like myself. For a minute there, I thought of bribing the tow truck driver by flashing him my breasts - it worked for a taxi cab driver once.
I thanked A.D. for her kindness and walked away wondering if I would still get a parking ticket on top of the towing fees I would soon have to pay. You dawggone it betcha! Turning from Masonic onto Oak, I saw the tow trucks coming. I kept on - I didn't want to see the horror; I wouldn't be able to stomach the demons sinking their claws into my very dirty but reliable Jetta. I walked to the corner coffee shop, and I explained to the English girl, behind the counter, my whole morning, leaving out the turkey gobble part. She allowed me to use the phone, and I think she even offered me coffee, or maybe I hoped she would (I was craving any kind of affection at that point) - but I wouldn't have accepted it - drinking coffee leads to the merciless need for the comfort of a toilet - pronto. Called twice - again, no Jen. What to do? I walked back to the apartment building and sat on the stoop, waiting for her to come home. My newspaper was there, so I, at least, had something to occupy my mind. I flipped through the paper to find my horoscope - maybe it would give me insight on how to manipulate the cosmos into somehow turning back time. But I'll be goddamned - someone stole the fucking entertainment section; why would they go through the trouble of just taking the entertainment section and not the whole damned paper? I sat around for a while, then it dawned on me that Rob had a land line, but I didn't know his phone number off the top of my head. But!!! Kerry and Becca, who live 3 blocks away, had his number. I ran over to their place - thank God Kerry was there - 10 more minutes and she would have been out the door. Becca ended up hooking up with a guy the night before - there's no way she would have answered the door, that's if she even made it home. Kerry gave me Rob's home number, and I got the answering machine. I left a long desperate message, hoping to awake one of the boys in the household. No luck. I called again, got the answering machine - left another message. I knew if I kept calling, someone would eventually answer the phone. Upon the advent of cell phones and their ever decreasing rates, I saw no use in also having a land line. But the boys at 5th and Fulton are stubborn - technologically, they are still in the '80s. They don't believe in being accessible 24 hours a day - so no cell phones, have they - they're artists... After this morning, my opinion of land lines somersaulted to a complete 180; never again would I question their importance in the home. Finally, on the fourth ring, Jen answers the phone in a panic - one of the roommates woke her up, telling her that I was in trouble. I explained my situation for the fourth time that morning, of course, leaving out the turkey gobble part. She was on her way to my rescue.
When Jen arrived home, the rain had stopped, and she blessed me with a sympathetic smile that a mother gives her daughter after having just skinned her knee. We both showered and got ready for our respective work days. Jen was wonderful; before giving me a ride to the city car impoundment dungeon, she made smoothies.
After shelling out $170 big ones and peeling a $50 parking ticket off my car windshield (thanks A.D.), I arrived at work around 10:30 (did I mention that I park in the early AM tow away zone in order to get my lazy ass to work on time?). By the time I informed everyone of my morning resembling a scene out of a sitcom, it was around 11:00. At noon, my officemates and I were going to watch "The Apprentice" previously shown the night before. We have a couple of betting pools based on the outcomes of this show. So we like to watch it together the next day during lunchtime, on the basis that no one watched it the night before. With only one hour before noon, I didn't feel that I could get the work wheels turning in my brain without probably having to redo it all over again after the noon time showing. So... I started to write this entry. I learned two lessons based on this morning's events - don't lock the apartment door and don't succomb to the dumb ass idea of parking in an early morning tow away zone in hopes of getting to work on time. Oh and one more thing, it's time to start sleeping in pajamas instead of in the nude.
I've had an exhausting week from working a ton - one night I worked until 1 AM. So last night, sleep settled in like dust on a country road. Around 1:30 in the AM, I'm awoken by a sound that I can only describe as a turkey being choked to death. This sound was coming from right outside my door - the same door I was happy, absolutely delighted, to leave open for the freedom of my cat's movement. The sound wasn't human, at least I didn't think such. But I was groggy - I had no idea if this was some kind of scare tactic an intruder was using to catch me off guard; or if it was possibly an injured animal who had found its way into the apartment through a forgotten open window - an animal soo injured that it may attack if you came near it. OR and potentially even worse - it maybe an alien. Memories of the movie, Signs, were creeping in - it's possible that an alien nation has decided to attack Mother Earth, and here they are talking in their turkey language with no warning from NASA. Can you imagine the sheer trauma caused by any one of these events? All of this running through my mind in less than one minute. And then a sinking feeling swept over me like a school girl's blush, I knew I had left the apartment door unlocked - Jen and I have developed this bad habit, because the building door automatically locks shut, providing us with an illusion of safety.
