Wednesday, March 26, 2008

How I Almost Died Today


128 North around the route 9 exit. I was in the fast lane and it was going at a pretty steady clip of 75mph. When at 5:30-ish some chick on a cell phone two cars ahead of me decided to slam on her brakes and come to a complete stop. Since I left room in front of me, I was able to brake fine. Then I looked in my rear view mirror at a silver SUV braking too late for its speed. The driver had to turn off towards the grassy divide in order not to kill me.

I got out of that lane and passed the cell phone chick who was barely able to stay in her own lane while TEXTING! FUCKING GET OFF THE PHONE!

I Have Fancy Plans

"The original title of this book was 'Jimmy James, Capitalist Lion Tamer' but I see now that it's... 'Jimmy James, Macho Business Donkey Wrestler'... you know what it is... I had the book translated in to Japanese then back in again into English. Macho Business Donkey Wrestler... well there you go... it's got kind of a ring to it don't it? Anyway, I wanted to read from chapter three... which is the story of my first rise to financial prominence... I had a small house of brokerage on Wall Street... many days no business come to my hut... my hut... but Jimmy has fear? A thousand times no. I never doubted myself for a minute for I knew that my monkey strong bowels were girded with strength like the loins of a dragon ribboned with fat and the opulence of buffalo... dung. ...Glorious sunset of my heart was fading. Soon the super karate monkey death car would park in my space. But Jimmy has fancy plans... and pants to match. The monkey clown horrible karate round and yummy like cute small baby chick would beat the donkey."

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Broken Pinky

Sunday night, I was gesturing while talking when I bashed my pinky knuckle into the butcher block top of my kitchen table. It hurt but not nauseatingly so but the next morning, the pinky was looking pretty bad. So, dear readers my blogging will be more infrequent as I allow my finger to heal and/or as I build up 9 finger typing skills.

Don't ask me why I have a purple sausage attached to my hand BTW.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Gone Baby Gone, A Reaction

Please don't read if you haven't seen the movie. I finally got around to seeing this film on DVD this weekend. I went in without any expectations but a couple friends's warnings that it's a downer and has a dis-satisfying ending. I think it is one of the best films I've seen in a while. In fact, I think it should have bumped Michael Clayton for a Best Picture Oscar nomination.

It felt like an old-fashioned movie. No dwelling on gore, no sex and no shoe-horned romance subplot. The movie is all about reactions and choices. I cheered, I gasped, and clutched my head. The ending isn't necessarily dis-satisfying but it's tough to wrestle with.

Over time, my opinion has changed. My initial reaction was leave the girl with the ex police chief. But the character who convinced me that is the wrong choice was the girlfriend who argued for leaving the child with the chief. All her reasoning rang hollow because it was based upon classist assumptions. Sure, the little girl would have good schooling and everything she ever wanted but that is not a guarantee against misery and abuse. Who knows that the ex chief isn't a pedophile or a drunk? No one bothers to wonder because he's well-off and living in the suburbs.

But on the flip side, I don't think the over-riding mantra that a child belongs with his/her parents should trump all arguments. The mother isn't painted as 100% villain whether that's good storytelling or acting, I can't decide. She obviously has issues but not enough issues to steal someone else's child.

Send My Regards to Hannaford

Thanks to their security breach, I have to get a new debit and credit card. This is the second time my debit card has been replaced due to a security breach. #1 was the Boston Globe. In a way, this is a blessing because I have my credit card number memorized (including security code) so shopping online and on the phone is scarily easy. Now, my spending will be limited with a new card number. I won't be shopping at Hannaford again and if I do, I'll just use cash. But really nothing is safe when I think about all the accounts that have my credit card number...

I'm Not Here This Isn't Happening (2002)

When I was little and was told about death, I used to lie awake at nights, feeling this vertigo as I lay in bed pondering, “What makes me me? How do I know that I’m really alive? How do I know that I exist?” For twenty years, I wrestled with those questions.

