Wednesday, June 30, 2010

In the beginning...

Dear Court-nee,

I really enjoy the writing on your blog. I'm hoping you can answer
my question. How does one go about starting up an invented religion
based on Volcano worship in the Pacific North West?

Ersatz Prophet


Dear Ersatz,

What a great question!  Starting a religion can be a fun and profitable way to weather this economic downturn, as well as a great way to meet new people.  (Well, not new people -- existing people that you just haven't met yet.)  In particular, you will meet gullible people with desperate lives who are seeking Something.  Oh, and IRS agents.  (Note:  It's unlikely that young lovely virgins will be drawn to this particular religion, due to the volcanos.)

Starting it is as easy as pie:

1.  Come up with a story.  Make it complicated and unbelievable but believable at the same time, if you know what I mean.  Give it a lot of charm, a bit of bad stuff happening for a reason that can be known (and that reason, duh, is that Someone didn't believe the story, forward the e-mail, send you the money, whatever it is.)  And most of all, give it hope.   Believing in the story should offer your followers some of what they long for:  health, true love, immortality, wealth, or at the very very least, a feeling of Insider-ship. 

2.  Have a weird personal experience that draws attention to The Story.  This can be as simple as a tortilla that burns in such a way to give credence to the whole thing (as in, OMG!  If you look at my tortilla just right, you can see the SHAPE of a VOLCANO!!!!) , or something that takes work, like going on an epic journey.  The Time Tunnel that connects Chinook with Goat Hill might be just the place.

3.  Celebrate the Story.  Create rituals that Your People can do together to feel like part of something.  Think along the lines of basic joyful things people do:  sing, dance, eat, drink, and most of all, being merry.  Put your own spin on them, so that dancing, for example, seems like something new and unique to your religion.  Gotta belong to do that dance.  I wanna belong!

4.  Create a product line.  Develop distinctive jewelry, clothing, or artifacts that will constantly remind your followers about The Story.  Make it something cool, like the Bagwans' coffee bean necklaces.  Who didn't want to dress in magenta and wear that necklace?   I would also like to see some sort of a snow globe with an exploding volcano in it, but I realize that this religion is bigger than me and my needs.

5.  Invite people to believe.   Feel free to use YouTube, Facebook, or just an old milk crate on a street corner to tell The Story, and ask people to trade their money for all that hope you have to offer. Don't feel bad about The Ask -- they want hope more than you need their money.  If you've done the other steps well, this will be like floating downstream. 

That's it.

I know what you're thinking, Prophet.   You're thinking, I knew all that -- I just want help with the story.  Prophet, We all want help with the story.  If I could think of a whole story, don't you think I'd be writing a book instead of this stupid blog?

Friday, June 25, 2010

The envelope, please*

One thing about my office is that in 1998, someone made an envelope for each employee, labeled with our name. When you check out a car or a parking pass, they put the keys in this envelope.  It’s just an ordinary business envelope that you’d mail a letter in.

Last week, I borrowed a pass and kept my envelope for about three days, and then misplaced it. I know.

I went into my boss. “S., I lost my envelope.”

“What envelope?”

“You know. The ENVELOPE.”

Um, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You know, the one they made for each of us in 1998 with our names on it? 

You lost that?  You’re on your own.”  He turns back to his computer.

I snuck in to the office early, and made my own envelope, which just involved grabbing one from the stack and writing my name on it.  I found the paperwork, filled it out, and then went to return my fake envelope to the Actual Person.

“Ha ha ha, I lost my envelope.”  I try to do that laughing thing, like, "we’re all on the same, happy, laughing side, aren’t we? Yes we are.  Neither one of us are the kind who would have a fit over losing an envelope that has no particular significance, because we, being on the same non-crazy side here, would think that was ridiculous.  Ha ha ha, wouldn’t we?"

Mr. E. looks nervous, like he’s somewhat suspicious, but trying to be a team player.   “Well, the security alert level has just gone up around here.  Code orange.”

Ha ha ha, I respond, and back away slowly.

I make it back to my desk.

“Hey, B., guess what?  I lost my envelope, and nothing bad happened.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.  Look who’s coming…

Mr. E has found some flaw with the envelope and the paperwork, and has come back to bring it to my attention.  We go through a long rigmarole that I won’t bore you with, and he eventually leaves.

“Looks like I’ll be going on administrative leave soon,” I comment to B.

Administrative leave is our current gallows humor, because our old deputy director, who has basically dedicated his life to land use regulation, protecting the environment, watching birds, and this agency has been on administrative leave for like, two months now, for what seems to be at the very most, a minor lapse in judgment.  I always thought of administrative leave as the thing they put cops on when they shoot someone in the line of duty.

The cop might be kind of rattled, so they place him/her on leave for three days.  This has been two months, for a crime that just isn’t like that, with no end in site.  If any of you have ever had a minor lapse in judgement, do you still feel really shaken up and unable to do your work seven years later?

But I’m making that administrative leave joke, and one of the people in our office who functions like cops walks by:

“Oh, you’re going on administrative leave?  That happened to me too!  What did you do?”

“Oh, I lost my envelope.  I’m just kidding.”
 
I soon realize, after this really long set of stories that are complicated, and seem, well, um, the tiniest bit unbelievable, that she’s not kidding.  There’s a part about people who have been following her, stalking her for 15 years, and a part where a sniper shot her dog, Barky, with a high speed rifle from a  distant ridge while she was on a Sunday drive in another county, and how she just had to take a few days off because her grandson and his girlfriend, who live with her, had a baby.

I want to get on the subject of the baby, so I comment.  “Oh!  That’s nice.  How’s the baby?”

“Oh, I had to stay home so they didn’t kill the thing.”

At about this point, J. walks in and interrupts.  Betsy, I need your advice on something.  I got a certified letter in the mail from my father’s wife saying that I need to provide three weeks notice if I want to get together with my father.  Does that seem right to you?"

"No.  That's definitely wrong."

My boss walks by, chuckling, and gives me that look, like, “freak magnet, that’s what you are.”  But it causes the people dissipate, and I decide I should call the attorney to see how this is going.

