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Riding the Bike with One Pedal.

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      Fuchsia Friday

      November 26, 2010 /

      Screw all this “Black Friday” stuff. I get it, it’s all about stores coming out of the red ink and into the black, but good lord, folks, you really NEED to trample your way in? I was thinking about all of this yesterday, as I considered reviving my tradition of going out shopping on Black Friday, wondering when it all turned from a shopping day with more excitement into a fuckin’ piranha tank.  There’s very little I need that would require me getting up at 3 am at this point in my life.  James even reminded me of this adventure (“Remember, you said you weren’t going anymore?”)

      Oh yeah. And here I was, contemplating Joann’s AND CostCo. I still was, until I saw that I’d been looking at the wrong day, and that Joann’s didn’t open at 7 am, but instead, at 6 am. One hour was enough to make me really question if it was worth it or not. So I jumped online to calculate just how much I’d save on that damned OTT-Lite, and lo and behold? Joanns.com was having a sale. With a floor OTT lamp for $50, and free shipping if you spent $75. Since I was going to shell out over $100 on the lamp alone (with the extra coupon), I tapped in all my info, got a replacement bulb and one thing I needed to complete a gift. Grand total of $75.97, free shipping, bay-bee!

      I did go out later, made a grocery store run and a trip to Westlake Hardware, and let me just say, I don’t know if they have a special training course at Westlake Ace for how to treat women when they come in? But the car industry could learn a LOT from these people.  I needed to get a few nuts and bolts, a new humidifier filter, and what I thought was a thumb screw. Within a minute of entering the store, I was greeted by two people, and the man working the floor asked if I needed help finding anything. Indeed I did, and within five minutes, we had all the nuts, bolts and washers I needed, at the correct size and length. He looked at the part I brought in, pronounced I already had a screw in there, but needed a tiny allen wrench (for thirty-nine cents) and I was on my merry way, with everything I needed and no frustrations.  As I left, I was reflecting on how awesome everything had gone (I had imagined myself digging through compartment after compartment of bolts, probably spilling some) and that my experience is like that every time I go. I don’t work for them, no affiliation, I just have to say, I’m either lucky, look unbelievably pathetic, or they’ve got some really good customer service, and I’m betting on the latter.

      At CVS, I couldn’t help but stare at the woman who was checking out in front of me, and she looked back at me with some glimmer of recognition, but didn’t say anything. I pondered how Kansas City gets smaller and smaller each year, and sometimes people who work in other places I frequent will pop up (say, at the grocery store, and your mind struggles to place them.) I didn’t think much of it, but she returned, because they’d overcharged her for photos, and she had no photos. She looked at me again, and I finally had to say, “Do we know each other? You look really familiar.” And she said, yes, we did, and told me who her husband was, who is someone my husband got into it with during his last months with a local waterfowl organization, and so there we had it, not only did we have a connection but it was utterly fractured and stupid.  I was instantly regretting asking her who she was and realizing exactly why she didn’t greet me in the first place, and so we stood there at the pharmacy counter, awkwardly, like Mrs. Ulysses S. Grant and Mrs. Robert E. Lee somehow got stuck at the same tea table  (I’m playing the role of Mrs. Grant, btw, I don’t care what side Missouri fought on.)  I graciously told the cashier to handle her refund first, and we both stood there staring at her while attempt after attempt to credit her back failed. Then she had to call a manager, who didn’t show up, and she finally asked Mrs. Lee if she could take care of me real quick while they waited for the manager. I scrawled my name on the line and escaped as quickly as I could, wondering how in the hell they were now in our neighborhood. Like I said, small town, big city.

      So it was a good day, no crazy shopping, though I’ve lived vicariously through others, as people post pictures of their giant tv’s and exhaustion from having to either work the sales or from still dealing with family. Me, I’m having a British crime procedural marathon, watching episodes of MI:5 (Spooks) and nibbling on cheese. If I were to paint the day a color, it would be the shockingly bright, happy magenta I love so dearly, making it a very fuchsia Friday indeed.

      The Zen of Homebuilding

      November 25, 2010 /

      The holidays have really never been my thing, over the years. Most of my adult memories of them are associated with either steeling myself to going home and battling it out with my parents, or figuring out a way not to go home, and feeling guilty about it. I remember one year, an impending snowstorm made the decision for me, and genuinely crying on the phone to my parents about having to spend Christmas alone, but secretly, inside and under the fountain of tears, I was relieved.  My return visits home made me the centerpiece of attention, something I normally enjoy, I’ll admit, but this was never in a charmed or charming way.

