I'll Clean it for You

I'm looking at the mess on my daughter's bedroom floor, and I can hear my mother's voice in my head: Clean this up now, or I'll go in with a trash bag and clean it for you. I generally kept my room clean, partly because I liked it that way and partly because I wasn't sure whether or not it was an empty threat. My mom, after all, would make a spur-of-the-moment threat reality on occasion, no matter how overboard a punishment it might be, so that we knew she was serious. She never changed her mind, and never apologized. I was grounded for two weeks for 'refusing' to eat stew one night, even though I changed my mind as soon as I saw the look on her face.

I was never entirely sure if the threat to clean our bedrooms with a trash bag was true or not, but I didn't worry about it. I was terribly jealous of my younger sister, however, because when her room got to be too bad—for example when the floor pile reached knee height and she needed to jump from the door onto her bed—my mother would clean it. My sister would get home from a slumber party and her floor would be visible. My sister would be wide-eyed for a brief time and then cocky about her special treatment, and I would sulk enviously.

One day my sister was gone and I was passing her bedroom to go somewhere. Our mother was crouched on the bedroom floor with a huge black trash bag and a stretched-to-the-point-of-breaking look on her face. She looked up at me with wide, angry eyes and held up some random toy.

"Does your sister play with this?"

My eyes widened as far as they'd go. My mother was not someone to be trifled with, especially when she was angry, and I didn't want any backlash, no sirree. I looked at the toy, shook my head, pointed out a couple others, and scrammed.

My sister remembers getting home that day. I must have been hiding somewhere, because I don't. Apparently the second she walked into the house she knew something was up. There were both our parents waiting for her with that look on their faces.

"I cleaned your room," our mother said, and my sister's heart skipped. "It will never happen again."

No further explanation was needed. My sister's room was spotless, she didn't know what was missing, and all I'd say was that yes, there was a trash bag involved. I didn't want to get on her bad side for my moment of cooperation, and I didn't want her getting upset about things I hoped she wouldn't miss.

It was months before she went looking for some random thing and couldn't find it. I would neither verify nor negate that it had gone into the trash bag. I'm not even sure how much our mother threw away, because my instincts said hide until they drag you out for dinner.

Back to the present. We've recently moved and my daughter hasn't unpacked anything that I didn't unpack for her. She spent two weeks playing Barbies in her room, and then when the third box of toys arrived from storage, her room got too full to enjoy and she stopped going in except to go to change clothes and sleep. I have two hours before I need to pick her up from school, and a box of black trash bags. Some of the stuff in her boxes has been in storage nearly four years, and chances are she wouldn't miss it.

I guess I'll find out.

A Kid, a Puppy, and a Pointless Story

I was looking over my blog and thought I might go ahead and update you about the dog situation. Quick recap: Excited puppy too much for 11-year-old girl to cope with.

When my sister calmed down, she decided to have a puppy/kid training lesson, and it was a success. The puppy got treats for keeping her paws on the floor instead of jumping, and since it was a specific lesson with specific instructions, my daughter concentrated and obeyed. By the end, she was able to walk across the room without squealing, the puppy was able to follow her without jumping, and she could feed the puppy a treat from her bare hand, though she tended to drop it more often than not.

Another success began with a recent question: How come nobody ever takes me to the movies?

The answer, of course, is: one time, you went to the movies with grandpa and ran out crying during a preview for Coraline. He didn't catch you until you were outside, and you were maybe seven years old. You then began refusing to go into movie theaters.

That's not what I said, though. I said, "Why, do you want to go to the movies?" She did, so we went, and it was a normal movie experience. Since this is all rather anticlimactic, here's a cheese factory story:

One time, at the cheese factory, a coworker told us that he'd heard a completely pointless story once, and it had inspired him to learn to tell completely pointless stories. Here is his story:

He was under the influence of a mind-altering substance and had locked himself out of his apartment. Since he was locked out, he went for a walk. He realized at some point that he wasn't at all sober and he'd wandered into a very bad neighborhood. He was lost and very possibly in danger, so he called the cops on himself. They took him in and locked him up.