I call, and she starts laughing hysterically when I say who I am.  She can barely choke out hello.

“Funny that you should call.  I just got a notice about an hour ago that those people are suing you personally.  Not the County, but you.”  She can barely breathe, she’s laughing so hard.

Its kind of infectious, so I start laughing too, and then stop.  “Wait, is this funny?  Should I be laughing too, or just you?”

She laughs for a while, trying to collect herself, and then says, “well, the reason the lawyer decided to sue you and Ms. Pasta instead of the County is because he didn’t know how to serve a summons to a whole County.  So he’s written and asked me to serve you.  That’s just really non-standard and hilarious.”

“Oh.  Okay then.  Will you be defending us?”

She is literally in such a solid laughing fit that she can hardly speak, and says, “oh, don’t worry, someone will.  Don’t worry.”

Okay then.  Not a care in the world.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Word salad

This morning, I was sitting in my cubicle when the confidential secretary walked by.

B. yells out to her: “Hey, tell us some secrets, will ya? Whatdya got that’s confidential?”

“Well, C and I were just in that office with the door closed fixing her underwear. She has a really cute outfit on, but needed her underwear hitched up.”

“Oh. That’s it? No other secrets?”

I stare at my computer, and see a request from a coworker asking if I’d return a call for her. I do.

“Hi. This is Betsy from blah blah blah. Did you have some questions about property?”

“Jesus Christ! I just poured the milk on my cereal, and now you call. It’s going to get all soggy.”

“Uh… I could call back, or you could call me when it’s convenient.”

“Oh, never mind. You’re here now. The damage is done.”

Silence.

“So, did you have questions? Maybe about property?”

“Yes. But don’t use a tone with me that’s too firm for the occasion. That really stresses me out and it takes a long time for me to meditate my way back to where I am now. Days, sometimes. I’ve called the aid cars 23 times for this. I have a heart condition.”

I write down the phrase, “tone too firm for occasion” on my yellow legal pad.

“Okay. So, do you have some questions?”

“Well, I have property that’s zoned R-6. I want to know what I can do with it.”

Well, that zoning means…”

She cuts me off. “Do not ever interrupt me.”

“Okay.”

More silence. I can hear her eating the cereal, which doesn’t sound at all soggy. I wait for several seconds, and she starts up again.

“I was told that this zoning means that I all I can do is create a roadside attraction. Build a monument, and have people come see it.”

“Um, ...is that your goal?”

She cuts me off. “No. Of course I’d rather build a house, but I’m told that in this zoning I can only do a roadside attraction. Like, build a monument. I told the truth. There were a few trees, and I was told it was okay to cut them.”

“Okay. Do you have any questions I can answer for you?”

“Well, I was told I have to talk to you first. Before I can do anything.”

“Well, do you need us to look for critical areas? To get that started, you need to fill out an application…”

She interrupts. “I already did that. I was in your offices, and someone told me I needed to have that done.  I didn’t have  cash with me, so I took the paperwork away.  I fully meant to come back the next day. I said I would. And when I say something, that’s what I do. But I was driving home from your office, and someone from the county called me on my cell phone and said they’d come do the work right then, and I needed to meet them in an hour with $100 cash. I met the person, and gave him the cash, and he said everything was fine.”

"So, they called you before you'd even applied?"

"Yes."

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound right. We don’t collect cash. Did you get a receipt? Or a name?”

“No, but I bet if you look around your office, you’ll find that $100 in a coffee cup somewhere. I bet that person just put it in a coffee cup. There’s a cup there somewhere, I know it. Have you even looked?”

She sounds irritated that I haven't already conducted a search for the the $100 cash that she gave to someone in March that I just learned about. “Hmm… I’m really sorry, but that sounds like fraud. We have no record of any of this, and we don’t do it that way. Do you have any information about who you gave the money to?”

She ignores me. “Well, anyway, I’m just glad I’m done with that part. So what’s next?”

“Uh, I’m really sorry, but you aren’t done with that part. You’ll have to fill out the application…”

We go around a few more times, and I start to fear that if we go around again, I’ll start to use a tone that’s too firm for the occasion, so I try to wrap it up.

“Well, I hope I’ve answered your questions…”

“Well, no, you haven’t. You haven’t at all.”

We start at the beginning. “What can I help you with?”

“Well,” she begins, “I have to go into the bedroom now. I have some papers in there. Under the bed. About all of this. Oh, I remembered my question. My lot is a perfect rectangle. And I mean perfect.”

I’m looking at a map of her 4,000 square foot lot, and I agree. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, there are 6 more like it across the street. One person owns six rectangles. Are you following me?”

“I think so.” But I’m sort of hoping that I’m not following, like maybe there's more to it.

“I don’t know what she needs with all six. Do you think I could buy one from her? For $5,000?”

“Uh, I really don’t know. Are they for sale?”

“Oh jesus. You’re no help at all. Forget it.”

She hangs up, and I sit there, doodling on the words, “tone too firm for the occasion” for a long time, and having a little bit of regret that I didn't ask her about what sort of roadside attraction she wants to build.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Message in a balloon


Saturday, I was scurrying around, getting ready to have a few people over to celebrate M’s graduation, and I got into that mode, you know how it goes, (or maybe you don’t…) where you start fussing and realize you won’t stop till people arrive? Even though these are friends, people who have been to my house hundreds of times who wouldn’t think twice even if it were completely messy and I served potato chips out of the bag. They’d be gracious and say, “Oh, what a lovely party! That’s clever how you have all the dirty dishes in the sink!”

But I wanted it to be especially nice, because M. has worked so hard to get to where she is, and I wanted to show how much I love her by creating many strings of origami cranes to hang up, and I wanted my friends to know how much I love them by sweeping the cobwebs out of the corners of the ceiling and making yummy food.

I have that thing where I start out fine, but then get a hare-brained last-minute idea and follow it, against my better judgment. As in, “Oh, people won’t be here for an hour. I should totally paint the laundry room!”

It looked like I was heading that way, the way of going back to the store for More of Something or deciding that this was the time to learn how to make a new complicated pastry or serve everything from pottery I’m about to create from scratch.

