Maquinna's Poop du Jour: August 2005

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

The Family That Plays Together, Stays Together

More Alike Than Not

My sister is coming to visit tomorrow. She lives back on Vancouver Island, with all the rest of my family, a good 4000 miles from here. This will be the furthest trip she has ever taken. Last year we flew my mother out to visit - she'd never even been on a plane. The rest of my family has yet to visit. My dad stopped in once a few years ago for an overnighter but that didn't really count. Most visits from my dad don't.

I have all these mixed feelings about my sister, and my family in general. We are none of us close (even when I lived closer to them), and we don't speak to one another as much as it seems a lot of families do. It's not that we hate each other, but for some reason that desire for one another's company was just never adequately fostered.

I've spoken to several people, professionals and non-professionals, over the years, and family relationships is frequently at the core of my concerns - whether I realize it or not. The kinds of relationships I pursue now - with women and men, work relationships, friendships, etc. - all are coloured by the difficult, and frequently distant, associations I had growing up with my family.

Dad rarely spent time with us - even when we were actually physically with him. This continues today. Even when we visit one another, he goes off and does something else in another part of the house, or spends most of his time on the phone to others (in front of us), or when he does talk, talks about the other people he spends time with, rather than us. It's very complicated. And we haven't even talked about how he ran off and married our babysitter.

Mom has spent most of her life in denial, unable to emotionally connect to much around her, probably because she doesn't imagine it will last or she will get to keep it. She's a real mystery. I think inside she is in a lot of pain, but years of having her heart trampled by one man or another, and being the only child of a psychologically aloof mother, have made her play her cards very close to her chest. She is not particularly forthcoming about anything.

Older brother and younger brother: neither places much importance on relationships with their own families. Contact is intermittent.

And then there's my sister...who's pretty much everything I'm not. Maternally oriented, unambitious except where her material comfort is concerned, has never read a book that didn't have a lavender and gilt paperback cover, and whose interest in world events starts and ends with People Magazine...we have very little in common other than our dubious genetic heritage.

I've always felt that not only were they emotionally unconnected and intellectually uninspiring, but that they went to no lengths to get to know me or to have any kind of real relationship with me. My most effective therapist, however, highlighted all too well how my contempt of their values and lifestyles has made me as much a culprit for the distance between us all. That therapist sits in the back of my head like a little mouse making a nest from all my neglected brain matter, a constant and unshakeable voice. I'm the one pushing them away. I've been the one pushing them away since I was a child, because I could think of no worse fate that to be one of them.

Damn. You mean that's it?

Well, I guess it's true.

And what does that say about me? That I think I'm so much better than them all? That my life is more interesting and worthwhile? That they should try to be more like me if they want my notice?

I guess it does.

I have no idea if my family thinks this is how I am, and if that's why they react to me as they do. I suspect that is only a small part of it, given that they treat everyone else the same way as well. But I can't change the way they are or how they behave. I'll admit to some culpability here, now, but I also know that as much as I would like THEIR notice, I'm unlikely to get it any more than I have. And that's because they're all damaged in their own ways too. We're all these little people in our pods, occasionally bouncing up next to one another but never breaking through. In that respect, we're more alike than I care to admit.

I look at other families that enjoy tight relationships and I am envious. I sometimes worry that my own psychological baggage will make it difficult for me to foster that kind of atmosphere with the family I hope to create. Awareness of all of it helps, and my husband's family at the very least presents an alternative model, but will I be the weak link in the chain?

Friday, August 19, 2005

A Not-So-Silent Night

I came home late last night after a long day of shooting photographs. Frequently the studio and classroom areas were quite noisy and boisterous. Someone made a crack about me heading back to the peace and quiet of my home in the country. If they only knew...

As soon as I parked the car in the driveway the bullfrogs were in full chorus, the croaking so deep and penetrating it almost sounded like a pack of geese in the swamp. Crickets and other bugs provided a continuous hum, monotone, like the drone of a generator or an old fridge.

