Well, after my blissful 10 days off, I returned to the grind, and one more happy customer. In my real work life, I'm courteous and professional, but this was kind of therapeutic to write. The regular text is word for word from an e-mail I received, and the italics are what I wish I could say...
Betsy-
it's amazing how time flies when nothing is being done. It is bad enough that I have to ask the government-no..pay the government to tell me I have a wetland on my property, but now I have to chase the issue. So far I've--paid $770 for which I expect to receive nothing of value.
Oh, you are so right! You haven’t received any benefit from the zoning code. At all. Because who cares if your neighbors construct a meat rendering plant or an amusement park near your back yard, or put their drainfield in the wetland that feeds your well? That wouldn’t be a problem. The land use regulations that have kept this huge, fast-growing county fairly rural have done absolutely nothing for you, and your $770 is just pure government waste. I see what you mean.
This is designated for someone on the payroll to drive out to my property and point at the water. 2) with no response in a month I made the trip to Renton to be told that my paperwork hadn't yet reached the desk of the person who will assign it a number....Later you e-mail that something could possibly happen.
Oh, sorry, I thought it was customer service to contact you and let you know we’d received your application and it takes 4 – 6 weeks before someone could get to it. I thought it might actually help in your planning, but please forgive the intrusion.
3)Approaching two months, I am writing to see if any intelligent life exists in your office.
I like how you think, customer. You really have a way with people! Hey, why don’t you swing by with some IQ tests or something. Oh, and when you come, could you bring me a cup of coffee? Double tall latte, please. Because that’s what we do here.
Predictably, you will feel under appreciated, telling me of your work load and the machinery of permitting which you assume I cannot understand. Hardly convincing Betsy.
I’m glad you already figured out what I was gonna’ say, and decided it wasn’t convincing. Phew, that made it easy for this lazy government slacker! More time for drinkin’ da java. And sorry, you’re right, workload has nothing to do with it – the fact that we’ve scaled back from 400 to 100 employees really shouldn’t affect service at all! That would just be lame!
The Executive made the noble gesture of declaring that your agency should start seeing patrons as customers, and that hints at something the private side knows as "customer service". We all recognize it's presence and absence.
Well, if I'm your customer, I'd take my busness elswhere. But of course this is not possible because the government is behaving in a feudal way, assuming total authoriy over property, water, air, animals, movement, imprisoning anyone without the proper paperwork. Yikes!
Exactly. Why, in my very own attic, I am keeping some Douglas squirrels captive; I won’t let them out without the proper forms. No, Mr. Customer, I don’t think you’re crazy at all. I seriously don’t. (Oh, and speaking of intelligent life? It’s cool the way you spell stuff. Super-creative!)
If you are a student of social/political history, you'll know how this trend plays out and it isn't pretty. Rent the movie "Brazil" sometime.
Um, I hate to bring this up, but besides all my other failings, I have a facial recognition disability. I can only watch really easy movies, movies where the characters look very different from one another. Movies with lots of white guys in it confuse me. (In fact, white guys in general confuse me, but that’s for another e-mail.) That, and the intelligent life thing. Even if I could tell the people apart, I doubt I could track such a complicated plot. But anyway, thanks for the tip. I’ll see if my sister wants to watch it and then explain it to me.
OK- I know you don't care, so I'll just get to the point.
Oh, there’s a point? I thought we were just going to be penpals. Darn!
After your blood cools when you are finished reading this, get up and locate the paperwork. That's right..assume responsibility,take action and follow through. Step two--move the paperwork to wherever the action takes place so that we can get this step over with, that is, the person can come over and point at the water.
You, my friend, have a good way with people. It’s all about respect and motivation with you. I like that.
There will be about 20 permits required of me to build on my own property, Betsy.If all the guardians of each and every permit feels as disconnected from my experience as you do and they take 2 months to do nothing, I'll be approaching two years before the government will grant their almighty permission. Do I have to point out how tragic this all is or are you starting to picture it?
Just to clarify, friend, I feel super-connected to your experience. It is a tragedy, that it will take some effort, money, and time to build a second home on the property you bought three years ago and put into forest preservation, and now want to take out. It should be hassle free, and cost nothing! Guy buys land with house at height of housing boom, three years later wants to build a second house, has to actually determine whether the drainfield and house will be outside of the wetland and stream. This actually reminds me of King Lear. Have you read that? I know! The plot comparison is uncanny.
Look, I don't want to be penpals, so don't write back to say that something might happen--haha.
Shoot. Okay, Mr., you’re goin’ a little too far. Why don’t you want to be pen pals? Come on. Pretty please? What? Does this font make my butt look big? I liked your use of “haha,” by the way. It made me feel even closer to you. And I know for sure you have a good sense of humor. :-) (That's a smiley face, fyi!)