      I shan’t relive those visits here, of course, moments from over the years still rise up and remind me of their sting. It’s taken a long, long time to feel at peace with my history, the family traditions that so many of us have.  Then, my father’s death became a new albatross this time of year, in part because it echoed his own history around the holidays: his mother’s own death before Christmas turned him into a very depressed, withdrawn person as that holiday approached. The family compromise was to decorate every-other year, as he hated everything about the holiday, arguing the ritual was idiotic, given our lack of religious faith. But really, inside, he was just trying to keep afloat in the Pit. The Pit of sadness and despair, where our grief and our pain pools and resides, ebbing and flowing, sometimes threatening to drown us completely. In the years following his death, I barely recall those gatherings myself, apart from the ones we hosted. In some ways, I replicated his own behavior; survival in the grips of absolute despair.

      I’m not sure why this year feels different. Not quite as blue, not quite as shiny, either, just another day with fewer stores open, no mail. A day spent with a good friend watching Harry Potter on the big screen, in a theater not nearly as crowded as Christmas is, where I have sought company among my Jewish friends in the past. Traditions are hard to shake, especially the feeling that you are missing out somehow, that a piece of you is off-kilter, adrift, not in sync as Facebook status after Facebook status rolls by with reports of over-indulgence, new recipes, scrubbed shiny faces of children. Odd, how social media can unite and isolate all at the same time. But that history is not my history, your recipe for stuffing is far different than my own.

      They say when you leave home, that you can never go home again. My father said those words to me after they moved me into the dorms to begin my freshman year of college. Stung, I felt like I had been set adrift somehow, the proverbial thump of landing after being kicked out of the nest. He then explained that while it was always my home, it would never be the same. My struggle to define myself, to grow up, to be independent, would all prevent my childhood home from feeling the same to me, and that I would have to find and establish a new home for myself. At that time, all of 17 years old, I thought I understood. But I can tell you now, from the wisdom of 25 more years, that I had no idea what home was or needed to be at that point in my life.

      Tonight, I will enjoy some pasta with mushrooms and asparagus. Asparagus my husband bought me because he knows how much I love it. Asparagus he bought when he went to the grocery store for me, taking the list I’d written for myself, taking one thing off my list in a week that’s been so busy for being so short. In so many ways, he is my refuge, my comfort and strength. But I finally see that my home is within me. It is not defined by a day or a meal. And for this wisdom and perspective, I’m thankful, indeed.

      Stay Tuned!

      November 9, 2010 /

      I’m currently in a battle with the Water Department.

      For some unknown reason, my account has been locked. I tried to log in and pay our bill, and surprise! No go. I figured it was because I had signed up ages ago and they just did an overhaul on the payment site. So I called the Action Line today, and after sitting on hold for 15 minutes (being reminded every five that if I indeed had a life-threatening emergency, to hang up and call 9-1-1), I was able to get through. Only to learn “oh, the water department? They all screwed up today, their phones ain’t workin’ and their computers are screwed up.”

      Great.

      The woman on the Action Line took my information, and -I am not shitting you – five hours later, I got a call back. I was told to just plug in my user name and the reset-password they gave me and it should work.

      No.

      Still locked out. I was informed that “Well, she can get right into your account.” WHO IS SHE. “She’s the lady who worked on this whole new website.”

      Gee, you think maybe she’s got some fucking admin privileges I don’t? Because I’m betting she does. Nonetheless, we keep trying. I’m told to wait ten minutes and try again, and someone from the Action Line will call me in fifteen minutes.

      I waited twenty minutes, no luck, account still locked. I even went into (gag) Internet Explorer to try it, thinking perhaps our new website is only as strong as its weakest platform. Nope. Still locked out. And it’s been an hour and fifteen minutes since I was supposed to get a follow-up call. Oh sure, I have other options, but I get like a terrier about shit like this, because it’s so STUPID, and should not take 8 hours to fix, or if it does, just say so. And if you think I’m letting go of this? mmmm. Nope. I have a case number.

      Gosh. I wonder how they’d feel if I just took such a laid-back approach on payin’ ’em. Something tells me it’s not a two-way street.

      Reflection…

      November 2, 2010 /

      Standing in line

      People crowding around me.

      We line up by letter of last name.

      I wonder when they’ll figure out “I-O” always has the most people.

      I wonder how long I’ll have to wait.

      My feet hurt.

      It’s been a long day.

      Then.

      I think of the photo.

      Of the Iraqi woman.

      Raising her ink-stained finger.

      A rush of emotion fills me

      And I realize.

      Remember.

      Remind myself.

      Of all the people who went before me.

      Who dared to raise their voices.

      Who sat in protest.

      Who died because they fought to change the system.

      Who died to protect the basic tenets of our country.

      And suddenly it didn’t seem so bad.

      To wait in line.

      To exercise my right.

      To vote.

      iraq-vote

      File Under: “Couldn’t Make This Up If I Tried.”

      October 28, 2010 /

      It’s been a pretty stressful week here at Chez PlazaJen. I’ve got a ton of work going on, and I’ve been burning the midnight oil to get it all done. Yesterday I was just plain stupid by the time I got home! So, my perspective on things is a little skewed, as I’ve had some tunnel vision and whack-a-mole days of late.