I had my cell phone right by me; there are a number of people I could have called, but I was afriad to make a sound and the liklihood of this turkey gobbling noise being any three of the above scenarios was a bet that a half-wit woudn't even make - the potential humiliation and razzing from my friends just wasn't worth it. The noise was incessant too - it continued for a good two minutes with a rhythm that had none. I was petrified in my bed, and Oscar, who decided to sleep with me last night, was sitting stiffly, perched in the direction of the noise - his hair semi-standing on end. The noise stopped abruptly...and then total silence. To make matters worse, I sleep in the nude - I didn't want to make any noise by putting on clothes, but at the same time, what if that retched noise is a perp? Oddly enough, my mind started to wonder onto other situations, where sleeping in the nude may cause some issues. If there was a perp and he decided to hold me hostage with a gun to my head, standing in front of a window facing out onto the street, so that the cops with their cop cars surrounding the building could see that he was serious in causing me harm, if he didn't get the 10 million dollars he was demanding - well, how fucking embarassing would that be? My exposed body would be displayed all over the local news stations. Or what if there was an earthquake or fire, where immediate evacuation was required? I remember seeing footage of a girl clinging to the branches of a tree to keep from falling into rapidly moving waters that had flooded the area. She was rescued by a helicopter with a dangling ladder, and as it took off with her in tow, the torrential winds blew her skirt up, exposing her wet, white britches to the whole world. Sure, she was probably just thinking of how fucking lucky she was to be alive. But goddamn - a good portion of the United States got to see her stuff. Don't call me shallow. You know when you've fallen in front of a lot of people, almost breaking your neck, that embarassment is the third emotion to take hold - fear being the first and relief being the second.
I sat in bed for a little longer trying to decide on the most feasible and least risky maneuver. With my thoughts as collected as they could be, I decided the noise was probably a bird or racoon that was badly injured and maybe even rabid with rabies and lice and stuff. Tonight I didn't feel like dealing with hours of catching a crazy animal in the dark all by myself - the morning would be a better time - a procrastinator I will always be. So shutting the door seemed to me to be the best option. Given that the animal could possibly fly or run at me, my movements should be quick like the flick of a lizard's tongue. I told Oscar to stay put - he was still staring in the direction of the door. Getting to the door isn't as easy as it may seem - I keep my room in total disorder - I'm not proud; it's just the way it is (see "Total Messes"). I have piles of CD's, that I'm intending to organize, scattered in their respective genres on the floor. They posed as the biggest hurdles, but in probably five shakes of a lamb's tail I made it to the door and slammed it shut. After my Florence Griffith show, I settled back into bed with Oscar. We both stared at the door - no noise - no turkey gobbling... A dust of sleep fell lazily over the ragged and trodden tracks traveled in my head, the tracks ragged and trodden by travel, the traveled tracks - ragged and trodden...
Thirty minutes later, a loud sound outside my window awakens me yet again - God Damnit!! I'm exhausted and way tired of being freaked out. I look out my window from the third floor and see a man with a garden hose in the courtyard down below. He's apparently and noisily watering the one tree growing out of the concrete patio - an urban forest, if you will (I hate it when people say "if you will" - if I will what? Suspend disbelief? Allow you to bore the crap out of me?...) Anyway, watering this late at night? Jesus... But who knows? There may be a water main break and all of the tenants will need to evacuate and he's using the hose to... I don't know, but to be sure that all is kosher, as well as to tell him to stick that hose up his ass, I must open my bedroom door and go out on the back patio. Well, opening the bedroom door would potentially expose me to a rabid animal/alien or possibly a murderer with an axe. I grab my umbrella for protection, swing open the door, scream out that I'm not going to take shit from anyone and run through the apartment checking all the closets and under every object that hovers close to the floor. It's clear - none of the three options are present... unless the aliens are invisible.
