MadameBastet-firing-neurons
Oh my GOD I'm having the worst math anxiety attack I've ever had. Honestly, I feel like I'm going to throw up. This is insane. FUCKING MATH! I hate it. HATE IT! I have to take my final CSET test - math and science - my two worst subjects. At least I LIKE science somewhat, even if I wasn't good at it in school. Try as I might, I cannot ever learn to love algebra or geometry. No, I'm sorry, I don't see the beauty in a math equation. I'm an art history teacher! I see beauty at the Louvre - not in a quadratic equation.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Pardon my French but this is my blog and if you don't like it, go away.
I haven't had any serious math since 1984. I'm trying to study for this beast and I'm getting stuck on fucking fractions! All those horrible terms are coming back to haunt me - numerators, denominators, flip this, turn this inside out. If there are two negatives then it's a positive! WHY GOD WHY!
And I remember myself, walking around during those halcyon days of grad school, in existential despair, saying God was probably a mathematical equation. Very mechanistic of me, nice and reductionistic. Reading "The Three Pound Universe" convinced me for a while there was no soul, there was no ME! I was just a head injury away from losing myself. Where do people who get Alzheimer's go??? Who ARE we? Are we ego? Are we spirit? If we are something like x-m = z +y then screw it. If that is God, I am not taking His class!
I'm visual, visual! There's been very little logic to me. I can't do it. How can one tiny test stand in the way of me getting a teaching credential? I KNOW I am a good teacher already - I love my kids - I want to open their minds, help them experience the wonder of the world, teach them creativity, thinking for yourself - I cannot be trapped by numbers forever!
Seriously. This is one of those times where I feel like falling on my knees and praying. Over a stinkin' test! That is how panicked I am. Ah, but I'm good at panic! I may suck at math, but I've got panic down pat! And I try to clear my mind, just breathe, relax, pray...and then as usual, I'm stuck. What do I pray for? Who do I pray to?
Dear God,
Please help me love math. No, scratch that. Please help me pass this horrible test.
And then My Little Problem begins. Voice in the back of my head says "Do you really think God/Universe/He/She/It/Energy/Vishnu/Krishna/Jesus/Buddha/Muhammad CARES ABOUT YOU AND YOUR STUPID MATH TEST! Do you think that God even KNOWS you are alive!
Yes, the deist in me is alive and well. Me: Well, really, doesn't God have more important things to think about? What about those poor children dying of starvation, cancer, bombs, etc.? What about the Congo? Iraq? Darfur? Do you think one person and her stupid math test amounts to a hill of beans in this crazy world?
Ok, then. God, please just give me strength to do what I need to do. To keep going. Give me courage and confidence, if you can't magically give me all the answers to the test on test day.
This is insane. I am NOT going to the gas chamber, but it feels like it.
911 what's your emergency?
Yes, I'm in my house, I can't breath, my heart is racing, it's the linear equations! Dear Sweet God, I can't stand it anymore!
My cats are sleeping like little lumps of cuteness. I am so jealous of them right now. I've lost my mind.
I think I was supposed to write 10 Things I Love About Life yesterday. But yesterday was Bubbles Day at school and I came home so soapy and sticky and hot and tired I forgot what I love about life. Bubbles Day was good.
Math will never be on that list. A Caravaggio, yes. A Renoir, for certain. Algorithms, never.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Thursday, June 01, 2006
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
Dispatches from the Comfort Zone and Why I Love Anderson Cooper
Last week I received Anderson Cooper's book "Dispatches From The Edge: A Memoir of War, Disasters, and Survival" in the mail from Amazon.com. I read it in two hours. In his beautiful book interweaving his own life with the wars and disasters he's covered over the years, Anderson put into words what I have been feeling about my life for the last decade. Odd, because we have led completely different lives. He was born to American royalty; an iconic mother....a glittering life of famous names and places in New York. I grew up in an upper middle class suburb of Los Angeles; the only connections we have is that we were both born in 1967, we both went to private, expensive universities, we both have a brother, and we've both experienced the suicide of a close family member. We both lost our fathers suddenly; Anderson at the terribly early age of 10; I at the more reasonable, but still somehow almost unbearable age of 28. Now Anderson is famous, and talented, and probably the only journalist and news anchor I trust anymore. I am a teacher, unknown but not dissatisfied with that - I think fame would drive me insane. He's adored by thousands - I'm adored by two cats. Actually, I had to make up that last line. I think the cats just tolerate me.
On page 15, Anderson writes: "Sometimes I wonder if I'm the person I was born to be, if the life I've lived really is the one I was meant to, or if it is some half life, a mutation engineered by loss, cobbled together by the will to survive."
No human being on earth has ever spoken the words my soul has been trying to find for years and years. Therapy, pills, ghosts, tears, my own writing - nothing worked to articulate the sense that perhaps my life would've been different had I not fallen so ill in 1994, and lost so many years to illness. What of my father's cruel and untimely death? What would things be like now? Who would I be if I did not fight pain and fatigue daily? Would I have done more? Less? Does it really matter? No. Because I'll never know. I don't really torture myself too much with the questions anymore; it's pointless. I have made more peace with my dad than with my body; my body reminds me everyday that it will battle me day after day. That's a tough war to walk away from. So although I'm sure Anderson Cooper wrote that for far different reasons, perhaps they are not so different in the end; perhaps they are all about loss, and just for those few sentences I am eternally grateful.
Anderson Cooper and I have had a long and strange relationship, although of course, he doesn't know it. Hee. And he doesn't have to worry, I am not, as he called them so politely on Larry King tonight, one of those 'highly motivated people' (aka stalkers) that thinks I know him, or have a personal relationship with him, or will, and I'm not planning on taking long walks past his apartment in New York. I'm not going to sit outside CNN waiting for him to walk out. That's just craziness; although poor guy, apparently he's been dealing with it more and more, and with the publication of this book, I fear he is going to simply become more and more trapped by his success. Sad.
I remember first seeing Anderson many years ago - maybe a decade or so, thanks to my ever-present insomnia. I believe it was just before my dad died; I'd wake up at odd hours of the night and turn on the TV. I'd watch ABC News at like 3am and 4am and there was Anderson, so amazingly young! I guess I was young too, as we are the same age. But I remember with such clarity that he seemed older than his years; I don't even recall if his hair had gone completely gray yet. He just posessed a certain intellectual and emotional weight - I knew absolutely nothing about him, his family, his past. I didn't even think he was particularly handsome or anything, and yet something inexplicable drew me to him during those wee morning hours. Perhaps I wondered, "Wow, who's the poor guy who got stuck with this gig?"
Then my father died; death by severe lead poisoning. Ba- dum dum. Thank you, I'll be here all week. And at some point in the insane numbness of grief, when I was reaching out to anyone and anything for comfort, for survival, like a drowning woman clutching at a life raft, I came across a book written by Gloria Vanderbilt called "A Mother's Story" which was about the suicide of her young son Carter, 23, in the summer of 1988. I'd read every book I could find on grief and especially suicide, so naturally I read this one too. Despite the difference in our circumstances; she had lost a child who'd leapt from a building right in front of her and I'd lost a parent who'd I'd found dead in his apartment, her book was one of the most comforting I'd read. I loved reading about Carter; I ached for him, and for Gloria. All I ever knew about Gloria was the 'poor little rich girl' story, that she was a socialite, and had designed some jeans in the late 1970's that were extremely popular when I was in middle school. I never bought a pair.