Try being data-rich-" so-and-so will call to schedule the site-visit 11/24/10 to your number XXX XXX-XXXX between 10 and noon, Mr Customer"
Okay, I hate to be picky and full of excuses, because I know how you hate that, and I’m trying to win you back. I need a pen pal like you, one who will recommend movies and stuff. But um, the number you gave? It goes to the voice mail of a young woman who’s never heard of you. I know, that might seem like just one more lame excuse from the government, but truly, it does make it a little hard. Oh, and by the way, I love your suggestion that I be data-rich. I’m all about that. (It feels like we’re getting to know each other a little bit here, doesn’t it? I like that. :-))
If there is no action very soon, you will be mentioned in my next communication with The Executive as we discuss the relative failure of his "customer" vision.
We'll see if you can do it. I doubt it.
Thanks so much for writing! I hope you had a great holiday. You should totally try my Aunt Gladys’ Steamed Cranberry pudding.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Home Alone Pt. I
I’ve been snowed in for 48 hours now, and I’m about to summon the enthusiasm to put chains on and attempt navigate down this steep icy hill we live on.
If anyone wonders why we get so stuck here in the Seattle area, here's why:
R. bailed at the first sign of snow, and took refuge at a lower elevation, leaving me home alone.
On the one hand, it’s kind of fun and relaxing, and I’ve had a chance to start a new writing project, walk down to the falls, and nap a lot. On the other hand, it’s a bit lonely, and it feels like a preview of what it will be like to live up here when I’m old and have no where to go and am too chicken to drive in any sort of weather or darkness.
R. has memories, I’m sure, of being stuck up here without power for 12 days during the big windstorm, so I don’t really blame him for his escape. We probably have pretty different views on how it was. Me: I thought it was fun. Both kids captive, no distratctions.
I divided the day into three parts: Morning Health and Santitation, during which we’d heat water on the wood stove to do dishes, bathe a little, and do wound dressing. There were no wounds, but had there been, they most definitely would have been addressed during Morning Health and Sanitation time.
After Morning Health and Sanitation was Afternoon Fitness and Recreation, during which you could go on a hike, split wood, do yoga, or read. This was followed by Evening Community Time, when we could cook together and play games. I can’t understand why the young people weren’t as thrilled as I was.
So it’s really not as fun being snowed in without the young people around -- M. in Central America and R. at a slightly lower elevation. This morning I receive a text message on my phone from an unknown number, “Morning!”
“Uh, yes, it is morning. Wrong number?” I reply. I wouldn’t have replied at all had I not been a little bored and under-engaged with the world at large.
“Oh really? This is Rob. Who’s this?”
“Betsy. I don’t know a Rob.” (I know.)
“Oh. Hi Betsy.”
“Um, that’s not how a wrong number goes.”
“Lol. How does a wrong number go? Should I send a picture?”
I was hoping to get an interesting blog post out of the whole thing, but once someone uses “lol”, I can’t continue even the simplest wrong number conversation.
But for the rest of you, here’s how a wrong number goes:
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“Oh! Thanks for letting me know; sorry to bother you.”
Okay, I will now slap chains on my trusty scion and see what’s going on out in the world, and get some ingredients to make a million pies. Or at least two. Hopefully something interesting is happening out there.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
If anyone wonders why we get so stuck here in the Seattle area, here's why:
R. bailed at the first sign of snow, and took refuge at a lower elevation, leaving me home alone. On the one hand, it’s kind of fun and relaxing, and I’ve had a chance to start a new writing project, walk down to the falls, and nap a lot. On the other hand, it’s a bit lonely, and it feels like a preview of what it will be like to live up here when I’m old and have no where to go and am too chicken to drive in any sort of weather or darkness.
R. has memories, I’m sure, of being stuck up here without power for 12 days during the big windstorm, so I don’t really blame him for his escape. We probably have pretty different views on how it was. Me: I thought it was fun. Both kids captive, no distratctions.
I divided the day into three parts: Morning Health and Santitation, during which we’d heat water on the wood stove to do dishes, bathe a little, and do wound dressing. There were no wounds, but had there been, they most definitely would have been addressed during Morning Health and Sanitation time.
After Morning Health and Sanitation was Afternoon Fitness and Recreation, during which you could go on a hike, split wood, do yoga, or read. This was followed by Evening Community Time, when we could cook together and play games. I can’t understand why the young people weren’t as thrilled as I was.
So it’s really not as fun being snowed in without the young people around -- M. in Central America and R. at a slightly lower elevation. This morning I receive a text message on my phone from an unknown number, “Morning!”
“Uh, yes, it is morning. Wrong number?” I reply. I wouldn’t have replied at all had I not been a little bored and under-engaged with the world at large.
“Oh really? This is Rob. Who’s this?”
“Betsy. I don’t know a Rob.” (I know.)
“Oh. Hi Betsy.”
“Um, that’s not how a wrong number goes.”
“Lol. How does a wrong number go? Should I send a picture?”
I was hoping to get an interesting blog post out of the whole thing, but once someone uses “lol”, I can’t continue even the simplest wrong number conversation.
But for the rest of you, here’s how a wrong number goes:
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“Oh! Thanks for letting me know; sorry to bother you.”
Okay, I will now slap chains on my trusty scion and see what’s going on out in the world, and get some ingredients to make a million pies. Or at least two. Hopefully something interesting is happening out there.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
'Nother day, 'nother angry person
I haven't written anything here for a while, because it seems like there's getting to be a sameness to the posts. I've been trying to come up with a different angle, a different topic to write about, but so far, nothing. So, here goes again...
