Scarecrows

No, this isn't a blog entry about the Wizard of Oz or John Mellencamp. Instead, it's about an article in yesterday's paper. Seems a small town within close proximity "wants to break the record for most scarecrows." Why? I've read the article and I still can't answer that question.

In the absence of a good reason, the Fall Festival planner explained that she wants to make her hometown with the name that sounds like a sneeze, "The Scarecrow Capital by breaking the Guiness World Record for the most scarecrows on display in a single city." I know what you're thinking. Why? More importantly, is there anything that Guiness won't record? Seriously. Anything?

Back to the festival planner, Ms. Scarecrow (not her actual name). She's not kidding around. She's working with city officials to collect 4000 scarecrows by September. And, she's issued a stern warning: "If you wear overalls, hold on to your pants." Her husband should be easy to spot because apparently, "she's already gone after his overalls." I'd bet that you could put him in a field and he'd scare more than one crow.

The town is really getting into it - or at least some of the town. The first donation was "a life-size replica of 'Wheel of Fortune' hostess Vanna White." She stands proudly behind plate glass at City Hall. Guess they figured Vanna-crow needed a place of honor. Or maybe City Hall is full of crows. Vanna is made from a dressmaker's dummy and wears a sequin gown, a mask, stuffed burlap limbs, and pipe-cleaner jewelry. Now, for the scarecrow... (ha ha ha ha).

According to Vanna-crow's creator, "When you think of someone who presents something gracefully and with style, who comes to mind first? Vanna White!" Actually, I'm proud to report that Vanna White never comes to my mind - though Vanna-crow will haunt my dreams for some time. Here's the question: Why would you want a scarecrow that can present something gracefully and with style? Isn't that the opposite of what you want a scarecrow to do? "And, crows, because you've chosen this field, we have fabulous rows of corn. Each ear comes with plump yellow kernels, milky pulp, and a cob that you can peck at for days." Seems Vanna-crow would be as useful as the actual Vanna.

According to the paper, "Business owners who walk through Vanna's gaze...aren't sure she'd scare away crows, but they agree that there is something vaguely creepy about her." I hear Pat Sajak thinks the same thing.

So, let's all hope that this little town pulls out all the stops, donates all of their overalls, and reaches its goal of 4000 scarecrows. If not, they can "wile away the hours, conversin' with the flowers, consultin' with the rain. And their heads they'd be scratchin', while their thoughts were busy hatchin', if they only had a brain."

Law & Order

Last night, I got sucked into the Law & Order vortex. I started watching one episode on some cable channel and before I knew it, I'd seen three episodes - one regular and two Criminal Intent. Damn marathons.

This morning, I decided that I hadn't wasted 3 hours of my life because I'd learned some valuable life lessons. I'm also deciding that I'm not wasting even more time by writing these lessons down:

• If you plan to commit a crime, do not use your home phone or cell phone to talk with your accomplices. Phone calls can be traced.


• If you plan to commit a crime, do not use your home computer or Blackberry to email your accomplices.


• Always beware of middle-aged men who still live with their parents, especially if they keep their bedroom doors shut all the time.


• Always beware of ambitious women. They're calculating and dangerous.


• If you're a defense attorney, do not let your client take the stand. Jack McCoy will have your client for lunch.


• Dead bodies are really hard to hide.


• Do not withdraw or deposit large amounts of cash from your bank account, especially if someone close to you has just expired under suspicious circumstances.


• Once you leave New York City, you're in bumpkin country where it's always cold and snowy.


• If you plan a meeting where everyone sits around a large conference table, the police will bust in and arrest you in front of your colleagues, even if you say, "We're in conference!"


• Police divers are genetically programmed to find guns in murky water.


• You might think that you own the same shoes as everyone else, but you don't. Unlucky for you, you purchased the pair that leave very specific footprints at a crime scene.


• Always commit a crime in the nude while wearing surgical gloves and a hair net. That way, you won't leave any fibers or hair behind.


• Scrubbing your entire bathroom with bleach looks suspicious.


• Once you become Chief of Detectives, you have to stay inside a dingy office. The good news is that you're all-knowing, like Yoda, and you have access to an endless supply of coffee.


• If you're a short old cynical troll, Jack McCoy will not hire you.

See, not a waste of time at all.

Closed on Sunday

I had a plan. It's a beautiful sunny day outside and I resolved not to work on this holiday weekend. I need to buy a birthday gift for my 3 year old nephew and I need to buy a wedding present for my cousins. Today was the perfect day to check out the college town's local shops for unique gifts. Sunny, low humidity, perfect. Except it's Sunday.

