Involving neither work nor imminent death

Another definition of depression: how you feel when you know that those fantasies* that you've been building in your head** to occupy your time*** while on the bus-- or keep yourself from slamming your head on your desk-- will never come true.****

* Like the one about accidentally running into the drummer of your favorite band (who's cute but seems to live in the continual shadow of the lead singer who you are sure is a dillweed) and you give him directions to Powell's, which he appreciates so he invites you to coffee and between sips of vanilla latte laughs at all your jokes so you exchange cell phone numbers and emails and you start up an endless thread of text messages that binds you closer together than any one night stand would ever do.

** You know, the one with a place in the back, near some unused corner of your Occipital lobe, where you keep your plans for the bookstore or bar that you're going open up in a sleepy part of that European city you like so much where you can play your cool playlists that make all the famous comedians who come in regularly bob their heads in time to while asking you how you came up with such cool names for the cats you let wander unfettered through the bookshelves or bar stools.

*** Time that normally is spent composing the comment that you're going to leave in that blog that's both widely-read and beloved by all; the comment that forces the blogger to cede the point in defeat and generates hundreds of reponses declaring that your comment alone has "won the thread".

**** Not even the one where you don't say something unimaginably stupid to that one cute barista. Not even that one.

No witty title today

Almost 18 years ago, I was on my way into the health food store where I worked. I was going into my junior year at UCSB and had just moved into a bungalow in downtown Santa Barbara with my boyfriend and a coworker who later became "my crazy ex-roommate". As I headed up to the office to start keeping the books as usual, my future crazy ex-roommate stopped me.

"I can't believe you're not coming in here with the kitten."

Kitten? I saw no kitten. "What kitten," I asked predictibly.

The one in the box at the front doors, the one the guy was trying to give away. She hadn't finished her sentence and I was already back outside. I'm not sure she realized that by mentioning the kitten was a tacit approval to bring it home.

He was a little black scrap of a cat-- probably a few days too young to be away from his mother, but he was mine before I even picked him up. He was the last in the box, so I got to keep the box as well. I raced up the stairs to the office, enlisting a coworker on his break to keep an eye on my new buddy while I ran to Trader Joes next door for some basic kitten supplies.

He sat unnamed on my lap all day, purring the whole time. When it was time to leave I hid him in my backpack and smuggled him onto the bus. He was a perfect little gentleman and didn't make a peep. I honestly don't remember the boyfriend's reaction, but this kitten was so adorable he couldn't have put up much of a fight. I remember us laying on the bed, throwing out names with this little purring ball in front of us:

"Jeremy! "
"Hillary! "
"Boob! "
"Phd! "

That was it: Phd (pronouced "fdd"). It was perfect.

We already had 3 other cats, but it didn't take the others too long to stop hissing at him and start letting him snuggle up (even Tisha, who was a year older and even that young wasn't really into other cats). He purred constantly. Seriously, he was always purring. I'd never met such a sociable cat. He adored our other black cat, Neighbor, and was heartbroken when she was killed by a car. He grew up quickly and his enthusiasm for food soon turned him into a really thick, really long dude (that's what she said?).

I have had him for nearly 18 years, minus the year he was living with the now ex-boyfriend. Everyone who meets his immediately loves him. It is impossible not to love Dr. Phlyd, of the Rangoon* clinic for the terminally pantless.

All our cats are seniors now (Tisha's a year older than Phlyd-- she will outlive us all). But Phlyd (whose name gained an L and a vowel, courtesy of a roommate, a New Orleans Saints fan with a penchant for yelling out the cats' names like a European sports announcer celebrating a goal unit at the local sports arena).

Like me, he's always had some health problems. When he was 10 he got an overactive thyroid that had to be zapped by radiation, and he's always been a bit of a puker. About 2 years ago he developed a distressing cough, caused by an enlarged heart, which we have been treating with twice daily pills and liquid medicine. He is always a trooper, letting me clip his nails and swallowing his pills without a peep.

He has become a favorite at the vets-- every time I bring him in the receptionists, techs and vets alike yell out his name, much like the roommate who christened him. The doctors have a hard time listening to his heart, as he purrs too loudly for them to use their stethiscopes. He is beloved by all who meet him, as well he should be.

And now he is not doing so well. His weight has dropped from 10.1 to 8.8 in a month and a half. He spends most of his time underneath the table in the upstairs game room. He is still enthusiastic about food, but he doesn't eat much of it. He is a shadow of his former self, but he still purrs everytime he sees someone.

My heart is breaking. The vet is hopeful, but you can tell when she calls that she's putting a more positive spin on his condition. But his bloodwork shows his kidneys are failing. I can't tell if he's in pain (if he is, he's hiding it well), but he's so skinny I can't look at him without getting depressed. I can't even think about him without tearing up.

