Hear What They See

Monday, August 25, 2003

Limbus Patrum

Are there levels of Limbo? Like a Limbo of Limbo? If there is such a place, I am there. That undefined place where a soul is bordered in, hemmed and restrained. The irony of my particular Limbo is that I just sort of don't care.

I'm still sitting here at this job, this 1-month old job that is supposed to be the stepping-stone to another job. A job with more shmooze appeal, more corporate glitz. But there's no telling if it'll even happen. Corporations re-org and tiny peons like yours truly get lost in the shuffle, dropped between the cracks, or (just like the name implies) peed on by the higher ups. The result? If I don't get hired for the other position, I basically don't have a job. Kathy (the new agent I'm workin for) can't afford me for much longer and she's just hired a new girl to "take my place" even though my place isn't vacated. But I advised her myself to hire the new girl because I can offer her no guarantees. I have nothing that says I won't get the job and nothing to say I will. So for now, I'm putting in my usual insane hours which she finds difficult to comprehend because no one she's ever had work for her before works the number of hours I put in. She's given up trying to persuade me to do otherwise because I stick my fingers in my ears and sing, "La-la-la-la!" at the top of my lungs and ignore her. There is this burn to push and get her in tip-top shape so her office can run at full speed. When she finally signs her contract, she is going to be a kick-ass insurance agent of the highest order. Sound weird? Well, 'tis true. If I was ever going to recommend an agent to a friend or acquaintance, Kathy would be the gal. Even over my mom, and that's saying quite a bit because I do have a healthy dose of respect for my mom despite all of my bitching to the contrary.

So I work lots still. It could also be backlash from Grandma grief. Who knows. It seems like I shouldn't be feeling so melancholy about my Grandma, but even now, just writing about it, is making me teary-eyed and tight-throated. Jay-sus. But I worked a lot even before Grandma was going from bad to worse. Who knows what this need is I have to invest so much of myself the way that I do into everything I do. Or most things, anyway.

I got an email from a friend. I wrote something on here a few months ago that could have gotten her in trouble with her previous employer. I felt terrible. I felt like an ass. And this right after my uncle questioned me about talking about his girlfriend behind her back. My uncle is in his 50's. I felt like I was in high school again. He called the night of Grandma's funeral at 9:30. Me, the big dumb-butt who thought he was calling to thank my family for hosting the wake, to tell us he loved us. I don't know, I just thought it would be something to that effect.
Nope.
What did you say in the kitchen today about my girlfriend and her sister?
I didn't say anything!
At least if I had said something nasty (for which I have no REASON, by the way - I like her), I would have felt like I'd gotten my money's worth. Instead I just felt like I'd been short-changed. Why are we so stupidly INSECURE?
Talking about his girlfriend? Good Lord, I didn't even do that back in the days I was 17 years old and was supposed to.
Shit.
Sob.
People.
We are a race of short-tailed chromosomes.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:08 PM

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

here's my post:
today i made ice and then sat around the house.

have a nice weekend.
don't come back.

Thank you flagrant for making me laugh out loud with your short and not-so-sweet wit.

God, that girl makes me guffaw when I least expect it.

Yes, folks, it's the small things.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 6:52 PM

Wednesday, August 20, 2003

Shit Arse

I am in a shitty-arsed mood.
I hate people. And in that hate for people is hate also for my own self. Because I'm just as fallible and ego-centric and impossible as everyone that I'm laying claim to hate.

What is the point?
What a stupid question.
But dammit, why is the stupidest question also the one that makes me feel like pulling peoples' hair out by the roots? Makes me want to run and hide in a 500 year old redwood tree like Butterfly Hill (was that her name?) but without all the press. I want to disappear for a year, maybe two and be gone from everyone's sight where no one can find me. Travel to Kashmir, eat food that doesn't agree with me, get dysentery or some other protozoan infection and just deal with it. No newspapers, no talk of Sex in the City, no fast food, no John Grisham.

I get like this sometimes, this extreme tug of wanting to escape from everyone. I was thinking today of all the things I had to do, to get finished, both personal and at work, and I wanted to just start crying. Overwhelmed. The expectations never stop, and I don't really ever expect them to. And yet there are times, like now, that I wish I could turn with vitriol and vinegar and rip somebody's head off and shake salt down the hole for having the very expectations of me that I expect people to have. That without, I would feel useless.

But I'd only end up feeling bad in the end.
I'd only end up feeling worse than I already do.
This happens every 4 years or so, a cyclical thing, like a moontide or solar eclipse.
My usual effervescant self reduced to the flat leavings at the bottom of beer keg. Just call me Vegemite.