I thought I should get out of the house, so I saddled up Virtual Partner, and we went off into the woods for our standard little run. About half way, my point being that I’m as far from home as possible, when I’m on this sketchy little trail where I never see anyone, something shiny catches my attention. I go off the trail to see what it is. Okay, actually, I’m already off the trail because I had to pee, but let’s leave that out of the story.

I go further off the trail to see what this shiny thing is, and it turns out to be a small bunch of mylar balloons, balloons that were once filled with helium, but they bob gently on the ground now, being that they’re partially deflated and the substance inside isn’t helium. For a second, I thought about leaving them there, but that seemed wrong in a littering sort of way. And then I thought, hey, I’m having a party, I can use these balloons! So I crashed into the bushes and retrieved them.

I really hate balloons for so many reasons. They’re complete consumer waste, enjoyed briefly before they float off and land in the woods where they will stay forever. Or, best-case scenario, they get thrown into the landfill, where they’ll also stay forever.

I also hate them because they remind me of my friend Deb, who, in a fit of depression that her friends were sadly unaware of, bought herself a final bouquet of helium balloons and used them to end her life, leaving those of us who loved her unbearably sad and shocked. Shocked that one so joyful and creative and vibrant had that particular storyline lurking beneath the surface where her future should have been.

But on the other hand, what’s not to love about a shiny, festive balloon?

When I picked them up, I noticed that there was a note attached at the base saying they were released in Redmond, Washington on June 8, and providing a phone number to call if they were found.  I know! They had traveled approximately 10 miles in a northeasterly direction during a cold rainy spell.  I don't know if that's remarkable or not.

But it seemed like such a lovely fluke that I found them, and especially that I crashed into the bushes for them, given how much I don’t like balloons. But all of my life, and I’m not exaggerating, I’ve been hoping to find a message in a bottle.

I ran home, dragging these cheery balloons behind me like a flag, but more like three loud, swishy flags that made it sound like I was sailing, but not a very good sailor so the sails were just flapping, not quiet the way they should be.

Meanwhile, Virtual Partner kept announcing how far ahead he was. ‘Whatever, VP.  I’ve got balloons, and not only that, but while you were running faster than me, I have basically found a message in a bottle.’  But as usual, he was too far ahead to hear, and isn’t a very good listener anyway. I don’t even know why I bring him, to tell you the truth. Which R. asks me every day. “What is wrong with you that you do that?”

I put the balloons down when I got home, and resumed my fussery, and sort of forgot about them until R. came home.

He laid on the couch for a few minutes like a sloth, and then leaped up --“Mom, let’s go swimming!”
It was cloudy and 62 degrees out, and the lake is only 64 degrees, so I wasn’t exactly eager, but in another 'building bravery' sort of way, it seemed like a good thing to do, so I agreed.

While walking to the beach, we noticed that a huge party was happening a few houses away. Men wearing camo were driving up in big American trucks and Hummers, parking on lawns, and walking down the driveway past a giant inflated plastic turkey balloon. I remembered that there were signs along the roadway for about 5 miles, leading to this party, that said, “WTF”. I know.

But the letters stand for Wild Turkey Federation, which seems like they could have thought that out a little better.

I couldn’t imagine two more diverse parties – the one with tiny candles and origami cranes everywhere, and the other with a giant plastic inflatable turkey and lots of gun racks. I’m not sure why I even bring this up. No, I’m really not sure at all. I think because when I started writing this, I was hoping I’d have time to make it into a powerpoint, because that was fun. And the turkey is perhaps the one thing in the story that maybe I could draw, so I wanted to slip it in there.

But back to the story at hand. I told R. about finding the balloons, and he got super-excited. “Call them!”

“Really? I was going to wait til tomorrow, after the party.”

NO! You have to call now.”

So I did. I dialed the number, and, by the way, I hate the phone. I hate it so much that I hardly ever answer it if I’m not getting paid.  So this is a huge deal.  A man answers.

“Hi. I’m calling because I’ve found your balloons.”

“Oh.”

“Yup, I found them east of Duvall.”

“Oh, that’s great. My son will be excited. He’s 14, and we had a party, and there were a few extras that he decided to release.” [I really wanted to pursue that detail – like, how do you know when a balloon is an “extra? Aren’t they like confetti or candles, kind of a ‘more the merrier’ commodity? But I didn’t ask.]

Well that’s cool. “ I wanted the conversation to last a little bit longer, because this was my only message in a bottle contact, so I explained a little more. “I found them sort of off the trail, pretty far from any roads. It was really surprising that I found the balloons at all.” I left out the part about being off the trail because I had to pee. 

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“Yes, and I’m planning to use them at a party tonight.”

At this point, it seemed like he started to think that I was asking him out or something, like I was going to invite him to the party to see his old friends, the balloons.  I’m not exactly sure why I thought that, except for that he started talking a lot about his wife.

“Yes, I’ll tell my wife about that. I’ll tell her you found the balloons, and you’re using them at a party. Are they still in good shape?”

“Um, not really. Kind of deflated. And bits of dirt and stuff on them, but still shiny.  Yes, still very shiny.  But small-ish.”

“Oh," he said, kind of skeptically, like maybe I was up to some scam. "Well, I’ll go tell my wife about that. Yes, my wife will be pleased to know about all of this. I had better go tell my wife right now.”

Anyway, I guess I’ve had my message in a bottle experience. It was okay.

Friday, June 18, 2010

In which I am nothing like Jackie O.

One thing about working for the government is that you don’t get free things the way you do in the private sector.

Microsoft represents the extreme, with free soda and ibuprofen, but even the cheapest offices usually provide a few things, like drinking water and bad coffee with powdered creamer. I worked somewhere once where the boss, and I’m not making this up, had a secretary retrieve paper from the recycling bin, cut it into squares, and, using glue stick, create sticky pads. Even that place had free coffee and water, is all I’m saying.