An older man there who was very friendly asked him, "Do you like boys, or girls?"

That was pretty much the end of the story. We all looked at each other in confusion. A story like that had to have an ending, didn't it? No, apparently it didn't.

"Well, did you get back into your apartment?"

Yes.

"How?!"

Oh, I'd left the window unlocked. I climbed through.

Mr. Former-Coworker, if you ever read this, thank you. I've told that story so many times, and the looks it gets me are priceless.

Bloody Mary

So, when I was twelve, my parents sent me to summer daycare. Perhaps they were a little overprotective, but details. The point of this blog is that although I was a good kid, I had a mischievous streak, and have always been a skeptic.

When the kids decided that Bloody Mary was living in the girls' restroom, I led a few investigations. There was nothing, of course. There was no blood on any mirror, there was no blue toilet water (because we tested Baby Boy Blue too, while we were at it), and no one came out of anywhere to attack anyone at all.

The whole "good kid" thing is important because I was trying to disprove a theory after little girls started wetting themselves rather than go to the bathroom, since they weren't allowed to use the adult bathroom.

I failed anyway. Kids wanted to believe, for the same reason people like a good ghost story. It's exciting.

There were some girls who claimed they had seen Bloody Mary, and who are you going to believe? A twelve year old, or a group of ten year olds? Well, neither probably, but on with the story.

A group of girls went into the bathroom with a few they were trying to scare, and I volunteered to hold the door open so they could escape when Bloody Mary arrived. So they did their chanting and turning around in circles and flicking water at the mirrors and flushing all the toilets, and when the first girl screamed that the trash can had moved, WHOOMP! The bathroom door sealed closed.

I can't get the door open! *it opens half an inch, then slams shut again* I'm pulling!

I even pretended to pull so the kids outside the bathroom could see that I was innocent. Somehow Bloody Mary had skipped the stabbings and gone straight for holding the door shut, which doesn't sound like much, except that group hysteria is a powerful thing.

During the struggle to open the door and free the girls, someone saw Bloody Mary in a flash on a mirror, someone saw a single drop of blood, someone saw her fly out of the mirror, then disappear, someone saw the trashcan jump, though within three retellings the trashcan had lifted a full foot off the ground and moved across the floor.

I did eventually let go of the door—I mean, I managed to pry it open, against a strong and mysterious force—and a wall of screaming girls fell out and scattered, still squealing, to the winds. Or to five feet away from the bathroom, to relive the terror.

Things kind of faded out after that. I like to think that everyone was so terrified they stopped talking about Bloody Mary, and since no one was talking about it, girls started going to the bathroom again.

That's the end, you can go now. Or go play on Snopes or something, that's always fun.

Hire Me, I'm a Liar

I'm about to lie on this next batch of job applications.

I've been searching for two years (with periodic breaks/breakdowns) and the only time I made it to an interview, all my charm and optimism did me no good; I had just convinced the hiring manager that I only wanted to use my art degree for freelance work, but what I really wanted was something steady. I loved Arby's and would be thrilled to be the store manager.

She walked away from me, looked at another application, then asked the man how he would get there every day, since he'd listed that he didn't have a car. He wasn't sure, and he'd never been employed... she asked when he could start.

So, lies and cheating, since the truth has gotten me nowhere.

I'm going to stop listing my Bachelor of Fine Arts. No one knows what it means anyway, and it just makes me sound pretentious. My high school degree, as long ago as it was, will do.

I'm going to combine all the jobs I worked at University into one long-term job. If all you do is glance at the page and I've worked five places, it's got to look bad, but my title was "Student Worker" at all of them. So, from now on, I was "Student Worker" at University for three years. When they ask what I did, I'll list what I did where, and my supervisor can be the supervisor from my final position.