It is residual.
I know.
It's called pissed-off wahine-girl who wishes people she loved didn't die even when it's their time to.
But knowing that doesn't make the feeling any less shitty-arsed.
Knowing that doesn't make me want to run away any less.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:34 PM

Tuesday, August 19, 2003

today less a desk

I got to my new-job-that's-really-just-a-stopping-place-til-the-next-thing-comes-along and I didn't have a desk any longer. I was the last one to get there, 7 minutes late, and I no longer had a desk. Talk about discombobulated. There are 2 desks. There are 3 employees. I'm a fake employee. I'm the interim employee. So, after spending 2 weeks finally getting accustomed to the office, I'm back at square one and feel turned upside down. I guess I ought to get used to it. I think things will be like this for awhile, until they tell me if I actually get to step into the Specialist position in the management office.

Today was service day from hell. And no desk. A shared desk, anyway. I finally booted Stacy out of her desk, which wasn't the desk I was in the last 2 weeks, and tried to get all the work done that kept coming down the pipe. I was there til 6:40 because I forgot my damned purse and had to call Kathy (who was on her way to the airport) to come back to the office and lock it. I now live 18 miles from my work which = 30 minutes one way. Fortunately Kathy was on her way down the 101 and was just passing the Hwy.12 turn-off when I called her cell phone.

I forgot my flippin' PURSE.
Talk about a bonehead thing to do.
That is how out ot it I am.
Beauty.

There are a million rented chairs and tables and umbrellas and china plates and saucers and cups and flatware out in the backyard for the funeral reception tomorrow (today...). I don't know how many people are coming. I guess you usually don't know for funerals. It's not exactly like people RSVP. I'm going to put the wheelbarrow in front of the Church tomorrow. Natalie is going to help me. Natalie has been a lifesaver with this whole project. Why am I so manaical about this wheelbarrow? My husband thinks I am insane. I guess I am in a way. But how else can I let the world know what a cool old gal my grandma was? How imperfect and pazza and marvelous and creative? This is exactly the kind of thing that would have tickled her funny bone. She would have been the first one to give me all the books on her shelves for this.

The last Sunday she was conscious before she died, I walked into her room to see her. She was in and out of being here then there and difficult to understand when she spoke. But when I walked in and she heard my voice, she recognized it immediately and made sure I understood that I was to have all of her books when she died. I don't know if I will get them, but that was what she told me. When I heard her tell me that, I knew this wheelbarrow project was the most fitting thing I could have done to commemorate her. And for some reason that is important to me.

Sometimes that's the only reason a person needs.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 1:37 AM

Sunday, August 17, 2003

MIA

I was advised via email by Michael that it's time I got back to writing. My writing teacher, Linny, would agree with him. I had a 1-on-1 with her today, an almost 5 hour session. We talked about writing, the status of my own writing, etcetera. I'm not sure I'm any closer to understanding my reasons to write than I was before talking to her today, but I guess I've figured out that I still need to do it. Thus wouldn't it fit that Michael's email to me should be so timely? It's always like that.

Palaver. That is how I feel. That the only words I have to say are useless chatter, talk intended to charm or beguile. It is so strange. The emptiness. Not even a particularly strong sense of sadness or grief. Just a wan sense of...what? I don't know.

The funeral is on Tuesday. A big, old Catholic affair. Grandma actually went and had a chat with the priest a month or so before she died, when she could still walk on her own steam. My auntie Susie drove her over there, and Grandma and the priest talked. I guess she got "Good with God" or something. When Mom and my auntie Beth went to talk to the priest about what kind of service to have after Grandma died, he told them she'd already set it all up, she'd already decided that she wanted a full Mass. They were stunned. I was stunned. Grandma hardly ever prepared for anything. Not like that. Maybe because death is the final act she decided she'd better make an effort? Who knows.

I have to give the eulogy. I volunteered. No one else wanted to do it. I said I would. I do not know what I am going to say. What can I say? If you look in the dictionary, it says that eulogies are formal expressions of praise. I don't know what to say. I just don't know.

The drive to my new-job-of-two-weeks-going-on-three has been weird. I see all sorts of things I'd never see otherwise. Odd things, though, that I never paid much attention to before. Like roadkill. A bluejay and then a skunk then 2 squirrels one day. The day before that a hare, a deer bloated with all four legs sticking straight out, a possum. You notice on the next day, the killings from the day before are usually gone. I'm guessing the carrion birds come and do their thing, clean up the mess.