The cat and dog were comparatively quiet. Ock had already sacked out for the night, and as she's now mostly deaf, she didn't even hear me head up the stairs. Motorhead was nowhere to be found, for the moment. Probably still out hunting.

Craig was already in bed but heard me head into the bathroom. "[insert private term of endearment here]?" he called. "I'll be right there." Much swishing of water and brushing of teeth, splashing my face, various pill bottles shaking, drawers opening and shut, toilet flushing, combing out of hair, then into the bedroom. Undress, quickly, and toss on a little cotton shift hanging off the bedpost. Begin to pull back the covers on my side when Motorhead suddenly appears under my arm, about to assume her current ritual of parking next to me on the bed and taking up more and more space as the night progresses. It's amazing how much bedspace a ten pound cat needs.

I've been fighting a cold these past few days and haven't slept very well. I'm not a particularly deep sleeper to begin with, but when I'm congested it doesn't seem like I get more than an hour or so at a stretch before I'm woken by the slightest noise or my lack of breath. I snuggle into Craig, kitty snuggles into me, a dozen limbs akimbo, make that a baker's dozen with her tail. We talk for awhile about the day's shoots, his workday, endless little details. Motorhead is purring in the way that makes you understand how she got her name. Her purr is the engine of a lawnmower, steady staccato, decidedly unfeminine. We like to joke about her lack of delicacy.

Sleep comes, briefly. I wake around two o'clock, get up to find some water. Stumbling back into bed, Craig's arm wraps back around me as we hear coyotes howling in the distance. Motorhead bolts upright; that wild noise has more power over her than any warm bed. She leans towards the window, back arched, then jumps off the bed and runs down the stairs to investigate.

Three o'clock. Ock is barking at the door. This happens sometimes with her, I'm never sure if it's part of the doggie dementia she has ('canine cognitive disfunction syndrome'), or just not being able to hold her water as long through the night. I suspect it's the former; she manages quite well through the day when we're at work. Craig gets up to let her out. We both know she'll be barking again in ten minutes to be let back in. Craig gets back up again when that happens.

Four o'clock. I'm woken by a strange sound coming from downstairs. It sounds like a scuffle between furry creatures. The Interloper, the roaming tom from the junkyard, has been around again lately. I wonder if Motorhead and he have had an encounter. Craig gets up to check, but comes back with nothing to report.

He gets back into position. Somewhere outside it sounds like an owl is calling, and another one calling back, much further away. It's like trying to listen to a conversation taking place between two moons. Craig and I make a few brief remarks about it. He says he woke up Ock during his last trip downstairs and expects she'll be at the door again shortly. He's right.

He comes back to bed, spooning behind me with his rough chin on my shoulder. I actually like the feeling of his chin-scratches. I feel his body shift and settle, hear his breathing change. Kitty rejoins us; after a few head-butts she slips into the crook of my elbow and starts her engine again. Craig's drifted off, and probably doesn't hear the mosquito that's circling ever closer to us. I don't even try to swat at it. The prospect of being bitten is a small price compared to one of us finally being able to get some sleep.

The sky begins to glow through the window when I remember Ock's still outside. This time she just scratches at the door, not enough to wake Craig. I carefully slip out of bed, as noiselessly as possible, and head downstairs to let her in, quietly. I open the door just as the birds are waking, and within minutes their chatter drowns out the silence of the night.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Raving Whack-Jobs on a Campus Near You

Universities tend to attract more than their fair share of nutjobs. Back in Canada, we had the guy in the trench coat exposing himself in the library stacks (we would point and laugh if so accosted), the ex-prof in an advanced stage of dementia raging if anyone took the books for her 'important research' off of the little desk she referred to as her office (call the home, Betty's gotten out again), and Peter the Troll, an eccentric homeless-by-choice person, reportedly from a wealthy American family, amazingly well-read, who would hide large rolls of bills in the archives section and then take the bus back to the drugstore where he'd sleep, shoeless, in a dumpster.