The other day, I was paged to go talk to someone in the permit center. It started out the way it usually does, but I’m getting better at suspecting the ones that are going to turn out bad. When I smile and introduce myself and hold out my hand, she just looks down and ignores me.
The conversation starts out innocently enough. “Could you tell me something about this parcel, and whether it has wetlands on it?”
I look it up, and learn that in 2002, someone from our office visited the site and noted that wetlands and streams are present. I tell her that.
“Where do you get off, telling me I have wetlands on my property?” Her voice is now raised, about 1 minute into the conversation. I don’t know it yet, but this is only the first minute of 60 that I’ll spend with her.
“Um, all I know is what I’m reading here on the screen. I haven’t been to this property, but eight years ago, someone requested that we look at it, and they noted the wetlands and streams. Was it you who requested it?”
“No. It was someone who was going to buy it, but they didn’t, thanks to you.” She’s seething, doing that stare thing, making super-intense eye contact the way you aren’t supposed to do with a dog or a grizzly bear. I’m thinking about my yoga mat and trying to remain curious.
I bring my hands to my heart center and say, “what can I help you with today?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You tell me you get to dump water all over my property, and then call it a wetland, and then you have the nerve to ask me if you can help?”
On my yoga mat, things are still going okay.
In the kindest voice I can summon, I say, “So, do you have any questions?”
“Yes. First off,” and she points to the map on the computer we’re looking at, “why is my parcel yellow? None of the others are yellow.”
“Oh, that’s just because it’s the selected parcel.”
“Yeah, exactly. Why did the county select my parcel? What has it been selected for? As a dumping ground for all of the county’s water?”
“Uh, that just means that you asked about that parcel, so I typed it in, and the computer considers that the ‘selected parcel’ and makes it yellow.”
“Why aren’t the others selected?”
“Um, if you’d like, we could make a different parcel yellow.”
“No, never mind.” She says this in a way that suggests I can’t be trusted, and making a different parcel yellow won’t solve her problems. I'm looking for common ground with her, and realize we agree on this.
She asks about a nearby parcel. “These people built a garage without permits, and they’re living in it.
I look it up and find that actually, they did obtain a permit, and it was for living quarters. I tell her that, and ask if she has any more questions.
“Why do they get to build a second house on the property?”
I leave my yoga mat for a minute and go all code zombie on her: “per 21.A blah blah blah. I recite the zoning code the way those people in the airport in the 70’s used to chant nam myoho ringe kay.
She points to a different parcel on a small lake a few lots away from hers.
“Do they get to use their lake front?“
“Um, I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”
“Why were they allowed to build their house?”
I pull up the permit history on the parcel, which, by the way, now becomes yellow because I’ve selected it. I’m thinking about what a sweet color yellow is. The sheets in the Bedroom at Arles, that very soft, buttery yellow.
“Uh, based on these notes, at the time they got the permit, there was a fifty foot buffer on the lake, and their house was 115 feet from it.”
“Why are you saying that?”
I check the distance with the measuring tool on the photo. “Um, see, it looks like the house is about 115 feet from the edge of the lake. So, the house met the zoning code at the time it was built.”
“Well, are they allowed to use their waterfront?” She’s seething by now, and her anger is spilling onto my yoga mat. I can see it feel it seeping closer and closer. I think harder about the Bedroom at Arles, and explain that there are a lot of allowances in the code that address unique circumstances, and without knowing the history of the site, I can’t really comment on the legality of what’s going on, but if that’s really her question, I can look into it.
She keeps pressing a point, but I’m not really sure what the point is. I ask again. “I’m sorry, I’m not exactly clear where we’re going with this. Is your question about whether they’re complying with the permit conditions?
“My question is this: Why did the County put a culvert under this road? In 1999 they put a culvert in and it messed up the drainage.”
“Hmm, I really don’t know anything about that. Did you want to look into that?”
She switches one more time, and it helps me remember to be exactly present right there, and try to keep up. “No,” she says. “My question is about why those people put up a fence. Did the County make them do that?”
“Um, I could look that up for you, but it will take a fair amount of time, and I’ve gotta say, you seem pretty angry. Can you try to pinpoint your real question? It seems like we’ve been skipping around quite a bit.”
She stares me down, and I meet her stare in a hopefully neutral way, but I don’t blink, which isn’t very neutral at all. I know. The stare down thing lasts long enough that I can feel dust settling on my eyeballs, and I know this isn’t good. We’ve been talking for half an hour by now, and I’m beginning to wonder where my yoga mat disappeared to. I flag down one of the engineers who happens to be walking by.
It strikes me that when people are really angry, they badly want you to be angry back; she’s working so hard at it that I feel my tether on compassion slipping away. It’s useful to involve another person when that starts happening, and most especially if the other person is crazy too.
The engineer meets my criteria. He’s the kind of guy who, when they caught the Green River Killer was all, “Hey, yeah, he was in my boy scout troop. Helluva guy.” He met one of his recent girlfriends when he found her living in his storage locker, and brought her home to live with him.
