Remember Choose Your Own Adventure books? When I was in elementary school my library had a few of them. I was very into them for a while. But when I read them, I cheated. I’d pick an option and look ahead to see what happened, while I left my pinky marking the spot (who didn’t do this). Because if I fell from a cliff and died or walked right into a trap, I obviously didn’t want to go that way. The goal was to stay alive and finish the adventure. There was a proper ending to all these adventures. There was only one way to go, but hundreds of different ways to go. I think all but the right one turned into a bad thing like slavery or being eaten alive by a giant praying mantis or something.
Last night I finished this book called Parasite Pig by William Sleator. If any of you have read Interstellar Pig, then you will definitely want to know about Parasite Pig, because it’s the sequel. I read Interstellar Pig when I was in junior high. Yes, it’s young adult science fiction. So is the sequel. But that doesn’t matter. William Sleator is an excellent author and if you have kids or are a kid, you want to get his books. They turned me onto theoretical physics and science in a way nothing else had. My honest opinion is that Parasite Pig isn’t as great as its prequel. Probably because of the rather gruesome way he depicts the scene of two girls being grilled alive by human-eating crabs from the planet J’koot.
But don’t let that turn you off. It’s still good.
So the human characters are trapped on this planet with few options for escape. The aliens who could help the humans escape also want to use them for diabolical purposes and then kill them. I’ll give it away and tell you that the humans get off the planet without being eaten by the crabs. They return to earth and life goes on as normal. But the feeling I had when I finished it was . . . desolate. The way I felt after seeing the movie 12 Monkeys when I was 17 (I might have missed something, I don’t know. I haven’t seen it since). I hate that feeling. I think I’ll do anything to avoid it and if I have the hunch that something’s going to make me feel that way, I’ll say to hell with it and walk away. That desolate feeling is also how I felt after choosing the wrong route in Choose Your Own Adventure books. I think it’s why I gave them up.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I guess I’m just annoyed that even though the humans made it home, I didn’t feel resolved and okay with life when I put the book down. I think Sleator dropped the ball and tried to sum up the human narrative side of things too quickly. It reminded me of a Choose Your Own Adventure. You should only feel that way when reading one of those. Not when you’re reading a real book. As we all know, Choose Your Own Adventures aren’t real books. They’re dumb. It’s a poor excuse for a book.
But at this point, I guess I’m reading just about anything. The weird thing is, I still miss Harry, Ron and Hermione. It’s like Rowling puts an addictive chemical in her books that make you crave them fortnightly….
Friday, August 05, 2005
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Best Experience in Phoenix Yet
I went searching for the local rock climbing gym, and after several wrong turns and slow-driving-in-manner-of-stalker, I found it. Actually, I had to call their number and get directions. Because honestly, like everything in the Phoenix area (from what I’ve seen of it, anyway), everything is a strip mall and no façade should be taken for granted. I mean, the rock climbing gym is hidden by the Quality Inn and completely lacks road-side signage (you like that eh? Yeah, it’s a term I learned from working in the advertising industry).
First I found a boxing gym and then I found the rock climbing gym. Turns out, I was actually looking for a boxing gym because I’d considered taking up boxing to get back in shape. That stint at the aforementioned advertising job gave me some stupid love-handles. Embarrassing. I mean it. When you finally graduate college and get a desk job, take my advice and change your eating habits. Otherwise, that 32 oz Coke you enjoy every morning (where some drink coffee, I drink Coke) will go straight to your hips and thighs. Sick. It’s just sick, that’s what it is.
I mention the rock climbing gym because it’s the most positive experience I’ve had since moving here. So far, the Phoenix area has been nothing but a bitch to me. I’m completely serious. I mean, some things have been good. The girl at Target yesterday was really sweet, and I was able (through the generosity of my mother), to buy the adorable bowls I wanted. But you can’t drive anywhere without it taking hours* because every block has a billion traffic lights and there’s absolutely no way to fortuitously hit every green light like I want to, sometimes you accidentally turn into the stupid mall parking lot because it has its own traffic lights, Barnes and Noble didn’t hire me (bastards. I suggest a boycott. Who’s with me?), and yesterday some jerk grunted at me as I was crossing the street and when I didn’t acknowledge him (I regretted not flipping him the bird, later. But maybe ignoring him was smart after all. Who knows.) laughed all evilly and I felt like the victim of a drive-by shooting.
But the rock climbing gym visit was a very positive experience. The people who worked there were all very nice and this chick named Jamie gave me four passes for $5 off climbing, just because we exchanged info about climbing stuff and chatted for a few minutes (and I bought a climbing magazine. But then she also gave me a bunch of copies of the past months for free, so it wasn’t just because I bought something, although I’m sure that helped). It was great. And the woman at the desk was also very nice. Seriously.
My best experience here so far. Hopefully Stoker and I can go back tomorrow to try out the facilities, tonight was just a visit to check it out. If we dig the gym, maybe we’ll get some long-term passes and I can skip the boxing stuff—that boxing gym was a little intimidating. Honestly. Big guys everywhere. AND big girls. Jumping rope with big biceps and stuff. And to be perfectly truthful, this isn’t Million Dollar Baby. My life, that is. If anything, it’s half-dollar baby. Stupid joke.
p.s. The cat came back. If you read Stoker’s blog, you know what I’m talking about. I think she likes me.
*Gross exaggeration.
First I found a boxing gym and then I found the rock climbing gym. Turns out, I was actually looking for a boxing gym because I’d considered taking up boxing to get back in shape. That stint at the aforementioned advertising job gave me some stupid love-handles. Embarrassing. I mean it. When you finally graduate college and get a desk job, take my advice and change your eating habits. Otherwise, that 32 oz Coke you enjoy every morning (where some drink coffee, I drink Coke) will go straight to your hips and thighs. Sick. It’s just sick, that’s what it is.
