I'm sitting at home, in front of my PC. My shoes are off because they got snowy on the walk to the mailbox. But I'm still in my coat, because I don't want to admit that I'm home.
Being at home means I have to face the consequences of my indolent weekend. Well...the indolent past ten years, actually.
I have to face being a bad cat mommy.
I have to deal with the tooth I broke yesterday. I'll see the dentist on Friday, but I don't have insurance.
I would really much rather sit down with my laptop and suck on the ginormous Netflix teat.
But I'm home. And it's after 5. And I really have to do something.
For probably about the past year, there's been a book directly in front of me on the desk. It's called Self-Defeating Behaviors. I thumbed through it yesterday and it scared me.
Ah well. Time to wash my face, change clothes, and try to dig a few paths here and there, because Son of Snowmaggedon is on its way for tomorrow night.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Welcome to My Nightmare
Have you seen "Hoarders" on A&E? I know Queen Mediocretia is a fan.
I found it online yesterday and watched two episodes of it before I had to get up and scrub the kitchen.
And it prodded my now very vague memories of Casa Melancholia.
I think I do hold on to paper and paper-bearing things and we all know about my yarn fetish. But I'm willing to admit when paper is ruined and I throw it out, like the box of blank journals after the Fruit Fly Invasion. (Yes, the box is still in my driveway but it's out of the house.) Mostly, I attribute all the crap that's still laying around to sheer laziness. Ordinary stuff is not precious to me. Have I accidentally picked up too many cans of Comet? Fine, come haul them away.
But when it comes to books, it is nearly impossible for me to part with them because it's too much like:
1. Giving away a member of my family. (Something with which I usually have no problem with.)
2. Admitting defeat. What? You mean I'll never read The Brothers Karamazov? Perish the thought.
3. I read The Egyptian by Mika Waltari. I loved it. I can still remember the summer my best friend BJ and I read the same book, calling each other up. "Did you figure out yet who the pharaoh is?" Giving up that book is like giving away that memory. And this from a woman who thought the woman on "Hoarders" was ridiculous for wanting to hang onto her sons' outgrown clothes. ("They were so young and innocent and cute!" she sobbed while the boys stood there grimacing at her.)
4. I might not ever be able to get a copy of this again! Okay, we know these days that's absolutely not true. Not in the age of Project Gutenberg, eBay, half.com, etc.
One thing that I noticed was that the hoarders almost always had something traumatic happen that triggered this deep need to hoard stuff.
I have to admit, this has made me wonder a lot about Xman. After we moved to Florida, his acquisitiveness for stuff just exploded. This happened about a year after his father died. And I admit that I am not innocent in the wild accumulation of books, although I begged him to throw away (in 1997) his 1984 copies of Mac World. I seriously believe he thought he was going to donate them to the Library of Congress.
The episode that really got me was the one where an older woman, obviously not right in the head, refused to get rid of a vermin-infested couch that she hadn't seen for years. In the abstract, it was a nice couch, upholstered in red velveteen. This reminded me of story I read in the Orlando paper a very long time ago, about a woman living in a house that had holes in the roof so big that possums and raccoons crawled in. There were possums nesting in her couch. That's my nightmare.
No self-respecting mouse would dare to attempt nesting in my couch because right now, there are four cats on it.
But still.
I found it online yesterday and watched two episodes of it before I had to get up and scrub the kitchen.
And it prodded my now very vague memories of Casa Melancholia.
I think I do hold on to paper and paper-bearing things and we all know about my yarn fetish. But I'm willing to admit when paper is ruined and I throw it out, like the box of blank journals after the Fruit Fly Invasion. (Yes, the box is still in my driveway but it's out of the house.) Mostly, I attribute all the crap that's still laying around to sheer laziness. Ordinary stuff is not precious to me. Have I accidentally picked up too many cans of Comet? Fine, come haul them away.
But when it comes to books, it is nearly impossible for me to part with them because it's too much like:
1. Giving away a member of my family. (Something with which I usually have no problem with.)
2. Admitting defeat. What? You mean I'll never read The Brothers Karamazov? Perish the thought.
3. I read The Egyptian by Mika Waltari. I loved it. I can still remember the summer my best friend BJ and I read the same book, calling each other up. "Did you figure out yet who the pharaoh is?" Giving up that book is like giving away that memory. And this from a woman who thought the woman on "Hoarders" was ridiculous for wanting to hang onto her sons' outgrown clothes. ("They were so young and innocent and cute!" she sobbed while the boys stood there grimacing at her.)