I've tried to keep in touch with people from college. One of my two possible professor references (assuming I decided to list my degree after all, in a fit of insanity) has died, and the other is a hipster, which I'm not saying is necessarily a bad thing, but I admitted that I had a PC in front of him and he couldn't stop laughing. By the way, Macs are for people who don't know how to use computers.

I went there.

One of my close college friends has since decided I'm lame because I was unable to get a job within a month, and because she got married to a wealthy guy and I was apparently a charity project, so I've lost her (good riddance), whittling my contact list down to...

K: Friend in college. Trained me for a week in a student position she was leaving.
Peer: Trained for position as graphic designer at University.

E: Friend. We met while writing role-play for a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing, group projects, personal research.

H: Friend: Also met role-playing on a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing... You can see where I'm going with this.

I know, normally when one lies on an application it's to make oneself look better. You want to inflate your own importance, make yourself seem even more valuable than you are. Well, I tried that for the first year, when I was actually looking for Graphic Design positions. However, it's been almost three years, and I just need a job. I need money so that I can stop living with relatives and feed myself without government assistance.

Hey, you say. This is another complaint post about unemployment!

It's about time you caught on. Seriously though, it's a completely different angle this time.

I'm a terrible liar. I can do it on paper, but if one of these places actually calls me in, I can imagine the look on my face if someone said, "You've never had a job, at your age?" I know, it's a hamburger-flipping job and saying That's right, never been employed, I've always depended on the kindness of strangers. *cough* I mean, I cared for the home while my significant other/family member/pet iguana brought in the money is more likely to get me that entry-level position than Yes, I have a degree, but I swear I want to work here, and I'll do a really awesome job!

It's funny, in that way that's only funny if you tilt your head; when I was applying for Design jobs, my friends and family got onto me about being picky. Now I tell them that Pizza Hut sent me a "We currently have no positions which you are qualified for" e-mail and get responses like, Well, duh. That's because you're over-qualified.

My sister tells me (though I already know) that I have to stop submitting my resume. I have a nice resume. The guy from Apple was impressed, though sadly he hated my portfolio and wasn't hiring anyway.

I have several resumes. I have my Design resume, my Clerical/Office resume, and my Generic resume, which states my objective as looking for a "challenging" position. Why the hell does the McDonald's website ask you to upload your resume if it doesn't want it? That's the trap I fall into. I see the "Upload Resume or CV" button, and I have to click it.

But no more.

I have a high school diploma from many years ago, and have never worked. I have low standards, and will take any job you offer me. Speaking of which, do you know anyone who's hiring? I'm willing to move if relocation is paid for.

The 90's Called, They Want Their Prank Back

Yesterday I received a prank call. I dealt with it in an adult fashion, trying not to snicker too much, notifying the caller that he had the wrong number, and hanging up rather than continue to feed the troll. A good friend suggested something less mature, but far more amusing, that I could have said. My sister suggested something else, also amusing, but not likely to solve the problem.

Keep all that in mind as you read my responses to the text I received this evening, from the same local mobile number.

     Heyo yet [sic, I say, sic to infinity!] have Cheyenne duffys number

     No but she said she's got the strap-on ready. U gotta bring the lube this time. Yolo

     What the f*?

     She says she likes em big and black. She's out, man. Just grab some KY on the way.

     Mkay lets go

     Gotta get rid of some1 first. Cops are all up in my grill bout that junk you gave me.

     Well don't get caught next time and that won't happen

     K, they're gone, but don't kill me man, they just wanna ask you a couple questions, y'know?

     Yea i got the lube lets go

     Where you at, boo?

     My house

     I'm with L~ and H~, you better get your ass down here b4 we start without you.

     Im stuck here you come here

At this point I wondered what I was doing. I'm an adult, and here I was in a text-hijacking battle with what I assumed to be a random teenager. Not to mention the kid kept tripping me up by playing along. How long was I willing to keep this up? And how the hell could I win?