I was so relieved in not finding any strange creature in my apartment that I forgot to care about what the guy outside was doing with the garden hose. Since I was wide awake, I sat down in the front room for a smoke break to calm my nerves. I was smiling at Oscar realizing that his true color was yellow - he didn't come out of my room until all the lights were on - when suddenly, I heard the noise for a second time. It was coming out of the bathroom - I checked in there already!! Are there really invisible aliens? I bravely sneaked over to the hallway, got down on my hands and knees, crawled over to the bathroom doorway and peeked in. The choked turkey noise was coming from the bathtub drain!! I immediately recalled that Jen mentioned something about the rental company turning off the water earlier that day. So I start putting two and two together, then four and four... when I finally get to 128 I realize that asshole watering the urban forest was causing this horrid noise; well, mind you, this building is probably around 80 to 100 years old and I'm guessing the plumbing is only a couple of decades younger - plumbing that old probably can't take starting and stopping and then starting back up again without making some type of frustrated noise... hmmm, this may be the case for many types of plumbing. Anyway, regardless of the age of the plumbing, that dipshit scared me like I've never been scared before - I was scared enough to vow that if I lived through the night, I would never leave the apartment door unlocked. So out on the back patio I go, where the urban gardner and I exchanged a few obscenities regarding his nightly botanical exploits, after which I went to bed miffed as all Hell and utterly exhausted.
Finally the story of my shitty morning... I live in the City and work in the East Bay - it's opposite commuting, but it still takes me a good 45 minutes to get to my office - that's if I leave at the right time. To ensure, that I do leave at the right time, I park in the 7:00 AM tow away zone along Oak Street. I thought this was really clever a long time ago - it forces me to quit using the snooze button; I get to work on time; and not to mention, that the early AM tow away parking is all that's available by the time I get home. As the months have gone by, my snooze button usage has actually increased, and I have developed this habit of getting out of bed 10 minutes before 7, throwing on whatever clothes are laying on the floor, rushing out the door to get my car, and then parking it at one of the street corners in front of my building; at which point, I turn the hazard lights on to inform any parking nazis that I will be coming to remove it from its illegal position soon. I then run up to my apartment and hurriedly get ready for work. This morning was no exception. I slept through my alarm, probably hitting the snooze button more than twice - no big surprise there - but still managed to get up at 6:45. Phew, plenty of time to get my car out of the tow zone. I was soooo tired to the infinity power. My body was heavy and moving slowly like a mafia victim wearing concrete shoes submerged beneath the nearest body of water. Last night took a horrendous dent into my beauty sleep, as well as my cognitive awareness. I pulled on my jeans that I seriously should only wear while painting and a sweater that I stole from my dad when I was sixteen. I slipped my feet into my oversized flip flops and trudged out of the apartment. While I was shutting the door, I remembered the horrors that crossed my mind very early that morning, and how I had promised myself to lock the apartment door from now on. So like a good girl, I did just that. Running down the stairs I stopped midway and realized that my silly self had forgotten her keys. I trotted back up the steps, got to the door, and...
This isn't FUCKING happening!! This isn't FUCKING happening!!! FUCK!!! This is really happening! My brain scattered like pieces of a completed puzzle that accidently was knocked down from a card table. I gathered the pieces the best I could, but the picture, once two Golden Retriever puppies, now exhibited their tails hanging from their mouths and their tongues wagging from their behinds. The reality of my dire situation permeated through the particles of my body, and complete panic now surrounded every cell. Shit... There's a window in the hallway (it, actually, was unlocked) that opens to the outside stairwell descending to the courtyard. Climbing through this window, I can access the back door of our apartment. Maybe I left that door unlocked when I went out to yell at the guy with the garden hose?... I knew I locked it - the possibility of an intruder last night ensured it, but just maybe... I had to try it. Fuck! It's locked. What to do? My car was going to be towed in 5 minutes. My car keys - all of my keys - are inside my locked apartment. It's funny how my last name is Locke (I didn't think of this until now) Did I mention that I park in the tow away zone forcing my ass to be at work on time? Oh, the irony pissing on me from the Parking God!