Following a friend's recommendation, I drove to one of the trendy neighborhoods in town. It's one of those places with cute little gift shops where they sell things that you can't find anywhere else. As I easily parked the car, I wondered where everyone was. I soon realized that all the cute stores were closed up. I couldn't look at unique toys, one-of-a-kind housewares, or anything. Sighing loudly, I got back in my car and noticed that I'd been stupid enough to park between two HUGE vans. I backed blind into the street and I was off again.

I decided that the afternoon was still young so I headed to the strip mall with the chain bookstore. So I couldn't get a unique toy, I could still get started on the nephew gift with a book. As I sat at the light, I remembered that there was also a cooking store in the same shopping center. Perfect! I hummed along to REM as I felt my enthusiasm returning. (I was able to hum along to REM because I resorted and reorganized my iTunes playlists, then resync-ed my iPod this morning. I'm continually amazed at my ability to fill time with truly important and critical tasks now that I don't have that pesky dissertation to work on.)

I arrived at the shopping center, turned the wrong way down a parking aisle, got turned around, parked and got out of the car. I made a beeline for the cooking store. Closed. Dammit. "Is anything open on Sunday?" I asked no one in particular. I looked down the row of stores and noticed that Ann Taylor Loft was open, and they were having a sale. One shirt and a pair of shorts later, I came out. I rationalized that I would keep my purchases since they're clearly the wrong color for my nephew and cousins.

Although I knew that my purchases did not move me any closer to my original goal, I felt much better. I headed to the bookstore. I wandered through the children's section and really gave it a good try. Nothing caught my eye. I decided to branch out. So, I wandered through the DVDs. "Maybe my nephew would like Lars and the Real Girl," I thought, "or maybe Sex and the City, Season 5." I decided that he wouldn't like them because they were too expensive.

I wandered aimlessly and found myself in the History section. Ten minutes later, I left the store with "Inside the Confederate Nation," a collection of essays about life in the Confederate South. I feel sure that my nephew will be completely enraptured with this choice. What 3 year old doesn't want to know more about "Shades of Nation: Confederate Loyalties in Southeastern Virginia," or "The Moral Imagination of Confederate Family Politics"? Seriously.

One thing's for certain, it will be great bedtime reading, much more effective than that Thomas the Train Engine.

Gainful employment

Yesterday, it finally happened. I was offered a full-time job - the kind that comes with a relatively decent salary and benefits. After seven years of carefully avoiding entangling alliances with employers, I will return to the life of regular and consistent paychecks. No more estimating quarterly taxes. No more paying for my own health insurance. No more saving every nickel because I don't know when the next nickel might appear. I really don't think I'll know how to function.

The job is a temporary faculty appointment. In the new lingo of academia, this means that I can have the exploitive position for up to three years. I can't even hope for tenure. It is "one small step from adjunct, one giant leap away from living on dog food in my car."

Best of all, I don't have to move. I get to stay right where I am, which is right where I want to be. I'm still pinching myself.

I'm planning to celebrate by finally replacing my crap TV. Next up - the vacuum cleaner goes to the shop. Do I know how to show myself a good time or what?

Amusement?

Yesterday, I received the June edition of Southern Living. As always, I flipped to the back to read the recipes first. Then, I looked for the house plan of the month and finally made my way to the beginning of the magazine. Reading the magazine from back to front is one of my many quirks.

As I read the travel features, I came across, "What's New at the Theme Parks." It's a piece about the new thrills and shows at the nation's amusement parks. This summer, Hard Rock Park in Myrtle Beach unleashes "Led Zeppelin - The Ride." In what has to be the most flattering homage to Robert Plant's endowment, the entire 15-story, 0.7 mile coaster ride is choreographed to "Whole Lotta Love." Plant must be so proud. The only way to make this ride even more perfect is to have the entire track barely contained under a thin layer of denim.

Kings Dominion in Virginia unveils the Dominator. Coming in at just under one mile, this coaster takes its place as the longest floorless coaster in the world. Take that, Robert Plant. So, if size really matters to you, head to Virginia.

Finally, Universal Studios in Orlando (Florida, not Bloom) introduces "Disaster!" On this ride, you get to "feel as if you're an extra in a disaster movie." Oooh, fun. The editors at Southern Living included a picture with this entry, showing thrillseekers "taking a subway train ride through an 8.0 earthquake for the explosive finale of Disaster!" The picture shows riders in a train while water rushes in and ceiling beams crash around them. Fun! Especially if you've been watching the news before you get on this ride.