I remember the cover of that book so clearly - it was a picture of Carter - a full-faced but very handsome young man, and I was so sad for her. I'd worked in the suicide survivors group with so many parents who'd lost children to suicide and I always found them the hardest to work with. Perhaps because I did not have children of my own; perhaps because I felt my grief could never measure the anguish of losing a child, especially in such a horrible manner as suicide. We were not supposed to 'compare' grief; but when you see a parent mourn a child, it is as if everything in the universe has gone topsy-turvy, upside down, inside out. It is beyond wrong. Parents, as it is said, are not supposed to outlive their own children. Parents are not supposed to watch their children leap off balconies 14 floors up; parents are not supposed to watch their 13 year old child immoliate himself in the backyard. So many people asked me, "How can you do that group every week? Doesn't it depress you?" On the contrary.
After Carter committed suicide, Anderson graduated college, and said he felt the need to go where people were experiencing loss; to see how they survived. He needed to be around loss; he was still reeling from his own loss. That is exactly how I felt. How could I /not/ be around other survivors? They were my people, my brothers and sisters. Only /they/ could truly understand what I was feeling. I now belonged to a special group; obviously a group I never would've willingly joined - but I'd crossed the Rubicon, so to speak. I could not go back. My life was forever divided. I needed to tell my story, over and over and over. And I needed to hear others' stories and I needed to tell them in any way I could, Byou will surviveB! I threw myself in the trenches for four years.
What I find odd now about Gloria's book is that perhaps she mentioned Anderson; I honestly don't recall connecting them though. And yet somehow, some years down the line, I finally understood that Anderson Cooper was the son of Gloria Vanderbilt and her last husband, Wyatt Cooper. I found it mildly interesting but not overwhelmingly so.
Now with the publication of Anderson's book (which is currently at the #1 spot on Amazon) everyone who's interested will know. Gloria is 82 years old, and has led an amazingly fascinating life - not the least that she had Anderson at 43 and she's still going strong! And yet I'm more interested in Anderson's passion with keeping the dead alive, with exposing the horrors that most of us turn away from, telling the stories of those who cannot speak for themselves anymore - Rwanda, Serbia, Haiti, Iraq, Darfur, the Congo - talking openly about his brother's suicide, and daring to show compassion, and emotion - even on air.
I will never forget his coverage of Katrina, when he was talking to some moronic Senator who was rambling on and on, thanking politician after politician, and Anderson interrupted her and basically said 'do you realize while politicians are thanking each other, bodies are decomposing in the streets...I saw a woman who's been lying out in the sun for two days being eat by rats and people are angry...do you get that people are angry about this???'
It was a high point in journalism if you ask me. I don't give a shit if he wasn't retaining his 'objectivity' - someone had to finally call those monstrous politicians on their B.S. and glad-handling. People were rotting in the streets, and they were thanking each other for a job well done. Were they blind? Are they sociopaths? Where were their consciences? Well, we now know how Katrina and the aftermath turned out. A horror show. It can't happen here. Oh yes it can. A national tragedy. Anderson's voice cracked during his confrontation of this woman, and I thought, Jesus, finally! Finally, someone who is NOT afraid to tell the truth! To say what we all want to say! To speak truth to power. To cut through the bullshit. He was, and is my hero, just for that one moment. If he never did another thing in his life, that would be enough.
From watching Anderson on about a billion interviews this week, reading his work in Details magazine, reading his book, his blog and watching his show on CNN, I see a lot of myself in him. Perhaps I am projecting. I'm sure a million others feel some mystical connection to him and just know he's their soul mate. I don't feel that way; I don't know him, I don't feel mystically connected to him. I just listen to him speak, and I hear my thoughts about suicide and loss said aloud, and it feels so good to have someone talk about it, without fear, without shame. I am not really allowed to talk about my Dad anymore in my family. I can't talk about his death - which is fine, because I'm all talked out on that subject. I lost the need for answers to my questions years ago. However, even when I talk about my dad's life - the good person he was, the great dad he was, the good things he did I manage to upset my mother and brother. This infuriates me as I feel I worked so fucking hard for so many years to deal with my grief and loss in as healthy a way as possible, and to integrate my dad's death into my life, and to learn to focus more ON HIS LIFE than on how he died. That is no easy task with suicide. I feel sorry for my mom and my brother. I think they are emotionally stunted and choose to live in denial. They have chosen to bury my father, literally and figuratively, forever. They have lied to people about how he died; I refuse to do that. I find that reprehensible. What does that say about my dad, about suicide, about mental illness, depression - what does that say about my brother? Is he ashamed? Of what? He did nothing wrong. If people don't like the truth, they can move on. I am different than my mom and brother. I have always been accused of being too sensitive. Overly sensitive. I cry too easily. I see the cover of Time magazine in the market with victims of Darfur on the cover and my eyes well up. I plead guilty. I am highly sensitive. Sometimes I have to purposely back off and become cynical, use black humour - whatever - to keep me from falling totally apart. I always said I'd rather be too sensitive than not sensitive enough.
It helps to hear someone my age say that we don't talk about loss in America. Someone people look up to and respect. Because we don't talk about loss; we don't want to read about anything but Paris Hilton and the latest plastic surgery innovations. We are more afraid of death and dying than any culture I've ever seen. We're a spoiled, insulated culture. How lucky we are.
We still stigmatize people who take their lives. Sometimes I think we are downright medieval. When my brother's best childhood friend shot and killed himself in his house several years ago, some fucking idiot asked his sister if he was going to be allowed to be buried in a Catholic cemetery. Good God, what century is this? Even the Church, which I detest, finally came around at Vatican II and stated that suicide is a result of mental illness - it's not some sin where the person's going to Hell to burn for all eternity.
Anyway, I'm glad there's an Anderson Cooper out there. I'm grateful. I've gotten so cynical I don't trust anyone anymore. The government, the media - fuck 'em all. However, when I finished his book, I had a little hope. Hope that there is someone out there who truly cares. Anderson goes back to a time when journalists had integrity and honor. He has class, and compassion. He cares. I believe that.
The inevitable backlash will begin, I know. Hell, the poor guy has been raked over the coals for years over his sexual orientation. Straight? Gay? Why won't he just admit he's gay? He has a responsibility to come out for the gay community! Uh, no he doesn't actually. What the hell does it matter what his sexual orientation is? How does this affect his work? How does this impact our lives? Our sexually/celebrity obsessed pathetic lives. It makes no difference to me. I don't see a straight man, a gay man, a handsome man, an ugly man. I see a man who has suffered deeply in his life, despite all the trappings of money, fame, success. I see a man who has made a difference in the lives of thousands. I see a peer I can be proud of. I see a man who is not living a half life - but the fullest life possible. I see an inspiration, a hero. And I don't believe there are very many heroes left anymore.