June 10, 2001, I started to get some answers. The only certainty that day was that something happened. Something happened that hurt a lot. I was so confused. My body refused to work. I could barely walk, move or talk. After cataloging what was not working in my body, I told my mom that I had a stroke. 9-1-1. I remember that I kept repeating to the EMT that I am O positive. Part of me reasoned that on ER, blood type seemed to be very important so I should make sure the EMT’s knew. I also kept repeating “I’m 24.” Which probably sounded like “Ammm dweneeefooor.” I held up my right hand showing two fingers and then four. My head hurt so much. My mom got in the front of the ambulance. The EMT who was working on me was so nice. He explained everything he did to me. He set up the IV first, then the annoying oxygen mask. He told me that once I got out of the hospital, I could show him my photo album from my recent Ireland trip. I smiled through my mask, sighed and went away. The pain stopped, it was dark and I was so warm and rested. Everything was so much better.

With a jolt, I came back to my non-functioning body wracked with pain in a hospital. The blood pressure cuff hurt me. A nurse told me that they have to cut my nightgown off of me. Scissors sliced down the front of my pink nightgown.
After getting a MRI, a doctor stood on my left. I could see his white lab coat but not his face (because I was blind in my left eye - I later found out). My mom and aunt were on my right. The doctor held an arm in front of my face and asked me if it was mine. I studied it; pale and freckled, could be a match. The doctor announced that I had a stroke. My immediate internal reaction was “I KNEW it! I was right!” Amidst, my elation at correctly diagnosing myself, my mom looked like she was going to burst into tears. I suddenly realized that I totally didn’t know what a stroke is and what it does.

I spent four days in the critical care ward. I couldn’t move my left side. I didn’t even feel like my left side was attached to my body. Sometimes at night, I threw my limp left arm off the edge of my bed. Then my mom would gently chide me and place my arm back on the bed. Annoyed, I insisted, “Mom, it’s just in the way.” I didn’t think about what had happened to me. I never spared a thought about my future. I just existed day to day. Days full of doctors never addressing me, only speaking to my mom. Being treated like I was already gone. The nurses knew I was still there. God bless them. Getting so many flowers, cards and balloons that we ran out of counter space.

What broke my heart was my voice. I used to have this beautiful lilting clear voice. Thanks to the stroke, I slurred out one side of my mouth sounding like a broken robot. I was so embarrassed that at age 24, I had a stroke. At night, I wrestled with two thoughts, “God, can’t I ever have anything normal wrong with me, like appendicitis?” and “I hope the stroke didn’t take away my intelligence. That’s all I have.”
Family and friends visited. I didn’t care. My attitude was “Come see the freak show/morality tale.” I tried to do the normal hostess stuff: crack jokes, show them my stuff and make sure we had enough seats. One poor friend had to make a commode her seat. After a couple days, my paralysis wore off. I just had weak uncoordinated movement on my left side with no feeling. I was moved to a rehab hospital. Yet again, the EMT's were amazing. I had mentioned how much I liked the new Bunker Hill/Zakim Bridge, they drove me by the bridge on the way to rehab.

Rehab was actually fun. I got to do stuff. And it turned out that I could do lots of things! The average age at the hospital was 66. So I was the freak of the stroke wing. Closer in age to my physical therapists than my fellow patients. Every day, I had speech therapy, hand group, occupational therapy, activities of daily living and, my favorite, standing balance group. In that group I got to play soccer, basketball and do mini-relays. I won every time. Granted, my opponents were sixty-year-old stroke patients - but still it gave me something I could excel at and look forward to.
After rehab, I was told that my progress was phenomenal. It sure didn’t feel like that to me. I was cleared to drive July 31, returned to work on a limited schedule August 6. And I got partial feeling back in my hand Aug. 17.

