Exit, Pursued by Bear

I have a history of shrugging off minor bumps and bruises only to find out later that I should have gone to the doctor immediately. So when I got a strange spot on my skin -- could that be a spider bite? -- I decided would rather be extra cautious and had Blade take me to an immediate care clinic.

When I mentioned it on Facebook, my friend Steve replied that he'd just been to the ER. Right now, Steve and two of our other good friends, Marty and Tim, are backpacking in the mountains in Colorado. I was afraid one of them had fallen off a cliff or something.


Me (on Facebook): As everyone knows, the best way to finish a Very Long Day is at the urgent care center.

Steve (via text): Small world! We were at the emergency room last night, too!

Me: Who was hurt? Are you all ok now?!

Steve: Yes. Sorry, that was mean. Marty had a weird altitude-related breathing thing, but they checked him out and he's completely fine now.

Me: My awful sore was caused by falling asleep at the computer.* First world problems.

Steve: Marty's lung pain was caused by ascending and descending a 13,000 ft mountain too fast. Awesomely-in-shape-super-badass-problems. ...



Me: Do not scare me like that, Slagg.

Steve: You did the same thing to Facebook!

Me: Sort of, but urgent care and the ER are nowhere near the same thing. Urgent care is for bug bites and flu shots, things like that. The ER is for when you get mauled by a bear while camping.

Steve: Fair enough. No, getting mauled by a bear isn't likely to happen until tonight. ...




*I take medicine at night for a sleeping problem, and I usually have about half an hour before it kicks in. Once it kicks in, though, I'm asleep immediately. This weekend, I misjudged that window of time, and I sat down at the computer to catch up on a couple of things before the medicine knocked me out. 

Five hours later, I woke up, still sitting on my couch, with a blister where my arm had been resting on the edge of my laptop. 

At least, I thought that's what it was, but I wanted to make sure it wasn't a spider bite, because it was more painful and angry-looking than blisters usually are. I knew a guy who waited too long to treat a spider bite on his leg, and his muscle was permanently damaged, so I am now absolutely paranoid about spider bites. 

I am very aware of how ridiculous it is to have a falling-asleep-at-the-computer injury.

She should at least log her hours.

Blade and I have been talking about jobs, particularly about how we'll balance our jobs and our friends and our church as a married couple. We started the conversation with our premarital counselor earlier this evening and continued it as we cleaned up our supper dishes in kitchen.

Blade took over loading the dishwasher, and I sat down to think. And this is what I thought --


Me: Something's bothering me. 

Blade: Work stuff? 

Me: Uh, yeah. How come the Watcher's Council doesn't just pay Buffy? 

Blade: Because being the Slayer is a calling, not a job. 

Me: But they pay Giles. 

Blade: That's different. He chose his job. Buffy was fated. 

Me: But Buffy can barely keep a regular job. She should get paid for all the hours she puts in being the Slayer. 

Blade: Functionally, I think it would taint the position.


We are absolutely mature grown-ups, who discuss mature, grown-up things.

The Teeth Wore White

This week, before I went to get my dental check up, I braced myself for another lecture on more consistent flossing. I hadn't planned on needing to justify my approach to our wedding to my dentist.


Dentist, spying my ring: When's the big day?

Me: August 27th.

Dentist: That's not long!

Me: Just under 40 days, yeah. 

Dentist: Oh, hon, we're really gonna have to hustle to get your whitening scheduled.

Me: My what?

Dentist: You know, your whitening. So your teeth will be nice and white for your wedding. Most of my brides get at least a couple of treatments.

Me: I'm ok with my teeth.

Dentist: But we could make them even whiter.

Me: No, thanks, I think I'll skip that.

Dentist, frantic: But it's your wedding!



Let's examine the dentist's appeals: 

1. "But we could make them even whiter."

What kind of white? As it is, my teeth aren't coffee brown or nicotine yellow. If we were looking for hardware store paint chips to match my teeth, we might find something close in that indistinguishable family of soft off-whites that includes Eggshell, Ecru, Bone, Vanilla, Ivory, Cream. 

