In the space of two weeks, I went from considering myself a Minnesota "life-r" to living out of two suitcases in California.
I was offered my dream job at my dream company, and a week after accepting it, a moving truck pulled up to my sister's house, where I was living at the time. Two burly men emerged and proceeded to pack all of my belongings ("That Darth Vader helmet voice changer doesn't belong to me... honest! No... just pack it and I'll... uh... return it to its proper owner... in California...") except for three pre-packed, rickety suitcases. This trio of blue luggage contained all of the belongings I would require for the next month. All the rest of my possessions were going into storage while I lived in temporary corporate housing and searched for a permanent apartment.
Soon I found myself deplaning at the San Jose Airport. I had a small, wheely carry-on bag and my little dog in a carrier slung across my shoulders. Being that I was embarking to live in California without knowing a soul, I decided that that day would be the first day of my True Adulthood. To symbolize this, I had traveled wearing a cute outfit of capris, a tank top, and rather unwieldy high heels. As an aside, it should be noted that I haven't since traveled in anything other than oversized sweatpants, mens' undershirts, and Crocs.
I wobbled through the airport on my OhSoCute stilettos, gasping and sweating. Having a 15 pound animal hanging around your neck in a carrier that requires being completely level and steady at all times is exhausting. Coupling this with a suitcase and a fashion statement, I don't believe I achieved the level of chic that I had intended.
I finally arrived at the baggage carousel, dog, high heels, and dignity all intact (but barely). After the trademarked airport wait time (you know, not long enough to go get a drink, too long to continue to hold your belongings) the moving ramp started to spit out bags and packages.
My sister gave me my luggage set before I spent a semester in Budapest. The blue linen suitcases were very worn and dirty after five months of traveling with me in Eastern Europe. They were old friends, and I wasn't inclined to replace them, regardless of their aesthetics. The smaller of the two suitcases was jettisoned ungently from the mysterious land behind the swinging plastic flaps of the carousel. My dog, my outfit, my carry-on, my stilettos, and I leapt forward and wrestled the overstuffed blue monstrosity from the moving belt. I (somewhat belatedly) acquired a luggage trolly and stowed my accoutrements upon it. I looked up just in time to see my second bag emerge from the cavernous opening.
In my mind's eye, I see the following events unfolding in slow motion. The large blue suitcase tumbled onto the belt. As it made one final twist and came to rest, the zipper gave way. The top sprang open. Released suddenly from their compact captivity, my belongings launched every which way. Underwear went flying! My hair diffuser skittered down the belt. A copy of Gone With the Wind landed on top of the carousel, perched like a trophy.
Discord and chaos ensued as everyone in the very crowded San Jose terminal watched me desperately scoop piles of dirty underwear and toiletries off of the belt. Some helpful individuals tried to assist; one elderly man gingerly handed me a handful of runaway tampons. Most were content to watch with amusement and horror. Restrained by my dog, my shoes, my already-stowed luggage, and my pride, I could only but watch as all the contents of the suitcase moved out of arms length and made their slow, showcasing tour around the entire terminal. Helplessly, I waited until they methodically made their way back to me on the moving belt. Finally I was able to the last of my unmentionables into the gaping suitcase.
The zipper was shot. I had to get to the rental car area with all of my belongings. Longingly remembering my resolution to finally begin life as an adult, I put the torn-up suitcase on the trolly. I placed the smaller (intact) suitcase on top of it. I placed the carry-on on top of that. Then I climbed aboard myself, straddling the mound of luggage, depending on my weight to hold all items in place. Holding a bewildered, ugly dog, riding a trolley of luggage with brassieres leaking out of every side, clutching a high heel under each armpit (and thusly barefoot) I slowly scootched to a taxi cab.
Surprisingly, the rest of the move went smoothly. But as this was supposed to be the day that began my adult life, it comes as no surprise to me that I still find myself closing down bars at 2am and walking around work in my bunny slippers.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Resolved: I am the most awkward human ever.
This weekend it was driven home to me that, while I like to judge fellow nerds for their inability to interact socially, I'm not too much further up the geek-tastic "Mountain-Dew-and-Pizza Chain."
It was one of my roommate's birthdays on Sunday. There was really nothing else to do besides push all responsibilities aside and have an entire weekend of festivities. On Friday we went bowling at a fabulous, totally disgusting bowling alley. We planned to meet at our house and carpool to the bowling alley. Since we arranged for people to arrive at the house by 8:00pm, naturally by 6:30 we had 10 or so friends lounging around the living room. We ordered pizza, teased each other, and generally just got the night off to a good start.
Exhibit A:
Right around 8:00, the doorbell rang. Now, before continuing I should note a couple of important items. There had been some Disagreement over the type of pizza that would be ordered. The boys wanted the Mega-Red-Meat Heart Attack Special. The girls wanted cheese. Also, we have a tight group of friends. We don't discourage new-comers, but we so rarely have new faces in our midst that their impending presence is usually discussed and anticipated.
Therefore, when the doorbell rang and no one leapt up to get it, I meandered to the door, assuming that perhaps we had finally surpassed our neighbors' patience with our level of noise. Opening the door, I didn't recognize the young man who stood on the stoop. He certainly wasn't one of the neighbors. He looked at me expectantly, just as I looked at him. Finally I put on my professional face, assuming we had ordered more pizza and the delivery person was in a very sad state of substance abuse. Perhaps a bit condescendingly, I said (in a very grownup manner), "can I help you with something?" He looked startled and said, "oh, does 'Roommate X' live here?" As I was still blockading the door with my body, he peered around me into the house. Suddenly I hear a half-amused, half-disgusted voice behind me saying, "Betsy, he's one of your guests." Embarrassingly, he used to work with one of our friends, and they'd recently gotten back in touch. I'm fairly certain I made the poor young man feel extraordinarily unwelcome.
