Where I Was

This morning I heard on NPR that it was 15 years ago today that the bombing in Oklahoma City happened. It was the kind of event that demonstrated to Americans that we are not even safe from ourselves. It’s easier to be outraged at a foreign entity bombing something on our soil than it is when one of our own does it. We ask ourselves how something like this could happen, and how one of our own citizens can build a bomb and destroy the lives of other Americans with it.  And we never seem to come up with a good enough answer.

I was 21 when it happened. I hadn’t given much thought to anything in Oklahoma City. I’d never been there. I didn't know anyone who lived there.  It’s one of those cities in a part of the country that I hadn’t spent any time in. It's the kind of place that is far away, and that I'd end up reading about in the paper.

I was in Tasmania on the day that it happened. I had just returned to the city of Hobart after spending a few days at Mt. Field National Park, just outside of Hobart. The night before I’d spent the night in a picnic shelter in the park, on a mattress I’d borrowed from the ranger’s station. I was out of money, and woefully unprepared for the fact that the hostel I’d stayed in the night before didn’t accept Visa. I paid cash for the one night in the hostel, assuming that I’d find an ATM in the morning. The closest ATM was 16 km away, I’d learned the next day. I had $8 in my pocket, precisely enough to get the bus back to Hobart on the day after that.

I decided that I’d rather spend the day exploring the park and figure out my accommodation situation later on, than walking the 16 km to the bank. I’d met the park ranger, who allowed me to borrow the mattress. Just before sunset I made camp in the picnic shelter, and turned down a ride back to Hobart from people who may or may not have been perfectly normal people. I made a fire. I ate some food I had in my pack. I set my travel alarm clock for 7 so that I would have plenty of time to wake up, clean up and catch my bus.  I was woken up in the middle of the night by a wallaby plundering the nearby trash can.  Other than that I slept peacefully. 

When I returned to Hobart the next morning, I wandered into a café for breakfast. It was over a bagel and hot chocolate that I learned the news of the bombing. Another patron had left a copy of a newspaper behind and I read it while I ate. The picture of the Murrah Building stretched over the front page, a cut away view revealing all of the building’s floors. I stared at it in awe, and then read the article. While I was exploring a beautiful park, a bomb had exploded in my country.

Oklahoma City was ten thousand miles away from Hobart. Even though I didn’t know anyone who lived there, I numbly shuffled through the streets anyway with a feeling like my country had just changed for the worse.

Later on, in the hostel, I met a German woman who had asked me what I thought about the bombing. I asked her “Well, what would anyone think? It was a horrible thing that happened.” She nodded and said that it was a silly question, and she apologized for asking it.  Even though it didn’t impact my life directly, I felt very cold-hearted when I thought of it that way.  Almost as if I was thinking "Well, it has nothing to do with me... la de da."  Well, what did I think of it?  A silly, yet loaded question.

To a lot of people I’ve never met, today is the anniversary of the day they lost a loved one in a senseless act of violence and stupidity. To those people it was the end of a life.  But now I look at this event and all I can think is “Now, what the hell was that for?”

Healthy Fear

Today my stint as a grand juror was supposed to end. It’s been six months, and we’ve been extended for another six months because we have three cases pending indictment that we haven’t finished yet.  Obviously I cannot write about the cases I’ve heard here. I wish I could. It’s been a fascinating experience, and I would love to share the stories I've heard in the deliberation room. Every other week I was told a story. Some of them made me cry after hearing them and some of them left my mouth hanging open in awe.

The thing I am in awe about the most is the lack of a healthy fear, which is something I've experienced on more than one occasion.  It’s the butterflies in the stomach, the mouth gone dry, the adrenaline surging through my body that causes my palms to sweat. I’ve felt it when having a near miss with another car while speeding in my car. I’ve felt it the time I broke Mom’s vase when I was a kid, or at work when something happened that was entirely fault. It’s the healthy fear that makes me fess up because I am afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. It’s this healthy fear that keeps me, and other normal people, from doing something like knocking over a 7-11. However, observing some of the witnesses I’ve heard in the last six months has taught me that not everyone has this healthy fear.

We mostly hear from witnesses that work in law enforcement, however on occasion we hear from civilian witnesses. We never get to hear from the person who is accused of the crime, or is the target of the investigation. But we hear about them from other people, and it’s the stories of these other people that help me and the rest of the jurors decide if they have to go to trial later on.  The civilian witnesses amaze me. It's not that they don’t dress up for their testimony like the law enforcement witnesses do. It isn't even that they aren’t prepared like the law enforcement witnesses are. It's in the way they speak.  They answer “Yup” and “Yeah” instead of “Yes.” Some of them nod or shake their head, and then the court reporter has to tell them to answer verbally so she can type it into the stenotype machine. The last two sessions I’ve heard from witnesses who, in addition to not being prepared, they just don’t have the healthy fear. Yesterday I listened to a witness tell us that something confiscated from her desk at her workplace in a search and seizure “might” be hers. She wouldn’t not say the word yes, but knew she couldn’t say no either. She stuck with “might be.”  The prosecutor pressed the question "Yes or no, is this yours?"  And she answered "it might be" every time without batting an eye.

My mouth hung open as she answered that way over and over. She was on the edge of lying, and yet she appeared calm. She testified for nearly three hours, and did not “crack” under the pressure of the prosecutor. She answered that she “didn’t recall” to questions that we knew that she knew the answer to.

If it were me on the stand, I’d be shaking in my boots. I would be singing like a canary because I’d be too afraid of what might happen if I didn’t tell them exactly what I knew about the situation. The healthy fear would take over, and the sense of right or wrong would kick in and would compel me to say something other than it “might have” been my fault.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last six months of being part of the greatest judicial system in the world, it’s that I will never ever do anything illegal because I never want to find myself in that seat.

It Must Be my Mediterranean Skin

It was a slow day at Jacques Penney. That’s what I called JC Penney when I worked there when I was a teenager. I said it with a heavy faux French accent. We were all standing around, me and a few women I worked with who were also bored. These were older women. They had husbands and kids. They worked for Jacques on nights and weekends for extra money.

“Ugh, my skin is peeling from this sunburn,” one of them women scratched her shoulder blades against a display. I joked about taking one of the hands off a mannequin so scratching would be easier.

She looked me up and down. It was summer. I was 17 and tan. “You don’t burn, do you?”

“Nope,” I smiled back at her. “I think about the sun and I get tan.” Then I paused, looked up and to the right, as if deep in thought. Then I showed her my arm, “See, it’s already more tan.”

“Well, you’re Polish. You have that Mediterranean skin,” she replied, thoughtfully.

I conjured a map of Europe in my head. The summer before I had vacationed in Germany, Poland and Italy with my family. It took a long time to drive to Rome from Krakow, Poland.

Pop quiz, Internet! Do you know why it took a long time to drive from Krakow to Poland?

It’s because Poland is nowhere damn near the Mediterranean Sea, my friends.

Hijacking Greta

The other day I read in the Providence Journal about an old lady who received a phone call from her grandson. The grandson lived in Florida, and she hadn’t talked to him in awhile. He calls her up and said “Grandma, I’m in Canada and I got arrested. I need $2,000 to post bail.” The grandma told him that she’d call his parents, and he was all like “NO! They can’t ever find out, they’ll be so mad at me. Can we please keep this between us?” She wired the grandson some money to some location in Canada and then called him back on his cell to tell him that she’d wired the money.

Then her worst nightmare came true. The grandson said “What are you talking about? I’m not in Canada. I’m having lunch with my co-workers in Florida…” She’d been taken for a $2,000 ride, and of course that money’s gone.

Then just yesterday I got an email from my friend Greta. Apparently she was in the UK, been mugged at gunpoint, and needed some money so she could settle up with the hotel and fly home that night. She promised to pay me back when she got home.