For months I felt like I was just a walking corpse. My body lived on but my spirit was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t connect with my friends, co-workers or family. I wasn’t here. Anna doesn’t live here anymore. I had no hope and no joy. I didn’t dare to dream. I lived in a world that is violent and devastating. On Sept. 11, 2001, the lesson I learned on June 10 was shown to the whole world. I completely shut down. If this is the world I have to live in, then fuck it. What’s the point?
With weeks flying by, I got worse and worse – more detached. What really amused me was that a lot of people complimented me on how well I was recovering. Repeating that they could not tell that I had a stroke. They didn’t know that I chose to act "normal". Every day was the monumental effort of being "normal". I let everyone believe the happy lie that I was recovering fine. Even though living in this world felt like drowning. I sang duets in a cabaret, went to Homecoming and to a comedy show because that’s what Before Anna did. Did I have fun? No. It was just a means to an end. Do the things that Before Anna liked to do, pretend that the world is a good place, and hopefully coax my spirit back into my broken body.

As the New Year approached, I did all the expected things: got an apartment, resumed a normal work schedule, hung out with friends and went to parties. Not because I wanted to but because it was my job. The job of keeping the happy lie alive. None of my friends or family understood. None of them ever had a stroke. I was the freak. The now 25 year old who couldn't enunciate or feel.
In January, I threw an apartment-warming party for myself. It wasn’t my idea. Almost every friend and family member who heard about my new apartment asked, “So when are you throwing a party?” I took my cue from them. I cleaned my apartment, and bought snacks like it was just any party. No particular effort or attention paid to anything - autopilot. Just like how I lived my life. The most amazing thing happened during the party. My spirit came rocketing back to my body. It was like it overheard all the talking and laughter, saw that it's safe. Then bam! I was me. No more drowning. No more acting. I laughed from the depths of my being. I remember the first real laugh. It was in response to a statement involving the word Uranus. Feeling the spontaneous merriment exploding out of my body was astounding and so sorely missed. Throughout the entire party, I didn’t think about my stroke. My speech was less embarrassing. I was so happy. Happy! Actual, real emotion! I was back. Afterwards, I called my mom and told her about the party. I was so wired, I couldn't sleep that night.

Later that month, I agreed to participate in a stroke study. I had to get an MRI scan of my brain again. In February, I saw my brain scans. The research fellow explained each cross section. At about eyebrow level there was this huge black splotch on the right side of my brain. My breath was taken away. My spirit balked. I could feel the tears forming in my eyes. But I could not cry. I have always hated crying in front of strangers. Since the stroke, I learned that crying in front of medical professionals elicits a string of dispassionate questions “Do you get sad a lot?” “Were you as emotional before the stroke?” Basically trying to assess if I need anti-depressants. I decided early on that I had to make sure to never be prescribed anti-depressants because I didn’t need to feel more detached from my emotions. So no crying.

The black splotch sat there mocking me. Taunting me, “See? You can fool people on the street, your family and friends but there’s no fooling me. You’re branded brain damaged” Irrevocable proof. The stroke wasn’t a bad dream. I’m not a superhero. There is no miracle to my recovery.

A year after the stroke, I know I don’t have to fool people. No more games, no more playing Old Anna. In fact, there’s no such thing as Old Anna. There’s only Anna. I’m not a walking corpse anymore. I’m not a living reminder of what was. Sometimes I wish everyone could experience what I have experienced this past year because it’s so galvanizing. Plus, on a selfish level, if more twenty-something’s had strokes, more of my peers would be able to relate to me and I wouldn’t be so lonely. I wouldn’t be the freak or cautionary tale anymore.

I'm whole now. I sing along to the radio as I drive. My speech is clearer and spontaneous. No more belaboring syllables. No more delay between what I think and say. I have less distinct feeling on my left side than my right. But I have feeling. That's something. So, either I am incredibly lucky, or have a big purpose in this world. Of course, the egomaniac in me hopes that I have some great purpose. But it doesn’t have to be curing cancer levels of greatness. It would be nifty if my reason for existing is to love someone well and be a great mother.