I mention the rock climbing gym because it’s the most positive experience I’ve had since moving here. So far, the Phoenix area has been nothing but a bitch to me. I’m completely serious. I mean, some things have been good. The girl at Target yesterday was really sweet, and I was able (through the generosity of my mother), to buy the adorable bowls I wanted. But you can’t drive anywhere without it taking hours* because every block has a billion traffic lights and there’s absolutely no way to fortuitously hit every green light like I want to, sometimes you accidentally turn into the stupid mall parking lot because it has its own traffic lights, Barnes and Noble didn’t hire me (bastards. I suggest a boycott. Who’s with me?), and yesterday some jerk grunted at me as I was crossing the street and when I didn’t acknowledge him (I regretted not flipping him the bird, later. But maybe ignoring him was smart after all. Who knows.) laughed all evilly and I felt like the victim of a drive-by shooting.
But the rock climbing gym visit was a very positive experience. The people who worked there were all very nice and this chick named Jamie gave me four passes for $5 off climbing, just because we exchanged info about climbing stuff and chatted for a few minutes (and I bought a climbing magazine. But then she also gave me a bunch of copies of the past months for free, so it wasn’t just because I bought something, although I’m sure that helped). It was great. And the woman at the desk was also very nice. Seriously.
My best experience here so far. Hopefully Stoker and I can go back tomorrow to try out the facilities, tonight was just a visit to check it out. If we dig the gym, maybe we’ll get some long-term passes and I can skip the boxing stuff—that boxing gym was a little intimidating. Honestly. Big guys everywhere. AND big girls. Jumping rope with big biceps and stuff. And to be perfectly truthful, this isn’t Million Dollar Baby. My life, that is. If anything, it’s half-dollar baby. Stupid joke.
p.s. The cat came back. If you read Stoker’s blog, you know what I’m talking about. I think she likes me.
*Gross exaggeration.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Bacon is Sexy, Like White-trash is Sexy
Tonight Stoker made bacon and so now I smell like bacon. Everything smells like bacon. I had to soap up the entire kitchen to get rid of the grease splatters. We’re burning a pumpkin spice candle to mask the bacon, but now it smells like a diner during October. We’re just missing the waitress with blue eye-shadow and big hair, chewing her gum obnoxiously. Yeah, that’s funny.
Honestly. We had to run to Target to get Stoker some binders for school (before we moved, I had several left over from school, but Stoker made me throw everything away except my books, cds and clothes—and at first he was uncertain about the clothes. We could have saved $5!) with all the fresh air, the bacon was very noticeable. It tailed us through the aisles and whenever I turned I ran into the smell and felt trashy and embarrassed. I was just waiting for someone to say, “Hey, you guys smell like bacon.” But is that so bad? Smelling like bacon? Stoker told me it’s better than smelling like garlic, which is correct, I loathe the smell of garlic. Allergic, you see.
New rule: no more bacon. At least, not cooked in our apartment. It’s impossible to open the door and windows here, to help air everything out, you know. With the doors open our apartment is like a vacuum for hot air. It only takes a few minutes for the entire place to be a sauna. You think I’m joking, but I’m not.
Yesterday I finished the new Harry Potter and so now I can get on with my life. I’m very upset about the ending, by the way. Rowling is treading on thin ice with me. I can’t believe the audacity of that woman. Why I oughta … But tonight, after I was done degreasing the kitchen, I realized I miss Harry, Ron and Hermione. I might have to start the series over just to feel like I have friends again. As you might have guessed, I left all mine behind in Utah.
This whole no friends thing is good for my relationship with Stoker. If we can weather the stress of a major move, a jobless two weeks (for me, anyway), and no family and friends to lend immediate support (in the way of physically being here), then we can weather anything. Right?
Honestly. We had to run to Target to get Stoker some binders for school (before we moved, I had several left over from school, but Stoker made me throw everything away except my books, cds and clothes—and at first he was uncertain about the clothes. We could have saved $5!) with all the fresh air, the bacon was very noticeable. It tailed us through the aisles and whenever I turned I ran into the smell and felt trashy and embarrassed. I was just waiting for someone to say, “Hey, you guys smell like bacon.” But is that so bad? Smelling like bacon? Stoker told me it’s better than smelling like garlic, which is correct, I loathe the smell of garlic. Allergic, you see.
New rule: no more bacon. At least, not cooked in our apartment. It’s impossible to open the door and windows here, to help air everything out, you know. With the doors open our apartment is like a vacuum for hot air. It only takes a few minutes for the entire place to be a sauna. You think I’m joking, but I’m not.
Yesterday I finished the new Harry Potter and so now I can get on with my life. I’m very upset about the ending, by the way. Rowling is treading on thin ice with me. I can’t believe the audacity of that woman. Why I oughta … But tonight, after I was done degreasing the kitchen, I realized I miss Harry, Ron and Hermione. I might have to start the series over just to feel like I have friends again. As you might have guessed, I left all mine behind in Utah.
This whole no friends thing is good for my relationship with Stoker. If we can weather the stress of a major move, a jobless two weeks (for me, anyway), and no family and friends to lend immediate support (in the way of physically being here), then we can weather anything. Right?
Friday, July 29, 2005
Sitting at Home, IS my Job
Finding a job is one of the more depressing things in life. It's demoralizing, humiliating and difficult. Difficult on the level of locating the proverbial needle in a haystack. What's more, is the trouble with deciding what you really want to do in your life. There are people in the world, ambitious people, who are born with the inherent knowledge that they want to be a doctor, a lawyer or an NBA star, (aren't all kids, at one point or another, going to be an NBA star? I was going to be the first female NBA player, but then I actually played team ball and hated the whole teamwork thing, especially when some jerk would set a pick and I'd run right into the damn thing) and I can't stand these people.
