Hear What They See

Sunday, June 27, 2004

Which David?

Dave's legs, they've gone
a'wanderin'.

(lomo x-processed slide film)

Dave left for Mexico yesterday. Six weeks. I'm in purge mode. The back porch is lined with boxes and bags for Goodwill, discards. I feel lighter already.

It's weird. I haven't felt sad about Dave leaving. I haven't had any time to think about it. Not until now, when he's gone. I've been finding these post-it notes from him in random places. The first one was in the book I'm reading, a few pages past the bookmark. I found another one today, in the desk. It's funny that he did that because it's exactly what I thought of doing for him, but I ran out of time. And I was going to send him a letter a week ago so he'd have it when he arrived. But I never did that either. My best intentions, thwarted by my own self.

I usually sleep with ear plugs when Dave's home. I never did before he moved up here. I slept like a log. But since we've lived together and been married, I have to use plugs if I want any sleep. He is a restless sleeper, anxious and agitated. He gets up and pees all night long if he's had anything whatsoever to drink, a self-proclaimed hamster bladder. He has to listen to something on the radio or a tape in order to fall asleep. He bought a pillow speaker since his head phones hurt his ears, the muted voices vibrating through the mattress all night long. He tosses and turns. I finally gave up being a wife who didn't want to hurt her husband's feelings and invested in ear plugs. My ears are finally accustomed to the spongy density in my ear canal all night long. I figured out that I didn't need to worry about listening for my alarm every morning because Dave just jostles or kicks me instead. It works nicely because I sleep the whole night through without waking up. Dave envies me my ease of sleep.

So last night was the first night without Dave and the first without ear plugs. I thought it would feel like freedom. Ho ho ho. Between the weird creaky sounds in the eaves, the animal snorfling beneath the window (Raccoon? 'Possum? Werewolf?), the car alarm at 3:30 and the bluejays at sunrise, I was embattled, a restless sleeper. My favorite part was when the car alarm went off and I ripped the covers off myself, leapt out of bed, grabbed my car keys and was out the door and on the front stoop when I realized I don't have a car alarm. I had to go back inside and sit down on the bed to get my heart to slow down and figure out what the hell I was doing. The weird comforts we take for granted.

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My boss will be in town mon-wed. Whoo-hoo. God. Let's see what sort of chicken with her head cut off I can be. I will leave early tomorrow. He won't stay after 2:00 or 3:00. I'll leave at 4:15. I am becoming more defiant about this, the futility of late nights and the exasperating, endless flow of things that need to be done. I would so thrive under a boss or with co-workers who got their rocks off working like crazy. Then there would be a more even spread, we'd all jump into the fray and race to the finish before the next project was dropped upon us. That's a pipe dream, I guess. What the hell am I doing in this business?

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I had a one-on-one with Linda today. I rewrote my chicken tale, trying to tighten the metaphors, rework the voice and syntax. It has the makings of a good short story. I am trying to soak up the masters, Welty and Hemingway, just found Carver through Dave. There is a form to the short story that requires a compact construction. I have never been particularly good at getting the required compression, but I've also never stuck to it for very long. Linda thinks I need to work on this piece, that it's the one that can help me break through. I agree with her. I felt it when I was writing it. As I worked out the first draft on this blog, I could feel the tensility beneath the surface. That's why I cut it off here; it was too long for a blog entry, but it started here, so I left a good chunk of it. I suppose if I want to ever do anything, I need to be serious. It's easy to make excuses, though. So I do.

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I called Dave at his host family's last night. I spoke in stilted Spanitalian. I asked for David and the guy at the other end responds in Spanish, "Which one?"

I'm confused. "El mio marido," the words clump on my tongue, caught between two languages.

"Does one of you have a wife?" the voice asks into a room of noise and babies and laughter.

"Hello?" It's Dave.

"Hi sweetie."

"Yeah, she's mine," Dave says in the general direction of the noise behind him. There is more laughter. He sounds close by.

"How many Davids are there?" I ask.

"Three. Me, the son of the family, and a 2nd student on the same program. We're all named David."

With a name like Anea, I don't suppose I'll ever need to worry about that particular difficulty...

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:15 PM

Thursday, June 24, 2004

special

So my interview on Monday for this trainer position. Yeah.

You know, everything went relatively well until they got to the HR questions, the one's that they have to ask. Any questions that have to be asked mean that you could, perhaps, get yerself in a spot 'o trubble. Yeah.

So they ask me all the questions I was somewhat prepared for, you know the ones, Give a specific example of how you have demonstrated your ability to handle multiple priorities and deliver results. Describe the situation and the manner in which you addressed it. or Discuss a specific example when you had to use contacts either within or outside of State Farm to help you complete a project. How did you form these relationships? I swear, there's a little Corporate monkey that makes these questions up for every American Corporation known to man. Gag.