I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment's gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes, a curiosity
Dust in the wind
All they are is dust in the wind
Same old song
Just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do
Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Now, Don't hang on
Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky
It slips away
And all your money won't another minute buy
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind*
*Dust in the Wind by Kerry Livgren

Friday, March 21, 2008

Why I Want to Move

- Heat is too loud to keep on at night
- Windows are drafty
- Kitchen counter is warped
- Kitchen window is broken
- No snow removal service
- Nowhere to park during snowstorm (cost me $200 this winter)
- Noisy common hallway.
- Constant tenant turnover.
- Cost to heat apartment = ~$1200/yr (oil heat)
- Noisy neighbors
- Hot water runs out after 10 minutes
- Peeling paint
- Bathroom not completely tiled.
- One tiny closet
- At least 10 degrees hotter than outside temp in summer

Bored At Work: The Worst Possible Resume Ever

Joseph J. Shabadoo
14G Main St.
Springfield, MN 56510
Home Phone (555) 382-5633
Email jjshlong@gmail.com



OBJECTIVE: to secure a full time, high paying position in a company that doesn't regulate
internet usage of it's employees

EDUCATION
2001-2002 Springfield High

EMPLOYMENT
2007 Cook, Wendy’s
• Grease scraping
• Food “seasoning”
• Beef massage
• Taste tester

2005-2007 Farm hand, Sneed’s Farm
• Manure management
• Slopping hogs
• Stun gunning stock
• Spider eradication
• Mane stylist

SKILLS
• Vacation policy abuse
• Office gossip
• Looking busy
• Losing files
• Downloading viruses

INTERESTS
• Complaining about work
• Surfing the web
• Drinking
• Bong maintenance
• Hangover management
• Explosives


*a collaboration with Sarah

How My Cat Almost Killed Me

A couple weeks ago, I got home from work around 6PM. Rasputin was at the door rolling on his back and purring. I did my usual, "Hi baby!" and tummy rub. As I got further into my apartment, I noticed something smelled. It smelled like cooking meat. I just shrugged and dropped my stuff off on the dining room table.

I walked through the kitchen to my bedroom to get out of my work clothes and I walked back to the kitchen to check on Rasputin's food dishes. That's when I saw the stove burner on under an empty pot. Holy shit. Quickly, I turned it off, yelled at Rasputin and paced around my apartment shaking. From what I can figure out is that Rasputin jumped on the stove when I was at work and at some point hit the burner knob enough to turn it on.

The pot is ruined and I am very lucky that the apartment didn't burn down. I have duct tape on every stove knob and have covered the stovetop with every pot I have so there's no room for a cat to jump up. Who knew Rasputin is a homicidal maniac? I probably cursed him with the naming.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Sudoku Fu



Ever since I saw that PBS special on brain exercises, I have added a new anxiety to my list. I don't want my brain to atrophy or go senile young. Granted, it might seem absurd that at 31 I am worrying about the health of my brain. But I am 31 and a stroke survivor. I know that my brain has plasticity and I was really lucky. There are areas of my brain that weren't able to recover so I am already have a handicapped brain. I want to keep it strong and stimulated for as long as possible.

I've been doing Sudoku puzzles to keep my logic synapses in tiptop shape for a while. It is really fun noticing how I've learned and adapted! I've gone from barely able to complete a puzzle to breezing through easy and medium and maybe getting stuck at an occasional difficult. The trick for me is that I do not jot down all the options for each square. I used to do that because I didn't trust that I could remember all the options and it wound up making the whole process confusing and convoluted. Now, I only write a number down if I'm sure. Getting to sure isn't as agonizing as it used to be. I had the same problem with multiple choice exams. I could narrow down to two possible answers and go crazy picking between them.

I try to complete two puzzles before going to sleep each night. Rasputin lies by my side and as I think, I let him gnaw on my pencil. Sometimes I'm so into my puzzle he winds up scaring the crap out of me by jumping on the bed. Researchers say that the frontal lobe controls problem solving. So, I hope, by doing my nightly puzzles, I have a hulking frontal lobe.