Every now and then we get a certifiable case here at the university I now work at. This week, it's a guy I'll just call Philip.

Philip calls last week, and I end up picking up the phone. Turns out he's got this FANTASTIC idea that he pitched to our VP of IT, who suggested he run it by us, and he wants to meet with our dean. I take the message - or I try to. Philip is cell-phone-phobic, and doesn't have an office, but he can be reached until 6 pm at the Bean Counter coffee shop two blocks away. He adds that his secretary is a high school girl who is also a waitress there.

My eyebrows rise on my end of the phone. 'I'll be sure to tell him you called,' I say.

I give the message, with all its colour, to my dean. End of story, or so I think.

Today the campus cops show up here, wanting to know who's been in touch with this guy. Apparently he was down in our computer helpdesk area, raving about someone there stealing his 'big idea', and he was now suicidal and was going to blow his head off and take out the network with him. This is what the campus cowboys call a 'section 12' - call the police immediately, stay away, let them escort him off campus and give him STRONG warnings about ever setting foot in the place again.

I hear Philip thinks he has an appointment with our dean next Monday. I'm trying to decide if I should call in sick, or if my curiosity is such that I need to see how this all goes down. Either way, the campus police will be here to greet him if he decides to show up.

Friday, August 12, 2005

Radio Free Worcester

I rely a lot on radio. I spend a lot of time, sadly, in my car, but having the radio makes it more or less bearable. Usually I'm listening to one of the NPR stations, although sometimes in the evening if I'm making the long drive home from class, I'll have the baseball game on. The jury's out on how that choice affects my safety behind the wheel.

The other morning when I got into the car to head to work, I realized I'd left the radio tuned to the AM station that had carried the game the night before. I was about to change it back to NPR when the conversation between the announcers piqued my interest. Apparently, it was 'National Underwear Day', which inspired much junior-high school jocularity about who was wearing (or not wearing) what. From there we launched into a far-too detailed description of the announcer's 'hybrid' model - he wasn't even aware that what he was wearing was called 'boxer-briefs', and it was all too apparent he was giddy with the anticipation of callers flooding the phones to tell him about their own underwear and comment on his choice.

First phone call: a shaky elderly voice on the line. I can smell lavender rinse.

"I'm...not...int-er-est-ed...in...your...un-der-wear...", she wavered, one careful syllable at a time."When...is...the...next...ci-ty...coun-cil...meet-ing...on...TV?"

The announcer, caught off guard and chafing at the lost opportunity to expound on the splendour of his skivvies, mumbles something sarcastic about how wonderful it is that people are interested in the televised city council meetings and that the mayor will be happy to know how high his ratings are. Somebody off-mic finds the meeting time, tells her the date and that it starts at 5 pm, since it's summer.

More locker-room ribbing in the announcement booth. Someone suggests that another announcer at their sister station wears a thong. Har har har. Someone else suggests that he stole it from a female announcer there. Har har har. George is running around in Jackie's thong, wait till Jackie finds out. Wait till George's wife finds out. Har har har.

Another caller! The announcer picks up the phone, chomping at the bit to bring all of Worcester into the glory that is National Underwear Day.

"The city council meeting is at 4 o'clock, not 5," says the elderly male voice on the phone.

The disappointment in the radio booth is palpable and pathetic. "Uh, OK, boy, the mayor's one popular guy. Thanks for the update!" You can tell that these guys would really prefer to be working for a 'cool' radio station, which would have thousands of listeners chortling in their cars on I-290 over an undies discussion. A station where, as Craig would say, you'd hear sound effects like toilets flushing in the background during the morning commute.

A third caller. "You're wearing boxer-briefs," he says.

Exultations of delight from the announcers! Much burbling and gurgling about the sense of the name, boxer-briefs, and how marvelously comfortable they are. "And what are you wearing?" they ask.