Those are reasonable colors for teeth to be. I'd be afraid that bleaching would put my teeth more in the family of Politician Smile white and Blank Word Document That Should Have Been A First Draft By Now white.

The underlying argument from the dentist, of course, was: "There are people out there who are prettier than you are, and their teeth are dazzlingly white. Do you have your checkbook with you?"

2. "But it's your wedding!"

From the more reasonable friends and family, this sentence means, "Your wedding is important enough to justify being a little fancier than you normally would," or, "Let us do something nice for you, since getting married is a big deal and we want to help."

However, when a peddler-of-wedding-goods says it, she is attempting to bypass all your logic with her Jedi wedding vendor mind trick nonsense.

Blade and I ran into this mind trickery at Bed Bath and Beyond, too, when we didn't register for some of the fancier stuff we'd never use, and again when a potential caterer couldn't believe we weren't planning on serving a formal, sit-down meal at our reception.

When a vendor says "But it's your wedding," she means, "Your wedding -- and, by extension, your marriage -- won't be as meaningful and impressive and real if you don't purchase these goods and services. Did you say you had your checkbook with you?"

I finally told my dentist I would think about it, because I was tired of the conversation and needed my teeth cleaned so I could move on to the rest of the afternoon. The sound of the polisher blocked out most of the rest of the free wedding advice.

Let me shun that.

No more of that.

 
After helping with a couple of beautiful-but-stressful handmade weddings in the past few years, my mom and I decided that we did not have the energy or the time to fill my wedding with carefully crafted details. I've heard over and over that it's all in the details, but we know it's really not. Also, we have witnessed how those lovely, thoughtful touches can completely consume the bride and her helpers.

And so we were resolved: No projects that would take over our lives and homes. Only small, get-it-done-in-an-afternoon projects allowed.

Then my mom had ankle surgery. She thought it would only put her out of commission for a few days, but when she recovered from the anesthetic, the doctor told her she needed to stay off her feet for six weeks. We had the following, surprisingly lucid, conversation mere hours after her surgery.

Mom: How would you feel about knitted flowers?

Me: Sewn onto a baby hat or something?

Mom: No, for your wedding.

Me: Where are these going to come from?

Mom: I'm going to knit them. I'll make enough to use for centerpieces for all the tables. And your bouquet, if you wanted.

Me: You couldn't even believe how much energy Lauren spent on her flowers, and those were just paper.

Mom: It'll be adorable! Come on, what else am I going to do for the next few weeks?

Me: This is the Vicodin talking, right? This will wear off?

Finally, I told her that if she could find a picture of knitted flowers that didn't look precious, like they belonged on a baby hat or an old lady Christmas sweater, then we'd talk about her knitting flowers. Honestly, I thought she would be too drugged to remember we'd ever had this conversation, or possibly that she was having a stroke and couldn't control her words. But two hours later she called me back.

Mom: Knitted flowers are horrible. Forget that.

Me: Thank you.

Mom: I'm making them out of paper instead.

Me: Oh, that way madness lies.

I tried to talk her out of it; for one thing, I didn't want her to have to spend all her spare time fussing over my wedding. More importantly, it's a slippery slope from handmade flowers to handmade wedding favors and handmade emotional breakdowns.

But I relented. The flowers looked good and were less time-intensive than Lauren's, and they gave Mom something to do while she rested her foot and watched Slings and Arrows.*

At a follow-up appointment about her ankle, her doctor found that she has a new injury, this time in her elbow. It's the kind of injury that comes from performing detailed, repetitive tasks, like, say, making hundreds of tiny paper flowers. Let this be a warning.


 *See? She does have good taste, knitted flowers notwithstanding.

There are no passports in ten minutes.

Again, from Hyperbole and a Half, whose post on adulthood pops into my mind all too regularly.

 Continuing on my logistical failure when paperwork is involved ...

This fall, due to some combination of peer pressure and family obligation, I'm going on a trip to Israel with basically everyone I know.*

I've turned my apartment upside-down looking for my passport. There's no telling where it could be. It could have gotten lost during one of the seven times I've moved since I last used it four years ago. I have to give in and get a new passport. 