Tuesday, March 18, 2008

History, Economics, and Deja Vu

Does anyone else feel like the world is unraveling? It started with the rumblings about the real estate market and then the news media started using the word "recession". If that wasn't bad enough, there was horrible economic news for February with 100K job losses for a month (nice to know that I'm not alone) and then the whole Bear Stearns debacle.

Back in 2005, I read this book called, The Fourth Turning. I liked the theory that history repeats itself in a cyclical pattern but I didn't like where that pattern put us in terms of history. There also is a pattern of generations. So, here is a breakdown:

Generations:

The Prophet archetype is born in a High, enters young adulthood in an Awakening, midlife in an Unraveling, and elderhood in a Crisis.

The Nomad archetype is born in an Awakening, enters young adulthood in an Unraveling, midlife in a Crisis, and elderhood in a High.

The Hero archetype is born in an Unraveling, enters young adulthood in a Crisis, midlife in a High, and elderhood in an Awakening.

The Artist archetype is born in a Crisis, enters young adulthood in a High, midlife in an Awakening, and elderhood in an Unraveling.


The First Turning is a High —an upbeat era of strengthening institutions and weakening individualism, when a new civic order implants and the old values regime decays. Old Prophets disappear, Nomads enter elderhood, Heroes enter midlife, Artists enter young adulthood—and a new generation of Prophets is born.

The Second Turning is an Awakening —a passionate era of spiritual upheaval, when the civic order comes under attack from a new values regime. Old Nomads disappear, Heroes enter elderhood, Artists enter midlife, Prophets enter young adulthood—and a new generation of child Nomads is born.

The Third Turning is an Unraveling —a downcast era of strengthening individualism and weakening institutions, when the old civic order decays and the new values regime implants. Old Heroes disappear, Artists enter elderhood, Prophets enter midlife, Nomads enter young adulthood—and a new generation of child Heroes is born.

The Fourth Turning is a Crisis
—a decisive era of secular upheaval, when the values regime propels the replacement of the old civic order with a new one. Old Artists disappear, Prophets enter elderhood, Nomads enter midlife, Heroes enter young adulthood—and a new generation of child Artists is born.

Basically, Baby Boomers are prophets. Gen X (born 1961-1981) are Nomads, Our grandparents are Heroes (born 1901-1924) or Artists (1925-1942). In theory, the kids born post 1982 are our new Hero generation. To put it in geek terms, Obi Wan was a prophet, Han Solo a Nomad, Luke and Leia were Heroes.

In recent history, 1946-1964 was a first turning, 1964-1984 a second. We're somewhere in a third turning and you know what that means, right? We're in for some kind of crisis/upheaval. From the way things are looking financially, I wouldn't be surprised if it's an economic upheaval.

There has been debate amongst Fourth Turning readers whether 9/11 was the catalyst that has kicked us into a 4th Turning. The general consensus is that it wasn't and we're still stuck in a 3rd Turning unraveling. Looking at the 2008 candidates, we have a Gen Xer (Obama), a Boomer (Clinton) and Artist (McCain). So, if we are headed towards a crisis, we can look back to see how we survived the last one, WWII. Well, we had Prophet then Nomad presidents, Roosevelt then Truman.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Choral Mischief

I think half the bass section came loaded to rehearsal tonight. Either that or all of us were pretty slap happy from a tiring Monday. I know I was goofing around a bit but somehow the basses made a song about the search for faith into something about prostitutes. The name Elliot Spitzer somehow got mentioned. I swear, get a bunch of guys together no matter how old they are, they wind up acting like 12 year olds. A complete grown man thought he was oh so witty by making a joke about missing some "Doo's" while we were singing a scat portion of a song.

I am shrieking with laughter internally while we practice "Puttin on the Ritz". It never fails, some bass always come in early on the chorus so I flash on the Frankenstein monster from "Young Frankenstein" Chorus is pretty darn enjoyable this time around (I'm sure it has nothing to do with the lack of Soprano Diva). We aren't singing as many lame songs and there seems to be a nicer vibe going. Also, have I mentioned that next year we're singing Carmina Burana? Score!