Click. Silence on the other end. Could it be, you know they are wondering, that there are only three people listening to this radio station, and none of them think it is good fun to talk about their underwear?

Well, there were at least four people listening that morning, but not for long. I thought the callers were much more entertaining than they were, and when the last one had hung up, I changed the station. Sorry, guys. Obviously you were meant for a radio world much bigger than mine.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Geeking Out with Godzilla

I don't often turn down opportunities for uber-cheesy entertainment, so when the call came to join friends at a screening of Godzilla: Final Wars, the latest (and supposedly the last) Godzilla project, I figured the movie alone would be worth going to, never mind an evening with folks who are good company and have a predilection for decadent post-cinema desserts.

I am no Godzilla afficionado. Godfather, I know. Back to front, I and II, even Godfather III. Godzilla, what is it, a big Japanese model of a T-Rex that shoots flames out of its mouth and obliterates everything in its path. It's pissed off, for some reason. Don't ask me to name every adversary or, heavens forfend, try and keep track of the plotlines. A quick search of Godzilla on IMDB brings up entries such as 'Son of Bambi Meets Godzilla', and the like. I really don't think I have time to sort it all out. But hey, I like a good laugh, and how could this disappoint?

The pleasures begin well before we are in the theatre. Waiting out in the warm evening sunshine in Cambridge, I note that Marion and I are, for the moment, the only women in line (with our respective beaux). Most of the other guys queuing up look as though they would have brought Godzilla action figures to be signed for their collections if only the big scaly one were capable of an autograph. Actually, it was like being immersed in a collection of great nerdy characters of literature and cinema. One greasy, crumb-covered guy with a froth of fine slobber over his lower lip instantly took me back to the character Toby in American Splendor. Steve Buscemi's Seymour from Ghost World was lurking near the stairs. I kept expecting Ignatius Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces to show up, and perhaps he did, but I didn't spend much time at the popcorn counter and the audience was noisy enough that I wouldn't have heard him.

The movie itself - pure camp, bad in every respect, sometimes horribly so, that my sides ached at one point from laughing. Was it intentional? Was it homage to the tradition of Godzilla movies? Was it strictly low-budget? What I saw was a send-up montage of clips from Star Trek (William Shatner on the bridge while the Enterprise is under attack), Star Wars, The Matrix, any Bruce Willis movie, and oh yeah, there were big nasty monsters, eventually. Comic relief was provided both knowingly (some little baby Godzilla creature that looked like Barney's little buddy and was never fully explained to we uninitiated) and, I'm hoping, unwittingly (the character of Captain Gordon, lone white guy on the Go-ten force, who storms around and gets in lots of bon mots - 'insert American slang here'). Unlike your typical Hollywood action movie, there was hardly any blood or gore, but I'm reminded that the Japanese have a very different idea of what constitutes obscene material. [I've been told that it's OK in Japanese manga (comic books) to depict all kinds of nasty sex, but you can't show pubic hair.] The plot - was there one? - was threadbare and laughable, the acting was overwrought, and the whole thing was sewn together as crudely as the ass of the first Thanksgiving turkey I cooked at age 9. In short, it was brilliant.

There were probably a lot of details that were lost on me, but if there are intricacies in characters such as Mothra - a giant winged hairy bug, suspended by rather visible means, buzzing drunkenly through the landscape - I think knowing them might have spoiled the fun.

Thanks to Marion for suggesting the movie and the dessert joint, and apologies to Kai for eating all his popcorn. ;)

Fishing Boats, Peggy's Cove

Monday, August 08, 2005

Reclining Nude, 2005

Crimes In the Name of Fashion

I don't subscribe to Vogue. I don't read Glamour, or Cosmopolitan, or Elle. I don't even know if those are still 'the' magazines to read, if you're into fashion. Honestly, I don't care.