They see their goal like a distant, hazy tower. But it's there, you know, and they plow forward, toppling goals like they're sand castles on the beach. They make it look easy and you know they'll get there, leaving you behind in the process, staring at your hands and feet, sort of grunting, wondering what these limbs do, swinging them slightly, trying to get the hang of it so you, too, can topple sand castle-goals.
Anyway, that's me. Still trying to get the hang of my limbs. Still unsure of how to topple goals. To put it more accurately, trying to figure out which goals are the ones that will take me where I want to go. That's tough, because I have no idea where I really want to go. That's why I got my M.A. I didn't know what to do after I got my B.S. and so I thought, "Well, I like studying folklore . . . so I'll just stay on, here, and get my master's in folklore." Now that I have it, I have no idea what to do with the rest of it (get a PhD? Or gamble and finish my book first and become a hot-shot, rich author ala John Grisham and Danielle Steel? It's the quandary of the century).
But I should be glad I'm not an entertainer, or something. You know, a girl waiting to get her lucky break in Hollywood, willing to do most anything, clammering to be on the screen, to be in the limelight, to be noticed, please, just notice me. You might argue with me on that because I have a blog and I'm writing so you'll notice me. But it's different. I write this and you come to me.
In Hollywood, the producer or director sits in their little chair with one leg over his knee, drinking a latte and smirking at the crowds of hopeful, big stars. And you know all of them want to be a star, even the set guys, building things and the mic guys, holding boom mics and the key-grip guys, handling the lights. They all want to be stars. They're all hoping for some twist of fate, say a twisted ankle, yeah, the lead guy falls and twists his ankle. The director, on a whim tells key-grip Ted to do the lead guy's lines and since Ted has studied acting at such notable places as Riverdale High School, he completely wows the director. "Ted, you're in, Bill, with the sprained ankle, is out. Wow, what a lucky twist of fate, eh?" And Ted, who had his beginnings as a humble key-grip man, is on his way to being the next Brad Pitt (because it just so happens they're also all very handsome, the set workers and caterers). It's a beautiful story. Someone should make a movie out of it.
Most importantly, it's more depressing than my situation. Why is it more depressing? Because it's depressing to think of all those foolish people in Hollywood, desperate to be noticed. And then when one of them makes it, all the rest of us look at them with respect and awe. And that's depressing too. What have they done that's truly respectable? They've wanted to be noticed. They've wanted acclaim. It's like they never got past elementary school.
Well anyway. It's not that I don't like to watch movies, because I do and I have my favorite actresses and actors and directors and all that (Minnie Driver, John Cusack, Woody Allen, yes Woody Allen, don't argue with me). But while a part of me watches and loves it, another part of me looks on in revulsion and loathes it. I'm constantly torn. That's me, that's my entire life in a nutshell. Constantly torn. It makes for a difficult existence.
And that's why I'm dying without a job. A part of me likes the freedom and wants to simply write. Stay at home, write, take little coffee breaks to go watch the world go by at a coffee shop (but not for the coffee, for the entertainment of it all and to get ideas, you know), finish my book, try to make it as a freelancer (what a beautiful word: freelance. I think it's more beautiful than any other word, even the famed cellar door). But this other part of me, the frightened practical part is like, "Get out there. GET A JOB! Get benefits. Somethings going to happen, oh no oh no oh no! You've got to do something. You need money and benefits, the shit's going to hit the fan." It's a very frantic, scared voice. And I'm torn. And I'm humbled. And I don't even know what kind of job I want to have.
The good news is that Stoker got a job. He started yesterday. I'm quite sure I married the best man in the world. I'm not quite sure about his choice, however.
They see their goal like a distant, hazy tower. But it's there, you know, and they plow forward, toppling goals like they're sand castles on the beach. They make it look easy and you know they'll get there, leaving you behind in the process, staring at your hands and feet, sort of grunting, wondering what these limbs do, swinging them slightly, trying to get the hang of it so you, too, can topple sand castle-goals.
Anyway, that's me. Still trying to get the hang of my limbs. Still unsure of how to topple goals. To put it more accurately, trying to figure out which goals are the ones that will take me where I want to go. That's tough, because I have no idea where I really want to go. That's why I got my M.A. I didn't know what to do after I got my B.S. and so I thought, "Well, I like studying folklore . . . so I'll just stay on, here, and get my master's in folklore." Now that I have it, I have no idea what to do with the rest of it (get a PhD? Or gamble and finish my book first and become a hot-shot, rich author ala John Grisham and Danielle Steel? It's the quandary of the century).
But I should be glad I'm not an entertainer, or something. You know, a girl waiting to get her lucky break in Hollywood, willing to do most anything, clammering to be on the screen, to be in the limelight, to be noticed, please, just notice me. You might argue with me on that because I have a blog and I'm writing so you'll notice me. But it's different. I write this and you come to me.
In Hollywood, the producer or director sits in their little chair with one leg over his knee, drinking a latte and smirking at the crowds of hopeful, big stars. And you know all of them want to be a star, even the set guys, building things and the mic guys, holding boom mics and the key-grip guys, handling the lights. They all want to be stars. They're all hoping for some twist of fate, say a twisted ankle, yeah, the lead guy falls and twists his ankle. The director, on a whim tells key-grip Ted to do the lead guy's lines and since Ted has studied acting at such notable places as Riverdale High School, he completely wows the director. "Ted, you're in, Bill, with the sprained ankle, is out. Wow, what a lucky twist of fate, eh?" And Ted, who had his beginnings as a humble key-grip man, is on his way to being the next Brad Pitt (because it just so happens they're also all very handsome, the set workers and caterers). It's a beautiful story. Someone should make a movie out of it.
