Pick-Up Sticks Interrupted*

*This post was written last night.
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After an especially brutal ten-hour day at the cubicle ranch, I thought I’d turn my weariness into the Extended Dance Remix of Self-Loathing by actually looking at what I bought at the Swedish Salvation Army the other day. So after slipping out of my generic Biz Caz office worker clothes, I changed into my Homeless Chic apparel and headed into my office to confront my purchases.

It was just a little after 8:00 when I began sorting out the parts and thinking about Pick-Up Sticks. While leaning the taller pieces of my piney goodness against the wall, I heard a car race down the street and stop suddenly at the alley that connects my street to the one next to me. This isn’t such an unusual occurrence so I didn’t even bother looking out of my windows. Tonight, however, was a bit different.

After the car came to a sudden stop, there was a pause and then BOOM*BOOM*BOOM*BOOM*BOOM*BOOM just on the other side of my fence in the alley. I instinctively dropped to the floor and turned off my lights and sat there for a minute or two with my heart in my throat and every hair on my body standing on end. I called 911 (from the floor) and told them there were five gunshots in the alley and I wasn’t sure if anyone was out there dead or injured. They said they’d send the police right away.

“Right away” took 16 minutes, which is a new record for quick response time for gunshots. In the meantime, I was peering through my blinds, lights off, from my second story office windows to see if I could see anyone out there. I didn’t see anyone, but I certainly was not going to go out there either. When the police finally arrived, it was one car with one cop in it, as usual. Of course he crept slightly down the easy-access part of the alley with his spotlight on, but he never got out of his car to walk down the length of the alley to see if anyone was killed or injured. I can’t really blame the police though. If I were in their shoes and riding solo in a city like Baltimore, I wouldn’t get out of my car either until lots of back up arrived.

The thing that always scares me the most after a burst of gunfire, aside from catching a bullet, is the eerie stillness that comes on the other side of it. It’s as if everyone and everything stops moving, waiting for someone to scream and wondering if they’ve been hit themselves. It’s a very creepy kind of stillness. When I realized that my pets, my SSA furniture, and I were all intact, I felt a little better. But then it dawned on me that Mr. Brown’s dog had stopped her incessant barking and I felt my heart sink. I always worry about her getting caught in the middle of these intermittent bursts of gunfire. Still, I was not going outside to check on her. I was hoping that maybe she got scared and hid in her flimsy little plastic house. I was completely relieved when I heard her start barking at the police car and I think she’s pissed now because she’s not stopped barking since 8:40.

This is the third time in less than a year that there’s been gunfire within fifty feet of my house, but tonight really has me freaked out on many levels. Hearing gunshots when you expect them (e.g. shooting range, TV, movies, etc.) is easy. When you hear gunshots unexpectedly and within such close proximity, there really is no other way to describe it other than terrifying. There is no mistaking the sound. If you’ve never heard it in real life, trust me, you’ll know when you do. I’ve waited a few hours to come back into my office and type this. I have this fear that someone may still be out there in the alley and see my silhouette in the window. My motion detecting floodlights keep flicking on and making my heart race, but I’m pretty sure the wind blowing the tree branches in my yard is triggering it.

I’ve got such a sour mix of fear and anger festering inside of me a the moment. The reasons for fear are obvious, but the anger, honestly, is much harder to deal with. These urban hillbillies and wannabe gangstaz are so profoundly ignorant and irresponsible. Bullets eventually come down, if they aren’t stopped by someone or something. They do not magically vaporize into thin air. Clearly they are unable or unwilling to comprehend this fact. It sickens me that my life is put into immediate danger when all I’m doing is trying to put together some crappy shelves in my own home. Say/Think/Argue what you want about gun control, but gun control only applies to law-abiding citizens, not criminals.

Another thing that makes me furious is that my neighbors are wonderful from one end of my block to the other, save for the occasional drug dealing renters that don’t stick around for long. My block is spotlessly clean on the street and even the alley behind our row of homes is clean and clear. Mr. Brown is outside almost every morning in his pajamas sweeping the gutters and picking up trash. Most of my neighbors are age 65 and over and nearly all of them have lived here since childhood. They take pride in living here and it shows. From sunrise to sunset, my block is very safe. The old guys are always outside and when they are out there, not even the punk ass urban hillbillies or teenage gangstaz have the nerve to conduct business between our corners. And believe me, I have no doubt in my mind that Mr. Brown could whip their asses single-handedly. But when everyone goes inside for the evening, it’s like turning off the kitchen light when you’ve got a cockroach problem. All the pimping/drug dealing/prostituting non-residents of this block come creeping out of the cracks, just like cockroaches.