The local passport office is in the post office; rather, it is the post office. The clerks that weigh packages and sell stamps are the same clerks that process passport requests. The post office is open until 7pm, but the clerks will only handle the passports until 3pm, though the sign says 3:30pm. There's also the odd day when they close at noon or refuse to handle passports at all, and these usually seem to coincide with the times that I am off work and able to go to the post office.

I made it in before that 3pm deadline a few days ago and ran into what should have been a small speed bump.


Clerk: I need your actual birth certificate, not a copy.

Me: Oh! That's easy. I can run home and be back with it in ten minutes.

Clerk: I can't do it in ten minutes.

Me: But you'll be at this same counter for four more hours.

Clerk: Yes.

Me: But you won't help me if I come back in ten minutes.

Clerk: No. There are no passports in ten minutes. 


I returned the next day to try again. The first clerk was struggling with her English, and some complications with my paperwork (mostly due to my confusing driver's license issues) made it impossible for us to communicate. She transferred me to another clerk, who was able to be more helpful, especially after I got frustrated enough to cry. 
 
This clerk recognized me from the several times I'd been in before to try and get this goofy passport. She made some phone calls and found some loopholes, and now my passport is being expedited. Although I can't cry on cue, I absolutely believe it would have gone even less smoothly if I hadn't let myself cry. 

Still, I'm terrified that this Very Expensive envelope that contains my original birth certificate is headed to an office like the Department of Records from Brazil: 





*The trip has the potential to be awesome, actually. I just wish it were next fall, after Blade and I have had some time to get used to being married.

Now, that's a pipe of a different color.

Responsibility trophy from "This Is Why I'll Never Be An Adult"

I am frequently quite grown up. I go to work, cook for myself, and return my library books on time. My apartment is clean enough not to embarrass me if a surprise guest were to show up at my door, and my bills are promptly settled with checks that do not bounce.

However, all of this grown-up pulled-together-ness dissolves the moment bureaucracy and paperwork are introduced.

I need to renew my driver's license. After studying for the written test, waiting for an hour at the DMV, getting sent to a different DMV, not being let inside the second DMV after waiting in the out-the-door line for another hour ...

Security guard: What's the point of letting you be in this line if you're missing part of the paperwork?

Me: But I have a question about that part, can you answer it?

Security guard: No, I don't know anything about that. The people inside would know.

Me: But you won't let me inside to ask.

Security guard: No. It's not worth anyone's time.

... and realizing that I'm going to have to go through this whole process again anyway when I change my name this fall, I had one of my patented being-a-grown-up-is-hard breakdowns* and called my dad to help bail me out.

It turns out that I can't actually get that awful paperwork without my dad signing over the title of my car to me, which he can't do until we're in the same place, which won't be until long after my license has expired. The best solution seemed to be to mail order a renewed Texas license to tide me over until I get my married name.

I had hoped to commiserate with my friend Steve, who also needs to renew his license, but he has elected to drive six hours each way to a DMV in middle-of-nowhere Missouri rather than deal with the dread Illinois office.


What we could all use is a rogue DMV clerk, like Robert DeNiro's vigilante HVAC repairman in Brazil.** He could burst in, fully armed, and bypass the whole system without so much as a 27b/6.





*To the layperson, these are very like my wedding-details-are-overwhelming breakdowns.


**I seem to watch mostly movies and TV shows that feed my paranoia.

Wedding FAQ

Don't we look engaged?

I will now tackle the questions I have been asked by many friends, acquaintances, former coworkers' relatives, and passing strangers ever since Blade gave me a sparkly ring. Let's put some of these to rest now.


Q: When did you get engaged?!

A: January. Or March, depending on how you count it.


Q: How did Blade propose?

A: By asking. The first time, in January, I had already taken some medicine that makes me Very Sleepy, so I don't remember a lot of details, except that we decided not to tell anyone until we had a chance to talk to our families. The second time, in March, was in my car after I picked Blade up from the airport. He was returning from California, where he talked to his parents about getting married, and they gave him a ring for me. He waited until the car was in park so that I wouldn't run off the road.


Q: Ring! Ring ring ring!

A: That's not a question. But the answer is that it belonged to Blade's great-grandmother, and I love it. We're having his ring made out of jewelry from my great-grandmother, who happened to be a loan shark. Long story.