Most importantly, it's more depressing than my situation. Why is it more depressing? Because it's depressing to think of all those foolish people in Hollywood, desperate to be noticed. And then when one of them makes it, all the rest of us look at them with respect and awe. And that's depressing too. What have they done that's truly respectable? They've wanted to be noticed. They've wanted acclaim. It's like they never got past elementary school.
Well anyway. It's not that I don't like to watch movies, because I do and I have my favorite actresses and actors and directors and all that (Minnie Driver, John Cusack, Woody Allen, yes Woody Allen, don't argue with me). But while a part of me watches and loves it, another part of me looks on in revulsion and loathes it. I'm constantly torn. That's me, that's my entire life in a nutshell. Constantly torn. It makes for a difficult existence.
And that's why I'm dying without a job. A part of me likes the freedom and wants to simply write. Stay at home, write, take little coffee breaks to go watch the world go by at a coffee shop (but not for the coffee, for the entertainment of it all and to get ideas, you know), finish my book, try to make it as a freelancer (what a beautiful word: freelance. I think it's more beautiful than any other word, even the famed cellar door). But this other part of me, the frightened practical part is like, "Get out there. GET A JOB! Get benefits. Somethings going to happen, oh no oh no oh no! You've got to do something. You need money and benefits, the shit's going to hit the fan." It's a very frantic, scared voice. And I'm torn. And I'm humbled. And I don't even know what kind of job I want to have.
The good news is that Stoker got a job. He started yesterday. I'm quite sure I married the best man in the world. I'm not quite sure about his choice, however.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Sleepless
I can't sleep. I don't know why, but you know how it is. You're thinking about everything. Suddenly you focus on all the reasons you can't sleep and you notice every detail around you. Just before I got up to write this, the sounds from outside my bedroom window became loud and intrusive. A train whistle blowing in the distance caught my attention and it made me remember autumn nights in Logan, sleeping at the Baugh's. And then all I could think about was Logan and how much I miss it, how sad I am that I won't be there for fall, and it will all go on without me. All the seasons are not to be missed in Logan, but of them all, autumn is my favorite.
Just before we moved Stoker and I visited an old poet-friend, Star. She gave me all the news of the USU English department. Sadly, several of my old professors have cancer -- two of them have pancreatic cancer, just recently diagnosed. Star says it's the valley, there's poison in the air. Another time I'll tell you why this might be completely valid. Right now I just want to say that even if the valley is poisonous, I miss it terribly.
I suppose part of the beauty of the human experience is feeling nostalgia. I mean, it's great that you can even feel nostalgic about a time in your life. In spite of the crappy moments, you know. Well anyway, I've only just left all those days behind me, I moved from Logan a year ago (the one-year anniversary falls on July 16th) and just barely left singleness behind on June 3rd.
But already I feel pangs of nostalgia for those days before Stoker, when I was learning how to appreciate being alone. If you can't appreciate being alone, it seems to me you can't appreciate having someone to love and share your life with. There were nights at the Baugh's hearing the train whistles just blocks away and loathing my life that was so barren without love. It's stupid that I can miss that, but in some moments, like tonight, I do.
It isn't that I'm not happy where I'm at. No way. This, the present, is really really good. I'm married to my best friend. I want to live my life with him, you know, the hard times and the good times and everything in between, while sharing all the casual times together like reading in bed before going to sleep or writing while he fiddles around with his recording stuff.
I simply think being happy where you're at requires the ability to look back and think you were also happy then. Or something. I'm not really sure, I just know that I'm so glad to have found Stoker. But I remember the times before him and how I was searching for someone with all the characteristics he has and didn't think there was a man like him out there . . . well, I guess I like to remember those times. It makes me appreciate him more.
Maybe that's what I mean, that remembering is important.
And I don't want to forget those nights at the Baugh's in the dark, staring at the gray ceiling, hating the loud train whistles (the Logan train whistles I now miss), trying to sleep while wondering if there would ever be anything other than lonely nights by myself. I was happy then, though lonely. But, now . . . I'm happier now and not so lonely. It's the contrast that's beautiful, I think.
Just before we moved Stoker and I visited an old poet-friend, Star. She gave me all the news of the USU English department. Sadly, several of my old professors have cancer -- two of them have pancreatic cancer, just recently diagnosed. Star says it's the valley, there's poison in the air. Another time I'll tell you why this might be completely valid. Right now I just want to say that even if the valley is poisonous, I miss it terribly.
I suppose part of the beauty of the human experience is feeling nostalgia. I mean, it's great that you can even feel nostalgic about a time in your life. In spite of the crappy moments, you know. Well anyway, I've only just left all those days behind me, I moved from Logan a year ago (the one-year anniversary falls on July 16th) and just barely left singleness behind on June 3rd.
But already I feel pangs of nostalgia for those days before Stoker, when I was learning how to appreciate being alone. If you can't appreciate being alone, it seems to me you can't appreciate having someone to love and share your life with. There were nights at the Baugh's hearing the train whistles just blocks away and loathing my life that was so barren without love. It's stupid that I can miss that, but in some moments, like tonight, I do.
It isn't that I'm not happy where I'm at. No way. This, the present, is really really good. I'm married to my best friend. I want to live my life with him, you know, the hard times and the good times and everything in between, while sharing all the casual times together like reading in bed before going to sleep or writing while he fiddles around with his recording stuff.
I simply think being happy where you're at requires the ability to look back and think you were also happy then. Or something. I'm not really sure, I just know that I'm so glad to have found Stoker. But I remember the times before him and how I was searching for someone with all the characteristics he has and didn't think there was a man like him out there . . . well, I guess I like to remember those times. It makes me appreciate him more.