There are tons of other benefits to working for the government, so I’m not whining. A couple of years ago, though, they started providing filtered water in our office-- those Cully Springs 5 gallon carboys with the slick hot/cold spigots. I think that was part of an initiative to help County employees get healthier -- they thought that if we’re supposed to drink ten glasses of water a day, they should make it available. The water from the tap carries a vague aroma from the adjacent sewage treatment plant, and no one was drinking much.

Yesterday, the water disappeared. I guess there was an e-mail about that, how we’re all going to have to tighten our belts and so on, so we won’t be getting water any more. One of the groups in our building tried to disguise their water dispenser as a robot so that it wouldn’t get taken away -- they put a costume on it, and attached signs that said, “This is not a water dispenser.” Think Anne Frank. But it didn’t work -- yesterday I tried to find it to take a picture, but it had gone to wherever those things go.

At any rate, that reminded me of another thing about working for the government, which is that most of the people in my office have a photograph of themselves with the old Executive, the highest dude in the land, whom I admired greatly. The photo op occurs on the fifth anniversary of service. For five years, I looked forward to it.

I started working there in 1998, so I figured I’d get the picture in, say it along with me, 2003. The pictures are taken at the end of the year, so I patiently waited til December.

But when 12/03 rolled around, they said that my first three years of service didn’t count towards the photo anniversary, so I had to wait three more years before I’d get my picture taken. I did. I waited, semi-patiently til, say it along with me, 12/06. But then I was told that actually, the pictures are taken AFTER the year of your 5-year anniversary, and I’d need to wait until 12/07. The point of all of this is to explain a tiny bit, in undoubtedly too great detail, about what it’s like to work in a bureaucracy, and how even the simplest little thing can be made into a big treat, and dangled just out of reach. And also to emphasize just how much I’d been waiting and looking forward to this picture.

The 2006 election happened, and my favorite exec was re-elected, and I still had a job, so it looked like clear sailing towards my photo. The picture was something I thought about. A lot. One day in January, I was sitting in my cubicle, eating a sandwich with T., and thinking about the picture.

“I’m thinking of trying to look a little more Jackie O for the picture.”

T. did that snort laugh where food comes out in a disgusting way. “You? Jackie O?”

“Well, I could get a hat. Or pearls.”

“What does Jackie look like again? Look her up.”

So I did, because I’m obedient. Dammit. I turned to my county computer and Googled images for Jackie Onassis. The pictures that you're all familiar with came up: her at the funeral, her in the pillbox hat, etc. And we’re scrolling through them, looking at the tiny thumbnails, and there’s one of Jackie O in a bathing suit.

“What kind of bathing suit did she wear?”

“I dunno.” So I click on it, but when the page opens up, there’s no bathing suit, and there’s no Jackie O. And a loud inappropriate audio-clip fires up. I quickly shut the screen, and T. looks really awkward and we rapidly finish our sandwiches and go back to work.

A few hours later, E. from I.T., of the Three Favors fame, shows up in my cubicle. Someone was already in there, and he gives them that look, and says, “I need to talk to Betsy. Alone.”

Which seems bad.

“Um, have you been looking at any websites that you shouldn’t?”

I undoubtedly turn bright red, and tell the whole story, beginning with 2003, and how I hoped I’d get the picture then, and I was trying to get ready for the photo, blah blah blah. But in my head I was thinking just how awkward it would be to be fired for viewing pornography on a County computer. ‘Yes, children, we’re moving into the truck. Your mother lost her job because…, well, anyway, get your things…’

“So yes, I’m trying to figure out what to wear for the picture, and I’m hoping to look like Jackie O…”

Then that laugh again, like, “seriously? You? Jackie O?”

But I keep going with my story, and explain how T. didn’t really know what she looked like.

“Okay, so you’re planning your outfit for an event that’s 11.5 months away?”

“Yes. Because it’s closer away than it’s ever been.”

“Everyone knows what Jackie O. looks like. Even T.”

“So anyway, there was a picture of her in a bathing suit.”

“Are you planning to wear a bathing suit? To get your picture taken with the Executive? In December? Yes, classy. Just like Jackie.”

And on it went, for what seemed like hours. But eventually, I noticed that T. and the Other Boys were lurking outside of the cubicle, laughing hysterically.

I believe money changed hands; possibly each of the guys laughing outside of my cubicle gave E. $5. I believe the three favors and the chocolate Easter eggs that appear on my desk have begun to even the score.

Oh, and about the picture? The executive was sick that day. Didn't happen.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Another day...*

Today when I went to ask E. for the first favor of the day, I reported that the vomit had been cleaned up from the stairwell. That sounds like a metaphor, and if someone were writing a book about a grim workplace, they might throw in such a detail -- a pile of vomit that’s been in a stairwell for a week that everyone just steps over and ignores. Like that dog, Sorrow, in The Hotel New Hampshire.

When I first brought it up to my boss, a few days after I noticed it, he said, "are you sure it's vomit?"

"Um, it's a substance that has an irregular texture, with some coin-sized particles, as well as some clearly identifiable rice grains, all held together in an orange-ish brown, thick matrix. I'd say it's vomit."

"Is it possible that someone spilled soup?"

“Um, I guess it is possible. It's also possible that those leather pants were cured with cat pee. But does it really matter?”

“I'm just wondering. It would be good to know for sure what it is.”

That, my readers, is the Baron at his absolute most true self – ‘let's get more data before we make a stand of any sort.’ I can sort of relate to this, but sheesh, he does carry it to the extreme. And I mean that in the fondest way.

"I'm not going to smell it, if that's where you're going with this." I've worked with him long enough to know that if I try to push an issue, it comes back to me like a boomerang, as a research project, so I dropped it.

Several days later, yesterday, I was stepping around the vomit-like mound and saw another co-worker in the stairwell. "Shrek, what's up with the puke on the floor?"

"Yeah, I'll get someone to clean that up.” Right about then, the person who one would think might be in charge of problems like this walked by. "Mr. Ed.,” said Shrek, “you're going to have to remind the cleaning people to check the stairwells. There’s been a nasty mess there for about a week.”

Mr. Ed got a little defensive, “Uh, no, that’s not their job. They’ve been cut back to a bare bones cleaning contract…”

I walked away, because I couldn’t imagine there was anything I wanted to hear at the end of this explanation. But the next day, the vomit was gone. I brought this bit of information to E. with my first request for a favor.