Q: What is your theme?

A: Oh, you know, marriage.


Q: So you're having a big wedding, then?

A: Again, that is not a question, really. That's an assumption, and no, we're not. We're having as small a wedding as we can manage while still including our families as well as friends that we both know. Blade and I lean toward the introverted side of things and get easily overwhelmed by crowds, so a big wedding didn't seem like the best option for us. We think everyone is great, but we don't have room for everyone all at once.


Q: Are you stressed about wedding planning?

A: Only when I have to do something wedding-ish, which is not that often. Blade made the invitations and website, and my temporarily-crippled mother is flexing her Martha muscles while she recovers from ankle surgery. (She isn't allowed to be on her feet for awhile, which means she's itching for things to make with her hands.) A couple of months ago, she helped me dress shop, and she's handled most interactions with our caterer and venue.

This doesn't leave me a lot to do, really, which is good, because wedding chores instantly fill me with anxiety. I tear up, my nose gets itchy, I have to eat some chocolate and lie down -- it's this whole big thing. Then I want to drag Blade to a courthouse and skip the cake-and-photographer-and-flowers mess. The number one reason we haven't given up and eloped is because we want our marriage to begin with a sacrament, not just a legal form.


Q: Do you resent how the wedding industry has deliberately and systematically brainwashed the entire country over the last several generations?*

A: Why, yes. Yes, I do.



Do you have a question that I missed?



* That nobody has actually asked me this question is something I attribute to the thoroughness of the brainwashing. Also, it's just possible I watch too many Joss Whedon shows.

Fear Not

When I was in elementary school, I was in a church Christmas play called Three Wise Men and a Baby. It starred our choir director as a bear and is a little hard to explain in words.
 

I'm the one who brings the myrrh.

Right now, though, I'm thinking about the shepherds.

The angel comes to the shepherds in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. (Tangent: That participial phrase, "keeping ... night," placed after the word "field," should techinically mean that the fields were keeping watch. I'd never noticed that until I typed it out just now.) Anyway, the dialogue goes something like this:

Angel: Fear not.
Shepherds: AHHH!
Angel: I said, "Fear not."
Shepherds: AAAHHH!
Angel: What part of "fear not" are you not understanding? Nevermind. Listen up.

---

I've offered to teach an improv class for women at my church. We're not planning to take over the city or anything, just give people an introduction. We decided to start with just women, because for some reason it's harder to get women to play, so we thought an all-female environment would feel safer.

The announcement in the bulletin read:

Improvisational comedy workshop for women
Don't be scared: Improvisation is not about being original or clever. It's about working together with a group to create something beautiful and true (and often very silly). This is a great chance to stretch your creativity and to connect with other women at Rez in a lighthearted environment. Come play with us!

I heard a lot of enthusiasm, along the lines of "I'm so glad you're doing that! This will be so good for building community among different ages of women who don't normally spend much time together, and we have so much creativity in this church." The next sentence was inevitably, "But I'm too scared to come."


Hey, I said, "Fear not." What part of "fear not" are you not understanding?

Over the past few weeks, I've been following up with those ladies who liked the idea but didn't see themselves being brave enough to try. I explained that this is going to be a relaxed class, like recess for grown-ups. Some have decided to give it a go. We'll begin next week.

We create the magic of learning.

These are magic stones. They are plastic and shiny and cheap, and kids covet them. We use them at work to buy students' cooperation.

I'm working for the summer at a tutoring center. I work with eight students a day for one hour each. My youngest kid has been 8; my oldest thus far has been 17.

Most of the students are used to failure and have self-esteem problems. Part of my job is to keep that frustration away by using "positive error handling technique," which is a cross between improv's "Yes, And" principle and the Socratic method. Basically, when a kid gives a wrong answer, I'm supposed to affirm something about her response. Then, instead of telling her the answer, I'm supposed to help her figure it out for herself, then shower her with praise (in the form of stones) when she gets the answer right.

That works 80%, and it keeps morale up. But a few times a day, this error handling technique leads to one of the following sorts of conversations.


