You're Doing It Wrong

The Secret Emissions Test

Yesterday the Jezebels had an item about women and crying. I’ve been working on a post about crying but I accidentally deleted my notes and I’ve reconstructed them but haven’t gotten around to writing the thing out. I’m not in the mood today so maybe later this weekend.

I had to get my car smogged this morning. I wanted to take a photo but it’s not allowed so instead, a photo of rusty saw blades in Grandma’s shed. I’m almost chuffed enough to write a letter to the state and accuse the contractors who do the emissions inspections of having something to hide. Seriously, what harm could possible come of a person taking a few photos of her car at the stupid emissions station? It wasn’t like I wanted a tour.

I always leave that place with a bad attitude. There was no line and I drove right up and within 30 seconds, seriously, I didn’t even have the window rolled down all the way or even say hello, the lady grabs the ticket out of my hand, (you take a ticket when you drive in for no discernible reason) and bombards me with a series of questions and instructions without waiting for a response: I need your registration or emissions test notice, and $15, what year is the car? what make? how many cylinders? I need to open the car door. It’s locked. Ma’am, can you unlock this please? Ma’am?

Maybe I’m talking myself up, but I don’t think I’m a complete idiot and I was totally discombobulated. What happens when an elder person comes in?

I passed my test and don’t have to go back for 2 years. Yay.

Here’s our back hedge where tree pruner guy whacked it back. You can see at the top how out of control it is. He only pruned as far as he could reach on the ladder. I contacted the home owner that owns the house next door. He doesn’t live up here. I didn’t want him to think I was complaining, just letting him know that this might be something he wanted to take care of and we had a person who could do it. He said it sounded great and he’d get back to me and I haven’t heard. I’m afraid if I mention it again he’ll think I’m a pain in the ass.

You can see on the ground all the clippings. We need to rake that all up and I need to have the yard debris service started back up. Except it’s been 40 degrees and raining since August. (Slight exaggeration.) When am I ever going get out there to clean up?

Here’s the great hook project of 2008. I had a bunch of hooks so I got out my drill and put them on the side of the entertainment center and turned it into an organizational area for spare keys and cellphone charging cords. And Bob’s school ID. We used to have a single hook right by the door and it kept falling off because there were too many things hanging on it.

Guess who was back last week? Window washer guy. This time he had a partner and they used a whole rig to go up and down. Not just a sling and a rope. It seemed a lot faster with this method. I knew he was coming and had my camera out and as I snapped photos I was yelling at him and telling what a popular feature he was on my blog. He kept saying, “What?”

I can hear the guy with the rainbow suspenders who plays the Star Wars theme on the trumpet at the bank building 4 blocks away, but window washing guy can’t hear me on the other side of the glass? I don’t get it.

Emergency Outfit
We moved to the new office three years ago. If interested, you can read about it: Part 1, Part 2 and the final wrap up. I had completely blocked out how horrible that was.

For some reason, it seemed plogical to keep a spare change of clothes at the office in case I got stuck in a downpour and didn’t want to sit around in wet clothes. I guess my thought was that I had just started the public transportation thing and had to walk and wait in places with minimal shelter so it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.

Three years later, I have never used it. It wasn’t my finest outfit in the first place and it looks especially dingy now. But I’m afraid that the minute I take it home (and immediately burn it) a plate of lasagna will fall on me or I’ll sit in dog poop or some other catastrophe and I’ll have no spare clothes to save me.

There’s A Party in My Precinct
I’m in the middle of an epic week. This is the third of a series of extra long days. I’m starting to get a wee bit raggedy around the edges.

I don’t like to talk about politics here, but I will mention that this Saturday both parties are having their precinct caucuses. I participated for the first time 4 years ago and was completely enraptured with the political process: all these people who got up early on a Saturday morning and went to the meeting spot – we had such a big turnout they had to move us to a larger room and it was still really crowded. Some people brought their kids and we stood around with our neighbors talking about candidates. Wow, here we are, regular people and we’re gathering in a safe and sane environment to choose our leader. Isn’t America great?

Shortly after this amazing opportunity to participate in the process, I realized that it was like putting our name and phone number on a billboard. During election season we get endless phone calls. And we have different last names so times it by two.