OK, I know that the good folks at Universal Studios could not predict the actual Disaster! in China, but they must have had some inkling of the hurricane that hit New Orleans. Seems like a slippery slope from "ride based on a movie" to "ride based on an actual disaster." Just imagine: "You've seen it on CNN, now experience it for real! Universal Studios presents: Katrina - The Ride! Your adventure begins with wind and rain and eventually you have to race up to the attic and poke a hole in the roof to get away from the rushing water. Then, you get to sit and sit and sit until the grand finale - airlifting on a real live rescue helicopter!" Woohoo! Where does the line start?

With all the fires in Florida, Universal Studios might have a new ride in their own backyard - Wildfire! "Can you outrun the flames?"

Graduation

This weekend was graduation. I flew to the northeastern post-industrial wasteland where I met my parents who had driven 13 hours. From what I could gather, they got a good introduction to upstate life while they waited for my plane to arrive. There was a rowdy group who greeted their arriving friend with cheers and a big sign that read, "Welcome Home, Meat!" My parents looked a bit shell-shocked when I emerged through the door. I had forgotten how jarring upstate weirdness can be, and I decided that I can finally abandon my survival mechanism and start noticing the bizarre behavior again.

The weekend went well. Despite ominous weather predictions of violent thunderstorms and tornadoes, we managed to enjoy a sunny afternoon in a nearby river town before heading to the wasteland. I gave my parents the driving tour, and I think they're still traumatized. More than once, my mother said, "I'm glad you're not here anymore," or something to that effect. They both declared that they had made three trips to the wasteland: first, last, and only.

The graduation ceremony went off without a hitch. Thanks to the engineering marvel known as bobby-pins, my friend and I managed to affix our too-large slippery hats to our heads. We knew we looked foolish, but no more so than anyone around us. As we preened and fretted in the bathroom, someone noted, "We look like we're in a Harry Potter movie." And she was right.

During the ceremony, my friend and I managed to get our hoods and walk across the stage without falling down - a major accomplishment, if you ask me. My dad managed to stay balanced on his rickety chair to take pictures. He has a history of falling off of things, so this was also a major accomplishment.

After all the PhDs got their hoods, we sat down to listen to the inspiring words from the graduation speaker. You know you're in for a treat when they invite an economist from Cornell to speak. Apparently, he received his bachelor's degree from our lesser state school. He spent the first five minutes of his speech telling us all about his accomplishments (papers, endowed chairs, fellowships, awards, pomposity, pomposity, pomposity...). After that, he launched into an economic comparison of public and private institutions. He spouted a lot of statistics, but one phrase sticks in my head: "the growing endowments of the privates." My friend and I giggled like school girls, or Beavis and Butthead.

In the end, this full professor concluded that from his perspective in the Cornell Ivory Tower, public education was going straight into the toilet. Surprisingly, he didn't offer to leave his cushy job and return to public education. He did offer us three pieces of advice: develop coping skills, don't be stand-offish with undergraduates who may idolize you, and well, I can't remember the third piece of advice, but my friend says it was, "...and get a job at Cornell."

He finally sat down, students received their Masters degrees, and then a grad student offered some words of wisdom. In a strange, choppy speaking style, he encouraged all of us to use our imaginations. If we didn't, he warned we'd just "be whistling Dixie in the dark." Being the good southerner that I am, I leaned to my friend and said, "Ain't nothin' wrong with whistlin' Dixie in the dark." Damn Yankees.

Finally, the ceremony ended and we all gathered for pictures. My advisor, who is a force of nature, managed to hold off the rain and scare small children so we could get exactly the pictures that she wanted. Worn out, my parents and I drove the hour back to our hotel. On the way, we decided to postpone the fancy celebration dinner until I came to visit them at their house.

All in all, it was a good and exhausting weekend. When I returned home, I stopped into Cracker Barrel to get dinner. As I walked in, I read the sign on the door: "Imagine walking out this door with a paycheck." I almost screamed. What a message to receive after graduating with a PhD. As my job search continues, I can only hope that I won't end up walking out the door of Cracker Barrel with a paycheck in my hand.

Reality TV

Tonight, I caught the first 5 minutes of E! News before I returned to all the work I didn't get done this afternoon. I learned that Kate Hudson and Owen Wilson are not getting married. In fact, they broke up. Owen Wilson doesn't want to talk about it. I learned that Jessica Simpson will be attending her sister's wedding without her Dallas Cowboy boyfriend because they also broke up. That sound you hear is all the Dallas Cowboy fans cheering in unison. At least their break-up brought people together.