Hips Are Made For Shaking


Since I do well with exercise where I can be tricked into enjoying it, I have decided to try out belly dancing. I get FitTV and have a TiVO, so I recorded their belly dancing show and my goodness it was fun! I felt really dumb at first but once I got into it, I could feel all these core muscles working and realize I am good at a couple moves. I stink at the arm moves and chest circles but shimmying my hips is perfect. I can even keep my entire upper body still! So, this will be my new method of getting my butt off the sofa and getting healthy. It definitely works all your abs, gluts, and upper back.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Bore of the Worlds

Being unemployed has turned me into the most boring person ever. It's like I can't hold a conversation without letting it circle back to my job search. I can't talk about any future plans because I have to have the caveat of "When I get a job..." Don't allow that to segue into asking me how the job hunt is going! If you do ask that unfortunate question, I will drearily list all my job hunting activities for the week and end with "It's tough out there."

It's like I have an engine in my brain that rumbles 24-7 "GOTTA find a job, GOTTA find a job..." over and over.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Broad Brush

I like to think I am open-minded and willing to change my opinions. But with repeated good or bad experiences, I tend to categorize. This is my disclaimer for the following.

Groups/People I Get Along With
- Engineers: hands down some of my favorite people ever. We get each other. It's the cool balance of analytical and creative that resonates with me. Plus, people who wind up being engineers usually were nerds (or are) so we have the nerd self deprecation and humor down pat.

- Hungarians: it pays to have ancestors from the "war torniest"* country. Proud? Yes. Hard working? Of course! Also, a language that is mysterious. Hungarian is part of the Finno-Ugric language family and only is barely related to Estonian. It is like an alien language. I should know because I've been trying to learn it for years. It's nice to see Hungarians' eyes light up when they see my bizarre last name. I know my own eyes light up when I meet a Kovacs.

- Indians: my best friends throughout my life have had parents or are from India. Maybe it's the awesome accent or delicious food that makes me feel at home and comfortable. I don't know, I just enjoy the company and wind up being friends with Indians. It's very cool.

- Jews: duh, one of the deciding factors in my conversion. Granted, I have encountered asshole Jews here and there but in general it's usually smooth sailing. Some of my best boyfriends ever and also my best friends.

- Red heads: my mom is a red head so it's like when I see a red head I sigh with relief. The zaniness, the sense of humor, the temper, and freckles. What's not to love? The first guy I fell in love with, half my family (God bless recessive genes), and my freshman year roomate. A long legacy.

- Professors: it's totally genetic and also growing up under the whole publish or perish mantra. The funny thing about talking to professors is throughout the conversation you can tell that you have come upon a favorite topic when they switch into lecture mode. Lecture mode is when it's totally one-sided and all you can do is nod, pay attention and follow-up with questions or you can mockingly ask them, "So, I guess that's your new article topic, huh?" Oh yeah, I do not handle professorial egos delicately but it's all in good fun with a hint of comraderie and sympathy.





*Courtesy of Stephen Colbert who is also part Hungarian.

Monday, March 10, 2008

The Job Conundrum

So, this is my second week at my temp job and I've learned a lot. My plan for temping was just earning money while I looked for a real job. But once I come on-board with a company, I fall in love with all the newness and endless possibilities I start imagining myself permanently working there. It's not just the newness, it's also a part of me which HATES wasting time so I have to rationalize that there's a point for learning new computer systems, meeting people, and figuring out driving routes. Yeah, yeah I know time = money but I'm still struggling.

Job Pros
Diverse daily job tasks
Work calls upon my strengths (systems, troubleshooting etc)
The temp pay is fab
Awesome boss
Gaining lots of skills

Job Cons
60 mile daily commute
Company is going through a hiring freeze
Company in a volatile industry
Daily tasks are very simple to the point where I feel like a data entry clerk


So far, it's not soul crushingly bad but there are definite cons. Again, this is just week 2 so I should make sure my opinions are in parenthesis until I'm here for a bit more. There is also the risk of staying too long. Sigh... SOMEONE HIRE ME!