And these aren’t just the recorded calls that you can hang up on and not feel bad. Actual people call us and then want us to donate money, put a sign in our yard, pass around fliers and join them in calling people at home who were stupid enough to put their name and phone number on a piece of paper at a precinct caucus.

It made me mad so now I don’t want to do it again. I don’t even know what the point is because we have a ballot primary as well. Nice to know at least our state has money to burn.

Bob says he’s going and every half hour I remind him: Don’t give them our phone number.

Many years ago William Shatner was on Saturday Night Live and there was a skit that was set at a Star Trek convention and all these slathering fans were out geeking each other with arcane Shatner trivia while he was trying to give a speech.

Finally, Shatner says, “What’s the matter with you people?” Then he gestures to one pointy eared fan and says, “You. Yes, you. Have you ever touched a girl?”

That line is what was going through my head as I watched a documentary called King of Kong with Bob yesterday.

In case you haven’t heard of it, it’s a documentary about the world of competitive arcade gaming. No, I’m not making this up. There is a World of Competitive Arcade Gaming. They have world records and competitions and some men, who were socially arrested somewhere around age 7, now as grown men, are still pushing each other on the playground and vying for the title of best video arcade game player, ever.

The movie played like a SNL skit. It was hard to believe and also a little sad, to see these grown people with their entire identity tied up in this “major accomplishment” of having the highest score at an arcade game.

It’s worth watching purely as an anthropological exercise.

Art Show
Bob and I both got home late on Thursday night.

I did my second Target run (success!) and the food shopping and he went to Cocopelli’s and hung the photos and took care of a bunch of last minute details for the show.

We were both tired and catching each other up on our day when we heard a loud THUNK from the garage.

“Now what?” we both said.

The garage door spring gave out. Not a big deal but just one more thing to deal with after a long week.

Bob got them on the phone first thing Friday morning and they said they could be there between 10-Noon and they did and they fixed us right up and it wasn’t too much money so whew, and we can get in and out of our garage with ease again.

We went over the the coffee shop at 4pm and set up all our stuff. Priscilla had organized an extensive collection of snacks and we had beer and wine and lemonade. Bob had the brilliant idea to hire a student to help us out with the food and drinks so we had an extra set of hands for setting up and cleaning up and making sure there were cups and napkins and ice. She was fabulous.

Our event was nicely attended. Not overwhelming. A nice mix of family and friends and people we haven’t seen in a long time. Some entity in town organizes groups for the Art Walk and I guess they make a circle of a several galleries downtown that do a show on first Friday. But only about three groups made it to where we were because it was a little off the main path and the weather was cold and miserable. But still, nice turnout and very positive response.

After we got home we were cleaning out the cooler and I decided to put the leftover beer out in the shop since the fridge was sort of full. What I didn’t realize was that the convenient cardboard carrying case had been sitting in the wet cooler all evening and pop pop pop — three bottles hit the concrete as I repeated a bad word variation over and over. Now it smells like a fraternity house right outside the door between the kitchen and the garage.

Sorry I don’t have more photos tiredd1. I didn’t participate in the Art Walk part, only the show we did and I didn’t take many pictures because I have a cheap crappy camera with a flash that withers plants and makes small children whimper with fear.

Plogic
If we get a rebate we’re going to use it to pay our taxes.

You’re All Invited
Tomorrow is First Friday in downtown Vancouver, WA. I did not even know this event existed. I’m lame. My husband and his mother have put together a show of my late father-in-law’s photographs. Bob posted his Dad’s bio here.

We’ll be at Cocopelli’s Coffee & Tea at the Academy from 5-8pm. E 11th and C Street. I’ll be the one standing by the wine.

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Yesterday I did this massive mailing for work. The mailing list was generated by a government agency. Here’s a typical entry:

Youngman P. Kingpin, President & CEO
Overlord of Operational Services
NW Division, Ginormous Company International
Centre Square Triangle Building
10293 Northwest Grasshopper Ladybug Square South
Tenth Floor, Suite 1050 B
Mailstop 110-F-059323
Pumpkin Plains, Oregon 12345-6789

I’m barely exaggerating. Seriously, like there is no way that boring- but-important document (220 of them, to be exact) could be delivered without all that information.