Dispatches from the Comfort Zone and Why I Love Anderson Cooper
Last week I received Anderson Cooper's book "Dispatches From The Edge: A Memoir of War, Disasters, and Survival" in the mail from Amazon.com. I read it in two hours. In his beautiful book interweaving his own life with the wars and disasters he's covered over the years, Anderson put into words what I have been feeling about my life for the last decade. Odd, because we have led completely different lives. He was born to American royalty; an iconic mother....a glittering life of famous names and places in New York. I grew up in an upper middle class suburb of Los Angeles; the only connections we have is that we were both born in 1967, we both went to private, expensive universities, we both have a brother, and we've both experienced the suicide of a close family member. We both lost our fathers suddenly; Anderson at the terribly early age of 10; I at the more reasonable, but still somehow almost unbearable age of 28. Now Anderson is famous, and talented, and probably the only journalist and news anchor I trust anymore. I am a teacher, unknown but not dissatisfied with that - I think fame would drive me insane. He's adored by thousands - I'm adored by two cats. Actually, I had to make up that last line. I think the cats just tolerate me.
On page 15, Anderson writes: "Sometimes I wonder if I'm the person I was born to be, if the life I've lived really is the one I was meant to, or if it is some half life, a mutation engineered by loss, cobbled together by the will to survive."
No human being on earth has ever spoken the words my soul has been trying to find for years and years. Therapy, pills, ghosts, tears, my own writing - nothing worked to articulate the sense that perhaps my life would've been different had I not fallen so ill in 1994, and lost so many years to illness. What of my father's cruel and untimely death? What would things be like now? Who would I be if I did not fight pain and fatigue daily? Would I have done more? Less? Does it really matter? No. Because I'll never know. I don't really torture myself too much with the questions anymore; it's pointless. I have made more peace with my dad than with my body; my body reminds me everyday that it will battle me day after day. That's a tough war to walk away from. So although I'm sure Anderson Cooper wrote that for far different reasons, perhaps they are not so different in the end; perhaps they are all about loss, and just for those few sentences I am eternally grateful.
Anderson Cooper and I have had a long and strange relationship, although of course, he doesn't know it. Hee. And he doesn't have to worry, I am not, as he called them so politely on Larry King tonight, one of those 'highly motivated people' (aka stalkers) that thinks I know him, or have a personal relationship with him, or will, and I'm not planning on taking long walks past his apartment in New York. I'm not going to sit outside CNN waiting for him to walk out. That's just craziness; although poor guy, apparently he's been dealing with it more and more, and with the publication of this book, I fear he is going to simply become more and more trapped by his success. Sad.
I remember first seeing Anderson many years ago - maybe a decade or so, thanks to my ever-present insomnia. I believe it was just before my dad died; I'd wake up at odd hours of the night and turn on the TV. I'd watch ABC News at like 3am and 4am and there was Anderson, so amazingly young! I guess I was young too, as we are the same age. But I remember with such clarity that he seemed older than his years; I don't even recall if his hair had gone completely gray yet. He just posessed a certain intellectual and emotional weight - I knew absolutely nothing about him, his family, his past. I didn't even think he was particularly handsome or anything, and yet something inexplicable drew me to him during those wee morning hours. Perhaps I wondered, "Wow, who's the poor guy who got stuck with this gig?"
Then my father died; death by severe lead poisoning. Ba- dum dum. Thank you, I'll be here all week. And at some point in the insane numbness of grief, when I was reaching out to anyone and anything for comfort, for survival, like a drowning woman clutching at a life raft, I came across a book written by Gloria Vanderbilt called "A Mother's Story" which was about the suicide of her young son Carter, 23, in the summer of 1988. I'd read every book I could find on grief and especially suicide, so naturally I read this one too. Despite the difference in our circumstances; she had lost a child who'd leapt from a building right in front of her and I'd lost a parent who'd I'd found dead in his apartment, her book was one of the most comforting I'd read. I loved reading about Carter; I ached for him, and for Gloria. All I ever knew about Gloria was the 'poor little rich girl' story, that she was a socialite, and had designed some jeans in the late 1970's that were extremely popular when I was in middle school. I never bought a pair.
I remember the cover of that book so clearly - it was a picture of Carter - a full-faced but very handsome young man, and I was so sad for her. I'd worked in the suicide survivors group with so many parents who'd lost children to suicide and I always found them the hardest to work with. Perhaps because I did not have children of my own; perhaps because I felt my grief could never measure the anguish of losing a child, especially in such a horrible manner as suicide. We were not supposed to 'compare' grief; but when you see a parent mourn a child, it is as if everything in the universe has gone topsy-turvy, upside down, inside out. It is beyond wrong. Parents, as it is said, are not supposed to outlive their own children. Parents are not supposed to watch their children leap off balconies 14 floors up; parents are not supposed to watch their 13 year old child immoliate himself in the backyard. So many people asked me, "How can you do that group every week? Doesn't it depress you?" On the contrary.
After Carter committed suicide, Anderson graduated college, and said he felt the need to go where people were experiencing loss; to see how they survived. He needed to be around loss; he was still reeling from his own loss. That is exactly how I felt. How could I /not/ be around other survivors? They were my people, my brothers and sisters. Only /they/ could truly understand what I was feeling. I now belonged to a special group; obviously a group I never would've willingly joined - but I'd crossed the Rubicon, so to speak. I could not go back. My life was forever divided. I needed to tell my story, over and over and over. And I needed to hear others' stories and I needed to tell them in any way I could, Byou will surviveB! I threw myself in the trenches for four years.
What I find odd now about Gloria's book is that perhaps she mentioned Anderson; I honestly don't recall connecting them though. And yet somehow, some years down the line, I finally understood that Anderson Cooper was the son of Gloria Vanderbilt and her last husband, Wyatt Cooper. I found it mildly interesting but not overwhelmingly so.
Now with the publication of Anderson's book (which is currently at the #1 spot on Amazon) everyone who's interested will know. Gloria is 82 years old, and has led an amazingly fascinating life - not the least that she had Anderson at 43 and she's still going strong! And yet I'm more interested in Anderson's passion with keeping the dead alive, with exposing the horrors that most of us turn away from, telling the stories of those who cannot speak for themselves anymore - Rwanda, Serbia, Haiti, Iraq, Darfur, the Congo - talking openly about his brother's suicide, and daring to show compassion, and emotion - even on air.
I will never forget his coverage of Katrina, when he was talking to some moronic Senator who was rambling on and on, thanking politician after politician, and Anderson interrupted her and basically said 'do you realize while politicians are thanking each other, bodies are decomposing in the streets...I saw a woman who's been lying out in the sun for two days being eat by rats and people are angry...do you get that people are angry about this???'
It was a high point in journalism if you ask me. I don't give a shit if he wasn't retaining his 'objectivity' - someone had to finally call those monstrous politicians on their B.S. and glad-handling. People were rotting in the streets, and they were thanking each other for a job well done. Were they blind? Are they sociopaths? Where were their consciences? Well, we now know how Katrina and the aftermath turned out. A horror show. It can't happen here. Oh yes it can. A national tragedy. Anderson's voice cracked during his confrontation of this woman, and I thought, Jesus, finally! Finally, someone who is NOT afraid to tell the truth! To say what we all want to say! To speak truth to power. To cut through the bullshit. He was, and is my hero, just for that one moment. If he never did another thing in his life, that would be enough.