Maybe that's what I mean, that remembering is important.
And I don't want to forget those nights at the Baugh's in the dark, staring at the gray ceiling, hating the loud train whistles (the Logan train whistles I now miss), trying to sleep while wondering if there would ever be anything other than lonely nights by myself. I was happy then, though lonely. But, now . . . I'm happier now and not so lonely. It's the contrast that's beautiful, I think.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
It's "Monsoon Season" in Hell
If you haven’t noticed, I’m back. Online, that is. Francisco the Cox Cable Man, came by today and worked everything out. N.B., the problem with our internet was the cable company's fault and not mine or Stoker’s.
Previously not featured on Talking to the Walls: last week Stoker and I drove fifty thousand miles across the southwestern deserts to end up here, in the heart of the desert. Why would anyone live here? And on purpose no less? I have no idea, but if you’re looking for strip malls, this is the place. I think the strip mall originated here.
Anyway, in a nutshell, we pulled a full U-haul trailer behind my little 4-cylinder Tacoma, with the bed and extra-cab stuffed with years of accumulated stuff (I’d say shit, but I’m trying to curb the cursing), and we also put more stuff in the Mazda 626. All that stuff makes me think of a Billy Collins poem:
Memento Mori
There is no need for me to keep a skull on my desk,
to stand with one foot up on the ruins of Rome,
or wear a locket with the sliver of a saint's bone.
It is enough to realize that every common object
in this sunny little room will outlive me—
the carpet, radio, bookstand and rocker.
Not one of these things will attend my burial,
not even this dented gooseneck lamp
with its steady benediction of light,
though I could put worse things in my mind
than the image of it waddling across the cemetery
like an old servant, dragging the tail of its cord,
the small circle of mourners parting to make room.
Great, isn’t it? I think so. It relates because there we were, dragging a heavy U-haul, with the bed of the truck laden as well, with objects we’ve gathered in our meaningless lives to give us weight and to tie us to the earth … so important and every one of those objects cold, unfeeling and—in spite of all my Disney or Brave Little Toaster imaginings—completely ungrateful to be dragged along. It’s just funny. Tragic in a way, but funny.
I got the copy of the poem off the internet, which means if there are any mistakes they’re not mine. Incidentally I don’t have the collection this poem comes from (Questions About Angels, but I have all the others) and so I don’t know how the original reads.
Currently: we’re trying to find jobs, so if you ask, I’ll tell you I’m depressed. Stoker seems to have found one (Stoker who is wandering around the apartment muttering things to himself in Spanish). Well done, Stoker. As for me, I’m looking for anything. Well, not anything, anything. But rather than hold out for a corporate job, I’ll take a job at a bookstore or music store (which, depending on where I get a job, is corporate in another way). That’s what I love anyway, and from my earliest years have thought it would be heaven to work at a library or bookstore. When I was 19 or 20 I applied at the Barnes and Noble by my house and the bastards turned me down (not that they even interviewed me. They just never contacted me and I didn’t think to call them because I was 19). They were such elitists, I still hold a bit of a grudge. Now I have my M.A. and I’m over-qualified, but willing to take the pay cut because a retail job strikes me as healthier than a desk job. In fact, my legs have been aching the past week, out of too much use, I think.
But regardless of the fact that I don’t have a job, hallelujah we have the internet!
Previously not featured on Talking to the Walls: last week Stoker and I drove fifty thousand miles across the southwestern deserts to end up here, in the heart of the desert. Why would anyone live here? And on purpose no less? I have no idea, but if you’re looking for strip malls, this is the place. I think the strip mall originated here.
Anyway, in a nutshell, we pulled a full U-haul trailer behind my little 4-cylinder Tacoma, with the bed and extra-cab stuffed with years of accumulated stuff (I’d say shit, but I’m trying to curb the cursing), and we also put more stuff in the Mazda 626. All that stuff makes me think of a Billy Collins poem:
Memento Mori
There is no need for me to keep a skull on my desk,
to stand with one foot up on the ruins of Rome,
or wear a locket with the sliver of a saint's bone.
It is enough to realize that every common object
in this sunny little room will outlive me—
the carpet, radio, bookstand and rocker.
Not one of these things will attend my burial,
not even this dented gooseneck lamp
with its steady benediction of light,
though I could put worse things in my mind
than the image of it waddling across the cemetery
like an old servant, dragging the tail of its cord,
the small circle of mourners parting to make room.
Great, isn’t it? I think so. It relates because there we were, dragging a heavy U-haul, with the bed of the truck laden as well, with objects we’ve gathered in our meaningless lives to give us weight and to tie us to the earth … so important and every one of those objects cold, unfeeling and—in spite of all my Disney or Brave Little Toaster imaginings—completely ungrateful to be dragged along. It’s just funny. Tragic in a way, but funny.
I got the copy of the poem off the internet, which means if there are any mistakes they’re not mine. Incidentally I don’t have the collection this poem comes from (Questions About Angels, but I have all the others) and so I don’t know how the original reads.
Currently: we’re trying to find jobs, so if you ask, I’ll tell you I’m depressed. Stoker seems to have found one (Stoker who is wandering around the apartment muttering things to himself in Spanish). Well done, Stoker. As for me, I’m looking for anything. Well, not anything, anything. But rather than hold out for a corporate job, I’ll take a job at a bookstore or music store (which, depending on where I get a job, is corporate in another way). That’s what I love anyway, and from my earliest years have thought it would be heaven to work at a library or bookstore. When I was 19 or 20 I applied at the Barnes and Noble by my house and the bastards turned me down (not that they even interviewed me. They just never contacted me and I didn’t think to call them because I was 19). They were such elitists, I still hold a bit of a grudge. Now I have my M.A. and I’m over-qualified, but willing to take the pay cut because a retail job strikes me as healthier than a desk job. In fact, my legs have been aching the past week, out of too much use, I think.