Exhibit B:
We successfully arrived at the Bowling Alley. I had previously made a reservation for a lane, so clutching my purse, a bag full of paper plates and silverware, and an ornate cake, I pushed my way to the counter. I had been giving directions, balancing cakes, herding people to specific places by specific times, and I was a little punchy. Finally I was directed toward Lane 10, a fine lane situated directly under the projector that broadcast a loop of a dozen music videos.
While I was struggling into my chartreuse clown shoes, one of the workers at the bowling alley approached me. He thrust a bowling pin into my hands. "What the hell is this?" I asked, rudely. I thought maybe one of my partying friends had done something Very Bad and he was showing me the evidence. Too late, I realized he also was handing me a Sharpie marker. 3...2...1... it clicked. "Oh! Is this to sign for 'Roomate X's' birthday??" The stocky employee had given us a used bowling pin that we could sign and give to my roommate as a birthday novelty!
Here ended my awkwardness of the night, but it picked right back up the next day.
Exhibit C:
The next evening we made our way to Black Angus, a slightly overpriced steakhouse that we lovingly call "Black Anus." There were six of us and we were quite the rowdy crowd. However, we had an incredibly cool waiter. He was a lot of fun! He teased us and pretended to be appalled by our less-than-savory conversational topics. We told him that it was Roommate X's birthday and good-naturally carded her, telling her that she certainly didn't look any older than 19. As we wrapped up our dinner, we heard clapping and cheering, the harbinger of birthday wishes.
Our awesome waiter was leading of pack of smiling restaurant employees, and they began a rousing chorus of happy birthday. As they finished, a waitresses set down a huge be-candled cookie in front of Roommate X. Much to my surprise, our waiter then set one down in front of me, too. Confused, I loudly inquired, "Why do I get this?" The harem of waitresses looked at our waiter and he glared at me. He put on a dazzling, fake smile, and said menacingly, "because we have TWO birthdays!" Shit. The nice man gives us an extra treat and I essentially send it back to the kitchen.
And here I am wondering why I wasn't elected to the homecoming court in high school! :-P
It was one of my roommate's birthdays on Sunday. There was really nothing else to do besides push all responsibilities aside and have an entire weekend of festivities. On Friday we went bowling at a fabulous, totally disgusting bowling alley. We planned to meet at our house and carpool to the bowling alley. Since we arranged for people to arrive at the house by 8:00pm, naturally by 6:30 we had 10 or so friends lounging around the living room. We ordered pizza, teased each other, and generally just got the night off to a good start.
Exhibit A:
Right around 8:00, the doorbell rang. Now, before continuing I should note a couple of important items. There had been some Disagreement over the type of pizza that would be ordered. The boys wanted the Mega-Red-Meat Heart Attack Special. The girls wanted cheese. Also, we have a tight group of friends. We don't discourage new-comers, but we so rarely have new faces in our midst that their impending presence is usually discussed and anticipated.
Therefore, when the doorbell rang and no one leapt up to get it, I meandered to the door, assuming that perhaps we had finally surpassed our neighbors' patience with our level of noise. Opening the door, I didn't recognize the young man who stood on the stoop. He certainly wasn't one of the neighbors. He looked at me expectantly, just as I looked at him. Finally I put on my professional face, assuming we had ordered more pizza and the delivery person was in a very sad state of substance abuse. Perhaps a bit condescendingly, I said (in a very grownup manner), "can I help you with something?" He looked startled and said, "oh, does 'Roommate X' live here?" As I was still blockading the door with my body, he peered around me into the house. Suddenly I hear a half-amused, half-disgusted voice behind me saying, "Betsy, he's one of your guests." Embarrassingly, he used to work with one of our friends, and they'd recently gotten back in touch. I'm fairly certain I made the poor young man feel extraordinarily unwelcome.
Exhibit B:
We successfully arrived at the Bowling Alley. I had previously made a reservation for a lane, so clutching my purse, a bag full of paper plates and silverware, and an ornate cake, I pushed my way to the counter. I had been giving directions, balancing cakes, herding people to specific places by specific times, and I was a little punchy. Finally I was directed toward Lane 10, a fine lane situated directly under the projector that broadcast a loop of a dozen music videos.
While I was struggling into my chartreuse clown shoes, one of the workers at the bowling alley approached me. He thrust a bowling pin into my hands. "What the hell is this?" I asked, rudely. I thought maybe one of my partying friends had done something Very Bad and he was showing me the evidence. Too late, I realized he also was handing me a Sharpie marker. 3...2...1... it clicked. "Oh! Is this to sign for 'Roomate X's' birthday??" The stocky employee had given us a used bowling pin that we could sign and give to my roommate as a birthday novelty!
Here ended my awkwardness of the night, but it picked right back up the next day.
Exhibit C:
The next evening we made our way to Black Angus, a slightly overpriced steakhouse that we lovingly call "Black Anus." There were six of us and we were quite the rowdy crowd. However, we had an incredibly cool waiter. He was a lot of fun! He teased us and pretended to be appalled by our less-than-savory conversational topics. We told him that it was Roommate X's birthday and good-naturally carded her, telling her that she certainly didn't look any older than 19. As we wrapped up our dinner, we heard clapping and cheering, the harbinger of birthday wishes.
Our awesome waiter was leading of pack of smiling restaurant employees, and they began a rousing chorus of happy birthday. As they finished, a waitresses set down a huge be-candled cookie in front of Roommate X. Much to my surprise, our waiter then set one down in front of me, too. Confused, I loudly inquired, "Why do I get this?" The harem of waitresses looked at our waiter and he glared at me. He put on a dazzling, fake smile, and said menacingly, "because we have TWO birthdays!" Shit. The nice man gives us an extra treat and I essentially send it back to the kitchen.
And here I am wondering why I wasn't elected to the homecoming court in high school! :-P
Monday, January 24, 2011
What my life could have been...