“Hey, do you have a flash drive I can borrow?” I asked as I fished one out of a coffee cup on his desk, because I knew the answer would probably be “No -- what happened to the other three I’ve given you?” Which would have been fair. It seemed more likely that he’d say yes if I actually had it in my hand.

I thought the news about the vomit would constitute some form of trade, but it didn’t seem to bring as much joy as I thought it should.

“Why do you need the flash drive?”

“Because. That presentation. Again.” I told him about my goal for the day, which was to not accidentally quit my job by losing it with the Big Powerful People who were going to critique the presentation. Again.

“Why would you lose it? Who cares?”

“I have a really low threshold for being condescended to. If that starts up again, I might lose it and flip someone off.”

“If you have such a low tolerance for condescension, why are you in here talking to me?”

“Warming up.” Which actually started even earlier, when I put on my presentation outfit and asked R. if I looked okay.

“No. You look ridiculous. And huge, like Jupiter. And those tights!”

“I’m not wearing tights.”

“Oh. But the rest, all true. Jupiter, ridiculous, and so on.”

At any rate, blah blah blah, the day went on and on, I didn’t lose my temper with anyone, I did get to go into the new Time Tunnel with the Great Sandini, the vomit is gone, and, I’m most grateful for the three favors. Phew.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Rant, reprise*

I started writing this morning, and it sounded vaguely familiar, so I hunted around and found I'd already said this.  So here it is again.

I started working in this field, land use regulation, because I believe in it. I believe in it as one of the main ways to preserve the quality of our natural areas, and life in general.  Not in an iPod kind of way, but in a, ‘there’s not toxic stuf in the water’ kind of way, and there are other species that can make it besides humans, and we can imagine life persisting into the future.

An unanticipated side effects of regulation is that it ramps up property values, and sort of keeps a class system going. When there’s a lot of regulation, there’s more cost, and when there’s more cost, lots of people get left out. But I can’t quite think about that right now, because I have to stay on this train for a few more years.

I like to think that what I do matters: dealing with one landowner at a time. Taking abuse about a) anything any branch of any government has ever done wrong; b) land use regulations that are costly or inconvenient; c) things that cost too much in general, be it taxes, permits, or anything else that’s been purchased in the past 10 years, and d) me in particular.

When I first started, a co-worker commented, “I haven’t been yelled at this much since I left home.”  Over time, I’ve gotten better at not getting too bogged down.  Exhale. Lot’s of people have totally legitimate complaints and frustrations; other people seem to be just angry, tiny people.

And, like all lines in the sand, most conflict arises when you get close to that line. If a kid asks to stay up all night, that’s a no-brainer. If they ask to stay up five minutes past their bedtime, well, that’s not such a big deal, is it? How about 10 minutes? How about 10 minutes, but they got the 5 extra minutes last night and didn’t clean their room like they promised, and trust is rather low? That’s the stuff of it. But, rather than being the final say, as a parent is, there are bosses, managers, directors, The Executive, and council members who can always say, sheesh, you’re being awfully strict now, aren’t you? Ten minutes? Lighten up, already. But once the line gets wavery, it just gets harder and harder to hold it at all, because there is no horizon anymore.

This week, I was invited to conduct a site visit by one of our partners at a government organization that basically defines itself as, “Not The County.” (They actually say that in their introduction, “Hi, I’m _____, and I’m Not with the County.”)  I was invited to join him because, “the landowner hates the County.” Um, awesome, sign me up. But I went, the way I do.

When I’d been to the property 6 years ago, when it was mostly forested, with a few fields, and was a lovely little refuge in the suburbs. Now, an enormous 6-bedroom rambler, with a huge paved area around it, a six car garage, and a driveway that’s like, half a mile long has been built. The purpose of our visit was to help them obtain tax relief, because they are going to be farming.

Hmm, I asked, “what kind of farming?” “They’re going to let someone cut hay every year.” Right. That’s agriculture, for sure. At my house, I do this too, but I call it “Not cutting the grass very often.”

We arrive, and as I introduce myself (“I am with the County…”), a look passes between the couple, and they say, yeah, your name is familiar.

And we all know why its familiar, it’s because we were lashed together for a while in permitting hell, which went on even longer than usual because they fought every freakin’ requirement.

As we’re walking around, I ask the woman about her kids. She has five, she says. Three of their own, and 2 that they “acquired.” We walk around their property, talking about how to grow hay, all of us pretending this is for real. We pretend they aren’t one of the people who got into a really big mortgage really late in the game, when their income came from something strange and unimpressive (it’s not a blimpie sub franchise, but if you guessed that, you’d be generally on the right track). We pretend that they are actually farmers, and it makes sense for them to participate in a tax relief program to protect agriculture. The woman wants to talk more about her kids, which is charming and distracting at the same time, but I go along with it.

I try to take it seriously. “Hey, Mr. Not With The County, they should probably get chickens here. Don’t you think this would be a good site for that?”

As we’re walking around, we startle a garter snake from his sunning spot, and the manly homeowner gives a girly squeal. To my credit, I don’t laugh, but I want to, even though I’ve been known to have the same response to being startled by a snake.

“How about an orchard? That would be good here, don’t ya think, Mr. Not With the County? Probably bees too?” But strangely, the wife is getting sort of interested.

“You think? You think chickens would be a good idea? The kids might like that.” Mr. Not with the County gives me that look, like sheesh. You were just supposed to come take the heat, not freakin’ come up with stuff.

We get close to the wetland, and the buffer has all gone to blackberries, the way disturbed areas do. “It would be good if you could remove these, and replant with native plants,” I suggest. The man looks at Mr. Not With the County, and says, “The County is always telling us what to do. But do they help with any of it? No. What exactly do I get for all my taxes?”

Mr. Not with the County responds the way he always does, ‘Hey, I’m not with the County…” I start laughing, because everyone is so true to form.

“Oh,” I say cheerfully, “That barb’s for me! Bring it on.”