"George" is 14 years old. He has Autism, which means that he can read and remember words but can't necessarily picture what they mean.

Me: "The girl ran through the tall grass." What do those words make you picture?

George: The girl ran through the tall grass.

Me: Great! Those were the words. Now tell me what that made you picture in your head.

George: The girl ran through the tall grass.

Me: Yes, she did. What do you picture for the girl?

George: Ran through the tall grass.

Me: Yes, that's what she's doing. What does she look like?

George: The girl ran through the tall grass.

Me: Is the girl tall or short?

George: Tall grass.

Me: The grass is tall. You're right. What about the girl?

George: The girl ran through the tall grass.

More often, though, George just doesn't answer me, and I find myself wondering if I've turned mute or invisible, or maybe have just asked such an idiotic question that I'm not worth answering. After all, I'm repeating myself over and over, too, and we could be stuck in this perfect echolalial circle forever.


"John" is 12, athletic, and goofy. He spent pre-school through first grade in and out of the hospital for multiple heart surgeries, so he never caught on to phonics, much less reading.

<I hold up an "oi" flashcard.>

Me: What do these letters say?

John: "Aw."

Me: Oh, good, I did see vowels. When you say "aw," what's the first letter you picture?

John: W.

Me: Great! I did see a W in "aw." Did you see anything before the W?

John: O.

Me: You're right that there was another vowel before the W. What would O-W say?

John: "oi."

Me: Yeah, I definitely pictured an O in "oi." What's the second letter you picture in "oi"?

John: H.

Me: H is a letter, you're right. Let's look at the card again.

John: Ee.

Me: I would hear a little "ee" sound in there at the end. How would you say the whole thing?

John: I!

Me: Oh! I did see an I in there. Did you see it coming first or last?

John: In the middle.

Me: Um, ok. This actually says oi.

John: That's what I said!

Me: You did say parts of it, you're right. Touch the card and say it again.

John: Oi.

Me: GREAT! Give me a high five! You got it! Let's see how fast we can do the next ones, ok?

<I hold up F, Qu, Ee, Ll, and Oi, to see if he can remember Oi when he's not thinking so hard.>

John: Fff! Qua! Ee! Lll! Ooo!

Me: You got those first several perfectly! Let's look at this last one. What's that second letter?

John: I.

Me: Awesome! So what do O and I say when they're together?

John: Aw.

He is so insistent that I wonder if I need my glasses prescription updated, or if I actually remember what O and I say together. That particular curriculum is called Seeing Stars, which is what I do after an hour of desperately blurting out anything positive I can say.

Those are my two most severe kids so far. The others correct themselves pretty easily, they respond to questions, they read Frog and Toad Are Friends with me, and, best of all, they are easily bribed with magic stones. As a temporary job, it definitely beats data entry. At the end of the summer, though, the kids will head back to regular school, and I could be unemployed again.

I may attach baggies of magic stones to my application cover letters from now on.

Well, in this economy ...

I have followed Career Service's advice this semester and applied for jobs. Lots of jobs. Over 50 at this point, everything Monster, CareerBuilder and Craigslist could give me for the Chicago Area. I've sent my resume everywhere from the American Girl Place to the American Nuclear Society.

Last week, I got an email asking for a phone interview about a comedy writing position. I'll call the interviewer "Gary." I was slightly suspicious to begin with, since Googling the nonsense words in Gary's email signature pulled up an inordinant number of furry event calendars. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but I did spend most of the following conversation trying hard to avoid imagining Gary in a fox costume.


Me: What kind of comedy writers are you looking for?

Gary: Funny ones.

Me: Right. What kind, though? Stage? Screen? Sketch?

Gary: Screen. We're working on a sitcom.

Me: What's the premise?

Gary: I can't tell you a lot, since it hasn't come out yet, and there are intellectual property laws. I can tell you it's about an oddly matched set of roommates.

My head: Like Friends or Gilligan's Island or Laverne and Shirley or the Odd Couple or Three's Company or Will and Grace or ... or ... or ...

Me: What level of content are you looking for?

Gary: Dense. Juicy. More Simpsons than Family Guy.

Me: How will it be rated?

Gary: Highly, I hope. We're shooting for a big audience.