I went outside in the rain, knowing my ass was completely shut out of the building. Thank God I had my umbrella - San Francisco winter weather was in full swing that morning. What else could make this morning shittier? Keep reading. While running to Oak Street, I was preparing, in my head, a plea for my case with the intention of coercing the parking ticketer person to give me a break. I really thought my circumstances would gain enough sympathy thereby preventing the towing of my car and a ticket. I mean come on - think of the karma that would eventually bite this parking ticketer person in the ass - not to mention, their conscience being haunted from knowing that they contributed to a sweet girl's having a really bad fucking day AND the depletion of the meager funds in her puddle of a bank account. I got to Oak Street and saw the parking ticketer's vehicle resting along side the road. It looked like a covered, cartoon-like, mini-police motorcycle. The parking clock was ticking. Soon it would chime its alarm, signaling the demon tow trucks to cause a really bad fucking day for probably several nice and well-intentioned people, like myself. I ran up to the blue and white bubble on wheels, and Ms. Parking Ticketer opens her window - I can feel the heat eminating from inside the bubble - she takes a good look at me with her eyes checking me out from head to toe. She stares at my Adidas flip-flopped feet and exclaims, "Girl, you got only one sock on!" The other one was most likely snuggled between the nice, warm, dry sheets tucked in my bed. Good - that adds to my pitiful situation. I explain to her what transpired this morning, leaving out the turkey gobble part. In hindsight, maybe telling her about invisible aliens would have contributed to my cause - nobody likes to piss off a crazy person. I could tell from looking into her eyes, a bit of compassion was brewing underneath her warm, puffy, probably down-filled, water proof jacket. I, on the other hand, stood there - freezing with no coat, hair and teeth unbrushed, holding a dripping umbrella, and in disheveled clothes that the Salvation Army wouldn't even accept - tyring to keep calm. She was thinking, tapping her long purple finger nails on the petite steering wheel. She asked if there was anyone I could call. Well, there's my roommate, but I don't have a phone. Ms. Parking Ticketer reached inside her puffy jacket and took out her cell phone, offering it to me. Man, parking ticketer persons really do have hearts beneath their down-filled, city government issued jackets. I thanked her like I was a starving Ethopian child in the 1980's when given a small bowl of mush. I called Jen - no answer - in fact, there wasn't even a ring; the call went straight to her voicemail. Fuck!! She's sleeping, and Rob's house is a good 2 miles away - not happening. Ms. Parking Ticketer (I later found out that her initials are A.D. which were printed on the rain-soaked parking ticket stuck beneath my windshield wipers) radioed her supervisor to see what options were available - pretty much none. My car would be a road hazard due to its being parked in a lane that soon would open up to traffic. Fuck again!! So I asked A.D. what she thought of my begging the tow truck driver to cut me some slack. She shook her head, "Honey, they make money off towing cars." They make money off of causing a really bad fucking day for nice, community-contributing people, like myself. For a minute there, I thought of bribing the tow truck driver by flashing him my breasts - it worked for a taxi cab driver once.
I thanked A.D. for her kindness and walked away wondering if I would still get a parking ticket on top of the towing fees I would soon have to pay. You dawggone it betcha! Turning from Masonic onto Oak, I saw the tow trucks coming. I kept on - I didn't want to see the horror; I wouldn't be able to stomach the demons sinking their claws into my very dirty but reliable Jetta. I walked to the corner coffee shop, and I explained to the English girl, behind the counter, my whole morning, leaving out the turkey gobble part. She allowed me to use the phone, and I think she even offered me coffee, or maybe I hoped she would (I was craving any kind of affection at that point) - but I wouldn't have accepted it - drinking coffee leads to the merciless need for the comfort of a toilet - pronto. Called twice - again, no Jen. What to do? I walked back to the apartment building and sat on the stoop, waiting for her to come home. My newspaper was there, so I, at least, had something to occupy my mind. I flipped through the paper to find my horoscope - maybe it would give me insight on how to manipulate the cosmos into somehow turning back time. But I'll be goddamned - someone stole the fucking entertainment section; why would they go through the trouble of just taking the entertainment section and not the whole damned paper? I sat around for a while, then it dawned on me that Rob had a land line, but I didn't know his phone number off the top of my head. But!!! Kerry and Becca, who live 3 blocks away, had his number. I ran over to their place - thank God Kerry was there - 10 more minutes and she would have been out the door. Becca ended up hooking up with a guy the night before - there's no way she would have answered the door, that's if she even made it home. Kerry gave me Rob's home number, and I got the answering machine. I left a long desperate message, hoping to awake one of the boys in the household. No luck. I called again, got the answering machine - left another message. I knew if I kept calling, someone would eventually answer the phone. Upon the advent of cell phones and their ever decreasing rates, I saw no use in also having a land line. But the boys at 5th and Fulton are stubborn - technologically, they are still in the '80s. They don't believe in being accessible 24 hours a day - so no cell phones, have they - they're artists... After this morning, my opinion of land lines somersaulted to a complete 180; never again would I question their importance in the home. Finally, on the fourth ring, Jen answers the phone in a panic - one of the roommates woke her up, telling her that I was in trouble. I explained my situation for the fourth time that morning, of course, leaving out the turkey gobble part. She was on her way to my rescue.
When Jen arrived home, the rain had stopped, and she blessed me with a sympathetic smile that a mother gives her daughter after having just skinned her knee. We both showered and got ready for our respective work days. Jen was wonderful; before giving me a ride to the city car impoundment dungeon, she made smoothies.