From watching Anderson on about a billion interviews this week, reading his work in Details magazine, reading his book, his blog and watching his show on CNN, I see a lot of myself in him. Perhaps I am projecting. I'm sure a million others feel some mystical connection to him and just know he's their soul mate. I don't feel that way; I don't know him, I don't feel mystically connected to him. I just listen to him speak, and I hear my thoughts about suicide and loss said aloud, and it feels so good to have someone talk about it, without fear, without shame. I am not really allowed to talk about my Dad anymore in my family. I can't talk about his death - which is fine, because I'm all talked out on that subject. I lost the need for answers to my questions years ago. However, even when I talk about my dad's life - the good person he was, the great dad he was, the good things he did I manage to upset my mother and brother. This infuriates me as I feel I worked so fucking hard for so many years to deal with my grief and loss in as healthy a way as possible, and to integrate my dad's death into my life, and to learn to focus more ON HIS LIFE than on how he died. That is no easy task with suicide. I feel sorry for my mom and my brother. I think they are emotionally stunted and choose to live in denial. They have chosen to bury my father, literally and figuratively, forever. They have lied to people about how he died; I refuse to do that. I find that reprehensible. What does that say about my dad, about suicide, about mental illness, depression - what does that say about my brother? Is he ashamed? Of what? He did nothing wrong. If people don't like the truth, they can move on. I am different than my mom and brother. I have always been accused of being too sensitive. Overly sensitive. I cry too easily. I see the cover of Time magazine in the market with victims of Darfur on the cover and my eyes well up. I plead guilty. I am highly sensitive. Sometimes I have to purposely back off and become cynical, use black humour - whatever - to keep me from falling totally apart. I always said I'd rather be too sensitive than not sensitive enough.
It helps to hear someone my age say that we don't talk about loss in America. Someone people look up to and respect. Because we don't talk about loss; we don't want to read about anything but Paris Hilton and the latest plastic surgery innovations. We are more afraid of death and dying than any culture I've ever seen. We're a spoiled, insulated culture. How lucky we are.
We still stigmatize people who take their lives. Sometimes I think we are downright medieval. When my brother's best childhood friend shot and killed himself in his house several years ago, some fucking idiot asked his sister if he was going to be allowed to be buried in a Catholic cemetery. Good God, what century is this? Even the Church, which I detest, finally came around at Vatican II and stated that suicide is a result of mental illness - it's not some sin where the person's going to Hell to burn for all eternity.
Anyway, I'm glad there's an Anderson Cooper out there. I'm grateful. I've gotten so cynical I don't trust anyone anymore. The government, the media - fuck 'em all. However, when I finished his book, I had a little hope. Hope that there is someone out there who truly cares. Anderson goes back to a time when journalists had integrity and honor. He has class, and compassion. He cares. I believe that.
The inevitable backlash will begin, I know. Hell, the poor guy has been raked over the coals for years over his sexual orientation. Straight? Gay? Why won't he just admit he's gay? He has a responsibility to come out for the gay community! Uh, no he doesn't actually. What the hell does it matter what his sexual orientation is? How does this affect his work? How does this impact our lives? Our sexually/celebrity obsessed pathetic lives. It makes no difference to me. I don't see a straight man, a gay man, a handsome man, an ugly man. I see a man who has suffered deeply in his life, despite all the trappings of money, fame, success. I see a man who has made a difference in the lives of thousands. I see a peer I can be proud of. I see a man who is not living a half life - but the fullest life possible. I see an inspiration, a hero. And I don't believe there are very many heroes left anymore.
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
10 Things I Hate About Life:
1) Perfectly-abled people who take handicapped parking spaces.
I hope Karma gets their license plate numbers.
2)Rudeness. There are very few reasons we should be rude to each other on this planet.
3) People who hurt/kill/harm in any way small, defenseless animals. My blood boils. My eyes tear up. I become enraged. I saw a story about some boys who beat some ducklings to death with a stick, all the while, laughing. I hope there is a special place in Hell for sick bastards like this.
4)People who speed and tailgate on the freeway, then dart in and out of traffic at 120 mph and never get caught. They are the ones who will cause someone else to get killed. If I ever see one of these idiots wrapped around a pole, don't expect me to call 911.
5)Naturally, the Evil Triumvirate, with which I have become oddly obsessed lately, seeing as how I was never very political. However, when I heard the Constitution being put through the shredder, I woke up.
6)America's total disregard for education in any form. I live in a country that embraces, and celebrates, mediocrity and stupidity. As an educator, this saddens me beyond words.
7)Laziness. Slothfulness? Sloth-like behaviour. People who will circle a parking lot 100 times to get a spot close to the doors of the Wal-Mart. You know, a little walking won't kill you America!
8)Extremism and fundamentalism in any way, shape or form. And it comes it all sizes, shapes and colours too. European arrogance and anti-Western hatred falls under this umbrella of generalism. Not all Americans are lazy, stupid, Bush-loving racist pigs who have no respect for human life and dignity. I'm talking to you Frenchies.
9)Brangelina and their supid Shiloh-Messiah baby. Ok, so the baby can't help being born. But for the love of Christ on the Cross, will someone please STOP THE MEDIA FROM REPORTING ON THESE PEOPLE!
10) Sports obsession. Actually, all sports. I admit it. I pretty much hate all sports. Except a really, really good hockey game. And by that I mean, lots of fights! LOL! Seriously, what is it with the sports??
Tomorrow, 10 Things I Love About Life.
I'm sure you can hardly wait.
10 Things I Hate About Life:
1) Perfectly-abled people who take handicapped parking spaces.
I hope Karma gets their license plate numbers.
2)Rudeness. There are very few reasons we should be rude to each other on this planet.
3) People who hurt/kill/harm in any way small, defenseless animals. My blood boils. My eyes tear up. I become enraged. I saw a story about some boys who beat some ducklings to death with a stick, all the while, laughing. I hope there is a special place in Hell for sick bastards like this.
4)People who speed and tailgate on the freeway, then dart in and out of traffic at 120 mph and never get caught. They are the ones who will cause someone else to get killed. If I ever see one of these idiots wrapped around a pole, don't expect me to call 911.
5)Naturally, the Evil Triumvirate, with which I have become oddly obsessed lately, seeing as how I was never very political. However, when I heard the Constitution being put through the shredder, I woke up.
6)America's total disregard for education in any form. I live in a country that embraces, and celebrates, mediocrity and stupidity. As an educator, this saddens me beyond words.
7)Laziness. Slothfulness? Sloth-like behaviour. People who will circle a parking lot 100 times to get a spot close to the doors of the Wal-Mart. You know, a little walking won't kill you America!
8)Extremism and fundamentalism in any way, shape or form. And it comes it all sizes, shapes and colours too. European arrogance and anti-Western hatred falls under this umbrella of generalism. Not all Americans are lazy, stupid, Bush-loving racist pigs who have no respect for human life and dignity. I'm talking to you Frenchies.