Competitive Streak: 1
Good Sense: 0

     L~ has my pants, I'm stuck too

     Sucks to suck

     You oughtta ask Cheyenne bout that, you know what I mean?

     No I Don't have her number

Damn, good one. I had to ponder that, and this time my friend didn't have any witty comebacks for me. She did, however, have Cat Facts. For the one of you out there who doesn't love clicking link trails, a brief summary (and my response to I Don't have her number):

     Thanks for signing up for Cat Facts! You will now receive fun daily facts about CATS! >o<

     Okay

Wait, Okay? That's not how it's supposed to go! I decided to make the best of it and regaled my new text-buddy/subscriber with interesting facts, such as:

     Cats use their tails for balance and have nearly 30 individual bones in them!

     That's cool

Really? Oh, a tough one, are you? Yes, actually. It was a Troll battle, me giving cat facts, him remarking that they were interesting, me asking him to prove he's human by stating his favorite animal, him answering with Cat. It was a full hour before I received Who the f* is this, which I admit I'd been hoping for much sooner.

I replied with a Cat Fact. And since he hadn't responded to my offer to cancel hourly Cat Facts, I sent another one an hour later. And another an hour after that, with another opportunity to cancel.

     Cats bury their feces to cover their trails from predators. [To cancel Cat Facts reply 'dghdfjnhddhtd56666443hgfdfefuutregjbvcyu65468990']

     'dghdfjnhddhtd56666443hgfdfefuutregjbvcyu65468990']

Yes! I was finally getting somewhere! Maybe we could end this peacefully, after all. But alas, I'm a smart-ass, and so I asked for confirmation.

     Are you sure you want to cancel? Life without Cat Facts is not as fulfilling. [Reply YES to cancel]

     No

     Thanks for signing up for Cat Facts. You will continue to receive Cat Facts every [hour].

Only I didn't make it another hour. This being the real world, I got a phone call shortly after the Cat Facts renewal, from a very sleepy-sounding, very confused-sounding, woman. So I had to be a grown-up again. I related a brief account of having received a call and multiple texts from that number, from a teenage boy, and then apologized for having disturbed her so late at night.

Whoops.

Dear DIY Ancestors,

Doing it yourself is not always the correct choice. You may realize that now, as you're sitting up in Heaven in that pink hotel room that you allegedly described to Aunt Martyr that one time on the Ouija board. If, however, you are above all that nonsense, I would like to draw your attention to one tiny little detail down here that you've likely forgotten.

Remember in the 80's when my great-grandmother's allergies were killing her, and you nailed all the windows in the house shut? And when having closed windows didn't help, you then caulked all the seams and painted over everything? And how when it still didn't work you moved to Arizona?

Well, I happen to be living here now, due to unforeseen circumstances, and the window a/c which was bought secondhand 28 years ago has now officially died, and I would like to open a window.

Perhaps I shouldn't address this to my ancestor at all (and, by the way, I know exactly which one of you did this. I think we knew each other well enough for me to be honest). Perhaps I should address this to people who are still among the living, who jury-rig things because it's easier than doing it right.

Now, I'm not criticizing those who read up or take someone's advice on home repair. I'm certainly not criticizing those who simply can't afford a big fix and need something to last them until a better fix is available. We're all in that spot from time to time.

I also realize that twenty-some years ago, people didn't understand things like fire safety, and the need to be able to escape through a window that doesn't open up over the hole that goes to the basement. That was sarcasm, sorry. But I've been told you're the one who made these odd renovations, and not for lack of money. Of course, that money is gone now, but that's another story entirely.

I suppose the point of this letter is to say that it's about 90 degrees Fahrenheit in here, with 70% humidity, and I've considered just breaking the window to get some air. I will get through these windows. Even if it takes a good, hefty rock.

Sincerely,
The Quiet One

Reasons to Live

It's that time of deepest winter when it seems like the sky has always been steel gray and everything visible from here to the horizon has always been shades of brown and death. It's also that time when hopelessness is at its worst and the "Seasonal Affective Disorder" has piled so thickly onto fifteen years of ongoing clinical depression that it's hard to remember why I bother living.