This past Sunday I went to the park. I was feeling awfully grown-up. I stopped at the bank to get cash (I drove all the way to the bank rather than going to a sketchy ATM! Give me responsibility or give me death!) Then I hit the farmers' market to get a Chicken Tikka Masala wrap. While there, I impulse-bought some delicious home-made apple cider. I packed my feast into the car, along with a blanket, my knitting, a book, and various doggy items. Settling my little dog on my lap, I drove us to the local park (where I got the closest parking spot, neener neener). Now, don't get me wrong, I had a lovely afternoon. But I realized that I was invading the territory of The Happy Parents.
Everywhere I looked there were couples with babies. All of the parents were right around my age. I suddenly didn't feel quite so grown-up. It dawned on me that I was laying on a pink fleece blanket I made in highschool, unshowered, with hippy to-go food, still a little hungover from Friday. In place of a smiling husband, I had an ugly dog. The couples had volleyballs and perfect "beach blankets." None of them were still blearily gulping water, courtesy of a hazy night at the bars 36 hours previously. Their picnics consisted of boxes labeled "Whole Foods" and endless vitamin drinks. I suspected their wallets contained perfectly folded $20 notes, rather than faded, torn receipts (I swear, one day I'll make a budget and I'll need to keep my receipts!), crumpled single dollars, and every drivers license and YMCA card I've ever had. I guiltily hid my book, feeling as though the detailed sex scenes concealed within the pages somehow screamed raunchy words at The Happy Parents' shiny memoirs and copies of "Things to Expect When You're Expecting."
This got me to thinking.... Why wasn't I one of the responsible, pastel-wearing 20-somethings whose lives were totally organized and perfect? I came to the conclusion that if I had only followed in my own kindergarten footsteps, I too would be A Happy Parent.
As a five year old, I had quite the romantic life. There was a boy named James who was dead set on matrimony. He liked to talk at length about how we were going to get married and live on a farm. What girl could resist the promise of a farm? Well, being that the Homestead Act was sometime in the past, and even my five-year-old brain understood the convenience of modern commodities and civilization versus milking cows, I'm afraid I dashed James' heart to pieces. When he invited me to his birthday party (I was the only girl!) I spent the afternoon playing with his annoying little sister and his cats, fervently ignoring him. I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't want to be the future mistress of the dingy farm where said party was held. While we exchanged no words, he knew it was over.
The fifth year of my life was also when I received my first kiss. I was in the morning session of kindergarten, so the passengers on my bus ride home were exclusively other kindergarteners. Our bus driver was a dear old man named Jim who turned a blind eye to our games and raucous running up and down the aisle. Now, when I said I "received my first kiss," that may have been a little misleading. While every girl likes to see herself as a damsel in distress, the truth of the matter is that I think I may have actually forced myself upon this poor boy.
His name was Devin. He was a bad boy. Everyone knew he was trouble. I assumed it was because his name was only a few letters away from "Devil." Interestingly, having been raised devoid of religion, I didn't really know what a devil was. But I did know what deviled eggs were, and I knew that it took a lot of work to get them to be "deviled," so therefore Devin the Devil was clearly a misbehaver.
I think the kiss was due to a dare. At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself. I don't want to think of my five-year-old self entering stages of promiscuity. After I smooched the poor boy, he wanted me to sit next to him on the bus. WELL! I just wasn't ready for such a marked promise of commitment. Apparently some facets of my personality haven't changed in 20 years.
In any case, perhaps if I had followed the inclinations of my kindergarten years, I too would be A Happy Parent. It's beside the point that Devin is now in federal prison, and James, while he does now have a farm, didn't grow perceptively after kindergarten. However, having thrown away these promising prospects, I will continue to be pretty happy bar-hopping with my friends and knitting (alone!) in the park! Also, I will NOT feel bad that I stole the closest parking spot from you. Just because you bought a million oversized baby car seats and strollers and boob pumpers, that doesn't mean you are entitled to the good parking spots!
Everywhere I looked there were couples with babies. All of the parents were right around my age. I suddenly didn't feel quite so grown-up. It dawned on me that I was laying on a pink fleece blanket I made in highschool, unshowered, with hippy to-go food, still a little hungover from Friday. In place of a smiling husband, I had an ugly dog. The couples had volleyballs and perfect "beach blankets." None of them were still blearily gulping water, courtesy of a hazy night at the bars 36 hours previously. Their picnics consisted of boxes labeled "Whole Foods" and endless vitamin drinks. I suspected their wallets contained perfectly folded $20 notes, rather than faded, torn receipts (I swear, one day I'll make a budget and I'll need to keep my receipts!), crumpled single dollars, and every drivers license and YMCA card I've ever had. I guiltily hid my book, feeling as though the detailed sex scenes concealed within the pages somehow screamed raunchy words at The Happy Parents' shiny memoirs and copies of "Things to Expect When You're Expecting."
This got me to thinking.... Why wasn't I one of the responsible, pastel-wearing 20-somethings whose lives were totally organized and perfect? I came to the conclusion that if I had only followed in my own kindergarten footsteps, I too would be A Happy Parent.
As a five year old, I had quite the romantic life. There was a boy named James who was dead set on matrimony. He liked to talk at length about how we were going to get married and live on a farm. What girl could resist the promise of a farm? Well, being that the Homestead Act was sometime in the past, and even my five-year-old brain understood the convenience of modern commodities and civilization versus milking cows, I'm afraid I dashed James' heart to pieces. When he invited me to his birthday party (I was the only girl!) I spent the afternoon playing with his annoying little sister and his cats, fervently ignoring him. I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't want to be the future mistress of the dingy farm where said party was held. While we exchanged no words, he knew it was over.
The fifth year of my life was also when I received my first kiss. I was in the morning session of kindergarten, so the passengers on my bus ride home were exclusively other kindergarteners. Our bus driver was a dear old man named Jim who turned a blind eye to our games and raucous running up and down the aisle. Now, when I said I "received my first kiss," that may have been a little misleading. While every girl likes to see herself as a damsel in distress, the truth of the matter is that I think I may have actually forced myself upon this poor boy.