He looks surprised, but I keep going. “I’ll tell you what you get for your taxes. You get fire protection, and if you call 9-1-1 they’ll find you really fast with a state of the art defibrillator, and you get roads that come way out here that are reasonably safe and drive-able, and you get the assurance that a meat rendering factory won’t be constructed next door to your little Shangri-la, and neither will a big shopping mall. Oh, and your neighbors septic system is built to a standard, and their sewage probably won’t be cascading all over your land. And if you walk over to that stream in the fall, you’ll see salmon. That’s some of what you get.” I don’t usually do The Rant, but I’m in a particularly good mood, and can say it all without rancor, just as a cheery fact, in the same way I tell them they should control the bull thistle in the hay field.

“Oh, sorry, he says, and looks genuinely sheepish, and his wife is looking down, but chuckling just a tiny bit. As we walk back to our cars, the woman tells me how proud she is of being such a good land steward. I concur, and say she ought to be proud. Mr. Not with The County gives me a look, like “wtf? These people?” But I do think, whatever, if she’s proud of being a steward, good for her, she’s more likely to actually be a steward if she thinks she’s one. I think I learned that from C., whom I overheard telling her then-3 year old, “sure, I can trust you to carry my car keys.” Which seemed like a good message to send.

She gives me a hug as she goes inside. She tells me she has MS, and can’t stay outside bear the heat.

Mr. Not With The County invites me to tag along while he retrieves a temperature sensor from an ag ditch in the valley, which of course I do. Data slut. We paw around in the stream for a long time, trying to find this tiny film canister-sized thing, to no avail, but its still ok because it’s a gorgeous day, and there are tons of fish darting about. While we’re digging around, the landowner starts walking towards us, preceded by his three angry dogs.

While the dogs are snarling and charging towards us, Mr. NWTC says, “Hey Bets, make something up, will ya? We don’t have permission to be here.” Grrr, another setup. I’ve pretty much learned that when a landowner makes no effort to call off his angry dogs, the conversation isn’t gonna go down very well, but it isn’t so terrible after all. Before he can say “get the hell off my land”, I tell him what beautiful dogs he has, and how surprised we were to see all of the fish in the stream, and some of them seemed to be Chinook, in fact. I made that up, I can’t tell a Chinook from any other fish when its just a little darting shadow. “You have some amazing Chinook rearing habitat, I say. It all goes better than I imagined; at least he doesn’t pull out a gun. He isn’t exactly friendly, but no one gets hurt.

All of this brings me to the point, which is, what I’d really like to have is a job that’s more obvious. Like, leaving jugs of water in the Arizona desert. It seems like the people you’d be trying to help would actually get it, like, duh, a basic need, water. Thanks, I sure was thirsty! They wouldn’t be all, “fuck you, you can’t make me drink this water, fucking government can’t tell me what to do.”

I guess I started thinking about this because I have to give that presentation to Da Man and his Big Important Friends tomorrow, and it seems like a set up.  We'll see how that goes. I'm not sure if I'll bother with the scarf.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Parental lectures

About a month ago, I mentioned here that I was trying to practice a lecture on R. before I actually was going to give it to him.  He requested that I just make it a powerpoint, which I did.  Thought I'd share it in case its useful.   In fact, I may do a whole parental lecture series.  Why not automate the whole thing?

Oh, and it's a good idea to queue up a driving song while you watch it.  I played "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers, but that's just me.

(Oh, and I just realized that the animation doesn't work on this uploaded version.  Bummer.)


Get 'er done

Every so often, I check to see how people arrive at this blog, especially when it's a hit from far away.

Someone visited today from Madhya Pradesh, India.    It turns out that this blog is the first hit if you search for, "why you believe the project cat be delivered in the time scale."  I know!  Okay, it was the first hit even before this entry, but now I believe I've sealed the deal.

So I hope the question was adequately answered.  Of course we can deliver the "project cat".  Yep.  That's what we do. 

Saturday, June 12, 2010

The worms crawl in...

I opened the Worm Chamber on Tuesday, and for a variety of reasons, haven’t written about it. I know, you’ve been dying to know what’s going on in there, and I’ll get to that.

But meanwhile, I'm reading a book by Charles Darwin about earthworms, because I thought I should bone up on the subject. It’s pretty interesting, and has caused me to question all kinds of things about my life that I won't go into here, but what's relevant is that I’m losing heart for the aimlessness and possible cruelty of my worm project.

Darwin was so fond of his worms. He says, "I was desirous to learn something on this head, as few observations of this kind have been made, as far as I know, on animals so low in the scale of organization and so poorly provided with sense organs, as are earthworms."  I was struck by the phrase “so poorly provided” because, well, it just doesn’t sound very Darwin-ish. It implies that senses were bestowed upon the worms by a supreme being.

The tone of the book implies that worms are humble and content to do more with less than we humans are.  As if the worms made a modest request, "Sure, whatever, bestower of stuff, if we could have ears, that'd be terrific. No? No ears? How about vision? Oh, no? We're fine with just being able to sense big feet trembling, if that isn’t too much to ask. That's all we need. Like Steve Martin in The Jerk, only different. Nothing opposable, no senses, not even an arm, for gods sake. There’s something about the book that makes me feel as though humans aren’t just greedy with stuff, as we already knew, but we’re sort of wasteful in the senses and extremities department. The worms do more with less. Well, okay, they do less, but with WAY less.

Darwin studied every single thing about the worms, for a lifetime. He identified food preferences (cabbage leaves), and studied intelligence (when blocking the opening to their burrows, the worm drags it in smaller-end-first, which is the logical way to do it.) And, most amazingly, he watched rocks, the same exact rocks, for 30 years, and measured subsidence, which he attributed to worm action. Do you get that? There were rocks sitting on top of a field for 30 years, and he measured how they slowly sunk down into the dirt. Thirty years. Same rocks. Before YouTube.

So all this has made me of tiny attention span question what the point of counting worms once a week is. I know. Every Wednesday, I count, but I really do it on Tuesday so that R. can stand by and yo-yo, because it’s just a little more festive that way.