The problem? Greta was not in the UK. Greta lives in Florida. Even though I don’t talk to Greta every day, I knew that she was not on a “last minute vacation to London.” Luckily I knew enough not to wire Greta the $2,500 she’d asked for. (Where the hell did she stay that she needs $2,500 to “settle the hotel bill” and how much caviar did she get from room service??)

Greta’s email account had been hacked. Her facebook page had been hacked too. The hacker posed as her and chatted to her friends online trying to get them to send money. Her friends knew that Greta was not in the UK. One even said “I am texting with Greta right now. You are not Greta. I just saw her this morning.” The hacker then disconnected from the chat and retreated. Greta’s friends know better, and have not given the hacker a dime.

Internet, if you get an email or a phone call about a friend of yours that is in trouble please verify it before you act. One little phone call to the grandson’s cell phone would have saved the grandma $2,000.

Why Is That?

“So, what do you do?” I overheard at a party.

“This is John, he’s a software engineer,” I heard at another party.

“So, you’re an attorney. What’s that like?” I overheard somewhere else.

Not many people ask me what I do for a living. And you know what? I really don’t mind that I don’t get asked. I wonder why people don’t often ask me that question. Is it that I don’t look like someone who is gainfully employed? No. It’s probably because whenever I am in a social setting I tend to talk about the things I like to do. I talk about the stupid things my dogs do. I talk about our sailing adventures and our diving adventures. Then I forget that I even have a job that I could be talking about, because I am having fun talking and hearing about vacations and listening to funny stories.

When Todd and I were at Kalahari, we stood in line at the boogie boarding ride. The line takes a long time because we have to wait for every single person ahead of us to take a turn navigating a boogie board on a perpetual wave. I struck up a conversation with the couple in line behind us. Then Todd asked me what they did for a living.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask,” I replied. Then I thought about it some more. “You know, I don’t like asking people what they do for work. I’d rather ask what they like to do. That’s always more interesting anyway.” He shrugged and thought about it for a second and acknowledged I was right.

We rode the boogie board, and I managed to get up onto my knees before the force of the water sent me flying up to where the wave ends. The lifeguard greeted me with an outstretched towel in case my bathing suit ceased to cover up the goods. (Which I thought was great of them to do. At Schlitterbahn in South Padre Island, TX I involuntarily flashed my boobs at all of the people in line, and at all the people on the balcony of the café above. Good times.) We headed to the hot tub bar after boogie boarding. You have to enter the hot tub to belly up to the bar. Then the hot tub flows under the exterior wall of the building so that we could enjoy our drinks in the tub outdoors. A perfect situation, really.

We soaked and drank. As usual, I eavesdropped on the conversations around us. I listened to a man bitch about his job to his friend. Blah blah blah blah… I tuned out the conversation. Then they went inside after one of the men said to the other “You should just be a man about it and sleep with other women.” (What??) We took their place along the side of the tub and listened to other people talk about their jobs.

I asked Todd, “Why is it that we’re at the biggest indoor water park in the nation, sitting in an awesome hot tub on a Saturday night with these fabulous drinks in our hands listening to people talk about work? Isn’t there anything else for people to talk about?”

Is it that we’re overworked? Are so many of our waking moments spent working or worrying about work?

What do you think, Internet? Why do people talk about work so much?

99%? Really?

There’s an old saying that goes something like this, “You learn something new everyday.” Generally I find this to be true, and today was no exception. I learned a very valuable lesson from a very wise scholar tonight.

After work I went to my local favorite clothing consignment shop. I discovered this shop about five minutes after moving to Podunk, and have been hooked ever since. What I like about this shop, aside from the low prices on clothing, is that the selection constantly varies, and because of that I have tried on and bought articles of clothing that I never would have considered had I seen them in an unused clothing store. I also like that I am recycling by reusing the clothes I buy and sell in there, and that I am supporting a local business and not some big ass corporation. So, yeah, this little shop helps me stick it to the man.

I had an appointment to sell a few things I pulled out of my closet that I don’t wear anymore. Selling clothing at a consignment shop is not a get rich quick kind of a thing. (Why do I bother? See above, sticking it to the man.) I arrived at D’s Closet at 5:30, with a few pairs of pants, jeans and tops slung over my arm. While D looked them over and picked out what she thought would sell, I browsed the racks and brought my selections into the fitting room—a corner of the shop sectioned off by a cloth shower curtain. I chatted with D, while trying my soon to be acquired items and asked D’s opinion. She’s always honest, which I love.

I brought my selections to the counter: 2 pairs of jeans, a silk blend shirt and 2 sweaters. D tallied them up, and I forked over $48.50. Just as I was turning to leave the shop, an older woman burst through the door. The bell over the door clanged to announce her arrival.

She was a tall, imposing woman. Her yellowish grey hair was fiercely pinned back with bobby pins, and sharp contrast with her frumpy wardrobe. She wore a lumpy cardigan and a shapeless peasant skirt with socks and keds—all of which matched her hair color exactly. Her heavy rimmed glasses magnified her eyes and attracted attention to the obvious fact that this woman was not playing with a full deck. Her eyes grew wide, her whites were a yellowish shade, and the color also matched her hair and clothing.

“I came in here because you’re all women in here, I needed to hide,” she explained.

“Let me tell you something,” she continued while pointing her finger at D. “99% of young American men are queer or abusers.”

At this point I bit my tongue. Normally I enjoy engaging people like this in a debate. But I held my tongue and let her finish.

“I walked here from my house, and I was verbally abused four times by men passing in cars,” she held up four fingers to emphasize the point. D and I didn’t respond, and the other customer in the store hid behind an overstuffed rack of clothing.

“I walk around here all the time, and I get these men who yell at me all the time. They are queer, and they are abusers. Nothing more than that,” she continued. If she was behind the podium she probably would have pounded her fist to add emphasis to the words “queer” and “abusers.”

“The state of the young men in this country is horrible,” she declared, then turned around and left the store as quickly as she came in.

Choosing Sides

I’ve been through it a hundred times before. For as long as I’ve had friends, I had friends who were together as a couple, until they break up. It was fun, and convenient for me, to hang out with the both of them while they were still together. I was friends with her, and I was friends with him. But then they break up, and I have to figure out which one I am going to still be friends with.

It’s inevitable that I end up picking a side. I listen to each describe the injustices that the other committed. But eventually I end up picking one of them to remain friends with no matter how hard I try to be fair and to treat each of them equally. It’s an uncomfortable spot to be in, as I often find myself outraged at the stories I am told about cruelties committed by one of the members of the marriage. Then I side with the one who had suffered the most in the breakup as a show of support.

Just weeks before Todd and I got married a friend of mine called me up to tell me that he and his wife were divorcing. He asked me if we would help him move out of their apartment and into his bachelor pad—which we did, just three weeks before our own marriage was to begin. After the divorce I tried staying friends with his ex-wife, but it didn’t work out. I felt too strongly about her role in causing the divorce, and had to choose. It wasn’t too hard of a choice, as I was friends with him first.

Just last night I had dinner with a friend who was visiting from out of town. He took a job out of state that eventually contributed to his own divorce. I met the both of them at the same time, so I didn’t have a natural way to choose a side in this case. Instead of politely listening to his digs about his ex, I said “Hey, let’s talk about the future instead of the past, eh?” He acknowledged that I was right, and told me about new developments in his bachelor life—which was way more interesting than his anger over the ex anyway. But I am still outraged at how he was treated by her. And though I still want to be her friend too, if they were both at the same party I’d probably hang out with him more. Side chosen, again.