On the drive home Friday there were skid marks, dark black smudgy stripes smeared across the blacktop, ending abruptly as a tree. There are these huge trees that line Hwy. 12 on the way to Santa Rosa. Mostly these grand old oaks that line the roadway. This particular one was at least 4 sets of arms around (meaning if 4 people held hands all around the tree, that's how big around it was). Where the skid marks ended there was this large chunked out gash of bark missing. Somewhat fresh, but not new. Some time had passed. Maybe a few months. The wood of the gash was still reddish, not aged-over yet. But as I drove home Friday night, I saw that nearly half the big trees along the road had these not-quite round gashes at bumper level. Most of them were old, so that the gashwood was the same color as the surrounding bark. One had initials carved into it. Another had the numbers of the corresponding house nailed neatly at a slant. In the middle of yet another one, someone had posted reflective red and white and yellow rounds. Every one of those gashes represents a car accident. I had a whole new respect for trees. I can't imagine being able to absorb that kind of shock, that kind of trauma, absorbing someone's death into my bulk and being able to live through it. Yes, I know, it's a weird thought. But it sure made me wonder if Tolkien's trees, the ones that ran around in The Two Towers might not have had some merit.

The new job is leveling off. I don't feel so misplaced. It's a strange sensation to be in a job where you know exactly what you're doing and how to answer the questions of everyone who calls in but to feel like you're hopelessly lost. I've spent the last 2 weeks in there just trying to figure out where things are kept, how papers are filed, how to feel out the clientele. They're a different breed of client than the sort my mom has in her office. Whoever this guy was who died a few years ago before Kathy took over the agency must have been a real prize. His clients (and now Kathy's by default) are the biggest bunch of crabs and groaners I've ever run across. I feel like telling them they can bite me, but somehow I don't think that's quite the image I should be projecting, no matter how much I relish the brief sense of satisfaction it'd give me. My saving grace is that Kathy is so utterly grateful for my presence in her office that I don't feel all is for naught. I stay late, just like I did at mom's office; I thought this would change, but I realize I never feel worthy, as thought I don't do nearly enough. It's strange to actually have someone notice that I work so late, comment on it, and then be so absolutely grateful. I told her on Friday not to be too grateful, telling her that my reasons are selfish too. After all, the better she looks, the better I will look to the management team with whom I am ultimately trying to get the job. All of that is still up in the air, but I don't even care. As far as things stand now, I am where I am and that is that.

My mouth is a mess. I've bitten the crap out of my lower lip this evening while eating dinner. My left top, back tooth is bugging me again. I've cracked a piece off the left bottom back tooth and I have a new cavity on the top right back tooth from grinding so hard that the crack widened and let in decay. I brush, I floss (now more than before), I bought an electric toothbrush that I use faithfully morning & night. I wear my nightgaurd every night when I sleep. And still. Still my teeth give under the pressure and crack open and let in bacteria and get cavities that the require more fillings. How much is a person expected to do? How much money to spend? I have spent about $10,000 the last 2 years on my teeth. My dental hygienist had the gall to imply that people will spend more money on things like cars than they will on their teeth. I informed her my car, that I still owe money on, is a 95 Dodge Ram 1500 pickup that cost less than the money I'd spent on my teeth and I should be driving my mouth around for all the money that's been dumped down it, but that will apparently just cause all of my teeth to fall out rather than just the select few each year that don't necessarily fall out but that cause me grief with the requisite root canals, caps, and fillings.

This wahine needs to go to bed.
My head hurts, my lip feels like I tried to pierce it with my teeth, I burned the skin beneath my thumbnail when I was making polenta tonight, and I still don't know what to say for the eulogy.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 11:08 PM

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 8:42 PM

Sunday, August 03, 2003

additcion

We're addicted to bubble tea. Who knew tapioca could cause such a taste sensation? Mango & Lychee are tied for favorite flavors. But I now want to try every flavor they have at the Bruce & Clark bubble tea store for home users. But we keep thinking it would be a good business to start, a hip beverage to serve to palates looking for a twist on the ordinary. But how does one make money serving up giant tapioca balls?