4. I might not ever be able to get a copy of this again! Okay, we know these days that's absolutely not true. Not in the age of Project Gutenberg, eBay, half.com, etc.
One thing that I noticed was that the hoarders almost always had something traumatic happen that triggered this deep need to hoard stuff.
I have to admit, this has made me wonder a lot about Xman. After we moved to Florida, his acquisitiveness for stuff just exploded. This happened about a year after his father died. And I admit that I am not innocent in the wild accumulation of books, although I begged him to throw away (in 1997) his 1984 copies of Mac World. I seriously believe he thought he was going to donate them to the Library of Congress.
The episode that really got me was the one where an older woman, obviously not right in the head, refused to get rid of a vermin-infested couch that she hadn't seen for years. In the abstract, it was a nice couch, upholstered in red velveteen. This reminded me of story I read in the Orlando paper a very long time ago, about a woman living in a house that had holes in the roof so big that possums and raccoons crawled in. There were possums nesting in her couch. That's my nightmare.
No self-respecting mouse would dare to attempt nesting in my couch because right now, there are four cats on it.
But still.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
"The Amber Room" AKA Meet the Stupids
I'm listening to The Amber Room by Steve Berry. Apparently, everybody in his world is incredibly stupid. Because otherwise, he wouldn't have had a book to write.
The Amber Room is about (duh) the room paneled in amber that once existed in the Catherine Palace in Russia. During World War II, it disappeared. It's always been one of those things that intrigued me but one thing this book has done is dispel any fantasies of it waiting somewhere to be found. Amber is very fragile, especially when it's been glued together with candle wax and whatever glues where available in the 18th and 19th centuries. By now, it's probably the Amber Rubble.
I have to say, in The Count of Monte Cristo, people were greedy, secretive, vengeful, weak, grasping, noble and any other number of things but nobody did anything stupid.
Here, it's just stupid, stupid, stupid, one thing after another.
First stupid person: An elderly Belorussian man, now an American citizen living in Atlanta, opens the door to a man who's going to kill him. He knows the bad guy is going to kill him. The old guy had worked in Stalinist Russia and he figures pretty early on the guy is going to kill him because he reputedly had something to do with hiding the Amber Room. Does EBM reach for his hidden Sig Sauer and blast the bad man through the gut? Hell, no. It's "Come in, hev nice gless tea. Here are secret meps to Ember Rrrhum. Oh. You goink to shoot me now? Hokay."
Second stupid person: After her elderly father is found dead, stupid Atlanta judge chick who is divorced from Sawyer on 'Lost', decides to ignore all the signs, wishes and every last thing her father wrote to her, begging her to leave the Amber Room alone. Her first move? Go to Germany to her father's best friend to ask him about the Amber Room. She's walking down the road in Munich and gasp, a taxi nearly runs her over. The evil killer catches her and she is so grateful that she agrees to get in a car with him and drive to the Harz Mountains to talk to her father's best friend, who is soon her dead father's dead best friend. She is so surprised when the cavern they're directed to blows up. Surprise! There's a second evil gunperson.
Third stupid person: Sawyer, the Atlanta judge chick's ex, who follows her to Munich.
Oh for heaven's sake. Just stop it, stop it. Mr. Berry, stay after class, I want a word with you.
Dumas you aren't. But dumb ass you may be. Sheesh.
The Amber Room is about (duh) the room paneled in amber that once existed in the Catherine Palace in Russia. During World War II, it disappeared. It's always been one of those things that intrigued me but one thing this book has done is dispel any fantasies of it waiting somewhere to be found. Amber is very fragile, especially when it's been glued together with candle wax and whatever glues where available in the 18th and 19th centuries. By now, it's probably the Amber Rubble.
I have to say, in The Count of Monte Cristo, people were greedy, secretive, vengeful, weak, grasping, noble and any other number of things but nobody did anything stupid.
Here, it's just stupid, stupid, stupid, one thing after another.