His name was Devin. He was a bad boy. Everyone knew he was trouble. I assumed it was because his name was only a few letters away from "Devil." Interestingly, having been raised devoid of religion, I didn't really know what a devil was. But I did know what deviled eggs were, and I knew that it took a lot of work to get them to be "deviled," so therefore Devin the Devil was clearly a misbehaver.
I think the kiss was due to a dare. At least, that's what I'm going to tell myself. I don't want to think of my five-year-old self entering stages of promiscuity. After I smooched the poor boy, he wanted me to sit next to him on the bus. WELL! I just wasn't ready for such a marked promise of commitment. Apparently some facets of my personality haven't changed in 20 years.
In any case, perhaps if I had followed the inclinations of my kindergarten years, I too would be A Happy Parent. It's beside the point that Devin is now in federal prison, and James, while he does now have a farm, didn't grow perceptively after kindergarten. However, having thrown away these promising prospects, I will continue to be pretty happy bar-hopping with my friends and knitting (alone!) in the park! Also, I will NOT feel bad that I stole the closest parking spot from you. Just because you bought a million oversized baby car seats and strollers and boob pumpers, that doesn't mean you are entitled to the good parking spots!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
My encounters with The Fuzz.
I have an immaculate driving record. I've never had a speeding ticket, an accident, or even a warning. The only blemish on such a virginal slate is a parking ticket I got in Santa Cruz, and that was my MOM'S fault (they sure were serious when they said "expired meters are subject to ticketing." Damn.) However, I have been pulled over three times. I thought it was time for an account of how a person can get pulled over thrice, yet boast not even a warning.
The first time the multi-colored cherries enraptured my rear window was when I was 16. I was driving a '92 Maroon Chevrolet Lumina. This vehicle encompassed the essence of "fine craftsmanship." The grill was gone (courtesy of the time my mom played chicken with a pheasant who chose to roost on the road.) The windshield had an obtrusive, jagged crack across its middle. One taillight was uncovered, showing only a bare lightbulb in place of the red tint. The blinkers worked, but only when I "blinked" them manually. The passenger side mirror was undoubtably causing someone somewhere seven years of bad luck. I also vividly recall a brief time in which the rearview mirror detached entirely and swung drunkenly back and forth with the motion of the car, secured to the ceiling by the cord that powered its dim lights. I could go on, but I believe I have painted an adequate picture of the sophistication of my vehicle.
I was driving home and had nearly reached my destination. I lived 15 minutes away. Away from what? Anything. No matter where you were in the area, it seemed like it was a perpetual 15 minute drive to get home. Therefore, when I began being tailed by a police officer, I was on an unlit country road, surrounded by fields, woods, and probably bears, ghosts, velociraptors... you name it. I would have preferred one of these aforementioned terrors to a policeman!
As it turns out, the remoteness of the locale had come to the attention of drug users in the area. They were allegedly using an abandoned telephone box as a drop box to exchange drugs for money; a scheme with its pros and cons, but innovative nonetheless. The cops got wind of this and were pulling over vehicles that seemed to be slowing down near this abandoned telephone box. The offending box happened to be just beyond an intersection where I had to make a turn, thus my delinquent deceleration. The policeman was very nice, and after looking at the address on my license he immediately knew I was just a kid going home to my mommy and daddy. I was sent on my way, needlessly terrified, with an order to "think about covering up that taillight." He also told me that I WOULD get pulled over again for the same reason, he was sorry in advance, and to not be scared.
That was how I got pulled over a second time in two nights, in the same spot. The second time was less eventful, having foreseen its occurrence. In fact, I later boasted to my friends that "I was pulled over twice because the cops thought I was a drug dealer!!" As I became older and wiser, I began to understand that drug dealers don't generally drive '92 Luminas with all of the cosmetic features that mine boasted. It was more likely that the cops pulled me over because, based on my car, they thought that I was the drug addict, rather than the supplier. However, most other 16 year olds were similarly disillusioned, and so my story got me some serious street cred.
The third time I got pulled over was when I was 18 and a freshman in college. For some reason, one of my friends had a car for the weekend!! OMG FREEDOMMMMM!!!! Granted, it was a white van belonging to the girl's mother, but it still had seats and a steering wheel! We decided the only thing to do was to use it to procure an abundant supply of alcohol.* Lacking transportation (or valid IDs), our attempts to obtain liquor were usually thwarted, but not tonight! A 21 year old boy was rounded up in no time. I had an advanced math class with him, and he thought that I was Quite Something. Falling for my nerdtastic (and totally insincere) advances, he agreed to ride with us in the van down to the liquor store and be of Assistance. Success!
However, Friday evening rolled around and as I had been the only one studying (responsibility, thy name is Betsy), I was also the only remaining sober one. It fell upon me navigate the monstrous white van, the boy, and half a dozen friends (girls can't do anything alone...) a mile down the brutal hill to the liquor store. Halfway down the hill, horror of horrors! Whirring sirens and lights offended my senses!!
Now, we weren't really doing anything wrong at this point. But we had the intention of doing something wrong, causing me to lose all of my composure. As a policeman approached the car, my friends erupted into hilarity. I heartily embrace schadenfreude; I hope the word is engraved on my tomb. However, I suppose karma declared it was about time that misfortune turned itself upon me. The cop shined his flashlight into my face through the window. I'm certain the whites of my eyes blinded him, so great was my hysterical terror. No doubt he thought I must have been doing something REALLY BAD to be so shaken up.
He motioned for me to roll down the window, a task that I been attempting for the past 30 seconds. The white van was unfamiliar to me, however, and I couldn't do anything other than repeatedly lock and unlock the doors! I was desperate to prove to him that I wanted to follow his orders and that I was a good, upstanding citizen. The knowledge that in 20 minutes I was planning on NOT being such a law-abiding young woman only made my desperation more pronounced. In an effort to follow his orders, I flung the door open.