I also learned that Denise Richards has signed a deal for her own E! network reality show. You'll recall that Denise Richards is Charlie Sheen's ex-wife. Charlie Sheen, otherwise known as Mr. Horn-Dog. Or at least he was before Ms. Richards allegedly took up with Heather Locklear's hubby, Richie Sambora of Bon Jovi fame. Ms. Richards was Ms. Locklear's best friend. Leave it to Denise Richards to find a way to make Charlie Sheen look good in all of this. Ms. Locklear found comfort in David Spade's company, so I'm really not sure who got the worst end of this mix-up.

Anyway, Ms. Richards's reality show will follow her dating escapades - because who among us doesn't want to watch an ex-model actress single mother navigate the treacherous dating waters? I'm sure it will closely mirror my own reality, except that I'm not an ex-model or an actress or a single mother. I'd feel bad about that, but I wasn't married to Charlie Sheen so I'm pretty sure I still win.

Richards explained that she wanted to do the series because she wanted everyone to see that she is done with "bad boys." I know I've stayed up nights, worrying about Denise Richards and all those bad (incredibly wealthy) boys. Finally, I can get some rest. When Ryan Seacrest asked the obvious question, "Why would you want to do this show?", Richards responded, "My mother wanted me to do this show, to show people who I really am."

Apparently, Denise Richards's mother is the only person who ever believed that reality TV is actually reality. There's something very "Being John Malkovich" about this whole scenario. Because the media has distorted Ms. Richards's identity, the only way we'll ever know her true identity is if we watch a carefully crafted and edited TV show. This is what we've come to. So much for my rest.

Favorite Rejection

In the past several months, I have received a number of rejection letters. On the advice of friends, I'm trying not to take this personally. That becomes more and more difficult when faced with a growing stack of letters that say, "We had a number of highly qualified candidates, but we think that Professor X is a better fit for our department at this time." OK, I don't want to end up somewhere that's a bad fit, but c'mon. Someone else is always a better fit? How is that possible? I've met other historians and let me tell you, they ain't all that. There must be some secret historian handshake that I need to learn.

The other day, I received a letter from a small public university in the midwest. I'd never heard of them when I read their job announcement in December, but I applied for their position because it was a broad search. Basically, they wanted someone who could teach US History since 1865 and knew something about women. Check on both counts.

I sent my application materials and I didn't hear anything from them. By about March, I'd decided that they had "found someone who better suited their needs at this time." This week, I got the thin envelope. "At least they did me the courtesy of sending confirmation that I wasn't the chosen one," I thought as I opened the letter. Here's what they had to say:

"Thank you for your interest in Small Midwest University. We did have several highly qualified candidates for the position and it has been a difficult decision, but we have chosen to close this search and resume it next year in an effort to find someone who more closely meets the qualifications for which we are looking."

In other words: We were extremely vague in our job announcement so you might have thought that we didn't know what we were looking for. Ha ha. Fooled you. In fact, we knew exactly what we were looking for, we just didn't tell you. Oh, and by the way, you weren't it. And our qualifications are still a big secret, so don't ask. Please don't bother to apply when we do this same search next year as we've already decided that you stink.

Alternatively: We were extremely vague in our job announcement because we didn't know what we wanted. Your sorry-ass credentials helped us to better define what we're looking for, and it ain't you. Please don't apply next year.

I guess they're not all bad. They did wish me "good luck in my future endeavors." Thanks.

Nothing is Easy

Today was to be the day that I got back to work. My disk would arrive from my dad, I would reload MS Office on my computer and productivitiy would commence. Note the use of "would." Now, substitute "didn't."

Well, that's not quite accurate either. The disk did arrive. I'm not sure when it arrived because although I was home all day, and spent most of the day right next to the door, I never heard the stealth postman. Apparently, my postman only knocks once - and then runs like a jackrabbit with its ass on fire. I'm thinking he chose the 15 minutes that I was in the shower to attempt delivery. All I know is that I decided to open my door at 2:30 and a "failed delivery" notice blew inside. Instead of work, I commenced cursing.

Frustrated, I called the 1-800 number on the back of the notice - because I can't call my local post office. The local number is not in the local phone book. Very crafty for a federal bureaucracy. We don't want people calling us, so we just won't publish our number. Instead, we'll force them to use the national 1-800 number and we'll never have to see them. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

When I finally got through the maze of "Do you want to hear more about our rate change - say yes or no," I spoke to a real person. This real person informed me that although my package was somewhere in my relatively small metro area, there was not a chance in hell that I could get the package today. I said, "So, because I decided to take a 15 minute shower, I have to wait until tomorrow to get the package?" He said, "Yes, ma'am." I think they must pay these people bonuses based on the level of frustration they can generate. Thanks to my shower, this fellow's family is going to Disney for a week.