I’ve begun to wonder if it’s cruel to keep worms in captivity like this. Maybe they were in the middle of their own important project, like moving boulders slowly down into the depths of the earth. These humble little creatures, so un-endowed when it comes to senses and appendages, but doing their work, steadily, uncomplainingly. Is it wrong for me to move them like this?

I’ve also been awestruck by Darwin’s book, and how much curiosity and persistence he had, and how things can be so mundane on the day to day, but build into something amazing if you stick with it.

But the answer you’ve been waiting for? Two. Two worms. It might be because I didn’t have the heart to really sift through it all thoroughly, or maybe something is wrong in there, and they’re dying. Or maybe it was just their time.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Who's crazy now?

I went to the post office yesterday, home of the original postal employees. Our P.O. employees aren't postal. They're usually patient and helpful, and they’ve memorized everyone’s name and address; it’s a small town, but not that small. At least the people in the post office are like that.

The delivery people, on the other hand, are a rogue, passive aggressive bunch, who’s motto doesn’t involve anything about “neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night blah blah blah”, it’s more like, “I’ve got your mail and I doubt if you’ll ever get it.” Mail delivery didn’t occur at my house on about 25 days in the past 2 years due to weather, and that doesn’t even count the days where the mail carrier looked deep into the postal code, found problems with the mailbox, and refused to deliver until the problem was corrected.  Not just to one oddball box, but to her whole route. No, I won’t go into that. I won’t go into the part about how I can be standing in the driveway waving at her, and she’ll leave a, “tried to deliver a package, but no one was home” notice in the mailbox.

That’s not what this post is about.

Because where I was going with this is how I get it, I get how they turn into postal employees.

The man in front of me in line said he was expecting the package to be delivered to the private mailbox store, but they were closed, so he thought he’d check here.  The woman went away to check, and came back.  "Nope, no package."

“um, no package? Are you sure?”

“I’ll check again,” she says patiently, using Strategy #1: Even though you already know the answer, double check, because it makes the customer feel like you care. You care harder. She goes off, looks around, comes back, “nope, I don’t have anything for you today. Check back Monday.”

“Hmm.” He stands there, and it’s clear that he doesn’t really believe her, and he’s not about to go anywhere until she looks further. “I’m pretty sure you should have the package.”

The employee turns to the other person working, and says, “Have you seen anything for so and so?”, using Strategy #2: Ask someone else, as if you perhaps made a mistake (even though you know you didn’t), demonstrating again that not only do You Care Harder but you are also quite humble and willing to be wrong. The second employee checks, and comes to the window and says, “no, sorry, there’s nothing here for you today.”

He continues to stand there, and he’s a big guy, who, by the way, is wearing a puffy snowmobile suit -- big fluffy pants, oversized pillow-like jacket -- which is out of place, given that it’s about 70 degrees out, the first sunny day in what seems like a year, and most of us are excited to take off a few layers. He’s so big that she can’t really do that trick of looking past him to help me (Strategy #3: “I’ve helped you all I can, and now I must turn all of my humble, caring harder attention to the next person in line”), because he’s blocking the whole window.

They do the stare down thing, her not saying anything, and him not leaving. After a minute or so of silence, she wins, and he leaves the window, muttering.

He walks over to the recycling bin, and starts pawing through the discarded mail, which there’s a lot of because it’s a post office, and he starts pulling envelopes out of the bin, studying them, and talking. Talking a lot, and loudly. Mostly unintelligible, but I get the idea that he believes they threw his package in this bin. He opens an envelope, glances at the contents, crumples it up, and moves on to the next envelope, muttering all the while.

It dawns on me that he’s not quite right. The snow mobile outfit (it hasn’t snowed here in, oh, maybe a year and a half), the muttering, the whole thing. I know. It took me so long. When I write about it, it seems obvious, but it’s hard for me to tell the difference between crazy and normal, which is a pretty big problem.

The incident was familiar; I deal with dozens of people every week like that.   My scenario goes more like this:

“Hi, I’m looking at a piece of property, and I just wondered if there are any issues that you know of.”

I look it up, and say something like, “Hmm, it looks like we’ve done some review on this lot, and it’s all wetland. It will be difficult, time-consuming, and costly to develop, and you may not end up with what you want.”

“Oh, I don’t really think it is wetland.”

“Hmm. I’m looking at the information we have, and there has been a study done by a wetland professional. Here’s the map, and as you can see, the entire site is wetland.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s right. It’s mostly just trees and stuff out there. I don’t think it’s a wetland.”

I dig a little deeper into the file. “Hmm, it says here that health approval was denied for this site due to a high water table.”

“Oh, I think it’s fine. It doesn’t really seem that wet to me. I’m sure I could get a drainfield on it.”

I don’t want to get all high and mighty about my job, which, as my boss says routinely, “Trained monkeys could do”, to which I always reply, “But they wouldn’t,” but anyway, people come in with no experience developing property, or identifying wetlands, and argue about the information we give them.  This happened recently, and when I asked the person what he does for a living, he said he's in training to be a forensic autopsy technician, which, in case you’re interested, requires one year of experience as a phlebotomist.

We do a few more polite rounds, and then they sit there, giving me the stare, and I sit there too, trying not to be stare-y, but rather, trying to project patience, which doesn’t always work because I’m often not feeling it. I’m not sure what else to do, because I’ve given them the answer six times now, and they don’t like it, and the answer is DO NOT BUY THIS PROPERTY. Do you get why it’s so cheap? Do you get why a bank owns it now?

If they were to get up and start rummaging in the recycling bin, muttering, it would be clear who’s the crazy one, but in real life, it’s never quite that clear. It seems equally likely that I’ll be the one doing the rummaging.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Pomp and circumstance

 When I picked M. up on the side of the road for graduation, we noticed we were wearing matching purple lacy tights, but mine looked silly because I was wearing sandals that I’d purchased earlier in the day without thinking about the tights.   I had dressed in the morning for the field, but remembered to throw a skirt in a bag. B. and I were in the field, getting wetter than I’ve been in a while (in clothes), the kind of wet where you can actually wring out your socks and capture significant amounts of smelly water, if you're that kind, which, by the way, I’m not. As I was wringing the socks out, I realized I had no shoes to wear to graduation, so we stopped at an outlet mall, dripped our way into a cheap shoe store to the horror of the employee, and bought these particular sandals with three seconds of consideration. I also purchased 3 pairs of bamboo argyle socks, but I stray from the point.  Since I’m already off topic, I’ll mention that B. also bought 6 pairs of dry socks, and then complained all day that the socks were causing his feet to hurt.  (I guess I didn't need to mention that the socks we bought were dry.)