First stupid person: An elderly Belorussian man, now an American citizen living in Atlanta, opens the door to a man who's going to kill him. He knows the bad guy is going to kill him. The old guy had worked in Stalinist Russia and he figures pretty early on the guy is going to kill him because he reputedly had something to do with hiding the Amber Room. Does EBM reach for his hidden Sig Sauer and blast the bad man through the gut? Hell, no. It's "Come in, hev nice gless tea. Here are secret meps to Ember Rrrhum. Oh. You goink to shoot me now? Hokay."
Second stupid person: After her elderly father is found dead, stupid Atlanta judge chick who is divorced from Sawyer on 'Lost', decides to ignore all the signs, wishes and every last thing her father wrote to her, begging her to leave the Amber Room alone. Her first move? Go to Germany to her father's best friend to ask him about the Amber Room. She's walking down the road in Munich and gasp, a taxi nearly runs her over. The evil killer catches her and she is so grateful that she agrees to get in a car with him and drive to the Harz Mountains to talk to her father's best friend, who is soon her dead father's dead best friend. She is so surprised when the cavern they're directed to blows up. Surprise! There's a second evil gunperson.
Third stupid person: Sawyer, the Atlanta judge chick's ex, who follows her to Munich.
Oh for heaven's sake. Just stop it, stop it. Mr. Berry, stay after class, I want a word with you.
Dumas you aren't. But dumb ass you may be. Sheesh.
Friday, February 05, 2010
In Which I Yell at Emma
Emma phoned me this afternoon.
Her mother is back in the hospital. She fell and although she appears to be unhurt, her brain has been shaken loose again. And further investigation reveals a tumor-like thing on her spine but at this point Marie Rose is too frail for diagnostic testing.
Emma and Sven were supposed to go to a conference this weekend. But no, Emma sighed, she was going have to go visit her mother, who was still in the hospital. It would be the only chance ever in the history of the world that Emma would ever have to get together with her mother's gerontologist, psychiatrist and whatever oncologist could be recruited.
"Only time in the history of the Universe?" I asked.
"Yeah. Only time ever."
"And you and Sven already have someone coming in to take care of your farm this weekend?"
"Yes. So we're going to visit Mom."
Okay, this is where I lost it a little.
I said, "You know what's going to happen. You'll get to the hospital and you're mother will be talking about killing herself. She won't be the least bit grateful to you, won't understand what you're giving up to be with her, and will probably break your heart to boot. And you're going to do that instead of go to the conference in a nice hotel with a spa."
She said yes.
"Did the doctor say your mom was likely to die over the weekend?"
"No."
"Can she stay in the hospital over the weekend?"
"Yes."
"Can you deal with this on Monday or Tuesday?"
"Yes. But -"
"Aha. No buts. You know, Emma, you're getting awfully close to doing the martyr thing here because you know how your mom is going to treat you."
Silence. Then, "Nobody else can get her into a nursing home. Only I have power of attorney."
"Why don't you wait until the oncologist has been in to see her? It might not even be a matter of getting into a nursing home but a hospice. And you know in a hospice, they'll take better care of her and get more attention than she would in a nursing home."
"Oh. Well. Yeah." She said, "You know I'm going."
"Yes."
"Can I call you?"
I said no. I said, "No, don't call me."
"You're shitting me."
"I shit you not. I'm not going to listen to you whining about how mental and mean your mother is when you could be happily swimming laps in some hotel pool. Don't call me because I don't want to hear it."
"Ooo, tough love. You're a bitch."
"No, I'm just tired of seeing you get hurt and then trying to comfort you when you didn't need to get hurt in the first place. I don't want to hear it again. Seriously."
She didn't say anything.
I said, "Call Maxine your therapist and tell her everything that you told me. Then tell her what I told you to do. And when she tells you I'm right, call me because I want to gloat."
"Oo, you are a bitch."
"Call Maxine and get off my back. You won't listen to me anyway."
"Oh. Okay."
"But Em?"
"Yah?"
"You know I love you, don't you?"
"Yah, honey. I know you do. Bitch."
"Bite me."
I can hardly wait to hear what Maxine has to say.
Her mother is back in the hospital. She fell and although she appears to be unhurt, her brain has been shaken loose again. And further investigation reveals a tumor-like thing on her spine but at this point Marie Rose is too frail for diagnostic testing.