9)Brangelina and their supid Shiloh-Messiah baby. Ok, so the baby can't help being born. But for the love of Christ on the Cross, will someone please STOP THE MEDIA FROM REPORTING ON THESE PEOPLE!
10) Sports obsession. Actually, all sports. I admit it. I pretty much hate all sports. Except a really, really good hockey game. And by that I mean, lots of fights! LOL! Seriously, what is it with the sports??
Tomorrow, 10 Things I Love About Life.
I'm sure you can hardly wait.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
Summer is coming
not on little cat feet though!
Almighty Ra has shown us a glimpse
of what is to come with a blast of furnace heat;
and a bright and shiny day.
The skies are cornflower blue
and the mountains are losing much of the spring greenery
the rains from past years brought.
The kids know it too; only 12 school days left
When told this, 16 eardrum-piercing screams -
didn't you hear them? I thought the entire
coastal valley would've rejoiced with their excitement.
Ah, summer! Oh, parents.
Good luck!
Today was Dylan's birthday.
He wore the king's crown and announced
"Six! Six! Finally I am six!"
as if he'd waited decades for it to happen.
In his world, it no doubt seemed like decades.
He was so excited. Six! If six is this good, then surely seven will be better!
And eight and nine and ten so fine...
at what age do we start to NOT rejoice the day of our birth?
When do we STOP looking forward to it, and START dreading it?
The proverbial 30?
I think for me, it was 25. After that baby,
well you know, it was all down hill. Never mind
getting my health screwed over at 26 -
it just seemed for me, the magic marker that I was leaving true youth
behind.
Suddenly the strangest thing started to happen.
People all around me were getting younger and younger.
Thirty wasn't too bad. And now I wait for 40 - with glee!
Why not? Why keep dreading the celebration that you are still here,
still breathing, still privy to all the madness, the good, the bad, the ugly,
even the desperate hours when all seems lost.
I am tired of dreading.
I am utterly positive that some strange creature
gathered all my little chicklets together before class this morning
and gave them immense amounts of sugar.
They all seemed like they were high as kites; bouncing off the walls
unable to sit, be quiet or even impersonate a well-behaved child.
They took their first and last writing test for their report card.
Griffin misunderstood and only wrote one sentence. He cried.
Jamie started to give him grief and I sent him away to let Griffin know
it was OK; he could have another chance. His little tears crush my heart.
I know he is having a hard time with the divorce and I wonder,
what will this do to his life? You can see so clearly how it affects a child so deeply, so utterly profoundly at this age.
We played with coins today; the goal was to teach the value of money.
Ha! Children, we know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Please go home and look up Oscar Wilde.
They took magnifying glasses to look at all the States' quarters.
Glee!
Dylan said, "Metal on metal makes me nervous. So does metal on concrete."
I guess the sound of change in his pocket makes him nervous. Haha! For some reason, the way he said it, cracked me up.
Someday he'll come to love that ka-ching noise!
I asked, "Who is on the quarter?"
George Washington they all cried!
And "Why is George Washington important to us?"
Because he flew jet planes really fast, said Tyler.
I wonder what program Tyler was watching in his head.
Who is on the nickel I asked?
No one knew this.
I had two students answer,
"George Bush?"
I laughed, and said "No, Thomas Jefferson."
Inside I screamed and thought, "DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN NO! THANK GO NO!"
So Dylan blew out his candle as birthday king, Natalie cut her finger, Dominique went home with an earache, Griffin cried, Tanner and Jamie got in a shoving match over a chair, Brooke was Superstar, and two students thought the Devil was on our money.
All in all, a pretty normal day.
Summer is coming
not on little cat feet though!
Almighty Ra has shown us a glimpse
of what is to come with a blast of furnace heat;
and a bright and shiny day.
The skies are cornflower blue
and the mountains are losing much of the spring greenery
the rains from past years brought.
The kids know it too; only 12 school days left
When told this, 16 eardrum-piercing screams -
didn't you hear them? I thought the entire
coastal valley would've rejoiced with their excitement.
Ah, summer! Oh, parents.
Good luck!
Today was Dylan's birthday.
He wore the king's crown and announced
"Six! Six! Finally I am six!"
as if he'd waited decades for it to happen.
In his world, it no doubt seemed like decades.
He was so excited. Six! If six is this good, then surely seven will be better!
And eight and nine and ten so fine...
at what age do we start to NOT rejoice the day of our birth?
When do we STOP looking forward to it, and START dreading it?
The proverbial 30?
I think for me, it was 25. After that baby,
well you know, it was all down hill. Never mind
getting my health screwed over at 26 -
it just seemed for me, the magic marker that I was leaving true youth
behind.
Suddenly the strangest thing started to happen.
People all around me were getting younger and younger.
Thirty wasn't too bad. And now I wait for 40 - with glee!
Why not? Why keep dreading the celebration that you are still here,
still breathing, still privy to all the madness, the good, the bad, the ugly,
even the desperate hours when all seems lost.
I am tired of dreading.
I am utterly positive that some strange creature
gathered all my little chicklets together before class this morning
and gave them immense amounts of sugar.
They all seemed like they were high as kites; bouncing off the walls
unable to sit, be quiet or even impersonate a well-behaved child.
They took their first and last writing test for their report card.
Griffin misunderstood and only wrote one sentence. He cried.
Jamie started to give him grief and I sent him away to let Griffin know
it was OK; he could have another chance. His little tears crush my heart.
I know he is having a hard time with the divorce and I wonder,
what will this do to his life? You can see so clearly how it affects a child so deeply, so utterly profoundly at this age.
We played with coins today; the goal was to teach the value of money.
Ha! Children, we know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Please go home and look up Oscar Wilde.
They took magnifying glasses to look at all the States' quarters.
Glee!
Dylan said, "Metal on metal makes me nervous. So does metal on concrete."
I guess the sound of change in his pocket makes him nervous. Haha! For some reason, the way he said it, cracked me up.
Someday he'll come to love that ka-ching noise!
I asked, "Who is on the quarter?"
George Washington they all cried!
And "Why is George Washington important to us?"
Because he flew jet planes really fast, said Tyler.
I wonder what program Tyler was watching in his head.
Who is on the nickel I asked?
No one knew this.
I had two students answer,
"George Bush?"
I laughed, and said "No, Thomas Jefferson."
Inside I screamed and thought, "DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN NO! THANK GO NO!"
So Dylan blew out his candle as birthday king, Natalie cut her finger, Dominique went home with an earache, Griffin cried, Tanner and Jamie got in a shoving match over a chair, Brooke was Superstar, and two students thought the Devil was on our money.
All in all, a pretty normal day.
Monday, May 29, 2006
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
Monday morning, six a.m.
Been up since 4 - can't sleep again.
Memorial Day today.
Seem to be having some hormone -induced crisis
Where am I, where am I going, where have I been
what am I doing?
I'm in some self-imposed purgatory now...
I'll be leaving my kids in less than two weeks
School's out...for summer
I'll have other classes but these chicka dees and chicka doos
were my first and I won't ever forget them
(Oh yeah you will, you say)
No I won't...I got a loooooooooooooooong memory. Too long.