Now, this policeman had just pulled over a white van with tinted windows. It was full of giggling hoodlums, and piloted by a girl who appeared to be in the final stages of a mental breakdown. The driver had apparently refused to roll down the window when so ordered, even locking the door instead! This was a certain sign of instability and recklessness. So when the driver's door abruptly flew open, I can't blame the poor, small-town police officer for jumping back and reaching for his firearm!
I moaned something like this: "ohjeezisosorrynotmycaranddarkoutandcantfiggerhowtorollwindows!" The cop, bless him, reevaluated the situation and saw what was going on. He asked where we were going ("The Grocery Store!") and politely informed me that my headlights were not on. The godforsaken white van had fog lights... something my grandiose Lumina certainly hadn't featured. I had successfully powered on the fog lights, but neglected to turn on the headlights. We discussed this through the open door, and he told us to turn on the lights and go about our business. He turned away, but before I could close the door, he abruptly returned.
"Oh, one more thing," he said. He stuck his hand into the car, and firmly pressed the button to roll down the window. It was large and colored and in plain sight. He obviously found the fact that it had eluded me to be very funny. "There you go," he said, unable to resist having the last word. "Have a nice night."
And that's the end of my tale of lawlessness, unless I want to get into Accounts of What Betsy Did While Living in Eastern Europe. However, I think perhaps there would be too many asterisks and addenda, so I will leave that to imagination.
*Mom, this is a COMPLETE fabrication. I promise I was actually embroidering a chastity belt and in bed by 10:00.
The first time the multi-colored cherries enraptured my rear window was when I was 16. I was driving a '92 Maroon Chevrolet Lumina. This vehicle encompassed the essence of "fine craftsmanship." The grill was gone (courtesy of the time my mom played chicken with a pheasant who chose to roost on the road.) The windshield had an obtrusive, jagged crack across its middle. One taillight was uncovered, showing only a bare lightbulb in place of the red tint. The blinkers worked, but only when I "blinked" them manually. The passenger side mirror was undoubtably causing someone somewhere seven years of bad luck. I also vividly recall a brief time in which the rearview mirror detached entirely and swung drunkenly back and forth with the motion of the car, secured to the ceiling by the cord that powered its dim lights. I could go on, but I believe I have painted an adequate picture of the sophistication of my vehicle.
I was driving home and had nearly reached my destination. I lived 15 minutes away. Away from what? Anything. No matter where you were in the area, it seemed like it was a perpetual 15 minute drive to get home. Therefore, when I began being tailed by a police officer, I was on an unlit country road, surrounded by fields, woods, and probably bears, ghosts, velociraptors... you name it. I would have preferred one of these aforementioned terrors to a policeman!
As it turns out, the remoteness of the locale had come to the attention of drug users in the area. They were allegedly using an abandoned telephone box as a drop box to exchange drugs for money; a scheme with its pros and cons, but innovative nonetheless. The cops got wind of this and were pulling over vehicles that seemed to be slowing down near this abandoned telephone box. The offending box happened to be just beyond an intersection where I had to make a turn, thus my delinquent deceleration. The policeman was very nice, and after looking at the address on my license he immediately knew I was just a kid going home to my mommy and daddy. I was sent on my way, needlessly terrified, with an order to "think about covering up that taillight." He also told me that I WOULD get pulled over again for the same reason, he was sorry in advance, and to not be scared.
That was how I got pulled over a second time in two nights, in the same spot. The second time was less eventful, having foreseen its occurrence. In fact, I later boasted to my friends that "I was pulled over twice because the cops thought I was a drug dealer!!" As I became older and wiser, I began to understand that drug dealers don't generally drive '92 Luminas with all of the cosmetic features that mine boasted. It was more likely that the cops pulled me over because, based on my car, they thought that I was the drug addict, rather than the supplier. However, most other 16 year olds were similarly disillusioned, and so my story got me some serious street cred.
The third time I got pulled over was when I was 18 and a freshman in college. For some reason, one of my friends had a car for the weekend!! OMG FREEDOMMMMM!!!! Granted, it was a white van belonging to the girl's mother, but it still had seats and a steering wheel! We decided the only thing to do was to use it to procure an abundant supply of alcohol.* Lacking transportation (or valid IDs), our attempts to obtain liquor were usually thwarted, but not tonight! A 21 year old boy was rounded up in no time. I had an advanced math class with him, and he thought that I was Quite Something. Falling for my nerdtastic (and totally insincere) advances, he agreed to ride with us in the van down to the liquor store and be of Assistance. Success!
However, Friday evening rolled around and as I had been the only one studying (responsibility, thy name is Betsy), I was also the only remaining sober one. It fell upon me navigate the monstrous white van, the boy, and half a dozen friends (girls can't do anything alone...) a mile down the brutal hill to the liquor store. Halfway down the hill, horror of horrors! Whirring sirens and lights offended my senses!!
Now, we weren't really doing anything wrong at this point. But we had the intention of doing something wrong, causing me to lose all of my composure. As a policeman approached the car, my friends erupted into hilarity. I heartily embrace schadenfreude; I hope the word is engraved on my tomb. However, I suppose karma declared it was about time that misfortune turned itself upon me. The cop shined his flashlight into my face through the window. I'm certain the whites of my eyes blinded him, so great was my hysterical terror. No doubt he thought I must have been doing something REALLY BAD to be so shaken up.
He motioned for me to roll down the window, a task that I been attempting for the past 30 seconds. The white van was unfamiliar to me, however, and I couldn't do anything other than repeatedly lock and unlock the doors! I was desperate to prove to him that I wanted to follow his orders and that I was a good, upstanding citizen. The knowledge that in 20 minutes I was planning on NOT being such a law-abiding young woman only made my desperation more pronounced. In an effort to follow his orders, I flung the door open.