After shelling out $170 big ones and peeling a $50 parking ticket off my car windshield (thanks A.D.), I arrived at work around 10:30 (did I mention that I park in the early AM tow away zone in order to get my lazy ass to work on time?). By the time I informed everyone of my morning resembling a scene out of a sitcom, it was around 11:00. At noon, my officemates and I were going to watch "The Apprentice" previously shown the night before. We have a couple of betting pools based on the outcomes of this show. So we like to watch it together the next day during lunchtime, on the basis that no one watched it the night before. With only one hour before noon, I didn't feel that I could get the work wheels turning in my brain without probably having to redo it all over again after the noon time showing. So... I started to write this entry. I learned two lessons based on this morning's events - don't lock the apartment door and don't succomb to the dumb ass idea of parking in an early morning tow away zone in hopes of getting to work on time. Oh and one more thing, it's time to start sleeping in pajamas instead of in the nude.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Birthday Cards for Coworkers
Every time it's close to someone's birthday around here the department finds it necessary to send around some bogus birthday card in a "secret" manila folder for everyone to sign (when I was a kid I used to think it was "vanilla". I couldn't figure out the connection between "vanilla" and a folder that has a nice tab on the side - a tab that gives the folder an identity. How absolutely orderly and comforting! I finally settled on the theory that it had something to do with the color of the folder - you can imagine how confused I was when "vanilla" folders came out in various colors.) Within the "secret" manila folder is not only the bogus birthday card but also a sheet of paper with everyone's names (except, of course, the special birthday boy/girl) and a check-mark box indicating whether you have signed the card. This is to ensure that no one has been slighted or over looked. Lately the birthday cards have been some Ansel Adams type photo on the front and blank inside - you would never recognize this card as representing birthday greetings. I've concluded that they (admin support) bought a nice box of these cards to prevent one more outing to buy one card for just one more worker-bee in the office, which brings me to my point. What is the god damned point in giving a birthday card that everyone was forced to sign? There's nothing special about it; it's not genuine - the special birthday boy/girl knows everyone had to sign it for fear of being considered a party-pooper or spoiled-sport. It's just more paper work for people to fill out. To be honest, I could give a shit less if it's someone's birthday - I mean, sure, if I'm working with you and you tell me that today is your birthday, I'm more than happy to wish you a good one - if I like you, I may even ask what special plans you got going on for the day. But that's where it ends. Please don't expect me to come up with a nice little birthday idiom to write in this bogus birthday card - I get stressed - I feel I most say something original - something that is specific to you. It pains me to write down the same thing that's already been written by everyone else.
I've already made most aware that I do not wish to have a birthday card from the whole department - it's not necessary. In fact, the thought of reading all those birthday messages until nausea takes hold of my special birthday body, in hopes of finding something original, specific to me, distinguishable from the others, makes me cringe. I think they're going to give me a birthday card anyway for fear of starting a precedent. Which then spawns another dilemma - what do I do with that damned card? Do I tack it up to my bulletin board in my office showing my "appreciation"? Or can I just throw the damn thing into the recycling trash can?
I've already made most aware that I do not wish to have a birthday card from the whole department - it's not necessary. In fact, the thought of reading all those birthday messages until nausea takes hold of my special birthday body, in hopes of finding something original, specific to me, distinguishable from the others, makes me cringe. I think they're going to give me a birthday card anyway for fear of starting a precedent. Which then spawns another dilemma - what do I do with that damned card? Do I tack it up to my bulletin board in my office showing my "appreciation"? Or can I just throw the damn thing into the recycling trash can?
Sigh
I've been pretty excited about this whole weblog thing - the way I got turned onto it is an interesting story, but let's not get into that for right now. My closest friends are aware that I'm becoming a geek and getting into this on-line journal phenomenon. I've been telling them about my websites: photoblog and weblog (I've had to go into more detail than I've wanted in trying to explain the differences between the two). So last night I was reading some of my entries to my roommate (soul sister) Jen. She's not used to reading my stuff - she's not a part of the friends who I email daily - those of us half-wits who sit at work all day in front of the computer. As I was reading some of my entries off the computer screen, Jen's facial expression had the look of bordeom mixed with just having eaten bad sushi. I became embarassed; I started skipping over sentences - ones that I realized were irrelevant. But then I skipped over so many sentences that the whole entry became irrelevant. What I thought was clever and funny became nonsensical and school-girlish.
If you want an honest opinion about your writing, read it to a friend and watch their facial expressions - it tells you loads. If they start to walk into other rooms of your apartment while you're reading your stuff, that's another good indicator that maybe you need to do some major editing. Thanks to Jen's facial expressions, I now have a new-found disappointment for my writing ability. I'm not upset - I've been grounded. Besides, she likes this painting of an alien doing yoga.