But regardless of the fact that I don’t have a job, hallelujah we have the internet!
p.s. Mesa isn't really hell. It's quite nice once you get used to it.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Troubles with Cox
Sorry to neglect you*. We got into Mesa on Tuesday night, after much caffeine and driving. Since then, we've unpacked and set most things up, but not the internet. We've been trying to set it up, but Cox is an internet service provider full of bastards and I swear they didn't really hook up our cable. Not only that, but the jerks won't have anyone out to fix the problem until Tuesday (I have no leverage, either, since my apartment complex will only let us use Cox). Stoker and I have had to buckle under the pressure and find the public library.
So here I am, at the Mesa public library, listening to some guy (I think he's partially deaf), try to find the Harry Potter series. The problem is, he thinks it came out in the 60s. The librarian keeps telling him, in her most polite yet firm voice, that Harry Potter didn't come out then. He won't listen ... I mean, he won't give up and just accept that Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire came out last year. And now there's a security officer (I hate security officers, they're always such jerks) standing by the "Ask Here" desk, oh wait, he's standing right next to the belligerent patron. Man oh man, I do not envy the librarian. I would have shaken the patron by the shoulders already and yelled in his face, "There was no Harry Potter in the 60s, how can I make it any more clear!!!!???" Well, now the big security officer just escorted the patron out, who apparently will now be going to the Tuscon libraries to find this mysterious 1960s Harry Potter series.
But seriously, I sympathize with deaf people, I really do. It was just his over all belligerence and ignorance and general stupidity about the whole affair. I'm sorry. Maybe he was also a little slow or something.
So anyway, I haven't found a job yet and neither has Stoker and we're both very depressed about it. Well, I'm not depressed so much, just worried. I'm sure it will all work out in the end, but right now I feel guilty over buying anything. Yesterday I went into this sweet cd store called Stinkweeds (looking for a job, believe it or not) and impulsively bought one of Mirah's albums. I didn't tell Stoker until today and he thinks I'm a horrible wife now. Okay, so maybe he doesn't think I'm horrible because he just came over to give me some kisses (but really he did that to get on my good side so he could borrow my palm pilot). I have this awful sickness, you see. An addiction to buying music, movies and books. I hardly ever buy clothes or anything else and so I always look like a hobo. But at least I have my music, books and cds. Honestly, you should see our apartment. We have 4 guitar amps and 5 guitars, plus Stoker's recording equipment, two book shelves and about a billion cds, with a smattering of records. Sound cool? It is. It's very fun being me, save for the fact that I currently have no income.
Oh, and that was a lie. It isn't fun being me. I have an addiction. I need help.
Alright alright. I must go. Who knows when I'll return. Maybe I'll end up in Tuscon, looking for a 60s version of Harry Potter. Kidding, kidding, that was really mean.
*you meaning my millions of readers and fans.
So here I am, at the Mesa public library, listening to some guy (I think he's partially deaf), try to find the Harry Potter series. The problem is, he thinks it came out in the 60s. The librarian keeps telling him, in her most polite yet firm voice, that Harry Potter didn't come out then. He won't listen ... I mean, he won't give up and just accept that Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire came out last year. And now there's a security officer (I hate security officers, they're always such jerks) standing by the "Ask Here" desk, oh wait, he's standing right next to the belligerent patron. Man oh man, I do not envy the librarian. I would have shaken the patron by the shoulders already and yelled in his face, "There was no Harry Potter in the 60s, how can I make it any more clear!!!!???" Well, now the big security officer just escorted the patron out, who apparently will now be going to the Tuscon libraries to find this mysterious 1960s Harry Potter series.
But seriously, I sympathize with deaf people, I really do. It was just his over all belligerence and ignorance and general stupidity about the whole affair. I'm sorry. Maybe he was also a little slow or something.
So anyway, I haven't found a job yet and neither has Stoker and we're both very depressed about it. Well, I'm not depressed so much, just worried. I'm sure it will all work out in the end, but right now I feel guilty over buying anything. Yesterday I went into this sweet cd store called Stinkweeds (looking for a job, believe it or not) and impulsively bought one of Mirah's albums. I didn't tell Stoker until today and he thinks I'm a horrible wife now. Okay, so maybe he doesn't think I'm horrible because he just came over to give me some kisses (but really he did that to get on my good side so he could borrow my palm pilot). I have this awful sickness, you see. An addiction to buying music, movies and books. I hardly ever buy clothes or anything else and so I always look like a hobo. But at least I have my music, books and cds. Honestly, you should see our apartment. We have 4 guitar amps and 5 guitars, plus Stoker's recording equipment, two book shelves and about a billion cds, with a smattering of records. Sound cool? It is. It's very fun being me, save for the fact that I currently have no income.
Oh, and that was a lie. It isn't fun being me. I have an addiction. I need help.
Alright alright. I must go. Who knows when I'll return. Maybe I'll end up in Tuscon, looking for a 60s version of Harry Potter. Kidding, kidding, that was really mean.
*you meaning my millions of readers and fans.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Moving Out
Everything is loaded into the U-haul trailer, the Tacoma, and the Mazda. We're leaving in a few minutes. First, I just want to say I don't know when I'll be online again. Maybe in a few days. Sorry, but everything is packed and we'll be on the road for a while, so no computer access. We'll stop in St. George tonight to stay at my cousin Dave's. Then tomorrow morning we'll go the rest of the way to Mesa, through Las Vegas. This way we're not busting our butts to get there in a day.