I don't think there's anything wrong with a wardrobe carved out of Goodwill castoffs. I think stripes and plaids can be mixed if you do it right - and if you have enough chutzpah to pull it off.

I realize that for some people, getting out of the house with a pair of matching socks is an accomplishment. The comments I'm about to make do not apply to them. This is for the people I saw today who actually TRIED to make a fashion statement.

1. To the lady in the line at the coffee stand: when you have a violent sunburn, do not wear white pantyhose. In fact, unless you are a nurse, or in the chorus of Swan Lake, you probably shouldn't ever wear white pantyhose.

2. To the guy in the Saab convertible yakking on the cell phone while changing lanes without signaling: with its current lack of adhesive, that rug on your head is strictly a top-up accessory.

3. To the guy with no sense of personal space in the shampoo aisle of the drugstore: wearing jeans your mother bought you in eighth grade gives us a far too detailed illustration of how you position your genitalia when you dress in the morning. Please find a new pair of jeans that fit you.

Have you been assaulted by someone's sense of fashion today? Let's hear it.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Why Lawyers Exist

This is why lawyers exist.

The time had come for me to apply for my green card. In preparation, Craig and I downloaded piles of documents from the INS website, gathered together every original document to prove our individual existences and our state of matrimony, and made an appointment at the regional office in Boston. What they don't tell you includes, but is not limited to, the following:

Your 'appointment' is an appointment with the numbered ticket machine, not with a person. It means you are allowed in at a certain time to take a number, and then wait. When we got our ticket yesterday, our estimated waiting time, as printed on the ticket, was 3 hours and 7 minutes.
It is illegal for a person to carry a blade over 2.5 inches in length on their person. Apparently this makes Craig a dangerous criminal. The security person kindly allowed us to stow his Leatherman tool in my purse. Apparently it is OK for it to be in my leather handbag, but not in his jeans pocket.
Take a good book if you don't want to watch CNN. They won't change the channel, not even for an afternoon Red Sox game.
INS personnel are not required to demonstrate any customer service skills bordering on patience, pleasantness, or helpfulness. In fact, I think such behaviour is strongly discouraged. After all, would any hopeful immigrant dare complain?

For the record, one is not automatically granted citizenship upon marriage to an American. You aren't even granted permanent residency (aka a green card, which is not the same as being a citizen). There are a lot of forms, and a lot of waiting. Frankly, I don't know how anyone who doesn't speak English manages this on their own, if two reasonably intelligent native English speakers cannot even be certain that they are filling them out and submitting them properly. I guess they hire lawyers. After yesterday, I was tempted to get a business card from any of the cheaply-suited guys with bulging file folders sitting next to families from halfway around the earth.

Issue number one for yours truly: I need to change my name. My name on all my current documentation is my ex-husband's name. I've returned to my maiden name now. It seems that trying to do this while trying to apply for the green card is far too complicated for the INS. The impression we got from the person we spoke to was that he couldn't be bothered to give us any useful or accurate information because we were just standing between him and the end of his shift. Worst of all, he told us that once I handed over my current work visa and applied for a green card, that I would not be eligible to work until I had that green card - around 2 months, minimum. This was pretty much the exact opposite of everything I had read at their online site, which suggested that once I had filed that application, I was authorized to work. I'm sure now that the truth is somewhat greyer, and that the goalposts are changing hourly.

We left the office with few answers and less direction. While walking to the nearest pub, we determined that the best thing to do would be to handle all my name change documentation first, since any confusion about my name on my green card forms was bound to cause delays and possibly worse.

This morning I spent an hour on the phone with a few other INS folks, who seemed surprised by what we were told yesterday, and told me NOT to file in person in Boston - as the instructions on our sheet say - but to mail everything in instead. Registered mail - and be sure to keep a good copy of everything you send - and do NOT send in any originals.