My little pumpkins are 'graduating' on the 14th - being promoted to 1st grade
Dominique told me she's scared to go to first grade...
I felt like Dr. Seuss - oh oh but the places you'll go!
You have so much ahead of you!
I know it all won't be a bed of roses;
But my little darling buds, I'll miss you more than you know.
So no school, no classes this summer;
another bitch of a test - math and science, my two worst subjects.
I'm neither here nor there; still waiting to see about my credential status.
I feel like I have no identity when I'm not working.
I am what I do?
How American is that.
I hate that about this country.
What do you do? Fuckin' stupid question.
It's hard to just be.
The Eastern world has it all over us with that...just be, not do.
Easier said than done.
It's hard to shut out the voices saying
you should be more
you should weigh less
you should have more
do more
see more
you should not be in pain
you should not get depressed
you should have this and have that
you should should should
what did we tell people in the grief groups?
Oh yeah, don't should all over yerselves...haha.
I ain't go no...satisfaction
and I tried and I tried and I tried...
Is this all there is? Is this as good as it gets?
Sometimes it's so good I can't stand it (my kids, music, art, laughter, books, movies, yummy food, family, friends, the warmth of Zoe sleeping next to me)
Sometimes it's so bad I don't want to stand it anymore.
Yesterday I listened to After Everything, Now This
which I think is the greatest title ever and one of my all-time favourite CD's.
Reminds me of Cathy and Alex and other times and places long gone
and that makes me kind of sad. I never thought Cathy and I would not be friends. What happened? Four years in and sometimes I think, what a waste. It should never have happened this way.
Sometimes I just want to say:
Shut the hell up
spoiled girl!!
I have the luxury of paralysis through analysis as my pop used to say
I know this.
I can sit here with my 1000 thread count sheets in my over-priced but tiny apartment...
Still, with all the food I want, all the things I need, kitties sleeping at my feet
Creature comforts abound.
Indonesia hit with another mind-numbing disaster
Why is it the places that are so fragile, still recovering from major disasters
keep getting hit again and again?
They don't have time to sit around and say "Oh what shall I do today?"
As Eliot said, "Should I eat a peach? Dare to wear my trousers rolled..."
No they must search through the wreckage of their lives
bury the dead
try to stay alive
No luxurious existential moments for them.
I wish I was there....moving concrete...giving food, holding a hand
because I need to get out of myself and into the rest of the world
to shake off this narcisstic indulgence;
the what ifs the what fors the poor me's.
As St. Oprah says (oh and maybe that thing called the Bible? )
This too shall pass.
Monday morning, six a.m.
Been up since 4 - can't sleep again.
Memorial Day today.
Seem to be having some hormone -induced crisis
Where am I, where am I going, where have I been
what am I doing?
I'm in some self-imposed purgatory now...
I'll be leaving my kids in less than two weeks
School's out...for summer
I'll have other classes but these chicka dees and chicka doos
were my first and I won't ever forget them
(Oh yeah you will, you say)
No I won't...I got a loooooooooooooooong memory. Too long.
My little pumpkins are 'graduating' on the 14th - being promoted to 1st grade
Dominique told me she's scared to go to first grade...
I felt like Dr. Seuss - oh oh but the places you'll go!
You have so much ahead of you!
I know it all won't be a bed of roses;
But my little darling buds, I'll miss you more than you know.
So no school, no classes this summer;
another bitch of a test - math and science, my two worst subjects.
I'm neither here nor there; still waiting to see about my credential status.
I feel like I have no identity when I'm not working.
I am what I do?
How American is that.
I hate that about this country.
What do you do? Fuckin' stupid question.
It's hard to just be.
The Eastern world has it all over us with that...just be, not do.
Easier said than done.
It's hard to shut out the voices saying
you should be more
you should weigh less
you should have more
do more
see more
you should not be in pain
you should not get depressed
you should have this and have that
you should should should
what did we tell people in the grief groups?
Oh yeah, don't should all over yerselves...haha.
I ain't go no...satisfaction
and I tried and I tried and I tried...
Is this all there is? Is this as good as it gets?
Sometimes it's so good I can't stand it (my kids, music, art, laughter, books, movies, yummy food, family, friends, the warmth of Zoe sleeping next to me)
Sometimes it's so bad I don't want to stand it anymore.
Yesterday I listened to After Everything, Now This
which I think is the greatest title ever and one of my all-time favourite CD's.
Reminds me of Cathy and Alex and other times and places long gone
and that makes me kind of sad. I never thought Cathy and I would not be friends. What happened? Four years in and sometimes I think, what a waste. It should never have happened this way.
Sometimes I just want to say:
Shut the hell up
spoiled girl!!
I have the luxury of paralysis through analysis as my pop used to say
I know this.
I can sit here with my 1000 thread count sheets in my over-priced but tiny apartment...
Still, with all the food I want, all the things I need, kitties sleeping at my feet
Creature comforts abound.
Indonesia hit with another mind-numbing disaster
Why is it the places that are so fragile, still recovering from major disasters
keep getting hit again and again?
They don't have time to sit around and say "Oh what shall I do today?"
As Eliot said, "Should I eat a peach? Dare to wear my trousers rolled..."
No they must search through the wreckage of their lives
bury the dead
try to stay alive
No luxurious existential moments for them.
I wish I was there....moving concrete...giving food, holding a hand
because I need to get out of myself and into the rest of the world
to shake off this narcisstic indulgence;
the what ifs the what fors the poor me's.
As St. Oprah says (oh and maybe that thing called the Bible? )
This too shall pass.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
MadameBastet-firing-neurons
It's almost 1am on Sunday morning
and I'm sitting here so pissed off I can barely type.
I have just one question, one tiny question:
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH AMERICA???????
I mean, besides the triumvirate of Pure Evil that currently
works out of 1600...perhaps I should rephrase the question:
Why can't *anyone* in this fucking country do their job correctly?
Now before I go off on a rant sounding supercilious, smug and self-righteous,
let me be the first to state I am human, and of course I too make mistakes.
But I do my job, I go to school, I do my work, I do what's asked of me. I try very, very hard to do whatever job I have correctly.
Is it me? Am I crazy? I swear to whatever exists in this ass-backward universe that I spend at least 1/3 of my time rectifying other people's mistakes.
Cases in point:
1) I have recevied one letter from the IRS telling me I owe them $700.
I have now also received one letter from the Social Security Administration telling me my last name does not match up with my social security number.
HOW IN THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN? The IRS told me their 'system' (is this a machine system, or a human system?) has somehow split my last time into two parts. One part of me owes them nothing. The other part of me owes them $700 and is now in trouble with the Social Security Administration. I'll probably be put on some freakin' list now at the airport.
I have had the SAME mother****** last name for 39 years and 31 days! I have not married! I have not changed it! I have been filing tax returns for 20 years with the same last name! ARE YOU PEOPLE SMOKING CRACK????? Put the PIPES DOWN and DO YOUR JOBS!