I’m sure some of you are wondering Why doesn’t she just sell her house and move?? I suppose the answer to that question deserves a separate post, but I’ll save that one for later. The very short answer would be that I love city living, I wanted to (finally) buy a house, and on a single income (and a very modest one at that) this is what and where I could afford.

There’s really no point to this rambling here. I’m just feeling jittery and my mind is racing. I know I won’t be sleeping tonight. Looking at the pile of IKEA Pick-Up Sticks on the floor next to me is nightmare-inducing all by itself.

Why Stop at Nine Circles?

Now there are many things I believe one would find in the 10th circle of hell, but shopping at IKEA on a Saturday has got to take up a large chunk of real estate there. In fact, I’d say it may even qualify as the 11th circle. I know, I know. You’re thinking Why would you subject yourself to such a thing, Anger Hangover? Well, aside from the obvious need to indulge my self-loathing, I really need to get my office more organized. 

Lady Friend and I got on I-95 and made the trek to the Swedish Salvation Army. We had the normal fear and trepidation that most people experience when they know they are going to the 10th circle of hell, but there was more to it. Lady Friend and I have NEVER been to an IKEA together and going to an IKEA together is actually more lesbionic than attending a vegan potluck in hemp shoes. We didn’t want to jinx our relationship. IKEA is fine for OWLS (Older Wiser Lesbians), but it can be the death knell for others.

I’ve never had a good IKEA experience. I’ve tried different days of the week and different times on those days and nothing works. I always want to climb back into the bell jar as soon as I pull into the parking lot. IKEA is The Perfect Storm of rudeness, germs, short tempers, feral children, bickering couples, over-stimulation, and poor lighting. As Lady Friend and I dodged SUVs walking into the store, I heard one of the voices in my head say, “Don’t go, Bobby. I got a bad feelin’.” 

Here are some general observations and grievances about Saturday’s experience:

Layout and Communication 

1.  The store is difficult to navigate. Where am I? Where is the emergency exit? Haven’t we already seen this display?

2.  Can’t we just call them GENERIC BROWN SHELVES? Do you know how awkward it is asking for the STILIG/STÅTLIG shelves? Which word is it? Or is it both? I just don’t know. Speak American, dammit.

C.  Don’t tell me the BILLY system is in 3. Do you know how vast 3 is, asshole? 3 goes from here to Washington Blvd. Thanks for narrowing it down, tool. 

G.  Shin guards. Make them available. You provide those tape measure things and those adorable little pencils, so why not shin guards? Since your furniture layout consists of vomiting chairs, stools, couches, and wacky ice cube tray displays everywhere, why not protect the shins of those trying to navigate through them?

8.  Having access to a forklift would be nice because you clearly don’t seem to have employees available for assisting customers with heavy and/or high up items. Are any of your products located below the first fifteen stories of shelves?

Parents of Feral Children: 

F.  IKEA = Infected Kids Everywhere Always. How about leaving your sick kids at home? Whatever happened to teaching your kids to cover their mouths when they cough and/or sneeze? Or is that not politically correct parenting? 

9.  It’s not cute when your kids climb all over the displays other people are looking at. It’s not Chuck E. Cheese or a McDonald’s playland.

4.  Strollers. Never a good idea. Ever. If your kid can’t walk and also help you carry the 640 lb BJÖRNAs out to your SUV, your kid should not be there. 

B.  Why would you bring a newborn into the petri dish that is IKEA? Is that some kind of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy thing?

7.  Timeouts are for sporting events, not children. If you threaten your kid with a timeout, you really should reconsider spanking him because I’m thinking if you’re still counting at 351…352…353 you’re kid is probably not going to listen. 

N.  Is a warehouse setting really the safest place for your kids? Wouldn’t playing on 495 during rush hour be a little bit safer?

Couples:

J.  Clear stain versus antique stain. Who knew it could be a deal breaker?

6.  Witnessing a passive-aggressive meltdown in the AKURUM/ ÄRLIG display will leave you with a memory you do not want. Trust me, it will haunt your dreams.

R.  Have an idea of what you want before venturing into the Swedish Salvation Army. Now is not the time to work out your issues. It makes everyone around you uncomfortable.