      Today I got an email. From someone I didn’t know, and it didn’t appear to be spam. (I even checked, afterward, and the sender and send-ee both have LinkedIn pages that match city/state, plus the signature contained a phone number and address.) A little background first: I use my full name for one of my gmail addies and sometimes I get invitations to family reunions that aren’t mine, I’ve been asked to weigh in on Christmas plans (by family that isn’t mine), so on and so forth.  I usually, gently, try to steer the person back to their address book so the other Jennifer out there doesn’t miss out.

      Given my state of mind, it might explain why I found this so goddamned funny when I opened an email that had every appearance of being intended for me, as it did actually come from a real person, who was sending to his wife and me. (but not me.)

      The email subject? “Wedding Pics You Requested.”
      The copy? “Enjoy”

      Now, I’m sure it’s a joke between them, but I really was still a little surprised by the last one….not what I expected. At all.

      wpic1

      wpic2

      wpic3

      If I Were A Chilean Miner….

      October 11, 2010 /

      Not only would I be ecstatic that I’m not going to be stuck in the mine until Christmas, as originally predicted, but I’d sure be lobbying to be Miner #2 or #3 out of the hole in the ground. Hell, stuck with me, they’d probably be putting rocket fuel under my capsule to escalate my departure. (she NEVER shuts UP!)

      I heard parts of the story this morning on NPR, that they are figuring out who gets to go first, and then there’s some debate and jockeying for who will be last, as that person will hold the record as an individual for the amount of time spent trapped in a mine (or some such record.)

      I’d like to think I’d be brave enough to go first. But I don’t know. I just hear the descriptions of this capsule, and it’s long journey – two Empire State Building’s worth of distance – through the tube, and I feel my chest compress and the claustrophobia slithers in from all sides. Because if you’re first, that’s probably when it’s going to jack itself up, if there’s a major flaw in the entire structure. Kaplooey, you’re done for.  But once the first one gets out, hey, get the hell out of my way, that capsule is working and see y’all up on top, pops. I wouldn’t give a hoot about any records. I’d also be glad I wasn’t one of the three fellas who had both their wives AND mistresses show up at the mine site, because no matter how glad either one of those ladies is going to be, heads are gonna roooooll.

      All in all, these men are all known by their first names in their country, they are heroes, and it’s miraculous they’ve survived this disaster. The lawsuits have already begun, too. It seems like this is yet another industry that is poorly-regulated and allowed to operate unchecked, both abroad and at home. I hope action comes from these tragedies/catastrophes to change and improve the regulation of all these jobs where lives are on the line – oil rigs, miners, etc.. The drive for cheaper, faster, plentiful resources and money, attained from the backs of these people who bend because it’s a job, it’s their livelihood, their options are limited – it makes me crazy, because sitting on top of those backs are the fat cats who profit from their labor,  sitting back and calculating how much a disaster would cost them, versus the cost to “do the job right” – money always wins with them, and human life becomes a number, just another line on an actuarial chart.  I went off on a rant, there, yes. It’s that Norma Rae creature in me.  I wrote a folk song when I was in 4th grade (and performed it in music class!), a dark dirge-like song about the life as a miner. Lots of flats, if I recall correctly.  I come by it fair & square, those hippie parents and all the old-timey music.

      It’s dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
      Where danger is double and pleasures are few,
      Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
      It’s dark as a dungeon way down in the mines.

      ~ From “Dark as A Dungeon”, by Merle Travis

      The (Self-Appointed) Spelling and Grammar Police Are Having A Week.

      October 9, 2010 /

      I don’t claim to have perfect grammar, spelling, or even spectacular sentence structure. I do, however, make every effort to use correct spelling and proper grammar, and I try to limit the number of sentences I start with the word “so”, as that is a particular weakness of mine.

      This week has been a bit crazy, hectic, stressful, you name it – but I have been provoked twice now to actually yell at the television because of spelling and grammar. The Fox 4 morning news crew are a fun bunch, but a couple of them just cannot get the proper use of the word “good” versus “well”. I finally had to post on their Facebook page because I just couldn’t take it anymore. Don Harmon, the weatherman, had just finished saying “Slow..ly. Slowly. I think that’s right.” And then Mark Alford responded with something like, “It’s going good out there.”  My post:

      Way to go, Don, properly identifying adverbs! (slow-LY!) You are correct!
      Next, let’s get Mark telling the world things are going WELL instead of
      ‘good’, since that is not proper grammar and it makes me yell at him.
      Thanks!

      To his credit, Mark actually responded with humor, saying “im well with that!” I may have to go down there with a ruler and rap some knuckles. Actually, it would be rather fun to have a paintball gun and every time an egregious grammatical mistake is uttered, KAPOW! I would also shout what they should have said, since I’m quite good at that already.  The traffic guy should be very afraid if this comes to fruition.