Then tonight it happened again. I sat at the bar and read while I waited for Todd to join me when I looked over my shoulder and spotted another friend of mine who is going through a separation. She pretended not to notice me, but the man she was with looked at me and it was entirely obvious that she had probably said to him, “Don’t look, but I know that woman over there.” The menu was propped up on their table, and they crouched behind it slightly. I turned my attention to my book, but was drawn to looking past them at the door while I waited for Todd. I met them as a couple as well, but I had already sided with her husband only because I hadn’t seen or heard from her in awhile.

Todd walked by her and joined me at the bar and I whispered, “Sandy is here. She’s sitting over there.” He turned to look, but Sandy was firm in facing the other way. We walked by her table so that we could get seated at dinner. She practically dove under her table. It was completely obvious that she didn’t want to be seen by us, but also completely obvious that we’d seen her and that she knew we saw her. They moved to another table, out of our line of sight as we sat down.

Todd grew annoyed, “We haven’t seen her in months, and this is how she acts? I thought she was my friend, you know?” He distractedly fidgeted with his fork and his water glass.

“Obviously she doesn’t want to see us. Let’s just let her be.” I tried to distract him with the menu and talking about my day.

Eventually he got up, went to their table to say hello. I trailed behind and kissed her cheek and told her she looked great. She did look great. And we met her friend, who was obviously uncomfortable. We stayed for a few moments, and then gave in to her awkwardness. We were clearly intruding as they sat close together.

Sandy’s husband has been invited to our house for Thanksgiving already. I doubt that Sandy will come too. Again, side chosen. And I hate doing it.

On The List of Things I Don’t Understand

Everyday I take my lunch break at the local boat ramp. When it’s a nice day I walk out to the end of the dock and sit with my laptop where I work on my book, or I read somebody else’s book. It’s a lovely spot that overlooks Greenwich Cove, where Sabine is moored. I look at Sabine, rocking gently with the waves and wish that I could be out there casting off her lines in preparation for another sailing adventure. But instead I have to return to work in an hour. But that’s a blog post for another day.

On the days that the weather isn’t cooperating, like the last I don’t know how many weeks, I remain in my car. I roll down the windows and write or read in the driver’s seat. Other people have the same idea I as do, and they park there for their lunch breaks as well.

Today I fought the urge to walk up and introduce myself to three of the other people in their cars. These three people left their cars running the entire time I was there. They sat there idling and pumping exhaust into the air for an hour. It took all my strength to stay in my car and not walk up to them, call them an ignorant prick, reach into their windows and turn the key in the ignition off.

I felt the familiar impatient irritation rise up inside of me. I get this feeling when I see people litter, or spit on a sidewalk in front of other people, or completely blow through a stop sign without even tapping the brake pedal (another thing I encountered on my lunch break today) or nearly run me off the highway at 70 mph (another thing that happened to me on the way to work one day). It’s the kind of impatient irritation that makes me want to get in the face of the person who offended me and scream “What the hell is the matter with you?!”

I saw in my car, reading a copy of Writer’s Digest, and tried not to get out of my car and storm over to these other people and do just that. And then on my way back from lunch break I stewed at my propriety. I mean, change doesn’t happen unless somebody stands up and does something to effect change right? Could I have accomplished something if I went up to these people idling in their cars and say “You know, you are polluting our air by running your car like that. I happen to enjoy breathing clean air, will you please turn your car off.”

Of all the things we know about climate change, pollution, and wasting gas, I just do not understand who in their right mind can sit there for an hour and idle their car like that. If these people don’t care about pollution, at the very least don’t they care about their wallet? If only they realized that they are pumping their money out of their tail pipe with this nasty habit.

It’s such a fine line to walk when wanting to go up to a stranger to ask them to stop doing something that makes me crazy—and to do it in such a way that I don’t come off all holier-than-thou. And the more I think about it, the more frustrated I am with myself that I didn’t do anything about it.

Selfish? Really?

On Friday afternoon at work some co-workers and I were stuffing envelopes for a mailing that we had to get out the door that afternoon. We put some music on, set up an assembly line and ended up laughing and joking to beat the monotony of the stuffing, sealing, labeling and stamping. We talked about our plans for the weekend. Eventually the discussion turned to kids. One of my co-workers had a baby girl 6 months ago, and I was asked if I would have kids.

I think Todd and I are back on the “No” side of the fence. We had been teetering on the fence for a long time, and right now we’re firmly living in “No” land.

“Really?” D asked me. “You guys are in such a good position for kids now, I am surprised.”

“Actually, I like the way our life is right now, and so does he. I am pretty set in my ways and really don’t want to add a baby to that right now.”

“You know,” another co-worker at the end of the table chimed in, “It’s perfectly OK to be selfish like that.”

Selfish? Really? Because I have not procreated and do not currently plan on doing so you’re going to use the word “Selfish”? I bit my tongue and concentrated on sealing the envelopes in front of me. I am sure he meant nothing malicious by saying that. But the more I think about it, the more annoyed I am at his using the word “selfish” to describe my way of life. I am also a bit annoyed that he felt the need to tell me it was perfectly OK. Of course it’s perfectly OK. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s my life, and my choice. While my path is different than his, isn’t mine still just as good because it suits me?

Why do people feel the need to use the word “selfish” when referring to a childless couple? Why can’t they say “active” as in “They’re active in other parts of their lives that they never got around to having kids.” Why can’t they say “hard-working” about a childless couple, as in “They are both focused on their careers right now that they haven’t gotten around to having kids.” Why can’t they say “adventurous” about a childless couple, as in “They are busy having adventures. They’re avid divers, sailors, hikers, and paddlers that they haven’t gotten around to having kids.”

No, the impression is that childless people are selfish. I take such an issue with that word because I am not a selfish person. This co-worker of mine has watched me change the water bottle on the water cooler even when I wasn’t the one to empty it. I am one of the few people at work who can lift and carry the full bottle, so I help out my peeps by keeping them hydrated. This co-worker has also observed me wiping up a spill on the hardwood floor that someone else had left behind because I was afraid that someone would slip on it and get hurt. Yet, I was called selfish for not having a child.

I wish I had said, “Well, I don’t know about being too selfish to have a child. I don’t think I am a selfish person. I am devoted to my husband, my friends and my family. I have 12 nieces and nephews as well. All of these people know that I would do anything for them. I don’t need to have a kid to prove that I am not selfish.”

But I kept my mouth shut. While that was probably the better move on a professional level, on a personal level my blood boiled. And continues to.

Deep in Thought. Obsessed. It's All Good.

In continuing with my recent mini-obsession with Neil Peart from Rush, I grabbed another one of his books from the library, “Travelling Music.” He wrote this one about driving from California to Big Bend National Park in Texas. He listened to a variety of CDs, from Sinatra to Limp Bizkit and talked about how music was, obviously, such a huge part of his entire life.

I am about 100 some-odd pages in, and am thoroughly enjoying this book—even more than I did “Ghost Rider,” which was his story about riding all over North America on his motorcycle after losing both his daughter and wife. This one’s more autobiographical, and I find myself chuckling at his anecdotes as I read. He really is a fascinating individual, but his books are like Chinese food. After I eat Chinese food, I find myself pawing through an open fridge an hour or two later. That’s how I feel about Neil Peart’s book. I devour one, and then a short time later I am pawing through the Internet trying to find something else he’d written that I can nibble on.

The book’s got me thinkin’ about the life of fortune and fame. Overall I’ve had a relatively low opinion of celebrities that complained about paparazzi and prying fans. My thought always was, “If you don’t like it, go buy a ranch in Montana and get the hell out of the limelight.” I imagine that people in that line of work have a love/hate relationship with fans and photographers. The photographers keep you in the news and maintain your worth. But at the same time, when you can’t go down to the corner to buy a newspaper without being photographed and wardrobe critiqued, then I am sure it’s a royal pain in the ass. I imagine there’s a great deal of fear that goes with that kind of lifestyle. A crazed fan shot John Lennon, after all. My big fear in life is running into a former boss or boyfriend with whom the relationship may have ended badly. I can’t imagine living with the fear of some rabid fan coming up to me and demanding my attention while I am out and about doing my thing.