I’ve noticed that when a normal angry person intersects with someone a bit crazy, they tend to tone it down a bit, because they realize they’re sort of playing with fire.
Engineer is normally walking around the office with a saucepan full of oatmeal at this time of day, but for some reason, he’s not today, and comes to sit down. He’s extremely smart, and about to be laid off. He's definitely trying to be helpful, because he's a pretty nice guy, but on the other hand, the stakes are pretty low.
He doesn’t look up at her, because he’s focused on removing splinters from his hands. I look at his hands and try to imagine what happened. It looks like maybe he was pulling blackberries without gloves, or playing with a cactus. I’m watching him pick at the splinters and remember the time when he offered me a drink of cranberry juice. It was about 11 am on a work day. I said sure, and a bit later, he delivered it to my desk. After he left, I took a gulp and realized it had cranberry juice, but also a healthy dose of vodka in it, and I started sputtering. B. heard me, and asked what was going on. “Engineer just gave me a drink and it’s got vodka in it.”
“Jesus, Betsy. Do you not know rule number one, don’t drink anything you didn’t pour? I wouldn’t drink anything that guy hands you.”
Angry Lady continues on her path of trying to get us angry, but he’s calm and quick with the answers, and it gives me a chance to reconnect with my yoga mat. She brings up concerns about a proposed development a few miles away; she’s angry that missed the comment period. When we look it up, we discover that the comment period ended three years ago. She’s angry that a middle school two miles up the hill is dumping stormwater on her property, but when we look it up, the school was built twenty years ago. And so on.
This goes on for a while, and I eventually do the, “Oh, I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting coming up,” trick. She knows it’s a fake meeting, and I know she knows it’s a fake meeting, so she keeps asking the questions in an angry, provoking way until a full hour has elapsed.
Most of the splinters seem to be gone from Engineers’ hand by then, and I realize how smart it is that he didn’t look up at her, because I think that seems more effective than thinking about yellow.
The other day, I was paged to go talk to someone in the permit center. It started out the way it usually does, but I’m getting better at suspecting the ones that are going to turn out bad. When I smile and introduce myself and hold out my hand, she just looks down and ignores me.
The conversation starts out innocently enough. “Could you tell me something about this parcel, and whether it has wetlands on it?”
I look it up, and learn that in 2002, someone from our office visited the site and noted that wetlands and streams are present. I tell her that.
“Where do you get off, telling me I have wetlands on my property?” Her voice is now raised, about 1 minute into the conversation. I don’t know it yet, but this is only the first minute of 60 that I’ll spend with her.
“Um, all I know is what I’m reading here on the screen. I haven’t been to this property, but eight years ago, someone requested that we look at it, and they noted the wetlands and streams. Was it you who requested it?”
“No. It was someone who was going to buy it, but they didn’t, thanks to you.” She’s seething, doing that stare thing, making super-intense eye contact the way you aren’t supposed to do with a dog or a grizzly bear. I’m thinking about my yoga mat and trying to remain curious.
I bring my hands to my heart center and say, “what can I help you with today?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You tell me you get to dump water all over my property, and then call it a wetland, and then you have the nerve to ask me if you can help?”
On my yoga mat, things are still going okay.
In the kindest voice I can summon, I say, “So, do you have any questions?”
“Yes. First off,” and she points to the map on the computer we’re looking at, “why is my parcel yellow? None of the others are yellow.”
“Oh, that’s just because it’s the selected parcel.”
“Yeah, exactly. Why did the county select my parcel? What has it been selected for? As a dumping ground for all of the county’s water?”
“Uh, that just means that you asked about that parcel, so I typed it in, and the computer considers that the ‘selected parcel’ and makes it yellow.”
“Why aren’t the others selected?”
“Um, if you’d like, we could make a different parcel yellow.”
“No, never mind.” She says this in a way that suggests I can’t be trusted, and making a different parcel yellow won’t solve her problems. I'm looking for common ground with her, and realize we agree on this.
She asks about a nearby parcel. “These people built a garage without permits, and they’re living in it.
I look it up and find that actually, they did obtain a permit, and it was for living quarters. I tell her that, and ask if she has any more questions.
“Why do they get to build a second house on the property?”
I leave my yoga mat for a minute and go all code zombie on her: “per 21.A blah blah blah. I recite the zoning code the way those people in the airport in the 70’s used to chant nam myoho ringe kay.
She points to a different parcel on a small lake a few lots away from hers.
“Do they get to use their lake front?“
“Um, I’m not sure what exactly you mean.”
“Why were they allowed to build their house?”
I pull up the permit history on the parcel, which, by the way, now becomes yellow because I’ve selected it. I’m thinking about what a sweet color yellow is. The sheets in the Bedroom at Arles, that very soft, buttery yellow.
“Uh, based on these notes, at the time they got the permit, there was a fifty foot buffer on the lake, and their house was 115 feet from it.”
“Why are you saying that?”
I check the distance with the measuring tool on the photo. “Um, see, it looks like the house is about 115 feet from the edge of the lake. So, the house met the zoning code at the time it was built.”