Miscellaneous:

3.  Why do your shopping carts remind me of Christine? Is it because they can move in any direction at any time with no driver and cause great harm?

Q.  Ramming your cart into my heels still won’t make me get through the checkout line faster, especially if I’m 23rd in line.

H.  After reviewing the instructions, I realize that IKEA stands for I Keep Endlessly Assembling.

Funky Friday

January has been a less than stellar month for me so far. Usually this time of year refreshes me because the outside air temperature matches the temperature of the frozen tundra that is my heart. Between the end of the Ravens season and having my car die twice in ten days, I find myself with a complete lack of things to say. Since I still don’t have my car, I’m “working from home” again today. I could make you all suffer by posting pictures of my pets doing cute things, but I won’t because I just so happen to think You’re Outta Sight.

Do I Love You My Oh My

River Deep, Mountain High…

I had the dream again last night. It’s the dream where I’m one of the Ikettes from the Ike & Tina Turner Revue and I was actually pretty good at it too. I’ve never had a dream where I’ve worked my way up to Proud Mary. I think I still need to pump a lot of ‘tane in Baltimore before I’m ready for that.

But Oh! The Voices. The Legs. The Moves. The Wigs. The Dresses. The Shoes.

I do just about anything to be able to go back thirty-six years and job shadow the Ikettes while on tour. They could school me in all manners of Voices, Legs, Moves, Wigs, Dresses, and Shoes.

*sigh*

A girl can dream, right?

Another Gorey Monday

I’m having a Gorey day here in the cubicle. Today I feel like Neville:

What letter do you feel like today?

Just Curious

Feelin’ Lucky

Wow. Since my last post, I’ve had one of the most craptastic weeks on record. I’ll spare you the mind-numbing details of the entire week because no one deserves to be subjected to such things. I will tell you that the exclamation point to the craptastic week was having my car just completely die with no warning while going 70 mph at, oh yes, 3 a.m. on Sunday. It felt and sounded like the timing belt went up and in that same moment my credit cards acted like they had just heard a Melissa Etheridge song and became instantly flaccid. Oh, but my car didn’t die just anywhere, it died on northbound 97 in the triangle merge area of where the two lanes coming off of Rt. 100 meet 97. And don’t you know that it just had to be 3 a.m. and rainy with drunk drivers and tractor trailers speeding by on both sides of my little car. Very, very scary. Fortunately, Lady Friend was with me in my dead car as we watched two state troopers and two tow trucks fly right by us. Hey thanks for that. Really though, I was more worried about dying in a fiery accident before getting to see the next insipid episode of The L Word.

Let me just say that having AAA is so worth it for the towing coverage alone. Really. We had a tow truck driver there in under an hour. The problem was that I had my very large dog with us and LF had her much smaller dog with us too. There we were:
2 Dykes, 2 Dogs, & 1 Dead Honda.
So my still drunk cousin finds us on the highway and the tow truck driver turns out to be the sweetest old man who took such good care of my little car. Since AAA wouldn’t tow my car to a garage that was not open, I had to have it towed back to my block in Pigtown. Let me just tell you how wonderfully this night/morning turned out! I could not have predicted the absolute joy I experienced when we finally got back to my block at 4:30-5:00 a.m. and I realized it was PAYBACK TIME!!!

Do you know how loud a big-ass flatbed tow truck is with all of those hydraulics and winches and grinding chains? And let’s not forget the obnoxious *DOOT*DOOT*DOOT* sound the truck makes when it is backing up and lowering the bed. LF said I was grinning ear to ear over the amount of noise the tow truck was making. If you’re going to disturb all the people who’ve been disturbing your sleep for the past year, why not go completely balls outside the pants? I even gave the tow truck driver a large cash tip just for being so nice to us at such a late and rainy hour. He didn’t have to be nice and/or careful with my car. He could have been a complete dick because, after all, aren’t we all at the mercy of a tow truck driver at some point? He clutched the tip to his chest as if he were praying and his eyes got all misty. I guess people don’t tip these guys much because he looked at me like I was a Saint Mary Anger Margaret Hangover of Pigtown.

Life is weird sometimes. I’ve been going to the same hair stylist for almost ten years and I just got my herr did last Wednesday. Even though my stylist has taken me through many phases of long and short hair, I’ve never really asked her much about her personal life. So the other night, I asked her what her husband does for a living. It turns out he is a mechanic and owns his own repair shop on Washington Blvd, just down the road from my house! I mentioned to her that I busted a hanger on my muffler going over some railroad tracks and she said, “Well, I’ll let Ron know. He can do that kind of repair on your lunch hour. Just call his shop ahead of time, tell him your a client of mine, and that way you won’t have to wait for service.”