      Which brings me to this morning, when KSHB (NBC)  flashed up two different slides (the typed-up cards on their template background that accompany the anchors while they’re talking) with horrid typos. The first one was about the new television season, and that production had “haulted” on a show. Uh, wtf is that? You can haul things, but you don’t hault them. Then, THEN, the next story was about – wait for it – BOAL GAMES. This is not the closed-captioning system translating, this is someone typing it in for the day’s stories. Seriously, I think six-year olds know how to spell “bowl”.

      I think what bugs me in all of this is that even though I don’t hold my local media outlets to the standards I would hold, say, the New York Times, I do expect a certain amount of accuracy and I expect a whole lot of proper grammar. This isn’t a reality tv show, this is the news. Manufactured, selective, tilted at times, sensationalist most of the time, but you are still THE NEWS. And in ignoring grammar and spelling, it feels like we are moving yet another ten paces closer to accepting an unacceptable level of national stupidity. Why not just start typing it all in phone-texting style? Hell, start doing shots of Jager during the news, why wear a tie, or a nice pantsuit (Katie Horner, I’m lookin’ at you), just wear swimsuits or dress like the cast of Jersey Shore? Talk smack, talk trash, why have standards at all? Editorialize while you’re at it!

      Nevermind me, I’ll still be getting my real news from NPR. I have never heard Steve Inskeep say “Things are going good!” And I’m GREAT with that.

      How To Merge

      October 7, 2010 /

      This would ordinarily count as a public service announcement, however, I may wind up cursing so much, the lesson will only remain appropriate for truckers, sailors, and Marines.

      First, a message to the old man leaving Price Chopper on 103rd in your little white truck: FUCK. You. Thank you for not understanding the general concept of merging, so I was forced to hit my brakes and send my leftovers flying off my passenger seat, to leak and smear on all the papers in my bag. Fuckyouverymuch. Punching it to get out of the parking lot? I get it. Getting into the middle lane and pulling into my lane while there was still room? That’s awesome. Except you didn’t do that, did you. You went below the speed limit and made like you were coming over, then went back into the middle lane, then came back over again, as I was wildly gesturing and screaming at you by that point and sending all my belongings on to the floor of my car.  I got to play the “Is he coming over? Is he waiting? He isn’t going a consistent speed? I am? But now I’m not, as I don’t want to wreck my car?” game.  And, for the record, I was going below the speed limit. I got to come home and scrub things, after calling you numerous, colorful terms that would have made even George Carlin pause and look at me in admiration. Have a splendid evening, douchecanoe.

      Merging. I have witnessed this problematic element of driving quite often of late. Let me break it down for you. The whole fucking point of merging, especially when getting onto the highway, is to be TRAVELING AT THE SPEED OF TRAFFIC. This is why those goddamned red lights on the entrance ramps are the bane of my existence, even though I get the reasons behind them. This isn’t a putt-putt-putt along lane, slow way down maybe stop if it doesn’t feel right. We are not doing the goddamned double-dutch jump rope and you get to pick and choose when your feet are going in.  Get your ass going. And to all the rest of you sailing along in the right-hand lane? Get the fuck OVER. Y’all don’t seem to understand how badly I wanted a driver’s license as a child and it was denied to me. I studied the inserts Shell Oil used to run in Woman’s Day and Family Circle, using Goofy to show how to properly accelerate (imagine an egg between the pedal and the floor! Press down slowly!) I ate up every bit of information on what to do in accidents, when to use flares, how to stay safe on the road. So to say that I studied the Iowa Motor Vehicle License book would be an understatement. I absorbed it. I can still see the line drawing for merging onto the highway.

      Here’s the one from the Missouri booklet, it’s quite similar:

      mergemofos

      This is not that hard, people. Driving isn’t a right, it’s a privilege. Let people in as they’re merging, and if you’re a merger, speed the fuck up so you’re not creating a potential 20-car fender bender and sixteen more high-blood pressure cases.

      So. In case you’d like the full-blown directive from the same book, here you go:

      ENTERING THE HIGHWAY
      Entrance ramps are short, one-way ramps used to get on the highway. At the end of most entrance ramps is an acceleration lane. Use the ramp and acceleration lane to increase your speed to match the speed of the vehicles on the highway.

      As you are speeding up, watch for an opening in the highway traffic. Switch on your turn signal, and pull smoothly into the traffic. DO NOT stop at the end of an acceleration lane unless traffic is very heavy and you have to stop.

      Drivers already on the highway should give you room to enter, but if they don’t, DO NOT force your way onto the highway. You must yield the right-of-way to them, even if that means stopping at the end of an acceleration lane.

      Namaste, motherfuckers.

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