“Well, are they allowed to use their waterfront?” She’s seething by now, and her anger is spilling onto my yoga mat. I can see it feel it seeping closer and closer. I think harder about the Bedroom at Arles, and explain that there are a lot of allowances in the code that address unique circumstances, and without knowing the history of the site, I can’t really comment on the legality of what’s going on, but if that’s really her question, I can look into it.
She keeps pressing a point, but I’m not really sure what the point is. I ask again. “I’m sorry, I’m not exactly clear where we’re going with this. Is your question about whether they’re complying with the permit conditions?
“My question is this: Why did the County put a culvert under this road? In 1999 they put a culvert in and it messed up the drainage.”
“Hmm, I really don’t know anything about that. Did you want to look into that?”
She switches one more time, and it helps me remember to be exactly present right there, and try to keep up. “No,” she says. “My question is about why those people put up a fence. Did the County make them do that?”
“Um, I could look that up for you, but it will take a fair amount of time, and I’ve gotta say, you seem pretty angry. Can you try to pinpoint your real question? It seems like we’ve been skipping around quite a bit.”
She stares me down, and I meet her stare in a hopefully neutral way, but I don’t blink, which isn’t very neutral at all. I know. The stare down thing lasts long enough that I can feel dust settling on my eyeballs, and I know this isn’t good. We’ve been talking for half an hour by now, and I’m beginning to wonder where my yoga mat disappeared to. I flag down one of the engineers who happens to be walking by.
It strikes me that when people are really angry, they badly want you to be angry back; she’s working so hard at it that I feel my tether on compassion slipping away. It’s useful to involve another person when that starts happening, and most especially if the other person is crazy too.
The engineer meets my criteria. He’s the kind of guy who, when they caught the Green River Killer was all, “Hey, yeah, he was in my boy scout troop. Helluva guy.” He met one of his recent girlfriends when he found her living in his storage locker, and brought her home to live with him.
I’ve noticed that when a normal angry person intersects with someone a bit crazy, they tend to tone it down a bit, because they realize they’re sort of playing with fire.
Engineer is normally walking around the office with a saucepan full of oatmeal at this time of day, but for some reason, he’s not today, and comes to sit down. He’s extremely smart, and about to be laid off. He's definitely trying to be helpful, because he's a pretty nice guy, but on the other hand, the stakes are pretty low.
He doesn’t look up at her, because he’s focused on removing splinters from his hands. I look at his hands and try to imagine what happened. It looks like maybe he was pulling blackberries without gloves, or playing with a cactus. I’m watching him pick at the splinters and remember the time when he offered me a drink of cranberry juice. It was about 11 am on a work day. I said sure, and a bit later, he delivered it to my desk. After he left, I took a gulp and realized it had cranberry juice, but also a healthy dose of vodka in it, and I started sputtering. B. heard me, and asked what was going on. “Engineer just gave me a drink and it’s got vodka in it.”
“Jesus, Betsy. Do you not know rule number one, don’t drink anything you didn’t pour? I wouldn’t drink anything that guy hands you.”
Angry Lady continues on her path of trying to get us angry, but he’s calm and quick with the answers, and it gives me a chance to reconnect with my yoga mat. She brings up concerns about a proposed development a few miles away; she’s angry that missed the comment period. When we look it up, we discover that the comment period ended three years ago. She’s angry that a middle school two miles up the hill is dumping stormwater on her property, but when we look it up, the school was built twenty years ago. And so on.
This goes on for a while, and I eventually do the, “Oh, I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting coming up,” trick. She knows it’s a fake meeting, and I know she knows it’s a fake meeting, so she keeps asking the questions in an angry, provoking way until a full hour has elapsed.
Most of the splinters seem to be gone from Engineers’ hand by then, and I realize how smart it is that he didn’t look up at her, because I think that seems more effective than thinking about yellow.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Sleepover
I’m reading a book right now called, In the Neighborhood, by Peter Lovenheim. The authors’ hypothesis is that in order to know our neighbors, we need to sleep over at their house for a night, so he asks neighbors, previously unknown to him, if he can come over for a sleepover. It’s kind of a sad and quirky little study of the breakdown of community in the suburbs, and has me wondering if I’d let a random neighbor sleep here.
That was in my head the other day when I had 15 minutes to spare at the local library. I went to the magazine section to see what my neighbors are reading, and picked up Backwoods Home Magazine. The cover advertised stories about the best guns for the winter, making soap, how bad will the economy get, and cutting your own hair. Sort of a paranoid version of the Whole Earth Catalog.
I dove right for the article about cutting your own hair, because I had this incident several years ago that my boss keeps bringing up in which was facilitating a meeting with an applicant, explaining a bunch of stuff about one of our more complicated processes. After a few minutes, I stopped and asked if she had any questions.
“Yes, I do. Do you cut your own hair?”
I know. I’m pretty sure that’s not a good thing. My boss asks me that pretty routinely now, usually on the days he comments that trained monkeys could do my job.