Emma and Sven were supposed to go to a conference this weekend. But no, Emma sighed, she was going have to go visit her mother, who was still in the hospital. It would be the only chance ever in the history of the world that Emma would ever have to get together with her mother's gerontologist, psychiatrist and whatever oncologist could be recruited.
"Only time in the history of the Universe?" I asked.
"Yeah. Only time ever."
"And you and Sven already have someone coming in to take care of your farm this weekend?"
"Yes. So we're going to visit Mom."
Okay, this is where I lost it a little.
I said, "You know what's going to happen. You'll get to the hospital and you're mother will be talking about killing herself. She won't be the least bit grateful to you, won't understand what you're giving up to be with her, and will probably break your heart to boot. And you're going to do that instead of go to the conference in a nice hotel with a spa."
She said yes.
"Did the doctor say your mom was likely to die over the weekend?"
"No."
"Can she stay in the hospital over the weekend?"
"Yes."
"Can you deal with this on Monday or Tuesday?"
"Yes. But -"
"Aha. No buts. You know, Emma, you're getting awfully close to doing the martyr thing here because you know how your mom is going to treat you."
Silence. Then, "Nobody else can get her into a nursing home. Only I have power of attorney."
"Why don't you wait until the oncologist has been in to see her? It might not even be a matter of getting into a nursing home but a hospice. And you know in a hospice, they'll take better care of her and get more attention than she would in a nursing home."
"Oh. Well. Yeah." She said, "You know I'm going."
"Yes."
"Can I call you?"
I said no. I said, "No, don't call me."
"You're shitting me."
"I shit you not. I'm not going to listen to you whining about how mental and mean your mother is when you could be happily swimming laps in some hotel pool. Don't call me because I don't want to hear it."
"Ooo, tough love. You're a bitch."
"No, I'm just tired of seeing you get hurt and then trying to comfort you when you didn't need to get hurt in the first place. I don't want to hear it again. Seriously."
She didn't say anything.
I said, "Call Maxine your therapist and tell her everything that you told me. Then tell her what I told you to do. And when she tells you I'm right, call me because I want to gloat."
"Oo, you are a bitch."
"Call Maxine and get off my back. You won't listen to me anyway."
"Oh. Okay."
"But Em?"
"Yah?"
"You know I love you, don't you?"
"Yah, honey. I know you do. Bitch."
"Bite me."
I can hardly wait to hear what Maxine has to say.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Uncranked
Uncranked #1
Maeve will let me work from home tomorrow.
Uncranked #2
Maeve gets it. She gets at least part of what I'm trying to create at OP. The latest decree issued by The Vocabulator (Chopra's new name for me) entreated the business analysts to read aloud their works before inflicting them on me. At the staff meeting this week, Maeve said, "You know, I read the XYZ business case out loud and you'd be really surprised at what you catch." I wanted to fall down at her feet, but she gave me an "I know and you know" kind of look.
Uncranked #3
A recruiter I've known for the past year who has gotten me bunches of interviews called me today and breathlessly said, "Get me your new resume! Big Bank in Princeton is interviewing tech writers."
I said, "Oh, cool. But you know every time Big Bank looks at me, they turn me away."
"No, no. I already talked to the hiring manager and she's looking for someone specifically with a technical background. This is in IT."
"How much are they paying?"
She quoted me a figure. It's nearly $20K more than what I'm making now. You betcha I'm sending her my resume.
Uncranked #4
Maeve announced that the whole wing of the building is moving. She doesn't know where yet, but just wanted us to not freak out when boxes were suddenly delivered to our various hovels. She smiled and laughed a little and said, "I don't want anybody having a heart attack if your badge doesn't work. It's strictly a bad coincidence, I promise you." See? She gets it.
Uncranked #5
The Prince Consort did work some kind of magic because my arm is almost back to normal. But alas, I still cannot play the violin.
Uncranked #6
Boatloads of snow are coming my way, but I have milk, cat food, cat litter, bread and butter for toast, cheddar cheese for cheese toast, and cocoa, so I'm set.
Uncranked #7
I was able to register for the Mystery Event. Human error. Duh.
I spent the evening watching "Lost", hanging out with the cats, and drinking milk. Life is good.
Maeve will let me work from home tomorrow.