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:08 PM

Saturday, August 02, 2003

1st phone call

So, the first client of the day calls yesterday.
me: Good morning, thank you for calling blah-blah insurance and financial services, this is Anea, may I help you?"
client: "Heh? Speak up, I can't hear you."
me: "This is blah-blah insurance, can I help you?"
client: "Ya, this is Harry H. and I talked to you people yesterday."
me: "Ok, Mr. H. Is there something I can help you with today?" My mouth is pressed into the mouth piece of the phone to make sure he can hear me. He sounds 110 years old.
client: "Well, you know, I need $10,000 to be taken out of my savings account on Monday, so you need to tell that agent there, that Kathy whozit, to do that for me. We yalked yesterday."
me: "Alright, Mr. H., I'd be happy to do that. Could you give me your account number, please?"
client: "Well of course I'll give you my account number, I was going to do that anyway. Hold on a minute, let me get it."
me: "Of course."
client: "Ok, it's XXXXXXXXXXX."
me: "Great! Thank you, Mr. H., I'll give that to Kathy as soon as she's finished with her appointment."
client: "Ya, well, you know. I talked to her yesterday on the phone. I called in there to your outfit, you know. I sure don't like big corporations, you know. Rip people off right and left. Kind of like the governement. But I do know that it's the corporation, not the person. You tell her that, you hear? Tell her I don't blame her for your companies corporate practices. They rip off everyone, you know, like the government."
me: "Well, Mr. H., I'll be sure and give her the message."
client: "Yes, well, I was a little tart with her on the phone yesterday. I just want her to know that I know it's not her that's to blame for how big corporations act. She's just a person. But she's the only one I can tell when I don't agree with something. It's like that. But I was tart on the phone with her."
me: "Well, Mr. H. Do you knw what they say about being tart?"
client: - pause - "Why no, I don't believe I do."
me: "They do say that the tartest apples make the best pies."
client: - big guffaw - "Why then, I think I'd be about one of the best pies ever!"
me: "You have a good day Mr. H."
client: "Why, you too. You have yourself a good day too."

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:24 PM

Friday, August 01, 2003

reportage

I'm blitzed. I started in the new agent's office today. In some respects, I know more than she does. But I've been doing this longer than she has. However, she's pretty much a financial whiz. She's got the Mutual Funds down. I'm not licensed in Mutual Funds, so I can't really go down that avenue. Anyway, I spent the majority of the day doing 10 things at once. I do not know she has kept afloat, let alone been as successful as she has been with the lack of staff she's had. She just hired another new girl, Stacy, who also started today. She just graduated from SSU as an English major; same school I went to, same major. We talked about English profs, the classes we'd had, the classes we had. Made me wish I could be independently wealthy and go to school the rest of my life getting 8 PhDs. I think she'll be really good once she's trained, but insurance is so flippin' dry and not just a little boring. For me, it's working with the clients that makes me keep doing this insurance gig. Insurance has become a necessity, and it is SOOOOOO convoluted and confusing. But helping clients see for themselves that they need a life policy or long-term care or additional liability or a 529 plan for their kids, I dig that. There is immense appreciation from people when you sit for 2 hours and listen to them tell you about their lives and then you show them how you just might be able to help them. I have realized there are very few businesses you can walk into and sit down with a real, live person and talk to them about your life and not have to pay them anything additional to do that. Not all insurance companies are like that, mind you, but the people I work for in this company are. And that's amazing. But let's face it. I TOTALLY get off on my relationships with people. So it figures I'd be attracted to working with people who have a similar view.

What a boring post.

No new traumas (nothing big, anyway) on the Grandma front. She and grandpa have a new caretaker, another Fijian, guy named Rocco. Ron, the other young kid who's been with them for a month, had to be replaced because he was only working 5 days per week and they need care 24/7. Rocco's willing to do that. I don't know how caretakers do it. I felt freaked out after just helping my aunt last Wednesday night get Grandma toileted & bathed.

Dave's listening to Kraftwerk in the shower. I feel like I'm in the middle of a Peter Schilling 80's techno-pop assault. "4-3-2-1. Earth below us, drifting, falling. Floating weightless. Calling calling home."

Other than that, the wheelbarrow project is still percolating along for the film. People have donated a bunch of books, but I'm still looking for more. We have about 75 registered so far, I think. My next idea, which is just another part of the the wheelbarrow is to also include journals which will be "released into the wild" like the books. The film itself is cheesy as hell, what tiny bit of footage I have. Natalie's been a HUGE help. A good sport and a total support. What a blessing! Today Dave painted the actual wheelbarrow with this neon yellow spray paint that is hilarious.

That is it.
God.
This feels like a 10th grade diary...Today Suzy Q and I walked to the Dairy Queen and had strawberry malts that Johnny made. Oh jeepers, Johnny is soooooo cute! I wish he'd ask me to prom. I'd a wear that strapless chiffon number I saw in the window of Montgomery Wards with the red velvet roses. Suzy could lend me that pearl choker she got for her 16th birthday and I jusyt know I coul convince Mother to buy those red pumps we saw on Melly's Main St. Boutique.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:36 PM