Back when I was a huge Rush fan, when I was in high school, I couldn’t Google stalk Neil Peart. Now I can, and I stumbled upon his myspace page. I read the comments that people had left, “You’re my idol, man!” and the like. I sat there with my mouth hanging open as I read them and wondered what he thought of them as he read them. Here were thousands of people who wrote things like that to a man who, really, is a stranger to all those people. They don’t know him personally. They only know him through his music and his writing. In “Travelling Music” he mentioned fans coming to his front door of his home to ask for an autograph, and another story of a man who left beer for him outside his motel room, then called on the phone him to invite him to hang out. I could sense the unease those interactions caused him as I read. I wonder if he looks at his myspace page and wonders which one of commenters will be the next one to try to walk up to his front door? Which one will be the one that he has to avoid when he’s having a drink in a bar? John Lennon didn’t have myspace. He knew he had fans, but he couldn’t read their little online tributes to him as Neil Peart can. Is the phenomenon of the Internet helping famous people to be more wary of strangers? Would John Lennon still be alive today if...

I can see that it would be lovely to have touched so many people with your work. But how is it that fans cross these very definite lines? Every so often you hear about some crazed fan trying to sneak into a house of a celebrity. (Even David Letterman had one of those.) And ya gotta wonder what brings people to that point. What makes them think it’s OK to try to get into the home of a famous person? And what are they going to do when they get in there? Are they just going to plop down and join their object of obsession at the dinner table and say “Hi, and how was your day? Please pass the peas,” and be handed the peas like it’s just a normal day? There’s a big reason why these people are scaling a wall and not walking in the front door. They don’t belong there!

I listen to Neil Peart’s lyrics and I read his books, and they move me. They might make me think of something I hadn’t thought of before. Or they might make me sing along as I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in the car. Do I think I have a connection with him? Hell no. But his work sometimes inspires me, sometimes makes me feel happy and other times makes me feel sad. If I saw him in public would I stop in my tracks and say quietly and urgently to whomever I am with, “Holy crap! That’s Neil Peart!” Hell yes. Would I walk over and say hello to him, like he’s supposed to know me? Hell no.

Call Center Bomb Squad

I’ve never worked in a call center. I’ve temped as a receptionist here and there, but have never had the occasion to answer the phone at work for extended periods of time. Until now. At work we’re experiencing a very high call volume for a client who has mandated that all its employees attend the event that we are putting on for them. Each employee must call to make an appointment so that they may attend this event. As a result we are getting flooded with calls from this client, whose events are being held over dozens of locations. As you can imagine this is an administrative pain in the butt.

The word “mandatory” has quite rightly gone sideways up the ass of just about every employee of this client. Every morning my shift answering the phone is 8-12:30. For four and a half hours every day I am fielding calls from irritated employees who demand to know why attendance to this event is mandatory, and they are largely unsatisfied with my answer of “I cannot speak to the policies of your employer. I recommend you ask your supervisor or your human resources representative. Now, what time would you like your appointment?” I’ve had callers threatening legal action “I have contacted my attorney, you have no right to tell me that I have to go to this thing.” I wish my answer could be “Well, you go right ahead and sue my employer. What will you gain from it? An inflated invoice from your lawyer? We’re not forcing you to go your boss is, dumbass!”

My daily shifts on the phone will end on March 4th. It’s only Feb 12th now. I am getting a bit frayed around the edges. But my smiley, sing-songy voice rings through every single morning trying to perk up the callers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

I’ve learned a thing or two about defusing these people on the phone over the last few days. “I can certainly understand your frustration. How may I help you with this right now?” is something that I’ve said over and over for the last week. Surprisingly, that’s taken the callers down a notch, and they are more agreeable after that. I had a “gentleman” chew my ear off yesterday in his disgruntlement, and I stopped the timer on his bomb with an “OK, my name is Beej. Call me later on today at this extension. I will sit here with you and find a time for you to attend that will suit your schedule, and you can take as much time as you need. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out…” He grumpily hung up on me. I logged off the phones to go to the ladies room. On my way back I passed a co-worker’s desk. She said that the “gentleman” called back, and asked her to apologize to me for him. He said “She was very nice to me and all I did was give her a hard time. I feel bad about that. I know it wasn’t her fault.” I hope he’ll take me up on my offer now, as I feel better about helping him out. The urge to call him a jackass has subsided. Somewhat.

I am thinking back on all the times I’ve called someone working in a call center and have been inexcusably bitchy to them. I’ve bawled out the woman answering the phone at the credit card company. I’ve chewed the ear off the person answering the phone at the car insurance place or the cable company for one of their inexcusable injustices that they have committed against me.

Really, my behavior was inexcusable. The way I acted was the injustice. I am on the receiving end of inexcusable behavior right now, for 4.5 hours per day, and it is exhausting. And all I want to say is “OK, your employer sucks. I get it. But you don’t need to yell at me about it. I don’t have anything to do with your employer. I am not part of some diabolical plot to screw up your day. So shut your fricken trap and let’s get you scheduled so I can talk to one of your asshole co-workers next.” But instead I say “I am sorry you’re frustrated. But really, I am just setting up the appointments. You need to ask your boss those questions. I do not have that information.”

I’ve heard that same line when I called that toll-free number about my credit card bill, or my cable service. And I think I’ll be cooler about it next time I hear it.

You Have How Many Kids?

I was just reading something about that woman who just gave birth to a litter, um, octuplets this week. Apparently before she underwent the treatment to have this gaggle implanted into her uterus she already had 6 children at home. This insane family now has 14 kids, more than half of which are newborn. This woman already has 6 children. Now she has 8 newborns. For the next two years this woman will probably get approximately 3 minutes of sleep every night. She went through the newborn phase with 6 other children, and still wanted to give birth to 8 more all at once?

After I read the article I thought about the Wilson family from my hometown. The Wilsons had 14 kids (I think, I actually cannot remember the exact number of kids. But it’s definitely a number between 13 and 20). The Wilsons didn’t have 8 of the kids at once, like the octuplet lady. So, if my memory serves me correctly, and there were 14 Wilson kids, that means that Mrs. Wilson spent roughly 10.5 years of her life pregnant.

We used to drive by the Wilsons’ house, which was not a large home, and speculate about how many kids slept in each bedroom. Did their bunk beds have three or four levels? How many boxes of cereal did Mrs. Wilson have to buy when she did the weekly grocery shopping? And how big were those boxes? How on earth did Mr. and Mrs. Wilson get all those kids out the door and to school on time? One of the Wilson kids was in my grade; he was always clean and his clothes were tidy. It was obvious that Mr. and Mrs. W were not cutting corners. It didn’t appear that they said, “Ah screw it, get out of here, it’s almost time for the bus, you can wash your face at school.” The only way they could have pulled that off would be to start the showers at 3 AM, and they probably drew straws to see which kid would have to take the last, inevitably cold shower. Perhaps the Wilson home was a 24-hour operation, where shifts of kids did their homework, ate, slept and bathed in shifts at all hours of the day.

Looking back on the Wilson family, I wonder if those kids missed out on anything. I imagine that they had never gone on a road trip as a family. They didn’t own a school bus. If they wanted to go somewhere as a family they probably had to wait until the older kids were old enough to drive too. I imagine them in a 6 car convoy on the way to the movies using walkie-talkies and elaborate hand signals to communicate from car to car. “Is your father telling me to turn left at the next light, or steal 3rd?” Mrs. Wilson would squint through the windshield and ask the half dozen kids in her car. A puzzled look would pass across their identical faces, and they would simultaneously shrug their shoulders.