My mom's cat, Yum Yum, (aka Yummy) is sitting on my lap, loving me. She's the most beautiful calico you've ever seen. Soft as a bunny. And talkative. I love her. I think she knows we're going and she hates it, I just know this is how she feels because I speak cat (okay, that's a joke). You have to see her, she absolutely adores Stoker. As do I.
Anyway, we're off!
My mom's cat, Yum Yum, (aka Yummy) is sitting on my lap, loving me. She's the most beautiful calico you've ever seen. Soft as a bunny. And talkative. I love her. I think she knows we're going and she hates it, I just know this is how she feels because I speak cat (okay, that's a joke). You have to see her, she absolutely adores Stoker. As do I.
Anyway, we're off!
Friday, July 15, 2005
Last Day
I'm trying to leave work. It's taking forever. You know, it's my last day here and I'm scared of the future. Who isn't? Maybe there are some people who aren't, but I'm not one of them. I'm trying to delete all my files and copy all the others to this external hard drive to take home. I have all that music I've converted to mp3 and mp4 or whatever. It took hours to do it and I can't just let it disappear. Anyway, Stoker is waiting outside and I'm ansy as hell.
On Monday we leave for Mesa. The desert flower. Why you would build a city in the middle of hell, I don't know. But that's where we're going. Stoker starts school in about 2 weeks and that will be a great change for him.
I have so much more to say, but this isn't the post for it. Right now I'm just dying for my stupid files to finish copying. It's like waiting for water to boil. Poor Stoker, he's probably suffocating in the heat. At least he has a good book (Straight Man).
Some girls from work took me to lunch today. It was incredibly sweet, though I think I must have ate something with garlic in it and I feel sluggish. I'm allergic to garlic, it's the bane of my existence. Everywhere we go, restaurants cook with garlic. It makes dining out a grueling process, rather than enjoyable. BUT, at least I'm not allergic to cheese or peanuts. Because I love peanut butter.
Files are done. Leaving soon. I'll keep you updated.
On Monday we leave for Mesa. The desert flower. Why you would build a city in the middle of hell, I don't know. But that's where we're going. Stoker starts school in about 2 weeks and that will be a great change for him.
I have so much more to say, but this isn't the post for it. Right now I'm just dying for my stupid files to finish copying. It's like waiting for water to boil. Poor Stoker, he's probably suffocating in the heat. At least he has a good book (Straight Man).
Some girls from work took me to lunch today. It was incredibly sweet, though I think I must have ate something with garlic in it and I feel sluggish. I'm allergic to garlic, it's the bane of my existence. Everywhere we go, restaurants cook with garlic. It makes dining out a grueling process, rather than enjoyable. BUT, at least I'm not allergic to cheese or peanuts. Because I love peanut butter.
Files are done. Leaving soon. I'll keep you updated.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Whatever You Do, Never Get a Chase MasterCard
Last night, I finally got my refund check from Chase Mastercard.
I closed my account with them a few weeks ago, but they owed me a refund. Why did they owe me refund? (I know my readers love this style of rhetoric.) Because last summer, on July 31st , they supposedly received my authorization to start a payment protector plan. I never noticed the fees they were charging me because I pay my bill online and so it went on like this for several months. And, as you may know, they’re bastards and if you only pay your minimum payment, you’re really only paying like $5 of your balance. The rest is finance charges and interest.
After college, I was barely making enough to scrape by and somehow, my balance went over the limit (I might have had a payment that was a day late). So then I was being charged for being over the limit, on top of my finance charges and interest and everything. It ballooned. I would pay the amount that was over the limit, but that wouldn’t cover it because of the finance charges and interest. So I never got ahead. I was drowning.
I hate the bastards. No, no, hate is the wrong word. Not strong enough. Something stronger. I loathe them.
And you know, I accept responsibility for the portion that was mine, I’m not blaming them for what I spent. And even the interest is okay because that’s how it works. That’s how they make their money. I understand that. It was the day-late charges and the over the limit fees and finance charges. They weren’t taking care of me as a client. They were at war with me. Jerks.
Finally, I had to borrow an exorbitant, absurd amount of money from my mom to recover from these over-the-limit fees and that whole b.s. Then I figured out the payment protector plan b.s. They said I authorized it on July 31st, as I mentioned. Which was a complete, blazing lie. On July 31st, I was on my way to Omaha to see my sister and I was about to start a job the following Monday, so I wouldn’t have even worried about the payment protector plan and whatever it does. Chase would have called my mother’s house because that’s the number they had as my permanent residence, and no one would have answered.
So Chase owed me a refund. It should have been taken care of in March. But they don’t respect MY rights to MY money (and what about interest on the money they took? I could have been earning interest with it). They took their time, dawdled, waited a few months. While I was closing my account, the girl I spoke to said I’d receive the check in 3 to 5 days. It never came. So last week I got an account statement that said I had a credit return on my card for $109.86. It was supposed to be $110.00. Where was the fourteen cents. They stole fourteen cents from me! I looked around on the statement some more, searching for the fourteen cents. There it was, in a finance charge. A finance charge for a balance that they owed me.
Okay, okay, so I don’t understand the whole pack of lies credit card companies have established in order to screw their clients (who reads the miles of fine print anyway? It’s in annoying lawyer language, irritating and confusing). But I wasn’t budging. They owed me the money, they should have sent it months ago. It’s been war now, for about a year. I mean, I hated them from the beginning, but I always paid my bill on time and when I used to pay in checks, sometimes I enjoyed writing “you bastards” on the memo line. Just to vent and to feel like I was sticking it to the man. I’m the kind of prisoner who hates their captor. None of that Stockholm Syndrome crap for me.