Saturday, March 08, 2008

Blondes Get More Jobs?


Today, I had an appointment to get this tired mess cut, dyed and highlighted. Since I feel like I'm in a rut, I decided last night to try something different.

This is what I did:

Since it's rainy, a lot of body has been sapped out of it. It's a light brown layered cut with chunky golden highlights. Let's see if this 'do will get me a job!

Friday, March 07, 2008

The Creative Fire

When I was younger, I used to write "books", compose music, and sketch/paint. I just did it for fun as a a hobby. There was basically no focus or stress over each project. I'd just float from my writing to composing and end the day doodling something. As an adult, blogging and singing in chorus are my main creative outlets.

But something happens when I read about an artist or see a movie about an artist. Years ago, I had been delaying writing my graduate school application essays until I saw "The Hours". Something about endless scenes of people writing flipped a switch in me so I wrote all my essays in one sitting. The movie Pollock had a similar effect on me. Just watching Project Runway gets my mind whirring with clothing ideas. Luckily, I can't sew and am lazy.

This tendency and the fact that I'm still looking for a job has gotten me thinking. Maybe I need another creative outlet? Also, maybe the books I wrote as a teen aren't all crap and could use a dust off? A lot of creative vehicles are hit or miss for me. I'm better at sketching than painting. I'm also good at combining music and visuals. When I walk through a crafts store and see bolts of fabric, I feel an inner itch to create something. On the vaguely morbid and practical side, if we are headed towards the second Great Depression it might be good to know how to sew.

128 Commute Commandments


Since I have been commuting 60 miles daily primarily on route 128, I feel like I'm pretty much an expert on this route. Also having lived 31 years in the area helps.

1. The lane categories are as follows: slow, middle and fast. Slow is for anyone who cannot break 60 mph either due to fear or a crummy car. Also the slow lane is reserved for anyone over 65, anyone who can't see over the dashboard, and out of state drivers. The middle lane is for people for don't like driving as fast as 80mph. The fast lane is for anyone who can drive 70 - 85 mph.

2. If you are driving so slow, you're causing people to pass you on the right, you are in the wrong lane. Move right.

3. Do not brake on a highway on-ramp, speed up so you can merge with traffic.

4. Merging is like shuffling cards, it should go every other car. Sometimes people don't play the game which is why cars have rearview and side mirrors.

5. If you like to brake for every other air particle while there's a mile of space between you and the car ahead of you, why are you on the highway? Also, why are you in the fast lane? Move right and/or go to driving school.

6. Highway exits go in numerical order* so there should be no reason for you to slam on your brakes and cut across 3 - 4 lanes of traffic to make your exit. If you are driving, please pay attention! Ditto for exit only lanes. If you had missed the 3 signs for the past couple miles saying you are in an exit only lane, don't endanger your life and everyone elses.

7. Ambulances and cop cars have right of way with sirens on so let them through. Letting them through means clear the lane like the parting of the Red Sea. It's someone's life at stake people!

8. The white dashes or lines on the road indicate lanes. Basically, you should try to stay between these lines while driving. If you are on your cell straddling a lane, that means you are incapable of driving while on your cell phone and/ driving one handed so quit it.

9. Tractor trailers slow the hell down and get off my bumper. Also using your eyes/ side view mirrors would be helpful while barreling down the highway.

10. If your car is the color of pavement and it is night/dusk, turn on your headlights. If it is pouring rain, no matter what color car you own, turn on your headlights.


*Usually, MA has a funky system so I can understand some confusion.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

The New Job


So far, it is going well! The commute that I thought would be such a haul isn't too bad in the mornings but it is a pain in the ass at night. But I'm going to try out a new route after work today to hopefully improve that end.

The work itself isn't hard at all and I'm happy to be back working in Oracle. I missed you baby! The people are pretty nice and the office building is fabulous. Unfortunately, the timeline for me going perm isn't too good. The company is going through difficult times and has a hiring freeze.