Uncranked #2
Maeve gets it. She gets at least part of what I'm trying to create at OP. The latest decree issued by The Vocabulator (Chopra's new name for me) entreated the business analysts to read aloud their works before inflicting them on me. At the staff meeting this week, Maeve said, "You know, I read the XYZ business case out loud and you'd be really surprised at what you catch." I wanted to fall down at her feet, but she gave me an "I know and you know" kind of look.
Uncranked #3
A recruiter I've known for the past year who has gotten me bunches of interviews called me today and breathlessly said, "Get me your new resume! Big Bank in Princeton is interviewing tech writers."
I said, "Oh, cool. But you know every time Big Bank looks at me, they turn me away."
"No, no. I already talked to the hiring manager and she's looking for someone specifically with a technical background. This is in IT."
"How much are they paying?"
She quoted me a figure. It's nearly $20K more than what I'm making now. You betcha I'm sending her my resume.
Uncranked #4
Maeve announced that the whole wing of the building is moving. She doesn't know where yet, but just wanted us to not freak out when boxes were suddenly delivered to our various hovels. She smiled and laughed a little and said, "I don't want anybody having a heart attack if your badge doesn't work. It's strictly a bad coincidence, I promise you." See? She gets it.
Uncranked #5
The Prince Consort did work some kind of magic because my arm is almost back to normal. But alas, I still cannot play the violin.
Uncranked #6
Boatloads of snow are coming my way, but I have milk, cat food, cat litter, bread and butter for toast, cheddar cheese for cheese toast, and cocoa, so I'm set.
Uncranked #7
I was able to register for the Mystery Event. Human error. Duh.
I spent the evening watching "Lost", hanging out with the cats, and drinking milk. Life is good.
Cranky
Crank Number 1: I have tried five times - five freakin' times - to register for an event I want to attend and I keep getting declined. I have talked to my bank, who assures me there is no hold on my credit card, and I still keep getting declined.
Crank Number 2: I just had my bike tuned up and have only had the chance to go out on it once. This disappoints me because the first time was such a blast.
Crank Number 3: I will soon have to duel for the privilege of being The Template Tsar at work. I spent three days rearranging and rewording a document. It was handed off to Sheerkhan. When I saw it again, it was bleeding and unrecognizable. I am going to have to go to war with Joaquin D'Oro, the Template Tsar, who brings baroque sensibilities to documents. This is Bauhaus writing, baby! It's not for sissies.
Crank Number 4: My car stinks. It needs an oil change. I have a thousand undone things all around me and by the time I get home from work, I just crawl in my pjs and shortly thereafter, bed. I am neglecting the cats, their boxes, my house and soon, myself. I ran out of breakfast stuff but didnt' recognize it until it was ten o'clock at night.
Crank Number 5: Although Maeve works from home several days a week, she doesn't like her minions working from home. Of course, she's the boss and RHIP. But I could do with one day at home every week.
Crank Number 6: Feeling all sorry for Fireman Fred, I sent him an email yesterday asking how his job search was going. Also, I've gotten contacted over the last couple of days about new gigs and thought he might be interested. They were for project manager openings and since he proved so disastrously that he cannot be a competent PMO director, figured he might be going back to the old project manager gig. No. He replied that he, his wife and two kids were in Florida, excuse me, FLORIDA, and that he was looking for a VP or Director level job. You know, for some reason, all my sympathy dried up instantly, like rain in the desert. Yeah, this cranked me a lot.
Crank Number 7: The Prince Consort Giveth and the Prince Consort Taketh Away. The other night at the Speechifiers, the Prince Consort addressed the issue of my unbudgeable right shoulder. (Can't raise my arm.) He rubbed and rubbed. And then when it was his turn to Speechify, gave one about things that doom a child to failure as an adult. In the world of psychobabble, we call this a trigger and I was inwardly dancing like Yosemite Sam. Sigh.
Crank Number 7.5: This led me to want to come home and just have someone waiting for me who would put his arms around me and tell me that tomorrow was going to be a better day. I usually remember that those days are long over, but the cumulative effect of the past week made me stumble.
Crank Number 8: When last heard, the weekend weather forecast was calling for at least 6" of snow this weekend.
And for the moment, I'm all cranked out.