While searching the All-Powerful Internet for reasons to live, I realized that no one else's list is going to do me much good. Sadly, the first two I pulled up listed sex as at least one of the authors' reasons. Sorry, not going to work for me.

I had such a list in high school. I was reading a Dean Koontz book and the main character had one which, among other things, mentioned a certain burger from a fictional burger joint. After a moment's wondering whether a food item could really be worth living for, I thought of one that I actually considered enough of a reason to make it another day or so. Unfortunately, Pizza Hut's triple-decker, stuffed crust, deep dish, heart-attack-of-bliss no longer exists, and the stuffed crust alone isn't enough. Plus, I can't afford fast food.

I'm living on $150 per month. I live at my grandmother's house, but that's still less than two hundred dollars per month, and I use half of that on gas driving my daughter places. School, mostly. The library. Wal-Mart.

I spend a chunk of it on Internet because the place I live contains some houses, a hardware store, and a bar, none of which I'm interested in, and the nearest town is fifteen miles. I have to buy my own toilet paper and whatnot, so that leaves me with nothing. But I digress.

Reasons to live... Not leaving grieving family members used to be a big one on my list. I think they'd get over it, though. They'd be horribly ashamed of me being so weak, but I'd be dead, so shame means nothing. Ditto for leaving behind debt and a storage unit full of most of my belongings.

Fear of Hell is on my list, but it's not as powerful as it should be at the moment. When in the throes of misery, when you feel nothing inside but seemingly endless self-hate and misery, eternal suffering doesn't look like much of a difference. You must keep in mind, of course, how very important perception is, and that logic doesn't work against persistent, irrational thoughts.

I hate you.

No, you're just miserable. You know you're smart, you know you have artistic talent, and that you're a good writer. You know people love you.

So? Everyone hates you for that alleged smartness, and I don't care if that's a real word, because you know how it pisses off your dad any time you mention anything he thinks you might have learned in college, because he assumes you're talking down to him.

But you can't help what people think or assume, and you know he loves you.

So? He doesn't like you. If it wasn't for your daughter, he wouldn't care if you visited.

Probably not... But my sister likes me.

Yeah, and that does you a lot of good. Everyone's already ashamed of you for being such a failure. You can't get a job in two years of unemployment, and everyone's sure that you're not really trying. In fact, you're not! When was the last time you filled out an application?

...I'm sorry! I'm sorry, but every time I try to, or even think about it, I just think what a failure I am, and what a waste of time it'll be to fill out yet another application for another job I won't get! It's a waste for me, and for the hiring manager who has to look through all that crap already!

You don't even TRY, so stop pretending.

I'm suffering from long-term depression! I need to give myself an emotional break, forgive myself a little. It doesn't have to be perfect...

If you're only second-best you won't get the job, so yes, perfection does matter!

So does luck! I could get lucky!

People don't get places with luck, they get it with hard work!

I try!

Liar. You don't try. You nap half the day on the couch because you don't want to think, and because you hope desperately that your grandmother's cats will sleep on you and maybe you'll feel worth something.

But...

You're worthless! It's no wonder everyone says "I wish I knew how to help you," but no one ever actually does anything!

They try to give me advice...

Because "You need to get a job" is advice. You didn't already know that?

Well yes, I did, I want a job, but...

You're a f~ing loser and you always will be.

But I went to college!

Pretentious bastard!

No, that's not what I meant! I meant, I went to college full-time and I graduated, and I had a part-time job and an internship, and...

And you couldn't get your bills paid. You realize it's been two years, and you still owe hundreds of dollars to the utility companies before they'd hook you up, even if you WERE competent enough to get a job and find your own place to live? And your grandmother doesn't even want you in her house anymore because she can't deal with the noise of a child, and because you aren't social enough to be the companionship she needs.