If you want an honest opinion about your writing, read it to a friend and watch their facial expressions - it tells you loads. If they start to walk into other rooms of your apartment while you're reading your stuff, that's another good indicator that maybe you need to do some major editing. Thanks to Jen's facial expressions, I now have a new-found disappointment for my writing ability. I'm not upset - I've been grounded. Besides, she likes this painting of an alien doing yoga.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
50 Cent, yo!
I was listening to Howard Stern this morning - he had the rapper 50 Cent on. I've heard the name but that's it. From the sound of him, he's not a very dynamic kinda guy - maybe it was too early in the morning for him. Anyway, the deal is that he was dating Vivica A. Fox (notice how when anybody says her name they always pronounce her middle initial - like there's another Vivica Fox out there and they don't want you to confuse her with Vivica B. Fox. I want to be called Carrie E. Locke from now on, because there are a couple of Carrie Lockes in the UK and I don't want to be mistaken for them. They're older and I don't want people to think I'm in my early 30's yet). Howard labeled it as the "Demi and Ashton" move. Doesn't look like they're dating anymore though - 50 Cent felt like Vivica A. Fox was using him for the publicity, so he flat out stopped calling her. He shoulda bust a cap in that ass, ya know what I'm sayin'?!
Anyway, so I was wondering what 50 Cent looks like, so I tapped into his website. He's a pretty good looking guy - and the photos make him look like a real bad ass, compared to the honky asses around here - you dig? The classic shots were all there:
- 50 Cent sporting a bullet proff vest on which rests a big-fat gold cross dangling from a heavy linked chain of gold - you know, Jesus, and all that sheeit!
- 50 Cent with his pimped-out posse in the background - pin-striped suits, feathered hats, brightly colored coats, and gold teeth amuck
- 50 Cent with the tops of panty hose on his head - Q-size (he's got a big head, yo!!)
- 50 Cent pointing a .9mm at the camara (three day waiting period? Not in the 'hood, mo' fo!!)
- 50 Cent with his shirt off, showing his tatooed and, I dare say, very chiseled body, with at least three inches of Calvin Klein underwear peeking out from the top of his low-hanging pants, standing behind shatter-proof glass inflicted with a bullet hole
- 50 Cent looking down at the camara with his arm protruding out to show off a wadful of cash in ring-littered fingers - imagine the bling, bling in those rings, rings!
- The midriff of 50 Cent (did I say chiseled? Meow!) standing in front of a nice mahogany desk cluttered with what appears to be very important documents, several stacks of dollar bills scattered across the surface - some placed on top of a fax machine - a high ball containing an amber colored liquid, and a few more .9 mm's
- Finally a close-up showing every pore in his face, while displaying a clenched jaw and pursed lips, eyes gleaming into the camara as if to say in a rapid way with a tone of threat "Whachu you lookin' at, motha fucka?" which creates kind of a paradox, doesn't it? - getting your picture taken on purpose while displaying a look that basically says "mind your own fuckin' business, biotch".
I wonder what that photo shoot was like - I mean, did he have to bring all of his props with him or did they make sure to have all the necessary artillery there? Did they have a changing room where all his different outfits were laid out, each with at least a pound of jewelry accompanying it? Can you imagine the dumbass white kid, the assistant to the photographer, helping 50 Cent change into his next outfit - the bullet proof vest? This whole scene is hilarious to me.
Anyway, I read his bio - I won't get into the details of his sad childhood and growing up in a drug infested neighborhood and all. In 1999, some album of his was produced by Columbia records and it pissed off a lot of rappers - JZ, Smelly Fingas, etc. Get this, the guy was standing outside his grandma's house and was shot 9 times - once in the face. Now I looked at his photographs in great detail, as you can probably tell from my description. In absolutely no way could I tell that the guy had been shot in the face. No scar, no crazy disfigurement that you would expect from a gun shot wound to the face - although, he doesn't show his teeth in any of the pictures - maybe his teeth were affected in some way. Or maybe the damage is on the forehead - his forehead is never shown in any of the pictures - he's always wearing a panty hose top that's pulled very close to his eyebrows. Anyway, at least he's truly representin', you dig? Growin' up in the 'hood and all.
Forgot my whole point in the last email. So no scar or nothing on 50 Cent's face. This gives me hope about my zit infested chin. I'm dropping the pill because of the side effects - the only good one being the growth of my boobs. I'm worried that all these zits will cause some pretty bad scarring, which wouldn't be sooo horrible if the love of my life and I were together forever, swimming in the ecstasy of our union where nothing like slight alterations in our appearance would affect the magic between us. But this isn't the case, so I need to hang on to what little I got before capturing the unlucky sonofabitch who falls into my trap. 50 Cent has given me hope, yo.