Then they ask me the HR ones. The first one wasn't too bad. We (we being the 6-person interview panel, I guess) just want to make sure you're aware of the amount of travel that is required for this position. During the month, you can be out of the office 1 week to a week and a half at a time...pause...sometimes 2 weeks to a month at a time. This last part was said all in a rush, maybe so I wouldn't catch it? Anyway, yes, I was aware of it, that's fine, thank you.

We also need to ask if you think you can perform this job without any special accomodations.

Now it was my turn for a long pause. I didn't get the question. I mean, I don't think I'm particularly dense, but I'm sitting there thinkig about the fact that I might be out on the road for a month at a time and then they ask me about accomodations. So my head immediately goes to which hotel I should stay in. You know, like Motel 6 versus the Ritz. And then I think, Huh, that's kind of weird question to ask, I'm not getting something here, now I'm going to sound like a moron.

Hmm, I'm not sure I completely understand the question?

Well, do you have any special needs that would need to be met in order to perform this job? Six sets of eyes are looking at me expectantly.

OOOOooooooh! I see, oh dear, OK, I thought you meant something along the lines of if I would need to learn how to pitch a tent or drive a Winnebago. It just popped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

So, your answer would be yes or no? Six sets of eyes.

Um, I've already forgotton how the questions was phrased. Smiling brightly, feeling like I definitely have a lobotomy.

So the one guy repeats the question. And I say, no, no, I don't have any impairments or need for accomodations, I mean, not anything having to do with physical problems or that sort of thing, I mean, not anything important, I mean not at all. Yeah.

So. Nice. In our ultra-PC world you can't even ask people straight up if they've got issues or problems, physical or otherwise. The last time I had a real interview they asked if I had "Special Needs." Now it's "Special Accomodations." Pretty soon people will be using sign language because we won't be allowed to talk about anything out loud.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 8:49 AM

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Pill-Sized Reality

I do this to myself every time - run myself ragged until every joint in my body hurts. Well, not every joint. Just the ones that got bunged up when Edi kicked the crap out of me on the kitchen floor 6 years ago. Anyway, joints with problems and a fat body do not help to make one feel healthy and lithe. So when I was running around all day yesterday and last night to do Randy's going-away party, I felt like a wet bag of cement in a semi-hard state, with the hard in all the wrong places.

An agent, Frank, was talking to Anne (my old boss; she drove down from Eureka to come to this little soiree). They were standing beside each other so I snapped their picture.

"How's life treating you, Frank?" Anne's making conversation.
"Better than I deserve," Frank nods his head. "Yep, better than I deserve but not as well as I want it to." Anne and I both stare at him as the complete perfection of his reply dawns on us at the same time.

I've gone off on my entitlement rant before. I'm able to rantify on this subject because I am right up there with everyone else with my entitlement belief system. But Frank's comment put things into perspective very succinctly in less than 20 seconds. How often do you get a dose of reality in such a neat, pill-sized package of time? GULP. And it goes down easy.

Funny thing. I was driving to Ft. Bragg Thursday morn to meet with 2 agents who have offices over there. It's a 3 hour drive (with my leaden foot) each way. I left at 6:00, got my motor running, headed out on the highway (though I would have been more born to be wild on a Harley, methinks; this, however, is not a company vehicle selection option). So I'm jetting along highway 101. I was on the road about an hour and a half. I drive, thinking about the upcoming job interview on Monday. They might offer me the job and it will be a lateral. My concern is that is won't really be a lateral because I don't think it will include a company vehicle. And right now company wheels are a necessity since, other than the company car, we only have the Ram monster between us. No company wheels = buy other wheels = less money in the bank = NOT A LATERAL MOVE. This makes sense to me. It makes sense not to put myself in a position where I have less money coming in. So, all this is roiling around my brain, I'm counting up monthly pay + money being socked into the company 401k + the mutual fund and annuity and numbers are zinging around. And I pass this yellow, tiny-sized, beat up pickup. It's crunchy looking and rusted in weird spots. And on the tailgate is this bumper sticker: If You Had Enough, Would You Recognize It?

STOP.

One more of those pill-sized reality swallows. What perfectly ironic timing.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 12:29 PM

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Teleconferencing Tubby

It is Tuesday, and once again I am going in to work late. Since I stayed late last night, I think this is only fair. Entitlement, baby.

I have a video conference interview next Monday for another job. Video conference interview. The physical interviews are being held in Irvine; I guess they don't want to pay the cost to fly people down there. That would be fine, I guess, if I looked like Beyonce and had camera appeal. I, instead, am going to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Crap.

It's a training position. You know, get up in front of a bunch of people and "facilitate learning." I actually have a knack for that. I'm going to send a booklet of the different training materials I've created and used in the 7 months I've had my current job: LINGO (a bingo-esque game I created using Company Lingo to teach product knowledge), the Charlie's Angel spoof video I conceptualized last year to teach agents and their staff how to understand the new production requirements for 2004, the board game that we came up with as another teaching tool for the production requirements, and the various and sundry things I do to get people "engaged." That's our Company buzzword: ENGAGEMENT. Barf, puke. It basically means "Produce the shit out of those Financial Services products, folks!"