No! I'm smart, and I have proof! I graduated college! I learned common sense that I didn't have when I was a teenager! I have friends! I have a friend who loved me enough to fly me halfway across the country to see her, and another friend who would gladly do the same if she had the money! They love you, and they think you're smart and clever and they like you as a friend, and if you told them that you desperately needed them...

They'd apologize for leaving and promise to talk to you later.

Because they have school and jobs...

Which are more important than you.

Which is how it's supposed to be.

Loser.

Actual mental conversation, there. Not really a dramatic reenactment. Oh yeah, I was supposed to be listing reasons to live. Number one about half an hour ago was that my friend told me I have to keep living, whether I want to or not. If I manage to think of a number two, maybe you'll get a better blog post next time.


Reasons to Live:

1. My friend told me to.
2. Because there has to be more than one reason, or making a list was pointless.

A Shmoo Can Do Most Anything

I have a somewhat important and completely random question for anyone who knows what a SHMOO is.

The shmoo was a creature from Al Capp's Li'l Abner, which became insanely popular on its introduction, and I'm trying to find a certain shmoo-themed song for my grandmother online somewhere. That would be "A Shmoo Can Do Most Anything" (1949) Music You Enjoy, Inc. Any video, or anyone who remembers the lyrics would be greatly appreciated. This is as much as I have:

a shmoo could do most anything because he is a shmoo
a shmoo could be most anything that you want him to
if he's in trouble he won't cry
he knows just how to multiply

If you don't know what a shmoo is, you should google it. Seriously. A single shmoo could fix the world. After destroying the economy, but I'll let you insert your own joke about that.

Image borrowed from http://www.deniskitchen.com/docs/new_shmoofacts.html

Diabetes and Bread

Do you ever consider eating something weird just because you're too lazy to prepare real food? No? Weirdo. ;) Kidding, I love you, you know that, right? Anyway, I was very lazy that day, and I had just read this awesome post. I had a moment's reflexive butter and honey sandwich? That's weird. before realizing that I like my bagels with butter and honey. In fact, I wanted a butter and honey bagel right now.

Unfortunately I was out of bagels, so I had to use regular bread. The thought of having buttered bread without it being toasted didn't appeal to me, and since half my stuff is in a storage unit, I don't have a toaster right now. I know I can put the bread in the oven to toast it, but that takes time and I was hungry. I didn't want to wait for toast. Plus, the idea of getting a butter knife, crossing the kitchen, opening the fridge, hunting down the butter, opening the container, then spreading on just the right amount before having to put everything away again just sounded like too much work.

Being a creative soul, when I opened the cupboard to get out the honey, the sight of the chocolate syrup sparked unnatural thoughts in my mind. What if, I asked myself, I put chocolate syrup on the bread with the honey?! The idea was both tantalizing and frightening. Who would do that to himself? Honey is awesome, chocolate syrup is awesome, but it doesn't go on bread! I didn't have anything else to put the chocolate on, so I figured I'd walk on the wild side and see what happened. If you never branch out you never truly live, right?

It was a party in my mouth. It was delicious, the zingy sweetness of the honey combining with the mellow flavor of the chocolate and sinking just so into the bread. It was victory, and it was happiness filtered into its purest form and transfigured into food.

It can't be good for me. It's got to be a one-way ticket to diabetes, and so I've only had a couple of these masterpieces since the first one. But it was soooo good, and I'd never have discovered it if I hadn't been lazy, hungry, and out of bagels.

My friends think it's weird, but these things get discovered somehow. The first time I dunked a fry in my vanilla shake was a series of events. The restaurant was out of chocolate shakes, my fries were too hot, and I was very, very hungry. I always eat the fries first because I'm not crazy about cold fries, but I can eat a cold hamburger and be okay. I suggested it to gross my sister out, and when she dared me to do it, I did. It was awesome.

Mock me if you must, as you eat your eggs with ketchup or your chili with beans. Weirdo.