Me: I guess I'm trying to find out what your target audience is. What kind of comedy is this?

Gary: Why do you care? Is there any kind of comedy you won't write?

Me: Well, I'm a Christian, so there are some boundaries I'll want to respect.

Gary: We are into pushing boundaries here. Why don't you come by the office, and we'll see if you're a good match for our team. Is this weekend good?

Me: Would next week work? I'm graduating from college this weekend.

Gary: Congratulations! What college?

Me: Wheaton College.

Gary: Oh. So the Christian thing ... that wasn't a joke?

Me: No.

Gary: You're serious?

Me: Yes.

Gary: Christians make me want to gouge out my own eyes.

Me: Ok.

Gary: Also, you might as well know, this sitcom is going to be mostly NC17/X. A Wheaton graduate wouldn't be a good fit for us.

Me: Probably not. Thanks for your time.


That is one for the Career Services webpage.

I'm glad he told me he was looking for comedic porn (pornographic comedy?) writers before I took a trip into the city to interview in person.

And so job search continues.

The Male and the Floss

Dentists don't bother me. Dental hygienists make me nervous.

My old dentist retired, so I had to go to a new dentist over Christmas. This meant a new dental hygienist. I was used to the hygienist who asked me open-ended questions, usually about Harry Potter, and then stuck her hands in my mouth before I could answer.

The new dental hygienist's tactics are rather different.

"You don't floss enough. You know, not flossing has been linked to prostate cancer."

If her hands hadn't been in my mouth, I would have explained to her that I've already taken measures to prevent getting prostate cancer. Namely, I don't have a prostate.

To be sure, I have done extensive research. My findings report that people with prostates don't cry in the candy aisle at Walgreens because they're overwhelmed by the selection and can't decide what kind of chocolate they want.* I am officially disqualified.



*Thankfully, I have a boyfriend who is tolerant of this, and who surprised me with a back-up Reeses in case I changed my mind about the M&M's.

Mugged

A recent dream of mine took place in a white and silver coffee shop that looked like it was designed by IKEA.

I was sitting next to Kate Olsen, who was talking about a play she'd seen in Prague. Across from us was the queen of England, who listened politely to Kate for awhile, but then pulled out books about English architecture and tried to prove that architecture was England's answer to Czech theater. Her Highness was cheerful but competitive.

Realizing I was the third wheel, I excused myself from the booth. Soon, I noticed I was being followed by a 40-something man. I'd leant my car to someone, which meant I was without my keys and thus without my pepper spray keychain. I dodged into the women's restroom, which happened to be behind the cash register. Instead of a mirror over the sink there was a window, from which I could see Kate and Her Highness; Tim Hunt was alone in the next booth.

The bathroom door opened; the man had followed me in. This was the first time I'd seen his face. It was Otto, a guy from an iO class I took a couple of years ago.


Otto? What are you doing?

His voice was gentle. "I'm going to mug you."

Otto. I know you.

He looked pleasant. "Yes."

You were in my Level 2 class.

Not threatening, not sarcastic, not even mischeivous. Just pleasant. "Yes."

You can't mug me.

"I'm going to take your money."

I'm not even a stranger. We took a class together. I think we're Facebook friends.

"I'm mugging you now." I tried to yell for help, but my voice wouldn't project. Even though Tim could clearly see me through the mirror/window, he acted like he was watching a scene instead of a crime. Maybe that's because I couldn't stop laughing at how silly it would be of Otto to mug me.

But I knew he was serious, that he would actually hurt me and steal from me. Even so, I couldn't stop laughing, so Tim thought everything was fine. After I wouldn't break eye contact with him, though, he came into the restroom, too. He was pretending to be a monkey. This scared Otto away.

I couldn't make Tim understand that I really needed help. Perhaps laughing might have detracted from any sense of urgency I might otherwise have conveyed. Of course I was laughing; it was funny. Why would Otto, why would anyone, mug someone he already knew, someone with whom he was on a how-have-you-been-I'm-fine-thanks terms? That doesn't mean I wanted to be mugged, though.

That is why you should carry pepper spray everywhere. Even around your friends, even in your dreams.