M. and I grabbed a bite to eat (Her: taco with sweet potatoes and cojita cheese; me: taco with grilled Portabella and chilies. Yum.). A couple stopped at our table, laughing, on their way out of the restaurant, and said it was cute how we were wearing matching tights. We couldn’t exactly tell if they were laughing at us or with us, especially because I had that Germanic ‘I’m-wearing-tights-with-sandals-and-you-shouldn’t-mess-with-me’ look, not in a good way.

We walked to the ceremony and joined the small crowd. My favorite part occurred at the beginning, when the moderator announced that two students would go out of order because they were studying for a final and didn’t have time for alphabetical order. After brief remarks about their achievements and plans, they literally sprinted out of the room. I can’t remember ever having been in a situation where seconds count in studying for a final, but maybe that's the difference between caring a lot and being a slacker.

The speech by the director included a bit too much about himself -- how in high school, he exhausted all of the math offerings by 9th grade and was class valedictorian without even trying,  But who am I to comment on including too much about one’s self – making M’s graduation about my tights, for example.

But he did sum it up by saying “do well, but also do good.” I liked that, and would have elaborated a bit. You young people, who have the intelligence and eagerness to sprint towards a study session, use your gifts wisely. Solve problems, create peace, raise the bar in the world. You have the ability to make things happen; do that with thoughtfulness and integrity.

Afterwards, M. said she felt a little like an underachiever, because so many of these 18 and 19 year-olds had double and triple majors in hard subjects, like computational linguistics and molecular biology, with a minor in dance. I didn’t want to deliver the obvious parental lecture, how it doesn’t matter what anyone else does, as long as you’re happy, or the other even more obvious one, of “seriously? You feel like an underachiever because you’ve graduated with honors from a decent university at age 19, have semi-supported yourself financially for the last few years, and have wonderful friends who love you? Is that what underachieving looks like these days? Or the more snarky, hello, these over-achievers don’t look particularly happy.

Here’s an example conversation:

M: Hey, how’s it going?

Other Grad: Good.

M: What are you up to?

Other Grad: I’m starting on Monday as a program analyst at Morgan Stanley, where I’ll write a model to evaluate the differential between the blah blah blah. You?

M: I am landscaping two days a week.

Other Grad: Like, a landscape designer?

M: Um, no, the actual weeding and stuff.

Other Grad: Oh.

So instead of the lectures, which I know she didn’t need at all, I got her a piece of the three-layered chocolate cake.  With any luck, I'll use that as my new parenting strategy – when I’m a little choked up, a little in that place of “I know you already know this, but…” I’ll try to keep my mouth shut and just offer cake.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

It's Wednesday somewhere

I won’t be able to count the worms tomorrow, (Worm Wednesday), because M. will be in her first graduation ceremony from the UW, the small geeky ceremony for the youngest grads.  At 19, she might be among the oldest in this little grad pack.  To hear her tell it, there will be a bunch of awkward kids giving hurried speeches while looking down at their shoes when they receive their diploma, saying things like, “thank you.  I am going on to work in the International Gamma-Ray Astrophysics Laboratory this summer.  Excuse me, I have an experiment underway and must get back to it.” 

Besides that it’s my child graduating, and I’m extremely proud, it also seems inappropriate to not attend because it’s the day I count the worms.  It really does, doesn’t it?  Especially since it’s only the second week, it’s not like I’m in this established pattern (like some other things that I won’t go into here.)

All that being said, you’re possibly a little tired of the worms yourself.  You may be asking, “Wait, how did this happen?  I was going along, normal as can be, when suddenly I realized that I have become a person who reads a blog about earthworms.  About a very small number of earthworms, to be exact.  It wasn’t always about worms, right?  Wasn’t it about canned ham for a while?  Is this the bait and switch thing, only just bait and then more bait, actual fishing bait?”

So here is a tiny explanation on why we are ALL (and yes, I mean you) quite excited about the worms.  There’s so much grim lately, all around.  That oil spill, for one, which is slowly wrecking the Gulf of Mexico, and they can’t get a handle on it, and that ecosystem is irreparably altered.  And the weather, which has been ridiculous: 60% more rain than normal in May, and 21 days with measurable precipitation, and no end in sight. There’s the economy, of course. 

And here’s another one – yesterday all that talk about thanking the veterans for the sacrifices they’ve made to protect our freedom that made me a little sick to my stomach.  We should be apologizing to the veterans rather than thanking them.  We should be saying, wow, we are so sorry and ashamed that in the face of a dispute, all we can think to do is to send young people with weapons to fight.  That’s our best idea.  It isn’t a sacrifice anyone should be allowed to make, and we are so, so sorry.  We're so sorry that so many of you never come back, or if you do, you've seen and done things that have changed you forever so that you can't live this life the way you were meant to, and we don't have the tools to help you.  We're ashamed of ourselves for sending you off like that.  And we're sorry for the people who love you, whos' lives have been damaged too.  And, by the way, your sacrifice had very little to do with freedom. 

So back to the worms, they’re so simple and happy and safe in their little plastic box.  You've gotta admit, they make you a little bit happy, don't they?

I asked R. to be my Science Assistant this evening, and he stood by bravely and yo-yo’ed while I gently sifted through the box and counted the worms.  Five worms.  Same as last week.  But one was very, very little, so I’m pretty sure it born since my last count.  It appears that one died and one was born, which would be a good pace for humans on the planet, but it doesn’t make for a productive worm farm. 

I'm excited to report that the author Celeste Ng has selected m y modern love essay to read for the Modern Love podcast next week. Suc...