2)Mail delivery. Oh this is a favourite of mine. Yes, the question here is not why postal workers go 'postal' - but why more people don't go postal on their mail carriers. Today I opened my door to find a bag of mail hanging from it. Why? Where did it come from? Did someone leave it there? Was an entire day's worth of my mail stuck in someone else's box? Because I got my mail in my box today! I have lost more mail, and have had more mail NOT GET TO ME because of the major incompetence of postal carriers. I wish I had a killer dog.
3) Bills - specifically, medical. Ok. I have been billed $84.32 TWICE in a week from the SAME hospital - even AFTER they received my check for said amount and cashed it. I've also just received a bill for $12.00 for a chest x-ray from another hospital and I have NO IDEA WHY. Check your records you morons - the CHECK CASHED! STOP SENDING ME THE SAME BILL EVERY 30 SECONDS!!!!
4) Banks. Oh god. Where do I begin? Once I ordered checks from the bank and they sent box after box after box after box with the wrong design. Why did I keep insisting they send me the right box - I mean, who cares about a stupid design right? I really didn't but it became very quickly a matter of principle I guess. And I am a Taurus. I can outwait anyone. I wanted them to pay and pay and pay and pay for the wasted checks until they got it right. It wasn't freakin' brain surgery.
5)Florists. I must have the worst luck in the world with these people. Whether I use florists in town, or online, they NEVER get the order right. The flowers look like crap, or it's the wrong arrangement, or they're sent on the wrong DAY, too late, too early - I have given up on flowers. Or they arrive half dead. Just pick a weed and know I love you.
6) The cable company. Every.Single.Month. My.Bill.Is.Different. I mean, apparently I don't have any set rate for my cable. Every time I call and try to get them to explain to me what the hell they're doing, they start speaking Greek. We finally settle on a number, and then the next month I'm paying $120, the month after that, $65, the month after that $95. What? Do they just pick a number out of their asses and give it to me? ALL for the same cable every month.
7) Academia. Oh my sweet Lord, where do I begin on this one. I've spent the majority of my life either as a student or a teacher in schools. I've been on both sides of the podium. And both sides pretty much suck, but I gotta say, no one entity could be more screwed up and bitter than the administration at colleges. They hate the faculty. I mean, HATE. They hate the students. They probably hate their miserable little lives. When I worked at two colleges as an instructor, I spent more time correcting the mistakes that the administrators made than I EVER DID CORRECTING MY STUDENTS. These people are one step away from monkeys. Or how about being a student? Just last week, I call the school, they tell me my class is in one building. I get there, and by the grace of God, run into other lost people, because, as it turns out, the class was moved to an entirely different building in a different classroom. So I spent 20 minutes in one building, looking for a room that didn't exist. NO ONE BOTHERED TO TELL US THE CLASS HAD BEEN MOVED. It was a miracle we found it.
8) Pharmacies: Inevitably, I also have bad luck with pharmacies. As I have fibromyalgia, I'm on a few medicines, so I have to interact with these people on a monthly basis. I can't count the times I've been given the WRONG pills. Hello! This could kill someone! Like me! Or how about they don't even HAVE the medication in stock? Or they give you a few pills until they get the medication in, and you run out because it's been a week, but they still don't have the medication, and they REFUSE TO TRANSFER YOUR PRESCRIPTION so you can get your medicine!
9) Mechanics: Well, right off the bat I'm screwed here because I'm a woman. So I try really hard to know what's wrong with my car, and to find out how much it SHOULD cost. And yet, how many times have I picked up my car, driven 25 feet and found THE VERY PROBLEM I TOOK IT IN FOR WAS STILL THERE!
10) Dry cleaners. Again, this problem really seems to follow me more than others. AM I CURSED? I took a beautiful green silk skirt to the dry cleaners last year, and someone stole it. At the dry cleaners. Naturally, the owners would not admit this. They wouldn't admit they lost it. They tried to insinuate that I never brought it in. I am not insane. I wanted that skirt dry-cleaned for my brother's wedding. I BROUGHT IT IN. I tossed my house upside down and inside out three times looking for it and even looked IN THE OVEN for the skirt. It was gone. Somehow, my clothes disappear, buttons break, and things generally look worse when I get them back from the drycleaners. I have tried different ones, believe me. THIEVING BASTARDS! I'll never get over that skirt. I LOVED THAT SKIRT! It was a thing of beauty.
11)Doctors. After 12 1/2 years of being in the medical mill, I have nothing kind to say about doctors except that yes, they are a necessary evil. I have met doctors who are so stunningly arrogant, smug, nasty, mean, dismissive and downright fuckin' nuts that the only thing I can wish for them is Karma. I wish they could experience the pain of the patients they so easily dismiss. Doctors are treated like Gods here. They make you wait obscene amounts of time, shove you in a cold examining room, make you wear a napkin and sit there like an idiot for an even more obscene amount of time, before they come in, don't listen to you, and then leave.
I could go ON and ON and ON and ON...as I said, of course I make mistakes, but it seems to people like this country is truly falling apart. Why? No one seems to take pride in their work. No one can communicate, especially in California, and if you think that's racist, it's REALISTIC. Come live in Los Angeles for a while. Why is it racist to want everyone to speak ONE common language so we can all communicate for business purposes? No one seems to care. Corporations are so huge now that customer service is a quaint thing of the past. Go on, complain. Call the manager, write a letter. No one gives a shit. They don't care if they lose you as a customer because there are 10 more schmucks behind you ready to take your place.
How do you fight the post office? Oh I can't wait to call Social Security on Tuesday. They sent me a form. They want me to prove I'm me. It's genius. I guess I have to send them, what? A copy of my social security card? Shouldn't they have that on file? Should I just explain, look, I've been me since 1967. These are my numbers, this is my name. It hasn't changed. I'm not two people. I'm one person, the same person, I'm me. And me doesn't owe the IRS shit.
I have just one thing to say to them: You turn me back into ONE person, with ONE name or the Evil Half of Me is going to make your lives a living hell.
Now that's something I promise I'll make good on.
And these are just tiny, fairly inconsequential mistakes, I realize that. What about hurricane Katrina? My God in Heaven, was that the biggest disaster ever? Or people who are 'accidentally' killed in hospitals...given the wrong drugs, wrong limbs being cut off...or, how about, oops, we didn't find any weapons of mass destruction, but hey, the war's on now, so we can't stop...I could go on and on. Maybe I'm just getting old and cranky.
Or maybe this country has gotten worse. Sadly, I honestly think it's the latter.
It's almost 1am on Sunday morning
and I'm sitting here so pissed off I can barely type.
I have just one question, one tiny question:
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH AMERICA???????
I mean, besides the triumvirate of Pure Evil that currently
works out of 1600...perhaps I should rephrase the question:
Why can't *anyone* in this fucking country do their job correctly?
Now before I go off on a rant sounding supercilious, smug and self-righteous,
let me be the first to state I am human, and of course I too make mistakes.
But I do my job, I go to school, I do my work, I do what's asked of me. I try very, very hard to do whatever job I have correctly.
Is it me? Am I crazy? I swear to whatever exists in this ass-backward universe that I spend at least 1/3 of my time rectifying other people's mistakes.
Cases in point:
1) I have recevied one letter from the IRS telling me I owe them $700.