It reminds me of when we were at our old office, a condominium, which I highly recommend as a workplace. When I gave our address out I’d always say, # 10. And the person would say, “Is that a suite or what?”

“No, it’s a hole in the ground.”

Do people really think the mailman is walking around with a piece of mail that says #10 going, “Oh dear, now what? Am I looking for a suite? A floor? A unit? A chamber?”

Our mail was delivered into bank of boxes in the lobby. Our box said: 10.

Keeping the Quiet
One of the main strategies used to make our marriage work is that we have two of everything. Two TVs, VCR/DVD players, two iPods, two computers, two bank accounts. Bob has his own room in the basement which includes a bathroom and shower and down there he can leave his clothes on the floor, dirty dishes on his desk, balled up wet towels on the bed. He can leave the TV, stereo and all the lights on and accumulate piles and piles and piles of crap. I don’t care because I don’t have to look at it. (We have a room together upstairs, in case you’re wondering.)

One of Bob’s favorite things to do is work on the computer, watch TV, listen to music, read a book and take a nap: all at the same time. He especially likes to have music on.

I mostly like music only when I’m driving. Sometimes if I’m doing an involved kitchen project or filing at the office. But mostly I like quiet.

Thus, over the years I have purchased many sets of headphones for Bob. Nice ones with super long cords so he can putter around his piles of crap with ease.

I have a friend at work who records bands in his house so I asked him for advice when I bought the last set and he took me to the music shop and he and the guy talked about the special features and comfort and whatever and let me try different pairs on. I bought a really nice fancy pair with an extra long cord.

Bob calls them his wife canceling headphones.

School Bus Days
It snowed at little last night, depending on where you live. I turned on the TV to try to get an idea of what the commute would be like and should I drive or take the bus and which bus should I take. Bob didn’t have to go to school until 10am.

The TV is almost completely worthless because they find the 3 iciest intersections in a 60 mile radius and set up cameras and tell you over and over how awful it is out there.

The things I look for are whether the newspaper arrived on time, whether the driveway is icy and whether traffic is moving on the cross street I can see from my front yard. This morning: Yes, No, Yes.

I hopped in the car, left extra early and found a few snowy patches before I hit the main street which was completely fine. Except there was a freaking bridge lift and it took 25 minutes to get on the freeway. Also note: once I left my neighborhood I did not seen another flake of snow on the ground.

Lorelei wrote something about the school bus last week which made me remember riding the bus in 7-8 grades. My Mom was the librarian at my school and I’m pretty sure I rode to school with her when I was in 6th grade. Once I turned into a pain-in-the-ass 13 year old with equally pain-in-the-ass girlfriends, I was too cool to go to school with my Mom.

Our bus was over-crowded and we were miserable brats. We went through a series of bus drivers before it stuck with a guy who looked like he’d just gotten out of prison, smudgy tattoos and all. His name was Terrence and he also had an earring which was not a common look for men in the 70’s. There were two places for pickup in the morning, one was 5 houses down from mine at the Foster’s and one was at the front of the housing development. Picture tract homes in southern California.

You saved your place in line at the bus stop by putting your books down starting at the curb and leading back into the Foster’s driveway. You could run down early and put your book there to save your place and then go home and get ready. It’s hard to believe middle schoolers honored this system. As soon as my alarm went off I ran down with my book. But no matter how early I got there, this girl named Jeanette’s book was already there first. Always. She must have put her book there before she went to bed.

The absurd thing is that the bus picked up our stop first. There was no reason to be all worked up about getting on first. The bummer was for the second stop because by then all the seats were full and you had to go to 3 in a seat and no one wanted to sit 3 in a seat so there was all this awkwardness, especially for the kids nobody liked because they had to sit down. It’s just like on public transportation where people put their coat and pack next to them so no one can sit next to them. You’d have to ask them to move over and on the school bus they’d look the other way and ignore you.

Then Terrence would get involved and yell at the kid to sit down and yell at the kids who wouldn’t move over. Once the bus got rolling there was lots of yelling and carrying on. One time we were so bratty that Terrence drove us all the way back to school and had the principal come out and yell at us.

When I got to high school there was no bus and I went to school with the Tudman’s until I was old enough to drive myself.