I tried to keep notes of all this, but for me to explain them to anyone right now just makes me sound like I'm spouting gibberish negating more gibberish. I'm confused, frustrated, and a little disheartened, but I have this much going for me - I know it will all get done, it's just going to take a lot more time.

If any Boston INS officials are reading (which I seriously doubt since apparently they can't even read the label on a box of corn flakes never mind keep up with their own documentation), consider this a giant, wet raspberry in your general direction. As for the rest of the INS, we'll see if you live up to all that your promised me this morning. I have a feeling we're going to be in touch again very soon.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Flight Lessons

I like to joke that I have a 'corner office' - but really what it is is a broom-closet sized space within a larger office that happens to be in a corner and has a pair of corner windows. It's no joke, however, that I have one of the best views on campus through brick-framed windows thickly lined with ivy. The vines and the berries that grow on them, along with the landscaping below, provide the perfect habitat for an endless National Geographic nature series.

Last year, mourning doves nested on one of the sills, and I watched as the parents took turns sitting on the pair of eggs. I got as excited as a kindergartner when I saw the first evidence of the babies having been born, and continued to watch them as they got so big the parents could barely contain them under their own bodies. Eventually, my own curiosity got the better of me and I thought I could try opening the window and getting a close-up photo of them while the parents were out foraging. Unfortunately, I scared one of the babies so badly when I did this that it took a very impromptu first flight lesson and I never saw it again. I have no idea how it fared.

This afternoon we could all hear chirping outside my windows. Through the ivy I eventually spied a baby cardinal sitting on a leaf stem. The parents were flying up and down in front of the baby like they were suspended on yo-yos. I wasn't sure at first what was going on, but it soon became apparent that this was the cardinal equivalent of teaching your kid how to drive.

Next to my office is the copy room, and the window in that overlooks my windows. I went in there to get a better vantage point, and the baby saw me, shot out off the leaf, and flew straight towards me, into the window beak first. It fell to the sill and I swear it shook its head as though dazed and seeing stars. The parents went ballistic and started flapping closer, but backing off once they saw the audience through the window.

The baby got back on its feet and kept trying to fly. It would get lift-off, rise a few inches, then land back on the sill. The mother and the father flanked the baby left and right, squawking encouragement. I even thought I detected a note of frustration as the baby refused to turn itself out towards the air, and kept trying to fly through the window!

Other staff and some faculty showed up to watch the show, and eventually we all got talking about one thing after another...and before we knew it, we couldn't hear any more chirping. We looked out the window, and the baby and its parents were gone. They weren't on the ground, or in any of the nearby bushes, so I have to assume they managed to get the baby flying at least some little distance.

I am sure, however, that I saw the same expression on the faces of the baby cardinal's parents as I did on my own, as they endured me grinding the gears and popping the clutch of the car.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Lateral Stability

After 39 years of searching, I've finally found a name for my problem. I have 'diminished lateral stability.'

I like that term. I think it's rather fetching. My mother would probably insist that my mental stability is more of an issue, but she's not covered by my HMO.

I've started seeing a physiotherapist to help sort out why my leg decided to rupture in mid-stride during boot camp in June. Frankly, I didn't know what this treatment might be able to do since I sort of felt like I was well on the mend by the time I started going. Little did I know.

The woman (who bears an uncanny resemblance to my father's second wife, my bitchy babysitter) brought out her little calipers and put me into a few different positions that I suppose come naturally to a Chinese contortionist, but apparently are designed to evaluate my flexibility. And looky there - one leg has a third of the flexibility of the other.

So today we played on machines that I had to push off of, with both legs, with one leg and then the other, and then with elastic bands and then with steps, and damn if it didn't start to feel like I was getting a workout all over again. This shit is hard.

Tonight's homework will be going up stairs and down them, balancing my opposite leg without it touching the stair. Hopefully I don't fall on my ass and then have to have her working out a busted coccyx - an injury I sustained many years ago and wouldn't wish on anyone, not even my dad's second wife...

Maquinna's Poop du Jour