Crank Number 2: I just had my bike tuned up and have only had the chance to go out on it once. This disappoints me because the first time was such a blast.
Crank Number 3: I will soon have to duel for the privilege of being The Template Tsar at work. I spent three days rearranging and rewording a document. It was handed off to Sheerkhan. When I saw it again, it was bleeding and unrecognizable. I am going to have to go to war with Joaquin D'Oro, the Template Tsar, who brings baroque sensibilities to documents. This is Bauhaus writing, baby! It's not for sissies.
Crank Number 4: My car stinks. It needs an oil change. I have a thousand undone things all around me and by the time I get home from work, I just crawl in my pjs and shortly thereafter, bed. I am neglecting the cats, their boxes, my house and soon, myself. I ran out of breakfast stuff but didnt' recognize it until it was ten o'clock at night.
Crank Number 5: Although Maeve works from home several days a week, she doesn't like her minions working from home. Of course, she's the boss and RHIP. But I could do with one day at home every week.
Crank Number 6: Feeling all sorry for Fireman Fred, I sent him an email yesterday asking how his job search was going. Also, I've gotten contacted over the last couple of days about new gigs and thought he might be interested. They were for project manager openings and since he proved so disastrously that he cannot be a competent PMO director, figured he might be going back to the old project manager gig. No. He replied that he, his wife and two kids were in Florida, excuse me, FLORIDA, and that he was looking for a VP or Director level job. You know, for some reason, all my sympathy dried up instantly, like rain in the desert. Yeah, this cranked me a lot.
Crank Number 7: The Prince Consort Giveth and the Prince Consort Taketh Away. The other night at the Speechifiers, the Prince Consort addressed the issue of my unbudgeable right shoulder. (Can't raise my arm.) He rubbed and rubbed. And then when it was his turn to Speechify, gave one about things that doom a child to failure as an adult. In the world of psychobabble, we call this a trigger and I was inwardly dancing like Yosemite Sam. Sigh.
Crank Number 7.5: This led me to want to come home and just have someone waiting for me who would put his arms around me and tell me that tomorrow was going to be a better day. I usually remember that those days are long over, but the cumulative effect of the past week made me stumble.
Crank Number 8: When last heard, the weekend weather forecast was calling for at least 6" of snow this weekend.
And for the moment, I'm all cranked out.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Waiting for My Chauffeur
I suppose tomorrow morning, I'll have to stand at the front window and wait for my chauffeur. Because after all, the US Transportation Secretary told me not to drive my Toyota to work.
Oh, yeah, Mr. LaHood (aptonym! LaHood! Transportation Secretary. Ha.) backtracked but that was because somebody'd backtracked their Sienna on him.
Believe it or not, I am oddly non-plussed by this because I have no choice. I know the car is potentially dangerous. I've seen inklings of it in The Bullet. But I try to be prudent in my driving habits. I do. Stop rolling your eyes. The days of hover-crafting my Camaro over the Wyoming plains are over.
So, Mr. Secretary, what do you have in mind?
Oh, yeah, Mr. LaHood (aptonym! LaHood! Transportation Secretary. Ha.) backtracked but that was because somebody'd backtracked their Sienna on him.
Believe it or not, I am oddly non-plussed by this because I have no choice. I know the car is potentially dangerous. I've seen inklings of it in The Bullet. But I try to be prudent in my driving habits. I do. Stop rolling your eyes. The days of hover-crafting my Camaro over the Wyoming plains are over.
So, Mr. Secretary, what do you have in mind?
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Alarums
This morning as I touched the very edge of my badge against the identifier pad thing, lights began to flash an a man's voice spoke through invisible megaphones. (The Megaphone of God! Finally!) It said, "Exit the building immediately. There is an emergency situation in the building. Do not use the elevators. Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect $200. Leave the building immediately."
Oh, a fire drill, thought I, then realized it was pointless to have a fire drill at 7 in the morning, because there are only 12 people in the building. But at least we're the ones who know how to get out alive.
I went outside and stood around gormlessly on the frozen grass. I watched Chopra bound down the stairs, not wearing a jacket.
In the distance, I heard the wail of a siren. Two cop cars buzzed by to the front of a building. When I heard the fire truck, I decided I was going to go back and sit in my car.
Chopra came over to me. "Did you see my new car?"