Good to know.

I had AAA come to my house yesterday morning and tow my car to Ron’s garage. Again, I had another sweet tow truck driver show up and when he dropped my car off at the garage, I gave him a generous cash tip too. He looked at me all surprised and then giggled like a little kid. It made me feel…what is the word I’m looking for here…it made me feel good. I wanted to keep that good feeling going so I did what any All-American Girl would do and went shopping. I didn’t buy any clothes, but I did binge on Aveda hair and skin products and let me just tell you - I smell hella good right now.

The garage called me just a couple of hours after dropping off my car. Unheard of! I was totally prepared to take out a second mortgage on my home and turn tricks on Washington Blvd for the car repair, so you can imagine my surprise when the grand total estimate for parts and labor came to just under $200.00! I somehow managed to get away with having a fried ignition coil and no engine craziness. The garage was able to get that part and replace it the same day, along with fixing the muffler issues. Again, unheard of! Out of curiosity, I Googled the parts that were replaced and couldn’t believe that Ron charged me about half of the wholesale price. My luck is never this good.

So the craptastic week ended much better than I thought it would. Nice tow truck drivers, perfect payback for the noise I’ve endured, cheap car repair, no turning tricks, fabulous hair and skin products, and best of all…I can’t remember a single thing about the new episode of The L Word.

The Lame Word

So last night Lady Friend and I did what any people full of self-loathing would do and we watched the season premiere of The L Word. In fact, the week leading up to last night’s premiere, we re-visited season three of The L Word since they were airing it again. The L Word has this amazing ability to erase itself from my memory each time I watch it. I really didn’t remember any of the episodes from last season and I’m pretty sure this is a coping mechanism. I’ve always said that if The L Word had a laugh track, it would make for brilliant comedy. Think about it and I bet you’ll agree. Sadly, the laugh track is not there and the voices in my head continue to mock me for watching episode after episode.

After watching season three again, I soon realized that The L Word is the best thing to ever happen to my relationship with Lady Friend. Each time an episode comes on and we are doled out the extended dance remixes of couples bickering and the heavy-handed political correctness by way of mixed-race babies (which are so hot right now), social workers in wheel chairs, bisexual Jewish cutters, loud, psychotic passionate Latinas, breast cancer cookouts and chemotherapy cakes, male nannies (mannies), menopause, inner-city documentary film making, the obligatory “rough” childhood excuses, transgender top surgery fund raisers, and chant meditation retreats, I turn to her and apologize to her for anything and everything I’ve ever done to hurt her feelings and/or irritate the shit out of her. I beg her not to leave me. Ever. I tell her that I KNOW I am the luckiest person alive because I’ll never hear her speak certain words and phrases like: fascist regime, this administration, culturally sensitive, substance abuse survivor, asylum seekers, bourgeois, organic free range, ethnocentric white patriarchal restructuring of language (a.k.a. grammar), femstruation, patriarchal, co-op, attachment parenting, ovo-lacto intolerance, ethnically homogeneous, reactionary, culture of corruption, hold me, and love making.

I take it back…I am not the luckiest person alive. If you’ve never subjected yourself to a single episode of The L Word, then you are actually the luckiest person alive.

I can’t wait until the next episode!

Forecast Looks the Same

The question we all get: What are your new year’s resolutions?

My answer: None.

I’m not really one for making resolutions for the new year because I think it’s too easy to fail even before February 1st gets here. I don’t know about you, but with all the crap every day life hurls at me, I can’t stay focused much beyond today, let alone this year. Instead of setting daunting goals for the year, I’m going to stick with my daily navel-gazing routine of doing a mini life assessment each night before I drift off to sleep. What this routine entails is running through the day’s inventory of interactions, events, and tasks and asking myself any number of questions, including but not limited to:

1. Can I call 911 any faster?

2. Could I be a better shot?

3. Did I actually do the things I committed to today?

4. Would I still want someone like me in my life as a friend/girlfriend/daughter/sister/neighbor/co-worker?

I’m okay with the answers most days, but there are definitely those days where I’d like a do-over. The new year doesn’t cancel out my inadequacies and short-comings of 2006. I’m still an asshole in so many ways, but I also take comfort in knowing I’m probably not the worst one you’ll encounter in 2007.