What am I going to do when he gets worse? Every time I drive him to the vet, I worry that I won't be bringing him back, even though the vets have not given any indication that he is near terminal. Whenever they take him to the back room to draw blood or just take him on the rounds to all the employees, I have to fight hard not to cry.

But right now I'm alone in this hotel room down at the end of the hallway, so I don't have to find a place to hide before I start sobbing.

*He is part Burmese and does, in fact, not wear pants.

We is bloggist

These past few weeks have been pretty tiring, what with all the anger. I've spent so much times obsessing about how stupid the work situation is that I've neglected to bore you with all the other stuff that's happening. Or not happening.

I am currently in Seattle for a week of training secretaries and attorneys to do things they'll never do. That's OK - I like being out of the office right now. I may get myself in trouble, though, since a few office Seattleans have been asking me about the recent hires and fires and I haven't exactly been toe-ing the upbeat line.

Like I ever do anyway.

But I have been doing other things in the past couple weeks. We went to see We Are Scientists about two weeks ago, and they were great. I wish I had done more research on them (besides listening to them), since the place we saw them was small and they were very approachable. And yet, I did not approach. Had I watched their videos or read their hilarious site I would have said something.

Or not. I tend to get giggly and stupid when I'm talking to a famous person*, so maybe it's for the best. They're not really big here, but they are huge in Europe (well, big enough to open for REM there). That'd be enough to turn me into a swooning teeny-bopper. It's for the best, then.

I bought a t-shirt at the gig, the one pictured above. I paid for it twice, because during the purchase the t-shirt lady was insisting I should get a small shirt when I assured her that no, due to my hulking shoulders and poor posture I really should get a medium. Not only did she win that argument (I was confused by something shiny, I think) but she insisted I hadn't paid-- when I totally had-- but I couldn't prove it. Harrumph.

Oh well, I guess it makes up for the fact that I downloaded their most recent album from what I am assured is a legal download site (I mean, it's right there in the name: these sounds are legal. They are legal sounds! Srsly!)

Well, that shirt has already paid for itself, if the currency we are talking about is cool points and attention from strangers. I had four people comment on my shirt, two of which were clerks at the local Borders Books. They each approached me, one asking "Can you please explain your shirt?"

I wish I had a better answer than "It's a band". If anyone has any better ideas to explain "I are scientists" I am totally listening (reading--whatever).

I overheard a couple people say "'I are scientists'. I don't get it." I would be interested to hear what they thought it might mean. Maybe this is a hipster Rorschach test; maybe it means all things to all people. What does it mean to me?

More attention. Yay!

===============

* I once had Garry Shandling come through my line when I was working as a cashier at a health food store in Santa Barbara. Here was my greeting:

"What brings you to Santa Barbara?" He replied, "The circus?"

Bleah.

How do you spell that shuddering groan the Simpsons do?

I am now about to share the number-one all time most embarrassing thing that's happened to me in my 38 years and 7 months. The one thing that even now reduces me to whimpers and rending of garments. This is the story that, when I tell it, elicits not raucous laughter but groans of sympathy.

It's not some mispronounced word or inappropriate phrase yelled at a stranger. It's not poorly-timed sickness in front of coworkers. It didn't happen in public, and it's not a funny vignette from my life. No one even witnessed this, it was just us two.

Even still, I don't feel an uncomfortable embarrassment, I feel shame. Shame because of who was involved; a deep shame of a personal nature that should never, ever have involved that other person. It is lasting and it is so sad that I still wince (to this day, even, were inclined to use that phrase, and I am not) when it pops into my head for no reason, like a champagne cork to the head from the table next to you at that expensive tapas place that puts too much mint in their drinks.

It is this:

I was once invited to a birthday swim party in high school. I was on my period, and I had never used a tampon before. The only woman around to assist me in understanding the mechanics of tampons was that woman.

Let that sink in. Roll it around your head like you're tasting it at a fancy wine bar: let the tastebuds of your mind pop as that bitter slab of my dignity withers and dies. Just try to pry the kernels of popcorn sticking painfully between your tooth and gum when you realize you know how that must have made her feel: pride that I "trusted" her to ask such an intimate question, the rush I'm sure she felt when she realized that she knew something that I did not.

Ok, that's maybe too much metaphor. Sorry. I'm trying to heal with words and sometimes tortured prose is the only way to make it work. I turn real emotions into imagined things that I can crush and stomp and hit and hopefully try to get out of my head.

But then I remember the story she once told of one of her husband's stays in the hospital. I have a lot of history with that lady that is painful to think about, but at least I wasn't married to her and I didn't nearly die having been kicked in the balls by a homeless guy.

It's going all pants

Embarassing Things, all six-like

I once was at a dance club with a friend of mine. The vodka urged us toward the bathroom and we were surprise there wasn't a line, especially since there was a single stall. Friend of mine was checking out her hair in the mirror and I went into the stall. I remembered I was wearing brand new underwear purchased earlier in the day from the Disney store. As I flushed, I called out,

"Hey-- you wanna see my pooh undies?"