Anyway, so I was wondering what 50 Cent looks like, so I tapped into his website. He's a pretty good looking guy - and the photos make him look like a real bad ass, compared to the honky asses around here - you dig? The classic shots were all there:
- 50 Cent sporting a bullet proff vest on which rests a big-fat gold cross dangling from a heavy linked chain of gold - you know, Jesus, and all that sheeit!
- 50 Cent with his pimped-out posse in the background - pin-striped suits, feathered hats, brightly colored coats, and gold teeth amuck
- 50 Cent with the tops of panty hose on his head - Q-size (he's got a big head, yo!!)
- 50 Cent pointing a .9mm at the camara (three day waiting period? Not in the 'hood, mo' fo!!)
- 50 Cent with his shirt off, showing his tatooed and, I dare say, very chiseled body, with at least three inches of Calvin Klein underwear peeking out from the top of his low-hanging pants, standing behind shatter-proof glass inflicted with a bullet hole
- 50 Cent looking down at the camara with his arm protruding out to show off a wadful of cash in ring-littered fingers - imagine the bling, bling in those rings, rings!
- The midriff of 50 Cent (did I say chiseled? Meow!) standing in front of a nice mahogany desk cluttered with what appears to be very important documents, several stacks of dollar bills scattered across the surface - some placed on top of a fax machine - a high ball containing an amber colored liquid, and a few more .9 mm's
- Finally a close-up showing every pore in his face, while displaying a clenched jaw and pursed lips, eyes gleaming into the camara as if to say in a rapid way with a tone of threat "Whachu you lookin' at, motha fucka?" which creates kind of a paradox, doesn't it? - getting your picture taken on purpose while displaying a look that basically says "mind your own fuckin' business, biotch".
I wonder what that photo shoot was like - I mean, did he have to bring all of his props with him or did they make sure to have all the necessary artillery there? Did they have a changing room where all his different outfits were laid out, each with at least a pound of jewelry accompanying it? Can you imagine the dumbass white kid, the assistant to the photographer, helping 50 Cent change into his next outfit - the bullet proof vest? This whole scene is hilarious to me.
Anyway, I read his bio - I won't get into the details of his sad childhood and growing up in a drug infested neighborhood and all. In 1999, some album of his was produced by Columbia records and it pissed off a lot of rappers - JZ, Smelly Fingas, etc. Get this, the guy was standing outside his grandma's house and was shot 9 times - once in the face. Now I looked at his photographs in great detail, as you can probably tell from my description. In absolutely no way could I tell that the guy had been shot in the face. No scar, no crazy disfigurement that you would expect from a gun shot wound to the face - although, he doesn't show his teeth in any of the pictures - maybe his teeth were affected in some way. Or maybe the damage is on the forehead - his forehead is never shown in any of the pictures - he's always wearing a panty hose top that's pulled very close to his eyebrows. Anyway, at least he's truly representin', you dig? Growin' up in the 'hood and all.
Forgot my whole point in the last email. So no scar or nothing on 50 Cent's face. This gives me hope about my zit infested chin. I'm dropping the pill because of the side effects - the only good one being the growth of my boobs. I'm worried that all these zits will cause some pretty bad scarring, which wouldn't be sooo horrible if the love of my life and I were together forever, swimming in the ecstasy of our union where nothing like slight alterations in our appearance would affect the magic between us. But this isn't the case, so I need to hang on to what little I got before capturing the unlucky sonofabitch who falls into my trap. 50 Cent has given me hope, yo.
Friday, January 23, 2004
Total Messes
Yeah, well I have these moments in my life, actually maybe I shouldn't say moments, because it does seem that the majority of my existence (as we all know it) is in a state of messiness - not moments of messiness, but a timeline filled with messiness with an occasional blip of order. Other people, like my roommate Jen, have moments of messiness - I envy her. If only I had the motivation to be a little more orderly and a little more put together, life would be less stressful and a little more lubed up - not so much friction and snags. My best friend, Dawn, never has messy moments - her style might be considered on the level of OCD, if it weren't for the fact that she's so cool. If you're a nerd and are as organized as Dawn and have the tendency, like Dawn, to not sit still because there's always something that needs to be done, clothes to fold, pictures to arrange in an album, etc., then you would probably be labeled as having OCD. Maybe OCD is overly used - I bet psychologists are getting a little worried that OCD is becoming a common description for anal people. It's probably a term that should be affiliated with only those who have severe problems with messiness - or is it problems with severe tidiness? Yen and Yang - particle and waves - black and white - hairy and bald.... You know the people I'm talking about - the ones who would blow someone's head off for moving the coffee table book an inch too far to the right, possibly sparking an imbalance in the cosmos.