Eventually word would spread through school about another Wilson baby born. Kids in my class asked the Wilson boy in our grade “So, what’s the deal with your parents? Don’t you guys have a TV in the house?” He’d laugh and proudly show us pictures of his newest baby brother or baby sister. As we got older we began to regard the Wilson family as a bit strange. "Look at all those kids! What the hell?" we'd whisper in the halls.

I have noticed that after the hype of a multiple birth dies down, there seems to be very little news on the family as the children grow up. The parents take their gaggle of babies home, and we’re left to think that all is well with a half a dozen or so newborn babies. I had read somewhere that the divorce rate for couples with these multiple births is much higher than it is with couples who have just one baby. I certainly imagine how that would happen. I understand that bringing home one baby is stressful, let alone eight babies. I imagine that the stress of caring for one baby would set a husband and wife at each others’ throats, never mind having 8 babies waking up at all hours of the night and having to feed and clothe 8 toddlers as they leave a Tasmanian Devil x 8 style path of destruction through the house. It makes me wonder why couples try to bring so many babies into the world all at one time.

Yet, somehow the Wilsons stayed married all those years, through a decade or so of pregnancy and raising 14 or so children.

Unemployed in Rhode Island? Listen Up

Recently a friend of mine posted a job opening on the local job web sites. The other day he frustratedly showed me the resumes he received in response. Let me just say I am shocked at the lack of effort these job seekers have put into their resumes and cover letters that they sent. The unemployment rate in Rhode Island has reached something like 9-10% , the second highest rate in the US.

Understandably my friend was flooded with resumes. There are more candidates than jobs right now, and the competition for employment is very stiff. This means that job seekers should be playing on their A game right now. Right? Not from what I saw in my friend’s inbox.

When my friend showed me the resumes he’d received, I sat there with my mouth hanging open. I lost count of how many cover letters didn’t even bother to acknowledge my friend in a greeting. There was no “Dear Mr. Smith” or “Dear John,” or even “Dear Hiring Manager” greeting at the top of the email, despite the fact that his name was in the ad in the form of “Send your resume to John Smith.”

I was stunned to see how many cover letter that started with “I seen your ad on thislocaljobsite.com.” I seen your ad. Or worse yet, “I seen your add.” What?

Then there were the blatant misspellings. The “I spetiolize in Microsoft Office…” instead of “I specialize in…” The “I complited my program at the University…” instead of “I completed my program…” Well, if you were so damn good at Microsoft Office, perhaps you would have known that there was a spell check feature in Microsoft Word, right?

In response to an ad for a Computer Technician position, a candidate reported that he can “do computers good.” Well, that’s nice. Let’s try doing English now, shall we?

And what happened to citing the job description in the cover letter? For example, “I see that you are looking for a marketing specialist. I have 5 years experience in marketing and public relations…” No, instead he got a lot of "I seen your ad, here's my resume" emails. Delete! Delete! Delete!

I have had my share of employment dry spells, and in those times I have composed hundreds of cover letters. In my last bout of unemployment I averaged at least 1-2 interviews per week, and I sent out 1-3 cover letters and resumes per day. Each cover letter was written specifically for each job, and I spent hours painstakingly composing, proofing and editing each one. I will now share with you all what I have learned.

1. Use spell check. Then use it again. Then when you’re done with that read your cover letter to yourself out loud to make sure that it makes sense.

2. If you lack confidence in your writing skills, ask a friend or family member to help you proof read your cover letter and resume. What’s more embarrassing? Having to ask for help or sending a cover letter riddled with spelling errors, typos and nonsensical sentences?

3. Learn the name of the hiring manager and use it. For example “Dear Mr. Smith” or “Dear Ms. Jones.” If you are unclear about the spelling of the hiring manager’s name, try looking it up on the company’s web site, or call the company to ask an employee how to spell it. If none of that helps, either address it to “Dear Hiring Manager” or “Dear Sir or Madam.” Also, pay close attention to how they spell their name. I once made a dumb mistake of addressing an email to “Teresa” while the hiring manager’s name was “Theresa.” On the phone she asked me “Would you say you have a good eye for details?” Of course I answered yes, and she said “Then if you are good with details, you probably already know that you spelled my name wrong.” D’oh! Bye bye job interview!

4. The hiring manager wants to know in the cover letter how you will meet their needs. Read the ad. Then take the required skills from the ad that you know how to do and write in your cover letter that you know how to do them. For example, if the ad says that they want someone who knows how to write a press release, and you know how to do that, say so in your cover letter. “In my past position at Such and Such, Inc. I have composed numerous press releases and other marketing materials…”

5. Do not assume the gender of the person you’re sending it too. I once made the dumbass mistake of assuming that Lee Smith was a man, so I addressed it to “Mr. Smith." Wouldn’t you know it? Lee Smith was a woman. And she probably threw my resume straight into the trash. If I couldn’t be bothered to do a little research on Lee Smith, then I probably wouldn’t do a good job, right? I remember at my internship in college my boss, a VP at a public relations firm, was a woman. She routinely received resumes addressed to “Mr. Johnson” even though she was “Ms. Johnson.” She didn’t bother to read those resumes, and they went straight into the trash.

6. Be polite in your cover letter. The words “please” and “thank you” will go a long way. For example “Please feel free to contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss the position and my credentials…” or “Thank you for your consideration, I look forward to hearing from you.” Don’t say “Call me on my cell to schedule an interview…” You’re in no position to command the hiring manager to do anything. You are, however, in the position to ask the hiring manager to call as their busy schedule allows.

7. When attaching your resume, name it something like “Resume of Your Name.” My friend had received attached resumes that were named “Document.rtf” Not only does this file name not label what’s in the document; it makes it look like you are sending the hiring manager a poorly executed email virus. Help the hiring manager keep your resume straight from all the other ones he/she is getting by using your name as the file name. I’ve used my name and the position as the file name “Jane Smith-Marketing Specialist” as well. (This file naming method also adds a level of subliminal advertising. Maybe the hiring manager will get used to seeing my name with the position by seeing written that way.)

8. Keep a log of where you have sent your resume, which employers have called you back, and which ones you’ve visited for interviews. Keep track of dates, the names of the people you’ve spoken to, and what you spoke about. Print out the ads and job descriptions for the positions that you have applied to, and keep them in a folder. When the hiring manager calls you back you will need to have the job description in front of you so you can speak intelligently about the job and why you are qualified for it. In this market you need to sound like you are prepared at all times.

These tips might not land you the job, but I can guarantee that they will help keep your resume out of the trash can. If you can stay out of the trash can you just might get the interview, which is your biggest chance to impress the hiring manager. But first, you have to impress them with your cover letter and resume.

Things I’ll Never Understand

Recently my mother-in-law told me a story about a woman she knew who was murdered near Rutland, VT a few weeks ago. She was murdered by her boyfriend who then called in sick to her employer on her behalf, and went on to live his life with her body still in the basement of their apartment house. Eventually those close to the victim became suspicious, and the police were dispatched to the house where they discovered that this woman had been bludgeoned to death. When the police interviewed other residents in the apartment house they learned that the women who lived upstairs from the couple had heard the couple fighting. They heard the woman screaming for help. They heard her screaming for someone, anyone, to call the police. The women upstairs didn’t think anything of it and ignored the woman’s screams.

Let me say that one more time. The victim was screaming for help and screaming for someone to call the police and these selfish assholes upstairs couldn’t be bothered to press three simple digits on their phone to help this woman.