Nearing the end of my rope, I drove to the post office, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, my package would be there - or they'd be able to tell me where it was. I stood in the long line and played counter clerk roulette. Would I get the one competent clerk or would I get the slow as all hell clerk? When it was my turn, I learned my fate. I got the clerk with limited English proficiency. With the growing number of Hispanic residents in my town, I'm all for hiring Spanish-speaking postal clerks. It's a great idea. However, if aforementioned clerk can't speak English, well, that's a problem.

I walked up with my slip of paper and explained my problem. He looked at me, looked at my slip of paper, looked back at me, and looked at the slip of paper for a few more seconds. Finally, he turned and walked to the back of the post office. I heard murmuring and he re-emerged. He explained that I could call the 1-800 number. Exasperated, I said, "I already did that." He stopped, befuddled again. You could almost hear the English to Spanish gears turning in his brain. Although he doesn't understand English words, apparently, he does understand exasperation and frustration. He turned over my slip of paper and wrote another number, a decidedly local number. The secret local number. In a slightly hushed tone, he instructed me to call the number and talk to his supervisor.

I got out my cell phone as I walked away from the counter. The supervisor said that the carrier who delivers the overnight packages hadn't returned and she didn't have his cell phone number. There's one guy that they trust with the most urgent packages and that's the one guy that they can't reach. Yet another well-thought-out policy at the federal bureaucracy. She took my name and number and said she'd try to catch the carrier when he returned later in the day.

About an hour later, my phone rang. The clouds parted and the angels sang. She had my package. I had 45 minutes to return to the post office. I ran out the door and back to the post office where I finally retrieved my package. Hallelujah!

I'm happy to report that I have successfully installed MS Office, I have visited a few of my files to make sure they're still with me, and now, I'm going to order some Chinese food for dinner. Tomorrow, I will return to work!

PG-13

I'll start by admitting that I don't have children. I'm still going to venture into a dangerous area and dare to offer some advice for those who do have children.

I don't face the myriad decisions that parents face on a daily basis - the most important of which is: How will I entertain the children today? A movie might seem like a good choice. Sure, you might have to sit through a mindless animated feature where forest animals use logic to solve problems, but for 90 minutes, the children might be entertained and quiet. Especially if you give them popcorn and soda.

Yesterday, I went to the movies and noticed a number of parents using this strategy to entertain the children. My friend and I watched as parents purchased tickets for themselves and the 1, 2, or 5 children with them. We wondered what movie they were going to see. All the movies seemed to be rated PG-13 or R, and none of these children looked like they were anywhere close to 13 or 17.

We soon learned which movie they chose - because we chose the same one. Iron Man. (Why I chose to see another comic book superhero movie after watching Spiderman 3 is a subject for another blog entry - after I figure out the reason.)

Based on my experience, I'd like to humbly offer some additional guidance beyond the film industry's attempt to help parents make decisions:

1) If your toddler is crying when you enter the theater, you should not find a seat and hope he or she will stop crying. He or she won't. He or she is beyond caring about popcorn. He or she is not ready to watch a 2-hour movie without talking animals. He or she wants dinner, because it's 5:30 and he or she is hungry. Cut your loss and go back home.

2) If your toddler has a tendency to babble, that's great. That's precious. He or she is developing and mastering valuable communication skills. It's not so precious in a quiet movie theater. In the end, your child will be better off if they don't master the dialogue in Iron Man. Cut your loss and go back home.

3) If your child has a tendency to talk to you while you're on the phone, turn off your phone when the movie starts. If you must take a call during the movie, go outside immediately. Other moviegoers get cranky if you answer your phone and punctuate your conversation with "Shut up!" to your child sitting next to you.

4) If your child scares easily, movies with intentionally over-the-top bad guys in big scary iron suits who blow up and smash everything in their path may not be your best choice for family entertainment. Sure, your 4-6 year-old boy will be taken in with the fancy marketing for the big superhero summer blockbuster. It's all geared for 4-6 year olds after all. But the actual movie may be too intense. Becoming desensitized to loud screen-filling explosions and sneering bad guys bent on world domination is not a critical developmental stage for 4-6 year olds. It's also OK if they don't sharpen their communication skills on mindless dialogue that alternates between threats and more threats. Finally, it's OK if they don't learn that women are only around to wear high heels and tight dresses and make sure the man has coffee and sex.