Yeah, so I actually have moments of tidiness. Tidiness: bills are all paid and I have a budget all set out for the next month; my bed is made, all the clothes are folded or hung, and there's only a few articles of clothing in the laundry bag; my CD's are in order by genre and then alphabetized by artist and then in order of release dates; every little piece of paper whose origin is from the mail or work and that may have some significance in the fiscal year has been filed or shredded; I called my parents for the week; the litter box is cleaned and let's go as far as having Oscar bathed; the floors have been mopped and even the blinds are dusted; I'm caught up at work and actually don't feel stressed to go in - I may even enjoy it. This is tidiness. I feel warm and fuzzy when in the presence of my own tidiness - if it were a color, I would call it white.
But... well, I guess there's a lot of upkeep involved with tidiness. I remember once when I was tidy for a month - it drove me fucking batty. I told myself that I was going to keep my life in this state of tidiness - "I'm not going back, damn it. I'm gonna bust balls to keep my life in this pristine state of tidiness." I'd get home from work - the mail needed to be filed away immediately - that's not sooo hard, but my work clothes needed to be hung back up, and maybe I needed to make my lunch for the next day, and was it time to do laundry, what about making sure I was staying on track with my budget - I mean I did go out for lunch today, and not to mention that Oscar's litter box needs to be cleaned, and I need to make sure that I have enough time before getting 8 hours of sleep that I brush my teeth and floss and perform my anti-aging routine. It seemed like a lot of my time was spent in keeping life orderly. Maybe I should get lessons from Dawn.
Yeah, so I actually have moments of tidiness. Tidiness: bills are all paid and I have a budget all set out for the next month; my bed is made, all the clothes are folded or hung, and there's only a few articles of clothing in the laundry bag; my CD's are in order by genre and then alphabetized by artist and then in order of release dates; every little piece of paper whose origin is from the mail or work and that may have some significance in the fiscal year has been filed or shredded; I called my parents for the week; the litter box is cleaned and let's go as far as having Oscar bathed; the floors have been mopped and even the blinds are dusted; I'm caught up at work and actually don't feel stressed to go in - I may even enjoy it. This is tidiness. I feel warm and fuzzy when in the presence of my own tidiness - if it were a color, I would call it white.
But... well, I guess there's a lot of upkeep involved with tidiness. I remember once when I was tidy for a month - it drove me fucking batty. I told myself that I was going to keep my life in this state of tidiness - "I'm not going back, damn it. I'm gonna bust balls to keep my life in this pristine state of tidiness." I'd get home from work - the mail needed to be filed away immediately - that's not sooo hard, but my work clothes needed to be hung back up, and maybe I needed to make my lunch for the next day, and was it time to do laundry, what about making sure I was staying on track with my budget - I mean I did go out for lunch today, and not to mention that Oscar's litter box needs to be cleaned, and I need to make sure that I have enough time before getting 8 hours of sleep that I brush my teeth and floss and perform my anti-aging routine. It seemed like a lot of my time was spent in keeping life orderly. Maybe I should get lessons from Dawn.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Croissant
I just finished a croissant. I have to admit - I love French food; I don't like having it that often. I like to keep it as a fine delicacy. Why is admitting to liking French food something you have to admit to? Because I'm not too sure I'm fond of French people. Well, of course, I haven't met that many French people. It's just a feeling I have. Or maybe it's just the French women... I went out with a French dude once. I finally acquiesced and kissed him after his numerous advances. Boy, that opened up the flood gates - he started going in for the kill - I practically had to beat him off (don't get nasty). He was nice enough, but he couldn't speak english very well - my sense of humor was lost on him.
I just finished a croissant. I have to admit - I love French food; I don't like having it that often. I like to keep it as a fine delicacy. Why is admitting to liking French food something you have to admit to? Because I'm not too sure I'm fond of French people. Well, of course, I haven't met that many French people. It's just a feeling I have. Or maybe it's just the French women... I went out with a French dude once. I finally acquiesced and kissed him after his numerous advances. Boy, that opened up the flood gates - he started going in for the kill - I practically had to beat him off (don't get nasty). He was nice enough, but he couldn't speak english very well - my sense of humor was lost on him.