Just imagine the heartache that could have been avoided had the neighbors acted. What the hell is wrong with people? I will never understand how anyone can hear another human being scream for help and do nothing about it.

What Would You Do?

The other day I was on a conference call at work. I held the phone to my ear and listened to the conversation unfold. Then a heard it. It. The worst noise I have ever heard piped directly into my ears.

“So,” crunch crunch crunch crunch, “when the {work related jargon} and the {work related mumbo jumbo}…” crunch crunch crunch, “then what happens?” client asked.

“Um, I’m sorry, what?” I asked distractedly.

Crunch crunch crunch “The {work related stuff} at the {work related place}, how does that work?” crunch crunch crunch.

“I’m sorry, can you say that again?” I asked, fighting the urge to swallow a thumb tack in an effort to scratch the itch that developed on my spinal cord.

See, client was eating while on the phone with me. She was chewing the world’s crunchiest food, and thought that I might want that noise amplified over my ear drums and directly onto that spot in the middle of my back that was causing me to shudder uncontrollably at the sound. I cannot stand it when people eat while talking on the phone. Not only is it gross for the person on the listening end, it’s rude. I just want to shout out “Can’t you wait just a few minutes before stuffing your face and loudly chewing into my ear? What the hell is the matter with you?”

So, what would you do in this situation? You have a client on the phone who is eating while they are talking to you. You are on the verge of losing it, because you are completely grossed out by having someone chew in your ear. Do you:

A. Let it go. They’re a client, after all, and they are paying you to do the work. Suck it up.

B. Passive-aggressively ask, “What is that noise? There seems to be some sort of interference on the phone. Do you hear that? It sounds like a crunching noise…” and hope that they take the hint and stop eating.

C. Just flat out say “Will you please stop eating? It’s very distracting.”

What would you do?

The real life me, went with response A, then after I hung up I had to do the “skeeved out” dance. You know the one. I’ll bet you’ve done it. It’s that maneuver you where you say “Blech” a lot, and you shake your hands rapidly, as if you have mud and dog poo on them. Then you do a full body shake, as if you are a dog that just rolled in something thick and stinky.

The pretend me, however, would go for option C, and pretend me would still have the respect of the client and still be gainfully employed after the call was over.

The things we put up with to make a client happy.

Now I Understand Road Rage

Almost.

I’ve never experienced true road rage. Sure I’ve experienced road mild irritation, even full out road irritation, but never road rage. I’ve flipped off other motorists, and I’ve been flipped off. I’ve blown kisses at other drivers who have flipped me off, in an act of “Yeah, you’re mad, and I am going to kill you with faux kindness because it will be hilarious to see the confusion on your face after I’ve just pretended to be affectionate toward you.”I’ve heard the stories in the news about people who do crazy things on the highway and blame it on road rage. There was a case in the 90s about a man who shot another man with a crossbow in Attleboro, Massachusetts in the name of road rage. I’ve heard of people deliberately crashing into another car while traveling at highway speed because of road rage. I hear these stories and think to myself “Man, what the hell is wrong with these people? What is so important about what another driver has done that makes someone that mad?”

Then this morning a sour-pussed old lady made me understand why people get so mad on the highway, because she made me mad, though I turned it around because I didn't want to start my day being angry. I was driving into work this morning, and left early so I could stop at the BJ’s to full up the gas tank on the jeep. I got back on the highway and saw a few cars coming up the onramp, in reverse. I drove around the bend in the onramp and saw that traffic had come to a stand-still on the highway. I knew that I would only be on the highway for two more miles so I didn’t bother to kick it into reverse and join the other backwards drivers. I drove along the right side of the highway until the merging area ended, and stopped at the cluster of cars trying to merge.

There was an 18-wheeler that had been in an accident, its hood was tilted forward, front grill parts were strewn on the highway, and it blocked both lanes of the highway. All the cars from the two lanes were merging into one, and going around the truck on the breakdown lane at precisely the spot where the cars from the onramp (that I was on) were merging into the highway too.

The sour-pussed old woman was in the car to the left of me, and she was hell-bent on not letting me merge. She nosed her car up, aggressively, and barely left inches between her front bumper and the back of the car in front of her. The car in front of her moved, and she sped to immediately close the gap so I wouldn’t have the opportunity to even think about merging. This went on for a few minutes until I was beginning to run out of road.

I saw that her window was rolled down, so I rolled down my own, and hollered over to her, “Hi, will you please let me in?”

“No,” she bitterly responded, and glared at me.

“Oh, well thanks anyway. Have a nice day,” I smiled at her with my best passive-aggressive smile that really said “I hope the highway opens up and swallows your car and sends you right to hell where you belong.”

Then karma did her thing. Sourpuss and I jockeyed for position, my car remained ahead of hers yet she still kept me from merging, until we got to the point where all of the lanes of cars had to merge into the breakdown lane, where I was, to get around the smashed up truck. Sourpuss then tried to merge into the breakdown lane, in front of me—despite the fact that the nose of my car was well ahead of hers. So she had to speed up and try to jam her front end before my car to get into the break down lane. I inched up; blocking her access, then turned to her and gave her the smile and shrug, as if to say “Whoopsie! Did I do that?” She glared at me again as I kept the smile plastered to my face.

But I gripped the wheel as I smiled, bracing for her to pull some sort of crazy road rage attack on me like shouting “Tawanda!” and plowing into my car repeatedly. Because that’s the thing about road rage, you never know what somebody else is going to do.

So, Get This

Remember how I was talking about the woman at the gym who was talking about how she got burned even though she was wearing SPF 6?

On Wednesday night she approached me in the locker room, "So, I am going to the beach this weekend. I think I should wear a stronger sunscreen, but I still want to get tan. Do you think 15 is too strong?"

"Let me put it this way," I replied. "I won't bother with anything less than 30, and I am still tan at the end of sailing season. You will get color, you just won't trash your skin."

"OK, that's good. But if I don't get any tan you're gonna hear about it," she laughed.

"Right now I have a bottle of spray SPF 70 in my Jeep that I put on when I am tooling around town."

"70? Are you kidding me?" she laughed again.

"Yeah, I really don't want to burn, at all, ever."

She headed for the door and said, "Have a nice workout, 70. I'll let you know how the 15 works out."

I have converted a confirmed sun-worshiper on the virtues of sunscreen, and picked up a new nickname simultaneously. Go me!

I Don’t Get It

We’ve been experiencing a heat wave here in Rhode Island. I, of course, am reveling in it because I am part reptilian. I’ve been looking forward to summer all year long, and it’s here—with a vengeance. In the winter I am on the constant search for one of those plug in rocks that iguanas rest on, only I want one that is large enough that I could lounge on comfortably and long for days like these.

When the weather heats up, I pile on the sunscreen. I wear a body lotion that has sun protection in it, and I keep a can of spray on sunscreen in the Jeep for the days I ride with the top down. Over the weekend Todd and I worked on the boat and we coated each other with SPF 70 before we started our day working in the heat. I’ve become obsessed with sunscreen, have even studied up on the ingredients that make sunscreen work, and often inspect the back of Todd’s neck for the slightest shade of pink on a sunny day. I have never set my eyes on a tanning booth, let alone laid down in one to get a fake bake, it’s my sincere hope that I never end up with melanoma and that my skin will never look like an old alligator boot from prolonged sun exposure.

Tonight I went to the gym after work and overheard some women talking about their sunburns from the weekend. One woman said “Oh, my face was so swollen from the sunburn. I don’t know how it happened, I was wearing SPF 6. I had to put ice on my face all day long to get the swelling to go down.”

Then another said, “I know, right? I got so sunburned on my Caribbean cruise. I don’t know how it happened, I was wearing 4.”