I called Chase again last week and spoke with (again) a girl with a foreign accent -- already annoyed as hell and now you have to deal with a language barrier, and it’s not just people from other countries, it’s also people with thick Southern accents. Already annoyed and you have to communicate with someone very difficult to understand.
“I want my fourteen cents,” I said, or something like that. “Why are you charging me a finance charge on money YOU owe me? This account was supposed to be closed months ago. I don’t want a statement showing that I have credit, I want the damn check and I want this account closed. Why haven’t I received my check? The girl I spoke to when I closed my account said I’d have the check in 5 to 7 working days. What’s going on?” I riddled her with accusations and questions so she couldn't get a word or a protest in edgewise. It's a good tactic. It worked. She relented and gave me everything I wanted.
Apparently no one had “verified” the refund. Whatever that means. She gave me back the fourteen cents and cut the check. I got it last night.
And Stoker teased me about the fourteen cents. But he knows it’s not so much about the fourteen cents as it is about the principle of the thing. He knows you have to fight for every penny from the bastard credit card companies because they are Satan. Or Satan’s minions. And Chase is trying to take over the world. They’re everywhere now, haunting me. Even though I’ve closed this account, every day I get a credit card offer in the mail from some Chase company promising me low interest rates and 0% APR. Lies, I tell you, lies.
The worse part of it was that as soon as I paid off the majority of the balance, they raised my credit limit, so much so that when I had been over the limit, it would have taken care of the problem. They suck. They’d take your soul if was worth money. Since it’s not, we’re all very lucky.
I closed my account with them a few weeks ago, but they owed me a refund. Why did they owe me refund? (I know my readers love this style of rhetoric.) Because last summer, on July 31st , they supposedly received my authorization to start a payment protector plan. I never noticed the fees they were charging me because I pay my bill online and so it went on like this for several months. And, as you may know, they’re bastards and if you only pay your minimum payment, you’re really only paying like $5 of your balance. The rest is finance charges and interest.
After college, I was barely making enough to scrape by and somehow, my balance went over the limit (I might have had a payment that was a day late). So then I was being charged for being over the limit, on top of my finance charges and interest and everything. It ballooned. I would pay the amount that was over the limit, but that wouldn’t cover it because of the finance charges and interest. So I never got ahead. I was drowning.
I hate the bastards. No, no, hate is the wrong word. Not strong enough. Something stronger. I loathe them.
And you know, I accept responsibility for the portion that was mine, I’m not blaming them for what I spent. And even the interest is okay because that’s how it works. That’s how they make their money. I understand that. It was the day-late charges and the over the limit fees and finance charges. They weren’t taking care of me as a client. They were at war with me. Jerks.
Finally, I had to borrow an exorbitant, absurd amount of money from my mom to recover from these over-the-limit fees and that whole b.s. Then I figured out the payment protector plan b.s. They said I authorized it on July 31st, as I mentioned. Which was a complete, blazing lie. On July 31st, I was on my way to Omaha to see my sister and I was about to start a job the following Monday, so I wouldn’t have even worried about the payment protector plan and whatever it does. Chase would have called my mother’s house because that’s the number they had as my permanent residence, and no one would have answered.
So Chase owed me a refund. It should have been taken care of in March. But they don’t respect MY rights to MY money (and what about interest on the money they took? I could have been earning interest with it). They took their time, dawdled, waited a few months. While I was closing my account, the girl I spoke to said I’d receive the check in 3 to 5 days. It never came. So last week I got an account statement that said I had a credit return on my card for $109.86. It was supposed to be $110.00. Where was the fourteen cents. They stole fourteen cents from me! I looked around on the statement some more, searching for the fourteen cents. There it was, in a finance charge. A finance charge for a balance that they owed me.
Okay, okay, so I don’t understand the whole pack of lies credit card companies have established in order to screw their clients (who reads the miles of fine print anyway? It’s in annoying lawyer language, irritating and confusing). But I wasn’t budging. They owed me the money, they should have sent it months ago. It’s been war now, for about a year. I mean, I hated them from the beginning, but I always paid my bill on time and when I used to pay in checks, sometimes I enjoyed writing “you bastards” on the memo line. Just to vent and to feel like I was sticking it to the man. I’m the kind of prisoner who hates their captor. None of that Stockholm Syndrome crap for me.
I called Chase again last week and spoke with (again) a girl with a foreign accent -- already annoyed as hell and now you have to deal with a language barrier, and it’s not just people from other countries, it’s also people with thick Southern accents. Already annoyed and you have to communicate with someone very difficult to understand.
“I want my fourteen cents,” I said, or something like that. “Why are you charging me a finance charge on money YOU owe me? This account was supposed to be closed months ago. I don’t want a statement showing that I have credit, I want the damn check and I want this account closed. Why haven’t I received my check? The girl I spoke to when I closed my account said I’d have the check in 5 to 7 working days. What’s going on?” I riddled her with accusations and questions so she couldn't get a word or a protest in edgewise. It's a good tactic. It worked. She relented and gave me everything I wanted.
Apparently no one had “verified” the refund. Whatever that means. She gave me back the fourteen cents and cut the check. I got it last night.
And Stoker teased me about the fourteen cents. But he knows it’s not so much about the fourteen cents as it is about the principle of the thing. He knows you have to fight for every penny from the bastard credit card companies because they are Satan. Or Satan’s minions. And Chase is trying to take over the world. They’re everywhere now, haunting me. Even though I’ve closed this account, every day I get a credit card offer in the mail from some Chase company promising me low interest rates and 0% APR. Lies, I tell you, lies.
The worse part of it was that as soon as I paid off the majority of the balance, they raised my credit limit, so much so that when I had been over the limit, it would have taken care of the problem. They suck. They’d take your soul if was worth money. Since it’s not, we’re all very lucky.
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