Saltine, man, that's about how wet & wild the stuff is we deal with day to day at our company. So, how do you juice it up? You hire me, of course! That should go over well during the interview, no?

NOTE: I just noticed I am wearing white pumps in my graduation picture. Saints preserve us. Who the hell came up with the fashion disaster of white pumps? Actually, I think at the Catholic high school I attended, girls had to wear white pumps for graduation. Something in the memory banks is dinging...either that or I'm just trying to makes excuses for myself. Boo hoo.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 8:48 AM

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Dearly Beloved

I just found this picture from my high school graduation. I had to give one of the speeches. I did this thing where I quoted from the Prince (before he was the artist formerly known as) song Let's Go Crazy. Just the beginning:

"Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
2 get through this thing called life

Electric word life
It means forever and that's a mighty long time
But I'm here 2 tell u
There's something else..."

I thought I was being very clever here, because rather than saying "The afterworld", I got really creative and said "College" instead.

I think this picture was taken right as I was really getting into that part of my speech. I don't have a clue what the rest of it was, something about inequality and rights for hoot owls, I'm sure. There was this nun, Sister Patricia. She was the principal. She didn't like me much. It was mutual. I wanted my speech to really sock it to her, show HER. I don't think it did much of anything, really.

I imagine that quoting from Prince's Purple Rain soundtrack 4 years after it came out doesn't really count as really socking it to her.

[NOTE:OHMAGAWD. I forgot about the hair. Well, I guess I didn't really forget about it, but I've tried to act as though that part of my past never happened. The cockatiel action in the front, the careful mounds of Big Hair kept painstakingly in place with Helene Curtis mango scented hairspray.]

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:17 PM

Summer

I cannot, for some reason, update this blog with the frequency I am managing to devour books. I have not read like this in years, since college as a Lit major, when I read 3 novels a week for "DeLillo and Morrisson: Postmodernists," "Survey of American Lit," and "Intro to the Novel" then also pretend like I understood the Biology homework, could memorize the Algebra theorums/rules/regulations and would waitress nights and weekends so I had money for gas and shampoo. Now I am reading these old books, these old classics, like the possessed. I can't stop reading. I am not going to take it for granted. The fervor, it's bound to end soon.

I have been writing these short stories. Stories of histories that predate my own. It would feel more like lying if I hadn't convinced myself already that I know what I'm talking about. I'm brought back to earth when I read Carson McCullers. And I pout in my corner, "Why was she so gifted? Why could she write like that?" Then I read the timeline of her life and I am repentent. Sorrowful, I shrug. She had to, she had to write like that. She had no choice.

I wish for a southern upbringing, some languid, heated childhood; a past fat with portent, like a bumblebee hanging in the air above the tall grass. I guess we always wish for what we don't or didn't have. Typical.

Dave leaves for Mexico in 2 weeks. He'll be gone until August 6th. Weird. I'm excited because I get to clean. I think there is something broken in my head if I am looking forward to cleaning while my husband is gone. We went to an orientation meeting at the JC yesterday. The program is offered through the Junior College, everyone going is in their 20s except for the teachers and a few other older students. But mostly young kids, all going to Mexico for 6 weeks. I looked at the slides of Cuernavaca and my chest squeezed with memories of Italy, the piazze and the cobblestones, mopeds whizzing past fast enough to lift your skirt. Maybe we should become missionaries. Then we could travel, do some good in the world. I guess I'd actually have to read the Bible on some kind of regular basis if that was the plan...

I am 34 and I yearn for something I can't name. It is the same feeling I had when I was 12-becoming-13 and wanted to be a grownup so I would BE THERE already. Not delivering newspapers from a canvas bag around my neck on my 10-speed, self-conscious in my puberty and newly pungent sweat. Watching boys drive past in their hot-lacquered Mustangs while I waited at the crosswalk. Driving the town after football practice, Def Lepperd blazing from their open windows, their white teeth and tan arms, oblivious to my existence and longing.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:01 PM

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

She Don't Care

I called work today, said I'd be late. So I am. It's almost 11:00 and I haven't left the house. A million things to do and nothing done.

I read blog. It goes like this: so far this trip is great, even though i received the retarded and perpetually lopsided camel with the short legs for the return trek back from the dunes plus have been lugging a heavy moroccan carpet around with me everywhere since-- it is all just fine. I laugh out loud and picture her there, her legs clamped on the side of this camel, this short-legged camel with a hump that tilts, and decide that this rug she carries must have a story all it's own. I am playing hookey and there is no time to write it, but there is an idea that the camel hair that makes the rug is the hair of the camel of the brother of the tilt-humped camel upon which she rides. There is irony and recognition as the camel she rides remembers the scent of a brother, the strong one, the one with the long legs and firm, round hump, whose hair is now harvested for rug weaving while he, the tilt-hump, roams the desert, eating dates and carrying American girls, light as birds, on his back.

NOTE: reading blog counts as one of the million things to do.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 10:37 AM