I wonder if I would have faced these same issues if I had gone to see the movie at 9:30 on Tuesday.

Finding Equilibrium

My computer came home today. It's still in recovery from its ordeal, as is its owner. I've never had to withdraw from heroin addiction, but I'm not sure that it could be much worse than my last 3 days. I haven't slept well, I've been disoriented, and today, I developed body aches. OK, maybe yoga helps explain the last one, but you never know. I know I should have something profound to say, like these past 3 days have forced me to rediscover the world beyond email and word processing files. Well, they didn't. They just made me a stressed out mess and I'm happy to have my friend back home. I need my computer and I don't care who knows it.

By the time I arrived at the techie's office this afternoon, he had removed all of my valuable music and data files - and I didn't ask how long that took. I felt guilty enough. I spent the next 2 hours watching as he carefully restored the operating system on my computer, making sure it lived up to its name and could in fact operate. I was back in business.

I asked him to install the Kodak software, to make sure that I didn't end up in the same mess again. "Sure," he said confidently as he took the disk and popped it into my machine. "Install," he instructed my newly-configured machine. It started to install, and whamo! Blue screen of death. We both stared at the screen and then started cursing.

He managed to stop the installation as it started up for a second time, thereby preventing the endless FAT32 loop. We breathed a sigh of relief that all of his work was not erased in a brief moment. Then, we took the disk down the hall and put it in a shredder, high-fiving as the blades whirred through the plastic and metal. I believe I heard the disk say, "I'm shredding, I'm shredding. Oh, what a world, when two humans can destroy my evil." Farewell, Kodak disk of death.

The techie transferred all of my files back to my computer and gave me specific instructions about iTunes and Windows updates. I wrote them down, because I've been so disoriented since Tuesday, I don't trust my memory. Following his instructions, I've spent the last 4 hours updating Norton, Windows, and reinstalling iTunes. Words can't describe how happy I am to see all of my music back in my iTunes library.

I've discovered the one glitch in this whole process: The techie did not install MS Office. So, I still don't have any of my programs. I thought about going to Office Depot and buying MS Office, but then reminded myself that I don't have any money. I finally broke down and called my father, the King of Computer Programs. I'd hoped to make it through this ordeal without involving my dad, because I was sure that he'd ask a bunch of questions that I wouldn't know the answer to. He'd get frustrated and then I'd be even more stressed out. Because I was able to report that the computer was working again, he was very reassuring. He said this kind of thing happened to him once and he'd overnight MS Office and a few other programs. Dads can surprise us sometimes.

I think I'm finally finding equilibrium. I'm still worn out from all of this, but I feel certain that tomorrow will be a better day. Yes, I'm still looking for a job, my TV is still fuzzy, and my vacuum cleaner doesn't suck, but tomorrow, I can start the day by checking email and reading the news while I drink my coffee. Getting back to normal takes small steps sometimes.

Two friends listened to my story and immediately backed up their valued computer files. There is a certain satisfaction in serving as a cautionary tale.

More Unfortunate Events

Seems my semester of unfortunate events isn't over yet. On Monday, I received my graduation regalia in the mail. The regalia consists of a kelly green plastic robe with cheap felt stripes stitched on the sleeves and a ridiculous hat. The hat looks like a combination driver's cap and eight-pointed shower cap. It's too big for my head. Yes, I fully appreciate the symbolism - head not big enough to fit into academic hat.

I decided that the regalia was worthy of a blog entry, and decided that words would not be enough to communicate the true horror of this get-up. I got out the digital camera I received for Christmas, snapped a few pictures, and got ready to join the 21st century - I was going to load pictures onto my computer. I started by trying to load the software for the digital camera. My computer started to install the software, then I got the blue screen of death, telling me that Windows had a problem and had to shut down, which it did.

The computer came back up, again with a blue screen. This screen said it was checking FAT32. I let it run through its process and it started to reboot. Next thing I knew, the computer was stuck in an endless reboot loop - it would start to reboot and then shut down before it was done. Very frustrating. It's really hard to fix a computer when it won't boot up.

I called a friend who advised me to turn the computer off and take it to someone more knowledgeable than either of us. Meanwhile, I kept thinking, "She has a copy of the dissertation. She has a copy of the dissertation." Trying to ignore the frantic screaming in my head, I packed up the computer and drove an hour and fifteen minutes to the tech guy at the college where I worked this semester.