I parked right next to it. I figured it was his, the blue Sentra he'd been talking about. I'd glanced inside and seen an unread copy of the Wall Street Journal, something Chopra had talked about getting a subscription for. "That's it, right?"
"Yeah. I parked next to you yesterday and was going to tap on the window, but you were sound asleep."
I think Chopra is the first man to see me sleep in more than ten years. Possibly the first one in broad daylight, ever. This gave me an unsettled feeling.
I got in my car and turned it on, blasting the heat. Chopra moved around to the passenger side door. "Don't even try to get in," I said. "Try the back. Just...push everything over to the side."
Chopra was astonished. "My God," he said. I wish I could write how he says it. My Goad! My Gode!
"You've got an entire house in here."
I do. A quick inventory:
- 5 pairs of pants destined for the Salvation Army.
- Clothes in a plastic bag left over from my trip to Richmond last June.
- A pair of crutches left over from my pre-Richmond sprawl last June.
- Half-filled water bottles.
- CDs like sequins on the upholstery.
- Oh - a bag from Target, containing a tiny non-stick pan.
- Canned cat food.
It embarrassed me, but not for long.
The fire truck - one, count 'em, one - came and went away. The bells stopped sounding and the lights stopped flashing.
And yet for one brief moment, I found myself very worried about what would happen if OP did somehow catch blaze sometime. I don't know if there are labs in the building, but it would make sense. There have to be 2,000 souls in that building every day. There is only one road into OP. The company is in a tiny, tiny town. The nearest big fire department is at least 15 miles away.
As we walked back into the building, I told Chopra he didn't love me anymore.
"No, no. I just don't want to distract you by talking," he said hastily.
"No, what you mean is, you don't want me to distract you by talking. You don't love me anymore, Chopra. That was a whirlwind romance if ever I saw one."
It is slight consolation that his relationship with the Wall Street Journal was even shorter.
Oh, a fire drill, thought I, then realized it was pointless to have a fire drill at 7 in the morning, because there are only 12 people in the building. But at least we're the ones who know how to get out alive.
I went outside and stood around gormlessly on the frozen grass. I watched Chopra bound down the stairs, not wearing a jacket.
In the distance, I heard the wail of a siren. Two cop cars buzzed by to the front of a building. When I heard the fire truck, I decided I was going to go back and sit in my car.
Chopra came over to me. "Did you see my new car?"
I parked right next to it. I figured it was his, the blue Sentra he'd been talking about. I'd glanced inside and seen an unread copy of the Wall Street Journal, something Chopra had talked about getting a subscription for. "That's it, right?"
"Yeah. I parked next to you yesterday and was going to tap on the window, but you were sound asleep."
I think Chopra is the first man to see me sleep in more than ten years. Possibly the first one in broad daylight, ever. This gave me an unsettled feeling.
I got in my car and turned it on, blasting the heat. Chopra moved around to the passenger side door. "Don't even try to get in," I said. "Try the back. Just...push everything over to the side."
Chopra was astonished. "My God," he said. I wish I could write how he says it. My Goad! My Gode!
"You've got an entire house in here."
I do. A quick inventory:
- 5 pairs of pants destined for the Salvation Army.
- Clothes in a plastic bag left over from my trip to Richmond last June.
- A pair of crutches left over from my pre-Richmond sprawl last June.
- Half-filled water bottles.
- CDs like sequins on the upholstery.
- Oh - a bag from Target, containing a tiny non-stick pan.
- Canned cat food.
It embarrassed me, but not for long.
The fire truck - one, count 'em, one - came and went away. The bells stopped sounding and the lights stopped flashing.
And yet for one brief moment, I found myself very worried about what would happen if OP did somehow catch blaze sometime. I don't know if there are labs in the building, but it would make sense. There have to be 2,000 souls in that building every day. There is only one road into OP. The company is in a tiny, tiny town. The nearest big fire department is at least 15 miles away.
As we walked back into the building, I told Chopra he didn't love me anymore.
"No, no. I just don't want to distract you by talking," he said hastily.
"No, what you mean is, you don't want me to distract you by talking. You don't love me anymore, Chopra. That was a whirlwind romance if ever I saw one."
It is slight consolation that his relationship with the Wall Street Journal was even shorter.
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