They went on and on, comparing sunburn stories, until I couldn’t stand it anymore, “You guys do realize that SPF 4 is NOTHING even in Rhode Island, right?”

“Well, that’s why I wear 6,” the first woman replied.

I cannot believe, that with all the information we have available to us and with all the warnings we get year in and year out about sun exposure that there are these people out there who aren’t protecting themselves from the sun? I just wanted to grab this woman by the shoulders and say “You are killing your skin with your measly SPF 6. Your face will look like an old handbag by the time you are 50 from all the sun exposure. How do you not know this? If your face is swollen from a sunburn, do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done?”

Ladies and gentlemen, coat on the sunscreen. Getting a tan is not worth it.

Public service announcement now over.

Fa-reak Magnet

I like to think that I am a generally friendly and approachable person. In fact, I often engage in conversations with strangers, and have said this phrase “I just met the nicest woman in there…” after leaving the ladies room when I am out. Sometimes I will start the conversation and sometimes a stranger will start the conversation. But when I am participating in the conversation I am careful not to divulge anything too personal or say anything too controversial that will make the person look at me and think “Why do these freaks keep coming up to me?” However, most strangers I strike up a conversation with are not so careful.

There have been times when I could swear that the words “Confide in me” were scrawled on my forehead with a Sharpie when I wasn’t paying attention. I’ve heard more about the health conditions of strangers and about what they did in that bathroom stall than I care to remember.

Years ago I worked for a big company, and sitting at my desk one day. My co-worker sat on the other side of the cubicle wall from me. I was friendly with this co-worker, but because she worked on different projects than I did, she often worked with people that I didn’t know that well. One day this co-worker, M, was on the phone. A woman that M was working with on a project, J, walked up to M’s desk and saw that M was on the phone. J walked around to my side of the wall, and sat down in my guest chair to wait while M was on the phone. You know, because my desk was often confused for a waiting room. Just as I was about to offer J an old copy of People or Reader’s Digest for her to read while she waited for M she began to tell me that she’d recently gone off her meds. I looked up from my worked and flashed her a tight smile—kind of like a grimace if you looked at it from one angle, but an actual smile if you saw it from another—then I focused my attention back on my work. She repeated the bit about her meds again, and I smiled/grimaced (smimaced?) at her again without asking her “What meds were you taking, J?” which was obviously what she was fishing for. Luckily we heard M hang up her phone, and J took off to talk to her. J never mentioned her meds to me again, and you know that I never did ask what she was on. (I have my suspicions, but I won’t get into that here.)

At other times I could swear that someone else has written “Say something wildly inappropriate, racist or ignorant to me” with a Sharpie on my forehead when I wasn’t looking. (Really, I should pay better attention and keep my eyes peeled for this Sharpie wielding vandal.) Just this morning I went to my doctor’s office to get a physical. It’s been several years since I’ve had my cholesterol checked and stuff like that. I grabbed the first available appointment, 7:30, and arrived at the doctor’s office at 7:25. The door to the doctor’s office was still locked, so I sat in the chair and waited. A man hobbled up with a cane, and I immediately stood up to give him the chair. At that point the man with the cane opened season on me, and didn’t accept my open book in my hands as a hint that I’d rather read. He talked to me about his injuries, how they affect his life, and blah blah blah.

The doctor’s office opened and we sat down in the waiting room, I sat as far away as I could from Cane Man. He went on to tell me about how lucky I am that women don’t need a prostrate exam, and I reminded him that women go through other equally invasive examinations. Then he went on to say, and I wish I was kidding:

“Well, at least a gay man would enjoy the prostrate exam. They probably look forward to it,” then he put on a lisp, for my benefit, “Oh, I am getting a prostrate exam! YAAAY!!!”

I smimaced at the guy, and looked down at my book. Then I decided I’ve give something back to the freaks who feel the need to say stuff like this to me. I looked up at the guy and said, “I don’t think that’s necessarily true. I mean, assuming the anatomy of a gay man and a straight man is identical, and the exam is conducted the same way every time, why would only a gay man enjoy it?”

Cane Man smimaced at me, and silently focused his attention onto his newspaper.

Beej 1. Freaks 0.

Can I Ask You a Personal Question?

I have come to hate conversations that start with this sentence to the point where I have begun fantasizing about saying “No, you may not” when somebody asks me that. Usually when that question is asked a very inappropriate question is asked very shortly after, and usually a person who asks me that question is not somebody I’d share the answer with anyway.

A few years ago a conversation with a co-worker began with that question. This was a woman I’d only met once prior to her asking that question, and obviously not someone I’d be likely to share the answer with. In that instance she’d asked me if I was pregnant. I said no, and she persisted with “Are you sure?” My mouth hung open as I debated on whether or not I would tell her that Mother Nature herself had just demonstrated I am not pregnant the week before, and then decided that it was too much information to share with a stranger. She concluded the conversation with “Oh, I thought for sure you must be. You look heavier than you did when I saw you in October.” Um, thank you?

Years later Todd’s sister had a baby boy and we traveled to Vermont to welcome the little one into the world. We were in the kitchen at my in-laws house talking to one my sister-in-law’s friends who had also come to see the new baby. After knowing this woman for roughly 13 seconds she turned to me and said “So, when are you and Todd going to have a baby?”

“Well, now that’s a very personal question,” I replied. Which I figured was a nicer way of saying “Listen here you rude cow, that’s none of your damn business.”

She shrugged and said “I suppose it is.” Then she paused for about half a second and said “So, when are you guys going to have a baby?” I muttered something about how we’re trying to decide and immediately left the room, shocked that she would still ask after I put up a barrier like that.

Yesterday I was talking to a dear friend of ours who had just had her second child about a month ago. She was telling me that she’d gotten an infection and had to go on antibiotics to fight it. She’s had to discontinue nursing her son, because of the antibiotics now swimming around in her body. She went on to tell me that people have asked her “So, do you feel guilty about not nursing anymore?”

Since when is it OK to ask a question like that? Since when are pregnant women and mothers open season to personal questions like that? When I hear something like that it just enrages me to the point where I need to sit down and blurt it all out on my blog--now that’s some rage, my friends!

So, Internet, listen up. Here are the rules about personal questions, and other rules related to manners:

1. Do not ever ever EVER ask a woman if she is pregnant. If she is it will become obvious soon enough, or she’ll tell you when she’s ready. (However, whispering your suspicions about the pregnancy to others is perfectly acceptible, as well as making bets on it. Just as long as the woman in question doesn't know until she's the one who's spilled the beans.)

2. Do not ever ask anyone when they are planning on having children. For all you know, that person could be infertile and very sad about it, or they could have just suffered a miscarriage, or maybe the couple is arguing about the right time to have a baby. You just don’t know what’s going on in the couple’s home, and you’re better off not bringing it up.

3. If you see a pregnant woman or a parent with an infant do not touch the woman’s belly or their child unless you know these people and know that it’s OK to do so. It is rude to cross that personal space barrier and touch a stranger’s belly or a stranger’s baby. Keep your hands to yourself until you are invited.

4. Have you heard the expression “Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one?” Well, I have another expression regarding assholes “Just because you have one, doesn’t mean you have to be one.” Keep your opinions and your judgements to yourself unless you are specifically asked for your advice.

Do you have any other rules to add? Post them in your comment now.

Home Sweet Home

It’s been nearly a month since we’ve lived in our new house. Todd and I were very concerned about how the dogs would handle the move—would they pee all over the house because the house smelled like other dogs? Thankfully only Griffen peed in the house once, and Nemo hasn’t at all. Once our furniture arrived our dogs happily curled up on the familiar smelling beds and couches, and they seemed to be more comfortable with being in a different house. Though I look at them and I wonder what they really think about this situation. Do they wonder when they are going to go home?