After much manipulation, he was able to retrieve all of my files - whew! - but the computer is still broken. He explained that the camera software tried to access a corrupted driver and that's what sank the ship. He might have to reformat the whole damn thing. He'll also have to work on my computer in between all of his other work, so I'm without a computer for 2 weeks. My other option was to take it somewhere else, but I don't have money for computer repair. The techie assures me that I don't need to buy a new computer. I just need to be patient.

I really hate Bill Gates right now. And I hate Kodak for tanking my computer. I'm working from a friend's house, so I'm not in the comfort of my own home, but at least it's free and comfortable. It's just a pain in the ass. Yesterday, I realized that I don't have the file I need to complete a consulting project. Where is the file - it's an hour and fifteen minutes away. I asked the kind techie to look for the file and email it to me. He emailed 2 files that aren't anything like what I need. So, tomorrow, I get to go back to the college and collect more of my files. Very aggravating.

I feel very unsettled about everything now. Nothing seems to be where it should be, my routine is disrupted, and everything seems like a huge, insurmountable obstacle. If you're keeping track: My TV picture is all fuzzy, my car continues to make pinging noises when I turn it off, my toilet flusher handle doesn't reset on its own, my dryer bangs when it's full, and my vacuum cleaner doesn't suck. Everything else in my life sucks, so I guess the vacuum decided that it could stop.

Yesterday, on my way home from my new home office away from home office, I passed a church sign that read: Don't ask for a lighter load, pray for a stronger back. I almost turned around and gave those people a piece of my mind. Instead, I just muttered unChristian things under my breath.

As my life spirals beyond my control, I've decided to return to yoga. I got some indication that this might be the right decision on my way to class yesterday evening. I stopped at a light behind a car with a bumper sticker that simply read: It will be OK. Much more affirming than the church sign. God does work in mysterious ways.

International Incident

This afternoon, I visited yet another doctor's office. No, this visit wasn't related to last week's marathon doctor day. This was related to my car accident. Yes, the one I had in January. I've taken to calling it the accident that adamantly and stubbornly rejects closure.

When I went to a local doc-in-the-box after the accident, the receptionist told me that I couldn't use my health insurance because I'd been in a car accident. At the time, I had a hard time processing this information. I was injured as a result of a car accident, but I couldn't use my health insurance because I was injured as the result of a car accident. I've since gotten over my incredulity about this.

On the day of the visit, I paid the bill in full because they refused to see me otherwise. The other driver's insurance company eventually reimbursed my expenses. All was right with the world.

Fast forward to the beginning of April: I received a puzzling statement from my health insurance company saying that they had denied the doctor's office claim for my visit. I think I said, "Well, that makes sense, seeing as how I've already paid the bill." I didn't know why the doctor's office filed a claim but they did and my insurance company wouldn't pay. I thought this would be the end of the story.

Nope. Unfortunately, my insurer wouldn't pay because they thought I still had insurance from my previous job as a teaching assistant in the northeastern postindustrial wasteland. Sooo, the doctor's office started calling me. Correction - the billing people in India started calling me. Repeatedly. Apparently, they did not know my tried and true philosophy of life: Ignore stupidity and it will go away.

In several phone calls, the heavily-accented voice on the other end of the phone kept insisting that I needed to call my insurance company to let them know that I did not have any other insurance. I tried to find out why I needed to take time out of my day to call my insurance company about a bill that I'd already paid. In order to communicate this message, I needed to be able to communicate with the person on the other end of the phone. This turned out to be an insurmountable obstacle. I might as well have been singing zip-a-dee-doo-dah to a mentally handicapped gerbil.

I was out of town last week and returned to two fresh messages telling me that this call was very important in regards to my insurance. I'd had enough. Today, I went to the office and talked with someone who assured me that she would stop the phone calls. Ironically, I had to speak to this person on the phone. I'm convinced that everyone who is not a doctor or nurse at this practice is a cyborg.

The disembodied voice explained that my doctor's office in Georgia sends their billing business to a company in Maryland that outsources to India. The persistent Indians managed to get my insurance company to pay for the office visit, but the company wouldn't pay for the x-rays. She said that once the insurance company figured out that this was all related to a car accident, the doctor's office would have to give the money back. She apologized and said, "This is a good example of a situation we need to learn to handle better." Yes, I agree. And I plan to find a primary care provider and avoid all docs-in-boxes if at all possible.

I also blame George W Bush for outsourcing our overly complicated health insurance industry to India. Nothing, and I repeat nothing, that Hillary proposed over 10 years ago could be this screwed up.