I have now also received one letter from the Social Security Administration telling me my last name does not match up with my social security number.
HOW IN THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN? The IRS told me their 'system' (is this a machine system, or a human system?) has somehow split my last time into two parts. One part of me owes them nothing. The other part of me owes them $700 and is now in trouble with the Social Security Administration. I'll probably be put on some freakin' list now at the airport.
I have had the SAME mother****** last name for 39 years and 31 days! I have not married! I have not changed it! I have been filing tax returns for 20 years with the same last name! ARE YOU PEOPLE SMOKING CRACK????? Put the PIPES DOWN and DO YOUR JOBS!
2)Mail delivery. Oh this is a favourite of mine. Yes, the question here is not why postal workers go 'postal' - but why more people don't go postal on their mail carriers. Today I opened my door to find a bag of mail hanging from it. Why? Where did it come from? Did someone leave it there? Was an entire day's worth of my mail stuck in someone else's box? Because I got my mail in my box today! I have lost more mail, and have had more mail NOT GET TO ME because of the major incompetence of postal carriers. I wish I had a killer dog.
3) Bills - specifically, medical. Ok. I have been billed $84.32 TWICE in a week from the SAME hospital - even AFTER they received my check for said amount and cashed it. I've also just received a bill for $12.00 for a chest x-ray from another hospital and I have NO IDEA WHY. Check your records you morons - the CHECK CASHED! STOP SENDING ME THE SAME BILL EVERY 30 SECONDS!!!!
4) Banks. Oh god. Where do I begin? Once I ordered checks from the bank and they sent box after box after box after box with the wrong design. Why did I keep insisting they send me the right box - I mean, who cares about a stupid design right? I really didn't but it became very quickly a matter of principle I guess. And I am a Taurus. I can outwait anyone. I wanted them to pay and pay and pay and pay for the wasted checks until they got it right. It wasn't freakin' brain surgery.
5)Florists. I must have the worst luck in the world with these people. Whether I use florists in town, or online, they NEVER get the order right. The flowers look like crap, or it's the wrong arrangement, or they're sent on the wrong DAY, too late, too early - I have given up on flowers. Or they arrive half dead. Just pick a weed and know I love you.
6) The cable company. Every.Single.Month. My.Bill.Is.Different. I mean, apparently I don't have any set rate for my cable. Every time I call and try to get them to explain to me what the hell they're doing, they start speaking Greek. We finally settle on a number, and then the next month I'm paying $120, the month after that, $65, the month after that $95. What? Do they just pick a number out of their asses and give it to me? ALL for the same cable every month.
7) Academia. Oh my sweet Lord, where do I begin on this one. I've spent the majority of my life either as a student or a teacher in schools. I've been on both sides of the podium. And both sides pretty much suck, but I gotta say, no one entity could be more screwed up and bitter than the administration at colleges. They hate the faculty. I mean, HATE. They hate the students. They probably hate their miserable little lives. When I worked at two colleges as an instructor, I spent more time correcting the mistakes that the administrators made than I EVER DID CORRECTING MY STUDENTS. These people are one step away from monkeys. Or how about being a student? Just last week, I call the school, they tell me my class is in one building. I get there, and by the grace of God, run into other lost people, because, as it turns out, the class was moved to an entirely different building in a different classroom. So I spent 20 minutes in one building, looking for a room that didn't exist. NO ONE BOTHERED TO TELL US THE CLASS HAD BEEN MOVED. It was a miracle we found it.
8) Pharmacies: Inevitably, I also have bad luck with pharmacies. As I have fibromyalgia, I'm on a few medicines, so I have to interact with these people on a monthly basis. I can't count the times I've been given the WRONG pills. Hello! This could kill someone! Like me! Or how about they don't even HAVE the medication in stock? Or they give you a few pills until they get the medication in, and you run out because it's been a week, but they still don't have the medication, and they REFUSE TO TRANSFER YOUR PRESCRIPTION so you can get your medicine!
9) Mechanics: Well, right off the bat I'm screwed here because I'm a woman. So I try really hard to know what's wrong with my car, and to find out how much it SHOULD cost. And yet, how many times have I picked up my car, driven 25 feet and found THE VERY PROBLEM I TOOK IT IN FOR WAS STILL THERE!
10) Dry cleaners. Again, this problem really seems to follow me more than others. AM I CURSED? I took a beautiful green silk skirt to the dry cleaners last year, and someone stole it. At the dry cleaners. Naturally, the owners would not admit this. They wouldn't admit they lost it. They tried to insinuate that I never brought it in. I am not insane. I wanted that skirt dry-cleaned for my brother's wedding. I BROUGHT IT IN. I tossed my house upside down and inside out three times looking for it and even looked IN THE OVEN for the skirt. It was gone. Somehow, my clothes disappear, buttons break, and things generally look worse when I get them back from the drycleaners. I have tried different ones, believe me. THIEVING BASTARDS! I'll never get over that skirt. I LOVED THAT SKIRT! It was a thing of beauty.
11)Doctors. After 12 1/2 years of being in the medical mill, I have nothing kind to say about doctors except that yes, they are a necessary evil. I have met doctors who are so stunningly arrogant, smug, nasty, mean, dismissive and downright fuckin' nuts that the only thing I can wish for them is Karma. I wish they could experience the pain of the patients they so easily dismiss. Doctors are treated like Gods here. They make you wait obscene amounts of time, shove you in a cold examining room, make you wear a napkin and sit there like an idiot for an even more obscene amount of time, before they come in, don't listen to you, and then leave.
I could go ON and ON and ON and ON...as I said, of course I make mistakes, but it seems to people like this country is truly falling apart. Why? No one seems to take pride in their work. No one can communicate, especially in California, and if you think that's racist, it's REALISTIC. Come live in Los Angeles for a while. Why is it racist to want everyone to speak ONE common language so we can all communicate for business purposes? No one seems to care. Corporations are so huge now that customer service is a quaint thing of the past. Go on, complain. Call the manager, write a letter. No one gives a shit. They don't care if they lose you as a customer because there are 10 more schmucks behind you ready to take your place.
How do you fight the post office? Oh I can't wait to call Social Security on Tuesday. They sent me a form. They want me to prove I'm me. It's genius. I guess I have to send them, what? A copy of my social security card? Shouldn't they have that on file? Should I just explain, look, I've been me since 1967. These are my numbers, this is my name. It hasn't changed. I'm not two people. I'm one person, the same person, I'm me. And me doesn't owe the IRS shit.
I have just one thing to say to them: You turn me back into ONE person, with ONE name or the Evil Half of Me is going to make your lives a living hell.
Now that's something I promise I'll make good on.
And these are just tiny, fairly inconsequential mistakes, I realize that. What about hurricane Katrina? My God in Heaven, was that the biggest disaster ever? Or people who are 'accidentally' killed in hospitals...given the wrong drugs, wrong limbs being cut off...or, how about, oops, we didn't find any weapons of mass destruction, but hey, the war's on now, so we can't stop...I could go on and on. Maybe I'm just getting old and cranky.
Or maybe this country has gotten worse. Sadly, I honestly think it's the latter.
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