When we were outside at the old house, we’d begun using the command “Go home” to tell the dogs to go back into the house. I remember the Saturday morning after the closing my eyes meeting Todd’s the first time I said “Go home” to the dogs. We smiled at each other, because it was the first time we’d called this house "home."

I, on the other hand, am taking a bit longer to feel at home here. We bought this house from a man who was reluctant to sell the house. It’s not like we stormed up the driveway one day and knocked on the door and said “Sell us your house or else.” The house was on the market for a good six months before we’d ever seen it. We figured that because the house had been on the market for so long that he’d be willing to sell it.

No, that was not the case. We entered into an agreement with the guy three times before we managed to make it stick. It took a total of seven months to get the deal to work out after numerous tantrums by the seller. Our friends and family thought we were crazy to keep dealing with this guy, because it is a buyer’s market in Rhode Island (and just about everywhere else in the US) and that if he didn’t thank his lucky stars for having such a willing buyer, then we should walk.

But we fell in love with the house. We looked at others and didn’t find another house in the 7,000 some odd houses that are on the market in this state. After the seller threw the February tantrum (he threw so many in this process that I’ve begun to classify them by month) I said to Todd, “I am so over this guy. If you want to keep fighting it’s up to you. I am done with trying to buy this house.” He kept working at it, and I didn’t want to hear about the drama involved anymore because all it did was make me mad.

Finally the seller, whom at this point I’d begun calling Doofus McAssholeton, cried “Uncle” and we managed to set a closing date—which he ended up delaying by two weeks after we’d signed the agreement because he apparently had forgotten to pack his things and wouldn’t be ready to move out on time.

We finally arrived at the closing, and the extreme drama continued right up until the moment he signed the papers. After he signed his share, he stood up from the table preparing to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” the attorney asked him.

“What?” Doofus asked.

“The keys. You have to give them the keys,” she said sternly as she looked up from the mountain of paperwork that Todd and I would have to sign once he left.

An offended look passed over Doofus’s face, “They won’t need the keys. I’ve never locked the place and I’ve never had a problem. Besides, you guys are just going to change the locks, right?”

Every mouth at the table hung open. The attorney finally spoke up, “You need to give them the keys. The transaction is not complete until you give them the keys.”

He stood there seemingly confused at the concept of having to turn over the keys to the house he just sold. He relented, reached into this pocket, and then muttered something about how we should enjoy his house then stormed out of the room.

That night we slept in the house for the first time, before we’d had the chance to change the locks. Every single noise woke us from the sleep that seemed to be just a few inches out of our reach. The baseboard heater in the living room made a noise that sounded just like footsteps coming up the hardwood stairs from the basement. Every single noise made me paranoid that Doofus McAssholeton, the reluctant seller with who knows how many copies of the keys, was coming into the house to make trouble for us.

The next day Todd headed out to Lowe’s to get new locks and new garage door opener remotes, because Doofus had neglected to give them to us. This was also the day that I turned in from Beej the Fearless to Beej the batshit-crazy-paranoid. Every time Todd left the house, I’d instantly fled into a nervous panic. I was alone in the house, the phone wasn’t hooked up yet, and I don’t have a cell phone. Normally I would love to be alone in my vacant new house—wandering from room to room, daydreaming about the possibilities that paint and furniture would make real. No, I paced the floors in between cleaning the mess that Doofus had left behind. What on earth would I do if Doofus showed up? I couldn’t call Todd, or the police. Every time a car drove by the house my heart would begin to race until Todd returned home. Finally the phone was hooked up, Todd had changed the locks and reprogrammed the garage door openers so that they would work with our new remotes and I felt somewhat safer.

During that week a car with Massachusetts plates parked at the end of the driveway. It sat there for a good half hour, as I started nervously out the window at it and bit my fingernails down to nothing. I finally summoned some courage, stuffed the cordless phone into my pocket and walked down the driveway to get the mail from the box. I kept my eyes on the man in the car as I walked, and only took them off of him long enough to peer into the mailbox. He was sitting in the car talking on the phone—you know, actually using his cell phone responsibly and not using it while driving. I let out the breath I’d been holding as I walked back to the house, trying not to laugh at myself for being so paranoid.

We’ve since unpacked most of our things, bought furniture and slept here for 28 nights. Each morning I would shed a few paranoia molecules until I had none left. I’ve learned the house noises, and find them comforting instead of scary. After a seven month struggle I look around me and think “I am so happy we are here!”

What Are You, a Camel?

A few years ago I was walking from the subway to the office when I worked in Boston. There was a man walking ahead of me and to the right. He turned his head to the left and spat a giant loogie across my path. It splattered onto the sidewalk right in front of my feet. Had I been walking a bit faster, I probably would have gotten pegged by that loogie on my right temple. This wasn’t the first time I saw something like this happen, without thinking, I called the guy out on his flying phlegm

Beej: Hey! What the hell was that?

Guy: What?

Beej: You almost hit me with that loogie you just spat out.

Guy: Huh? Oh, sorry.

The guy kept walking, and I decided to walk just a bit slower in case he would be a repeat offender. For awhile after that I was completely paranoid about men on the sidewalk. I wasn’t paranoid for the normal reasons a woman would be paranoid—fear of being mugged, fear of being assaulted. My fear was of being spat upon.

I have since gotten over my paranoia, and am now afraid of the normal things like flying stinging insects, or the potential of bring crapped upon from above by a bird. Then yesterday my spitophobia acted up again.

I took the bus into Providence yesterday to meet Todd at his office. I will do this on occasion so that we can do things together in the city without having separate cars. Todd’s office is north of the city, and we live to the south, so I had to change buses in Providence to get to his office.

I sat down on my second bus next to an old man with a cane. The bus was rapidly filling up, and we were waiting for the driver to close the doors. Right before we were scheduled to leave, a woman who worked for the Transit Authority walked onto the bus and began to chastise my seatmate.

Woman: You cannot spit on this bus, sir.

Old Man: There is no law against spitting, Ma’am.

Woman: Yes there is a law, you cannot spit on RIPTA buses, sir. If you spit on a bus one more time, you will be banned from riding the bus. Got it?

Old Man: I didn’t do anything illegal.

Woman: You cannot spit on the bus, sir. It’s gross. If you need to spit, do it outside.

Old Man: But I didn’t need to spit when I was out there. I didn’t need to until I was on the bus.

(At this point I had to bite my tongue and resist the urge to say “What? Are you two years old? Are you going to pee on the bus too because you didn’t have to do when you were off the bus? What the hell is wrong with you?”)

Woman: Sir, think of the other people on the bus, they don’t want to have to deal with your spit.

Old Man: I didn’t do anything wrong.

At this point the bus turned into a Baptist church scene in the movies. The other riders began to chime into the conversation. They groaned at the man’s insistence that he had done nothing wrong. There were shouts of “That’s disgusting” and I thought I even heard a “Were you raised in a barn?” from the back of the bus.

Spitophobia instantly kicked in. I panicked and scanned the bus for another seat and didn’t see one. I was stuck where I was for the ride. I didn’t want to stand because I was also paranoid about slipping on this man’s spit, which could have been anywhere on that floor, and falling into it and having his spit on me. I distracted myself by talking to another woman on the bus about her baby, and luckily Phlegmy McSpitterton got off on one of the first stops. When I got off at my stop I felt my sneaker slip on a wet spot on the floor, and was instantly grossed out because I knew that I just found the spit puddle.

Like I said earlier, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a stranger spit in a public space. Yet I’ve never seen my father do it, nor have I seen my brothers or my husband spit in public either. Why do men do this? I suspect that these people aren’t walking around brushing their teeth and need to spit out the toothpaste. What is it that these men have in their mouths that they constantly need to spit out?