Well, at least I have money coming in while I search for a permanent benefitted job! My God, do those really exist? I'm going to try to avoid manufacturing and retail for my job search. Those industries are tanking in the crummy economy. I should know, my old manufacturing company is laying off about 60% of the employees!

Monday, March 03, 2008

The F'ed Up Family Club

Since I have chronicled how screwed up my family was on this blog, I figure now is the time to discuss the twisted kind of camaraderie that exists between people who survived messed up families.

You can spot us by looking for people chuckling mirthlessly in the Hallmark aisle for Mother's or Father's Day. For me, I love the sappy cards that say, "To a father who was always there for me..." or "Mother, you and I always understood each other..." Of course, I auto-complete the card covers with ".. always there to beat the shit out of me or point out my flaws" and " as mutual abuse survivors could only understand each other" We are also the people who stock up on crates of booze around holidays. Nothing smooths over tense relations better than alcohol. Father decrying the violence of war? Alcohol will paste a bland smile on your face and drown out the irony sirens.

If I find out someone had a a screwed up family during childhood, I automatically feel compassion for and like the person. Sure, they can be total douches but I reserve my sympathy and support for the people who survived unscathed. I still feel so deficient and scarred from my childhood that by seeing someone who was able to pull their shit together, I totally get inspired. I think to myself that, "I don't have to let this define me. I can be a great human being despite my childhood."

I do admit, there is a kind of sick competition in our club. My trump story was that my father would go into apoplectic rage if I didn't return a ruler I borrowed. Then, I heard about a girl who was beaten if she threw up. I simply can't complain in front of that girl period. She wins. The coolest part of the f'ed up family club is that you have this awesome survivors bond with your sibling(s). A couple holidays ago, my brother and I reminisced about the times we pulled a knife on our father. Good times...

If you are part of the f'ed up family club, I get it. I didn't invite friends to my house because it was too risky. Who knew what mood my father was in? I had crummy self esteem. For most of my life, I thought I was worthless and everything I accomplished was moot.

I am also part of the redeemed family club. We are on track for healing thanks to lots of therapy and medication. As an abuse survivor, I know we tend to see the world in black and white. But the world isn't like that. It is okay to admit that you love your abusive parent or alcoholic parent or negligent parent. Sure, they did awful things to us but that only means that they didn't deserve our love, not that it didn't exist. I love my father for who he is now, despite our violent past and I love my mother because her and I basically share a brain. Seriously, get us behind a slow driver and we wind up muttering, "Asshole" at the same time regardless of who is driving! My brother is just awesome all around and even though he's younger than I, I still appreciate his advice and insight - it's very soothing.

This is for two months prep for Mother's Day and three months prep for Father's Day. Blank cards are always best!

Verizon Sucks Goat's Balls



The free television offer is a complete crock of shit. So their new camera offer is probably mired in feces.

After waiting months and filing a Better Business Bureau complaint, I finally got a letter instructing me on how to receive my free television. I just have to enter a special log in and password at their Verizon rewards site and wait another 6 - 10 weeks for delivery. So, on top of waiting two months to receive a letter, I will still have to wait another 1 - 3 months to actually get the T.V.

The piece de resistance on this idiocy is that I was given the log in and password for some guy in Rutherford, NJ. Real nice, Verizon... NOT!

Urge to Throttle Blue Cross Blue Shield Rising

My health insurance plan is forcing everyone to migrate to Express Scripts for prescription renewals. Of course they mailed the enrollment info for the last week I had left on my anti-depressants. I enrolled then lo and behold, it will take 10 - 14 days to process my first prescription and retail pharmacy renewals aren't an alternative!


So, here I am with my last week of meds, starting a new job, and completely stressing out. The way Blue Cross Blue Shield works is that your first phone call to resolve a situation evaporates into the atmosphere so you have to call back to repeat everything over again to actually get some resolution.

The MBA and analyst in me thinks its completely ridiculous shutting down the traditional prescription filling option while people are migrated to a new system. This forced migration is only for maintenance medications so by that very nature, its medicine that people need to live. Why make the process harder?