Another Saturday Night

It's 7:35 on a Saturday evening and I just put on sweats. As I changed from my day clothes, I thought, "Time was, I'd feel pretty bad about this turn of events - Saturday night, no plans, no special someone to spend time with." Tonight, not feeling bad at all. I got home from the airport at 10:30 last night and I'm still worn out. Sweats, a glass of white wine, and X-Files on Netflix sounds pretty good right about now. I'm old and I don't care.

The nice young man who bought me dinner last Saturday did not call. He said he would, but he didn't. I don't know this fellow very well, but I've decided that he must live on the Lost island. This is the only possible explanation for his total lack of awareness when it comes to time. He lives in a temporal anomoly. According to him, it's only Tuesday. Plenty of time to call for a date on Saturday. Of course, if he does live on Lost island, he'll either be dead or stranded there very soon, and well, I just don't have the guts to deal with Ben Linus. The nice young man is on his own and I'll gladly spend my Saturday evenings in sweats. Ben Linus is one scary you-know-what.

On a different note, I read in today's paper about a 21 year old fellow who walked into his local North Texas bank and asked to cash a $360 billion check. That's 10 zeroes. When the teller rightfully inquired as to the origin of the check, the fellow explained that his girlfriend's mother gave him the check to start a record business. Sure, that sounds totally believable. Almost as believable as "I'll call you."

Quick thinking bank officials guessed that the check was a forgery, but checked with the girlfriend's mother just to be sure. The poor woman verified that the fellow did not have permission to cash the check - only after she started breathing again and regained control of her bowels. I'm not sure there are instuments to measure how far the multi-billion dollar check would have bounced.

The young man is in jail, charged with forgery, unlawful possession of a weapon, and possession of marijuana. I think the last item in the list explains a lot. I bet he still thinks he was demanding $360 gazillion. I'm also guessing that he's not dating his girlfriend any more. And people wonder why I'm still single.

Hotel Coffee

I'm back in Charm City for work. I've been here for three days and will head home tomorrow. Three days means three mornings of hotel coffee. Here's what I've decided - there's really good coffee, the kind of coffee that makes you happy to be alive and addicted to caffiene. Then there's OK coffee. The kind of coffee that responds well to help in the form of sugar and cream. Then there's bad coffee. This includes weak coffee and coffee that only dreams of a rich taste. It's coffee that has good intentions but just went awry.

Finally, there's hotel coffee. Hotel coffee is the coffee that they leave in your room. The coffee that only the serious addicts will drink. The coffee made from the beans that Juan Valdez and his mule stepped on as they made their way to the good beans. The coffee that tastes like liquified cardboard. The coffee that makes you think that your last caffiene-deprivation headache wasn't so bad. You can stand another day of misery.

But instead, you make the coffee. You try not to think about everyone else who has used this coffee pot as you pour the water into the machine. You tear open the coffee package, careful not to tear the pre-packaged coffee filter because you've done this before and there's just no salvaging the torn package. You also make sure that you have the regular coffee, because if you're going to suffer, you're damn sure going to get a fix. No decaf for you. You put the package in the basket, seam-side down. You're not sure why the seam needs to face down, but that's what the directions say, so that's what you do.

You hit the button and wait. When it's done brewing, you ignore the slightly rancid smell and pour yourself a cup. You know you're in a fancy hotel when there are actual coffee mugs, not styrofoam cups wrapped in plastic. Before you pour, you check to make sure that the black mug is right-side up, because you remember when your half-asleep friend didn't and tried to pour coffee into the bottom of the mug. You remember how you laughed as she exclaimed and jumped, but you know it won't be funny if it happens to you. You thank your friend for her cautionary tale.

Now, the good part. You open the condiments package and remove the envelopes containing the creamer and sugar - both powder. No matter the hotel, the condiments are all the same, two packets joined together for all eternity. No liquid in hotels. You tap the creamer, hoping against hope that the powder will slide to one side of the envelope and you can tear it open without spilling the precious powder on the counter. The creamer doesn't shift. It never does. You spill some, as you always do. As you dump the remaining powder into the cup, you pray that it dissolves because sometimes, the creamer is a brick that floats around in the coffee, daring the hot liquid to dissolve it. This is a bad omen. After the creamer, you repeat the process with the sugar. Then, using the elegant and graceful plastic stirs, you mix your concoction. It turns a slighltly lighter shade of brown. You turn a slightly lighter shade of green.

Finally, you drink. You drink quickly because you know that hotel coffee can only get worse as it cools. You're certain that the coffee is eating away at your insides, but you drink anyway as you count the minutes until you're back at home with your coffee and real cream.