Now, this policeman had just pulled over a white van with tinted windows. It was full of giggling hoodlums, and piloted by a girl who appeared to be in the final stages of a mental breakdown. The driver had apparently refused to roll down the window when so ordered, even locking the door instead! This was a certain sign of instability and recklessness. So when the driver's door abruptly flew open, I can't blame the poor, small-town police officer for jumping back and reaching for his firearm!
I moaned something like this: "ohjeezisosorrynotmycaranddarkoutandcantfiggerhowtorollwindows!" The cop, bless him, reevaluated the situation and saw what was going on. He asked where we were going ("The Grocery Store!") and politely informed me that my headlights were not on. The godforsaken white van had fog lights... something my grandiose Lumina certainly hadn't featured. I had successfully powered on the fog lights, but neglected to turn on the headlights. We discussed this through the open door, and he told us to turn on the lights and go about our business. He turned away, but before I could close the door, he abruptly returned.
"Oh, one more thing," he said. He stuck his hand into the car, and firmly pressed the button to roll down the window. It was large and colored and in plain sight. He obviously found the fact that it had eluded me to be very funny. "There you go," he said, unable to resist having the last word. "Have a nice night."
And that's the end of my tale of lawlessness, unless I want to get into Accounts of What Betsy Did While Living in Eastern Europe. However, I think perhaps there would be too many asterisks and addenda, so I will leave that to imagination.
*Mom, this is a COMPLETE fabrication. I promise I was actually embroidering a chastity belt and in bed by 10:00.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Glee (and other things people like that I wish they wouldn't)
The TV show Glee just beat out The Big Bang Theory for best comedy on the Golden Globes. I'm pissed. At least Jim Parsons won best actor in a comedy. He plays Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory, and I love him. He is my ideal man. He would be perfect. Most contact between us would occur via text message. When together, he would only want to talk about things like Star Wars and math. Condescension and judgement wouldn't be merely tolerated, it would be mandatory. 10:00 pm bedtime would be strictly observed. But I digress.
I hate Glee. It's high school kids singing old hair band songs. I'm not a whole lot older than the kids in the show. However, thanks to my parents and older sister, I had a top-notch education in reading, writing, and rock and roll. The first CD I ever bought was Queen's greatest hits. I danced my final ballet solo to Show Me the Way, by Styx. The number one preset radio station in my car is a Classic Rock station. With my adoration of academics and my insistence on following rules, it's no wonder kids in high school hated me. This basic anti-popularity was a staple in my life. I was a dancer, I participated in theatre, and I liked oldies, yet breaking into a tribute to Journey didn't EVER win me friends. I resent the implication that kids, who know nothing about the nature of oldies, simply have to sing PG versions of songs from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and suddenly they are cool. When I was in high school, if I talked about doing "the time warp," or mentioned Tim Curry in lingerie, not only would my comments fall on deaf ears, they would exacerbate my ostracism.
I also hate Twilight. I've never been a fan of the legacy of vampires. However, I do respect that vampires have a long history, blending myth and fact to create a genre of sensual darkness. Twilight is about angst-y, hormonal teens, who sparkle and refuse to have sex. And now a whole generation of kids think that's what a vampire is. If you ask me, that description of chastity and uncertainty epitomizes exactly what vampires are NOT. In addition, I think the idea of housewives mooning over teens kissing each other is nothing short of creepy.
I also hate Adam Sandler. I don't think he is funny. When he was younger, he was cute and had a nice bod, but he's never been funny. Don't get me wrong, I am 100% behind a clever penis joke, but I cannot stand gratuitous mention of genitalia in the name of non-humor.
Marijuana. I can't stand it. I hate stoned people. I hate people who idolize the culture of pot. A good friend of mine once made a really good point: if I put up posters all over my room featuring non-descript beer cans and "I love liquor" slogans, as well as being incapable of relaxing without a drink, I would be called an alcoholic and shunned. Yet people who have pictures of pot leaves and creepy posters of optical illusions displayed everywhere are revered. I don't harbor this hatred over ignorance. I went to college and survived (sometimes I don't know how) through various phases. However, I know that marijuana makes people stupid and boring. As if people need to be even slower than they already are! How is it fun to inhale foul-tasting smoke, eat 4000 calories, zone out and be incapable of responding to questions, and then go to sleep? I'll never understand.
This rampage all began because Glee beat The Big Bang Theory at The Golden Globes. There are many other facets of society that enrage me. I expect that I will write more about these objections in the future. I think it's evident that I have pent-up anger directed toward humanity. But really, can you blame me? When I rule my own planet, things will be better, and NO ONE will be allowed to cover any songs from the postional-themed trifecta of Kansas, Boston, or Journey.
I hate Glee. It's high school kids singing old hair band songs. I'm not a whole lot older than the kids in the show. However, thanks to my parents and older sister, I had a top-notch education in reading, writing, and rock and roll. The first CD I ever bought was Queen's greatest hits. I danced my final ballet solo to Show Me the Way, by Styx. The number one preset radio station in my car is a Classic Rock station. With my adoration of academics and my insistence on following rules, it's no wonder kids in high school hated me. This basic anti-popularity was a staple in my life. I was a dancer, I participated in theatre, and I liked oldies, yet breaking into a tribute to Journey didn't EVER win me friends. I resent the implication that kids, who know nothing about the nature of oldies, simply have to sing PG versions of songs from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and suddenly they are cool. When I was in high school, if I talked about doing "the time warp," or mentioned Tim Curry in lingerie, not only would my comments fall on deaf ears, they would exacerbate my ostracism.
I also hate Twilight. I've never been a fan of the legacy of vampires. However, I do respect that vampires have a long history, blending myth and fact to create a genre of sensual darkness. Twilight is about angst-y, hormonal teens, who sparkle and refuse to have sex. And now a whole generation of kids think that's what a vampire is. If you ask me, that description of chastity and uncertainty epitomizes exactly what vampires are NOT. In addition, I think the idea of housewives mooning over teens kissing each other is nothing short of creepy.