So I read the article, which really didn’t have any tips except for, “it’s just like cutting someone elses' hair, but on yourself.” I then read the piece about guns for winter, and learned is that skateboard tape on your glove helps with grip, and also, you don’t want to cut a slit in your glove for the trigger finger, because snow gets in there, and your finger might be too cold to move quickly when needed. The pictures were all of handguns. I’m not really an expert in these matters, but that’s not what you use for hunting, is it? Are they used more for hunting our own species?
So I skip to the letters column, and a woman has written in asking if cows milk can be substituted for goat milk in the soap recipe. She goes on to clarify that she followed the recipe last year, and loved the soap except for that it smelled very bad. (I guess everyone looks for different qualities in soap – I’m not so much a fan of stinky soap, but the writer was very pleased with its abundant lather.)
I’m not really sure if I want the readers of this magazine coming by for a sleepover, with their guns and bad smelling soap, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. What do you guys think? Sleepovers in the neighborhood, pro or con?
That was in my head the other day when I had 15 minutes to spare at the local library. I went to the magazine section to see what my neighbors are reading, and picked up Backwoods Home Magazine. The cover advertised stories about the best guns for the winter, making soap, how bad will the economy get, and cutting your own hair. Sort of a paranoid version of the Whole Earth Catalog.
I dove right for the article about cutting your own hair, because I had this incident several years ago that my boss keeps bringing up in which was facilitating a meeting with an applicant, explaining a bunch of stuff about one of our more complicated processes. After a few minutes, I stopped and asked if she had any questions.
“Yes, I do. Do you cut your own hair?”
I know. I’m pretty sure that’s not a good thing. My boss asks me that pretty routinely now, usually on the days he comments that trained monkeys could do my job.
So I read the article, which really didn’t have any tips except for, “it’s just like cutting someone elses' hair, but on yourself.” I then read the piece about guns for winter, and learned is that skateboard tape on your glove helps with grip, and also, you don’t want to cut a slit in your glove for the trigger finger, because snow gets in there, and your finger might be too cold to move quickly when needed. The pictures were all of handguns. I’m not really an expert in these matters, but that’s not what you use for hunting, is it? Are they used more for hunting our own species?
So I skip to the letters column, and a woman has written in asking if cows milk can be substituted for goat milk in the soap recipe. She goes on to clarify that she followed the recipe last year, and loved the soap except for that it smelled very bad. (I guess everyone looks for different qualities in soap – I’m not so much a fan of stinky soap, but the writer was very pleased with its abundant lather.)
I’m not really sure if I want the readers of this magazine coming by for a sleepover, with their guns and bad smelling soap, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. What do you guys think? Sleepovers in the neighborhood, pro or con?
Monday, November 1, 2010
Horror-scopes
Aries (3/21 – 4/19): Its tough when the weather changes, but find that as one big opportunity to nap. There's not much else going on. Be sure to set your alarm for that nice week we get in February, though.
Taurus (4/20 – 5/20): Lately, I’ve been arguing with B. about the state senate race, because he intends to vote for the right-wing guy who’s named after the Flintstones' dinosaur.
“Do you even know what your guy stands for?” I ask.
“No, but we gotta get rid of big government. I do know that.”
So I look Dino up on Wikipedia, and there’s really almost no information about what he believes in, which seems suspicious, doesn’t it? But I do about two minutes more research and share what I find.
“Okay, he's opposed to public breastfeeding.”
“Me too!” B. exclaims. “I hate it when I’m out in public, and some movement catches my eye so I look and there’s a big ole’ breast staring right back at me, and then the mom looks at me like I’m some kind of creep. So that clinches it, I’m definitely on board for Dino.
"What if he cuts enough jobs that yours is gone? We are the government, after all."
"Sometimes you've gotta take one for the team, Betsy. If getting rid of public breastfeeding means I live under a bridge, so be it. That may be what it takes to be a patriot."
The point, dear Taurus, is keep feeding the babies, and be sure to vote.
Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): Ransom notes aren't just for kidnappers anymore. Use them. But, I must remind you how they go: there's a threat, and an action one could take to avoid said threat, and most importantly, they are anonymous. Someone who lives in my house, and I'm not going to name any names, leaves notes like, "Give me a backrub or I'll kill you." I know. Good thing the handwriting was disguised.
Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): You know that thing where you're wearing your huge GPS wrist unit that's the size of a small tv on a hike, and another hiker starts talking about it with you, asking you what your running distance is, and you say, um, four miles? And he looks at you like, oh, weird, that's not even a race I'm aware of, but then says, "OH! You run four miles for fun!" Which suddenly sounds ridiculous. Like, to non-runners, running four miles seems long, but to a runner, it's not even a race length. It would be sort of like if you bumped into an artist and claimed to be one, and they asked what your medium is and you say, "Usually, I use crayons. Sometimes markers if my mom will let me have them." It turns out he runs ultra-marathons, and it just gets more awkward from there because we're in the middle of nowhere, standing on the side of a trail, and this rag tag band of hippies runs by looking more like they're running from something, possibly a ghost, because they aren't dressed for running. Not even close. There are 15 young people in boots and dreds and flannel shirts, smelling like the wilderness school (weed, b.o., woodsmoke all mixed together). The ultra runner guy is looking surprised and so am I, and then the last person stops and yells my name and gives me a big hug. Yep, kids from the neighborhood. Anyway, it's a familiar scenario, and it reminds me of your horoscope, which is to just carry on, even when it gets awkward.