And then noticed that friend had left and that I did not know the person standing at the mirror.

Just like my desk: messy and full of crumbs from lost lunches

** You know what's surprisingly alarming? A dentist coming at your un-numb mouth with a drill-- even when you know he's just sanding down a new filling.

** Why does Radio Shack sell candy?

** I was napping on the trip home from Canada in April. The radio was on. The Husband was startled when I suddenly bolted upright, lunged at the radio off button and screamed "Jesus Christ, it's Madonna!" I think should always be everyone's response to Madonna.

** Werner Hertzog has a new movie about Antarctica (Encounters at the End of the World) that I will definitely see. I don't know a whole lot about him, but my respect was embiggened enormously when I read the following:

Reporter: Much of [the movie] is very funny but what stuck with me most at the end are the sublime aspects of it. The latter part, where you get the sounds of the seals and the underwater footage, to me they suggest not just otherworldliness, but a divine intelligence. Do you agree?

Hertzog: Are you trying to persuade me to become an adherent of creationism?

Reporter: Not necessarily, but to me the sounds of the seals, for instance, suggests something supernatural.

Hertzog: No, it doesn’t. It only suggests the sounds, and they are wonderful and sublime. I wouldn’t read anything God-like into it. However, creation itself, as it is, has something magnificent, and the film celebrates it, the film names it, the films shows it. And the film ends like that. And I like this notion; you do not often have a chance in a movie to show things that are of utmost beauty, and of course the music has a big part in showing a certain sacredness in what we have in front of us. [Emphasis added]

- John Del Signore, interview with Werner Hertzog, Gothamist.com

That's a great response to the "The world is so amazing it has to have a designer" argument:

No. It. Doesn't. Calm, firm and totally right.

Commercials I hate

To the chagrin of the husband, I like to talk back to the television. I mock the timelines on Cold Case, I yell "go, buddy, go" during sports exhibitions, I yell out the answers playing along with game shows.

I save my loudest exclamations and my snarkiest snark for commercials. I don't know why, but I require consistency and common sense from the ads that are trying to shill their potions and widgets. I do, in fact, think of these things whilst browsing the corner shops. Here are the worst offenders:

1. The Oregon Lottery

(Damn if I couldn't find the spot online. They show it all the fucking time-- how is it not on You Tube? I guess I'll have to describe it to you without being too biased. I must be patient; my wrath will out soon enough.)

Scene: A man is standing on a street corner in the financial district of an unknown city. He holds an upside down fedora in his hand. A businessman in a suit walks by and the first guy holds out his hat. The businessman waves him away. Next, a well dressed hipster walks by and hatman reaches into his fedora, pulls out a wad of cash and hands it to the guy, who is confused, but takes it anyway. This continues for three or four more people. As the camera focuses on a woman in a business suit staring wide eyed at the man while talking on her cell phone, the lottery logo comes up along with their catchphrase "What will you do?"

Why do I hate this commercial? Because the lottery winner is handing out cash in the *financial district*. You know, the one filled with people who already make wads of cash? The majority of the people walking by and taking the cash are white, distinctly vice-president-of-marketing type men. This just kills the democratic socialist in me. Why would you give money to people who didn't need it? Could he not find more needy people? Not even homeless people, necessarily--because lord knows we don't want to reward the indigent and down on their luck-- but maybe students? Parents with large families? Maybe a barista or a cashier at Ross? Hell, I'd even look past my distrust of religious charities and accept a fucking Salvation Army Santa. Jesus, you don't need to give money to The Man. The Man squeezes plenty of money out of us already.

Next?

B) The Oregon Lottery, again

Scene: The outside of a single bathroom stall. Everything is plated in gold. A woman comes out of the stall and climbs into a gold plated golf cart. The camera follows the woman as she drives down a long hallway-- also gold-- until she comes to a similarly plated basin, where she disembarks from the golf cart and proceeds to wash her hands. The lottery logo and catchphrase come up on screen.

Seriously, how gross must that golf cart steering wheel be? Every time that commercial airs, scores of molysmophobiacs convulse and die.

Wait, there's more!

III. AT&T - Alter-ego Hong Kong Greeting





"He's not going to answer because he doesn't have AT&T"

And whose fault is that, you think? Could it be... the VP of Sales' fault for choosing to save money by providing the sales team with inadequate communications service? Maybe we can blame the boss who neglected to give his salesman important information like the pronounciation of the best client's name? Jesus, any company that relies so heavily on an individual employee's choice of phone provider and ability to learn a complex language like Chinese deserves to have their business fail.

I will leave you on an upbeat note, for once, with my favorite commercial so far this year (it's one of a series of commercials that are all pretty great):




Yoinks and away, indeed.