I also hate Adam Sandler. I don't think he is funny. When he was younger, he was cute and had a nice bod, but he's never been funny. Don't get me wrong, I am 100% behind a clever penis joke, but I cannot stand gratuitous mention of genitalia in the name of non-humor.
Marijuana. I can't stand it. I hate stoned people. I hate people who idolize the culture of pot. A good friend of mine once made a really good point: if I put up posters all over my room featuring non-descript beer cans and "I love liquor" slogans, as well as being incapable of relaxing without a drink, I would be called an alcoholic and shunned. Yet people who have pictures of pot leaves and creepy posters of optical illusions displayed everywhere are revered. I don't harbor this hatred over ignorance. I went to college and survived (sometimes I don't know how) through various phases. However, I know that marijuana makes people stupid and boring. As if people need to be even slower than they already are! How is it fun to inhale foul-tasting smoke, eat 4000 calories, zone out and be incapable of responding to questions, and then go to sleep? I'll never understand.
This rampage all began because Glee beat The Big Bang Theory at The Golden Globes. There are many other facets of society that enrage me. I expect that I will write more about these objections in the future. I think it's evident that I have pent-up anger directed toward humanity. But really, can you blame me? When I rule my own planet, things will be better, and NO ONE will be allowed to cover any songs from the postional-themed trifecta of Kansas, Boston, or Journey.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Wall-E
Wall-E is the name of the darling robot in the movie of the same title. It is also the namesake for my little dog. To tell the truth, I don't even like the movie Wall-E that much. The poor little robot is so lonely that I find it emotionally trying to watch. Up in the spaceship, I think the fat people are annoying. I also think the length of the film causes it to generally overstay its welcome in my presence. However, that said, there is no name more fitting for my silly little Pekingese than Wall-E.
A couple of years ago I was finding life unfulfilling. I was working in a soulless analyst position in the insurance industry, living with my sister (who is my very best friend, but still counts as a family member), and felt that I hadn't really started my post-college life. In the space of a couple of months, I purchased a new car, got a part-time job as a salesperson for my favorite technology store, and got a dog.
I got a proverbial bee in my bonnet about getting a dog after my sister casually mentioned that I should get a breed of dog called a "Dorkie" (miniature Dachshund/Yorkie). She thought the breed was fitting for my personality; well, she thought the NAME of the breed was fitting for my personality (thanks for the subtlety, sis). While the Dorkie didn't pan out, the idea of having a little dog running around the house grew on both of us. After some research, we frequented a couple of adoptions held by rescue groups. I bee-lined for the Shih-Tzus, or Yorkies, or other attractive breeds. I kept walking past a kennel that had a little bald dog in it. Really, when there are pretty little dogs romping around with ribbons in their hair, who stops to look at the shaking, hairless dog with bulbous eyes?
However, something kept me returning to the ugly little bald dog. Finally I gave in.
"Oh, who are you?" I queried the compact, shaking animal. I opened the kennel and awkwardly took the little creature in my arms, being unfamiliar with how to really hold a dog. He looked at me with buttery brown eyes, sneezed on me, and stopped shaking. It was love. A week (and an extraordinary adoption fee) later, he was mine.
Wall-E, as I immediately named him, is a Pekingese. Pekingese are not naturally bald. In fact, if the Wall-E I adopted was Gandhi, the breed in general is Ted Williams. The pound found poor little Wall-E, dirty and matted, wandering the streets. They turned him over to a rescue group who had to shave him. While his fur has since grown into a luxurious, plush coat, at the time, "Wall-E" seemed like the perfect name for a little ugly dog who possessed huge eyes, a big heart, and not too many brains.
Wall-E is a simple soul. His entire world revolves around treats. How can he get them? Who will be his pusher? What will they be? Close behind that love of food is the need for a soft place to lay while someone scritch-scratches his ears. When it comes to deductive reasoning... well, I don't believe Wall-E actually possesses any. Before Wall-E and I moved to warmer climates, snow was a problem for both of us. For Wall-E, it was a problem because his paws would get so cold that he'd freeze up and be unable to walk any further, rolling onto his behind to elevate his paws. For me it was a problem because I'd have to carry a wet, dirty, shivery dog back into the house, usually before he'd, ahem, "done his business." My mother came up with a plan. She sent him little booties! While they wouldn't help me with the wet-dirty-dog-problem, they would perhaps keep said dirt off of my coat, as well as preventing pain for Wall--E.
Wall-E Resisted.
After about 10 minutes of coaxing, treat-giving, cursing... uh... I mean encouraging... my sister and I finally got Wall-E into one bootie. He looked at us as if we had removed his appendage instead of temporarily adding to it. Holding the offending foot in the air, he attempted to hobble away, careful to not let the be-bootied paw touch the ground. Encouraged by our success, as well as Wall-E's self-imposed disability, we eventually got Wall-E into all four of his booties. If you think a dog looks pathetic when making sure to hold one paw off the ground, imagine how silly a dog looks when he attempts to walk with NONE of his paws touching the ground.
While the booties appeared to successfully keep snow off my little dog's feet, they also successfully rendered him stationary, causing a problem of larger magnitude, all things considered.
Like I said, perhaps Wall-E isn't full of brains or beauty.
A couple of years ago I was finding life unfulfilling. I was working in a soulless analyst position in the insurance industry, living with my sister (who is my very best friend, but still counts as a family member), and felt that I hadn't really started my post-college life. In the space of a couple of months, I purchased a new car, got a part-time job as a salesperson for my favorite technology store, and got a dog.