Leo (7/23 – 8/22): So I'm in the grocery store the other day and I see these lovely display of local organic greens from our own Oxbow Farm, a dollar a bunch. I grab a bunch of chard and one of mustard greens, but when I get to the checkout stand it rings up as $2.54 for the chard.
"I think that's only a dollar. It's from Oxbow."
"Hmm," says the clerk, "I'm too lazy to go check, so I'll take your word for it."
Then the mustard greens, same thing. Rings it up as $2.54. "That's from Oxbow too, I think."
"You used that one up. This is from the factory. Look, it's got the little twisty on it with the scan code."
"Oh, it just looked like a whole little Oxbow situation in the produce section with three kinds of greens. I thought they were all a dollar."
"No, they aren't a dollar. They were grown in a factory, not in this valley."
"Seriously, they're local. I'm pretty sure they're from Oxbox."
"If it makes you feel any better, I grew them. I grew that chicken you're buying too."
Okay, all week long people will think you're the scammer, and make stuff up. Check facts before you vote.
Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): I got an e-mail from M. the other day, who organized a hike for us. “You just need to put clothes on, show up, do your best, try your hardest and all that, and I’ll handle the rest.” That's what you need to do this week. At least put the clothes on. The rest, well, see what you can do.
Libra (9/23 – 10/22): The other day, I was picking up load of firewood, and when I lifted the tarp covering it, there was a large garter snake coiled right there. I just don’t really care for the unannounced snake. I know, the garder snake is harmless, but it's creepy how they're so quiet and angry. And so much sticking out of the tongue. So I would scare it, and move the top layer of logs from the pile, but it would just slither under the next log, so I'd encounter it in the next layer, and the next, and on and on until I started to think there were maybe dozens of large snakes. Avoid the quiet seethers this week, that's all I'm saying. Don't let it seem like there are hundreds of them, because there really aren't.
Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): It's still cool to be smart. But here's the thing -- I was visiting one of our violators last week, who had put a bunch of fill in the flood plain, and we really have no control over it, but every so often I go there to discuss the whole thing, and it never goes anywhere, and it's always more than a little disturbing. During last weeks' visit he talked about tow main things: 1) his dead wife, whom he misses dearly; and 2) his massive collection of firearms. He also invited me to marry him, which seemed pretty awkward. You may notice that these topics don't connect at all, and also, they have nothing to do with the topic that should have been at hand, which is how he needs to remove all this fill and these ugly shipping containers from the floodplain. Yes, I know. Don't get sidetracked like that this week. Stick to your point.
Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): So, you know how Ginni Thomas called Anita Hill to ask for an apology? Weird. I smack you in the face. Twenty years go by. I call you and ask for an apology. Yep.That's how the week's gonna go down, I'm afraid. Random unfair requests from out of the blue. Use it as an opportunity to practice gracefulness.
Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19): Did you hear about that mountain goat that killed a hiker a few weeks ago? So sad, and also a reminder to all you goats that even the gentlest creatures get cranky when they don't get their needs met, over and over and over. So take a break, call in sick, do something just for you.
Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): I went to a little “meet-the-candidate” event in my neighborhood, and met the esteemed Eric Oemig, who introduced a resolution in Washington State in 2007 to impeach President Bush for his unprecedented contempt for the U.S. Constitution. Even though it didn’t work, it was nice to be in a room with someone with such integrity and conscience.; Vote for him if you get the chance.
Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): Have you ever had a problem that The County can solve? Like, you need an electric pencil sharpener, and you don't know what kind to get, so you call the local government for advice, and the helpful person reads all the reviews from Amazon to you while you stand in Office Max? Yeah, that's your tax dollars at work, and don't ever forget it. Vote.
Taurus (4/20 – 5/20): Lately, I’ve been arguing with B. about the state senate race, because he intends to vote for the right-wing guy who’s named after the Flintstones' dinosaur.
“Do you even know what your guy stands for?” I ask.
“No, but we gotta get rid of big government. I do know that.”
So I look Dino up on Wikipedia, and there’s really almost no information about what he believes in, which seems suspicious, doesn’t it? But I do about two minutes more research and share what I find.
“Okay, he's opposed to public breastfeeding.”
“Me too!” B. exclaims. “I hate it when I’m out in public, and some movement catches my eye so I look and there’s a big ole’ breast staring right back at me, and then the mom looks at me like I’m some kind of creep. So that clinches it, I’m definitely on board for Dino.
"What if he cuts enough jobs that yours is gone? We are the government, after all."
"Sometimes you've gotta take one for the team, Betsy. If getting rid of public breastfeeding means I live under a bridge, so be it. That may be what it takes to be a patriot."
The point, dear Taurus, is keep feeding the babies, and be sure to vote.
Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): Ransom notes aren't just for kidnappers anymore. Use them. But, I must remind you how they go: there's a threat, and an action one could take to avoid said threat, and most importantly, they are anonymous. Someone who lives in my house, and I'm not going to name any names, leaves notes like, "Give me a backrub or I'll kill you." I know. Good thing the handwriting was disguised.
Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): You know that thing where you're wearing your huge GPS wrist unit that's the size of a small tv on a hike, and another hiker starts talking about it with you, asking you what your running distance is, and you say, um, four miles? And he looks at you like, oh, weird, that's not even a race I'm aware of, but then says, "OH! You run four miles for fun!" Which suddenly sounds ridiculous. Like, to non-runners, running four miles seems long, but to a runner, it's not even a race length. It would be sort of like if you bumped into an artist and claimed to be one, and they asked what your medium is and you say, "Usually, I use crayons. Sometimes markers if my mom will let me have them." It turns out he runs ultra-marathons, and it just gets more awkward from there because we're in the middle of nowhere, standing on the side of a trail, and this rag tag band of hippies runs by looking more like they're running from something, possibly a ghost, because they aren't dressed for running. Not even close. There are 15 young people in boots and dreds and flannel shirts, smelling like the wilderness school (weed, b.o., woodsmoke all mixed together). The ultra runner guy is looking surprised and so am I, and then the last person stops and yells my name and gives me a big hug. Yep, kids from the neighborhood. Anyway, it's a familiar scenario, and it reminds me of your horoscope, which is to just carry on, even when it gets awkward.
Leo (7/23 – 8/22): So I'm in the grocery store the other day and I see these lovely display of local organic greens from our own Oxbow Farm, a dollar a bunch. I grab a bunch of chard and one of mustard greens, but when I get to the checkout stand it rings up as $2.54 for the chard.
"I think that's only a dollar. It's from Oxbow."
"Hmm," says the clerk, "I'm too lazy to go check, so I'll take your word for it."
Then the mustard greens, same thing. Rings it up as $2.54. "That's from Oxbow too, I think."
"You used that one up. This is from the factory. Look, it's got the little twisty on it with the scan code."
"Oh, it just looked like a whole little Oxbow situation in the produce section with three kinds of greens. I thought they were all a dollar."
"No, they aren't a dollar. They were grown in a factory, not in this valley."
"Seriously, they're local. I'm pretty sure they're from Oxbox."
"If it makes you feel any better, I grew them. I grew that chicken you're buying too."
Okay, all week long people will think you're the scammer, and make stuff up. Check facts before you vote.
Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): I got an e-mail from M. the other day, who organized a hike for us. “You just need to put clothes on, show up, do your best, try your hardest and all that, and I’ll handle the rest.” That's what you need to do this week. At least put the clothes on. The rest, well, see what you can do.
Libra (9/23 – 10/22): The other day, I was picking up load of firewood, and when I lifted the tarp covering it, there was a large garter snake coiled right there. I just don’t really care for the unannounced snake. I know, the garder snake is harmless, but it's creepy how they're so quiet and angry. And so much sticking out of the tongue. So I would scare it, and move the top layer of logs from the pile, but it would just slither under the next log, so I'd encounter it in the next layer, and the next, and on and on until I started to think there were maybe dozens of large snakes. Avoid the quiet seethers this week, that's all I'm saying. Don't let it seem like there are hundreds of them, because there really aren't.
Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): It's still cool to be smart. But here's the thing -- I was visiting one of our violators last week, who had put a bunch of fill in the flood plain, and we really have no control over it, but every so often I go there to discuss the whole thing, and it never goes anywhere, and it's always more than a little disturbing. During last weeks' visit he talked about tow main things: 1) his dead wife, whom he misses dearly; and 2) his massive collection of firearms. He also invited me to marry him, which seemed pretty awkward. You may notice that these topics don't connect at all, and also, they have nothing to do with the topic that should have been at hand, which is how he needs to remove all this fill and these ugly shipping containers from the floodplain. Yes, I know. Don't get sidetracked like that this week. Stick to your point.
Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): So, you know how Ginni Thomas called Anita Hill to ask for an apology? Weird. I smack you in the face. Twenty years go by. I call you and ask for an apology. Yep.That's how the week's gonna go down, I'm afraid. Random unfair requests from out of the blue. Use it as an opportunity to practice gracefulness.
Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19): Did you hear about that mountain goat that killed a hiker a few weeks ago? So sad, and also a reminder to all you goats that even the gentlest creatures get cranky when they don't get their needs met, over and over and over. So take a break, call in sick, do something just for you.
Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): I went to a little “meet-the-candidate” event in my neighborhood, and met the esteemed Eric Oemig, who introduced a resolution in Washington State in 2007 to impeach President Bush for his unprecedented contempt for the U.S. Constitution. Even though it didn’t work, it was nice to be in a room with someone with such integrity and conscience.; Vote for him if you get the chance.
Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): Have you ever had a problem that The County can solve? Like, you need an electric pencil sharpener, and you don't know what kind to get, so you call the local government for advice, and the helpful person reads all the reviews from Amazon to you while you stand in Office Max? Yeah, that's your tax dollars at work, and don't ever forget it. Vote.
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