I got a proverbial bee in my bonnet about getting a dog after my sister casually mentioned that I should get a breed of dog called a "Dorkie" (miniature Dachshund/Yorkie). She thought the breed was fitting for my personality; well, she thought the NAME of the breed was fitting for my personality (thanks for the subtlety, sis). While the Dorkie didn't pan out, the idea of having a little dog running around the house grew on both of us. After some research, we frequented a couple of adoptions held by rescue groups. I bee-lined for the Shih-Tzus, or Yorkies, or other attractive breeds. I kept walking past a kennel that had a little bald dog in it. Really, when there are pretty little dogs romping around with ribbons in their hair, who stops to look at the shaking, hairless dog with bulbous eyes?
However, something kept me returning to the ugly little bald dog. Finally I gave in.
"Oh, who are you?" I queried the compact, shaking animal. I opened the kennel and awkwardly took the little creature in my arms, being unfamiliar with how to really hold a dog. He looked at me with buttery brown eyes, sneezed on me, and stopped shaking. It was love. A week (and an extraordinary adoption fee) later, he was mine.
Wall-E, as I immediately named him, is a Pekingese. Pekingese are not naturally bald. In fact, if the Wall-E I adopted was Gandhi, the breed in general is Ted Williams. The pound found poor little Wall-E, dirty and matted, wandering the streets. They turned him over to a rescue group who had to shave him. While his fur has since grown into a luxurious, plush coat, at the time, "Wall-E" seemed like the perfect name for a little ugly dog who possessed huge eyes, a big heart, and not too many brains.
Wall-E is a simple soul. His entire world revolves around treats. How can he get them? Who will be his pusher? What will they be? Close behind that love of food is the need for a soft place to lay while someone scritch-scratches his ears. When it comes to deductive reasoning... well, I don't believe Wall-E actually possesses any. Before Wall-E and I moved to warmer climates, snow was a problem for both of us. For Wall-E, it was a problem because his paws would get so cold that he'd freeze up and be unable to walk any further, rolling onto his behind to elevate his paws. For me it was a problem because I'd have to carry a wet, dirty, shivery dog back into the house, usually before he'd, ahem, "done his business." My mother came up with a plan. She sent him little booties! While they wouldn't help me with the wet-dirty-dog-problem, they would perhaps keep said dirt off of my coat, as well as preventing pain for Wall--E.
Wall-E Resisted.
After about 10 minutes of coaxing, treat-giving, cursing... uh... I mean encouraging... my sister and I finally got Wall-E into one bootie. He looked at us as if we had removed his appendage instead of temporarily adding to it. Holding the offending foot in the air, he attempted to hobble away, careful to not let the be-bootied paw touch the ground. Encouraged by our success, as well as Wall-E's self-imposed disability, we eventually got Wall-E into all four of his booties. If you think a dog looks pathetic when making sure to hold one paw off the ground, imagine how silly a dog looks when he attempts to walk with NONE of his paws touching the ground.
While the booties appeared to successfully keep snow off my little dog's feet, they also successfully rendered him stationary, causing a problem of larger magnitude, all things considered.
Like I said, perhaps Wall-E isn't full of brains or beauty.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I have a cold
I have a cold. I don't like colds; they are uncomfortable, but generally not terrible enough to merit a sick day. They make you feel slow, rather like you're moving through water but without the buoyancy. Your thoughts seem to meet with obstruction, materializing only at the speed of speech. Whatever wise man said, "think before you speak" clearly had never suffered from full sinuses.
However, there is one sneaky little part of me that enjoys a good cold. When the sniffles besiege, you can justify wearing sweat pants just a tad more often. Comfort food (the sort that is conspicuous only in its absence from my dictatorial diet plan) can sneak its way into daily meals. Best of all, no one judges you for going to bed early!
Ah sleep... such a wonderful state. Why does my age group look down upon it? Since I've been a little girl, I have been embarrassed of early bedtimes. This love of rest plagued me into college. Why is it "cool" to stay up late and deprive yourself of such a natural and necessary phase? Interestingly, everyone I know (including myself, oddly) is constantly moaning about how tired they are. Yet when 10:30 rolls around, it's dorky to climb into bed. So, it's trendy to complain about being sleep deprived but it's out of the question to do something about it? When my dog sleeps all day and all night, everyone thinks it's cute.
While in this blissful condition of slumber the other night, I had a terrible nightmare. In it, I was visited by an evil witch. She cursed me. I would forevermore be doomed to wear only high heels. No more happy barefoot trotting. No more clopping around in flip flops. Horror of horrors... no more pink MaryJane Crocs. Only 4 inch stilettos. Funny, when I was little I had nightmares featuring monsters and aliens and tornados. Now I apparently fear habitual footaches. I think this proves that I may have been a more interesting person as a young child.
However, there is one sneaky little part of me that enjoys a good cold. When the sniffles besiege, you can justify wearing sweat pants just a tad more often. Comfort food (the sort that is conspicuous only in its absence from my dictatorial diet plan) can sneak its way into daily meals. Best of all, no one judges you for going to bed early!
Ah sleep... such a wonderful state. Why does my age group look down upon it? Since I've been a little girl, I have been embarrassed of early bedtimes. This love of rest plagued me into college. Why is it "cool" to stay up late and deprive yourself of such a natural and necessary phase? Interestingly, everyone I know (including myself, oddly) is constantly moaning about how tired they are. Yet when 10:30 rolls around, it's dorky to climb into bed. So, it's trendy to complain about being sleep deprived but it's out of the question to do something about it? When my dog sleeps all day and all night, everyone thinks it's cute.
While in this blissful condition of slumber the other night, I had a terrible nightmare. In it, I was visited by an evil witch. She cursed me. I would forevermore be doomed to wear only high heels. No more happy barefoot trotting. No more clopping around in flip flops. Horror of horrors... no more pink MaryJane Crocs. Only 4 inch stilettos. Funny, when I was little I had nightmares featuring monsters and aliens and tornados. Now I apparently fear habitual footaches. I think this proves that I may have been a more interesting person as a young child.
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