Now I'm in a small rural town working at a meat store slash deli. (I know; don't try to keep up.) Maybe to make the town feel bigger, almost everyone has two names here. Some names I have written on my ticket slips for Reubens and cheeseburgers: Dirty Ike (whose real name is Ike, but answers to Dirty), Monkey (is that the best you could do, Jared?), Shorty (no idea), Stubby (Karl indeed lost a finger), Music (because Daisy Blossom was too normal?), and Natalie (because why not, Sheryl?)
I am called Abner by someone I just met. I'm a little embarrassed to answer in front of customers (who probably go by Ugly Joe or Tumbleweed), and every time I address Monkey I feel like a big jerk. I'll take Abner over "Little Girl," though, my next nickname. I am even asked if this is my first job, and another encouraging geezer tells me "if you can work here, you can work anywhere!" I know, grandpa. I already have.
I used to know people in Eugene called Doctor and Kiwi, and I thought that was normal. If Eugene ruined me, Richmond fixed me -- you will hardly find a Michael go by Mike there. This all seems weird!
The main fashion here is pajamas: from day to evening. Each street is like a different hall in the same dormitory.
My old coworkers, friends and family -- all city people -- have no ability to comprehend what has become of me. What are you doing again, Abra -- working a fruit stand? Potato-picking? Living in a treehouse?
Yes, I tell them, more or less. And call me Abner.
20120615
20120521
Salon and Spa
I love the dentist. I know you're supposed to hate the dentist, but I can't help it. A dental cleaning is like a spa day in your mouth. (Okay, so I guess I love the dental hygienist, but I feel like that comes under the category of "the dentist".) As a kid, I would slowly contemplate each flavor of polish as if choosing ice cream. Now they don't even ask, but I have moved on to more mature luxuries. Now my favorite part is answering smartass responses in my head while my mouth is wide open... "How is my summer going? Well, it was going great until the moment of now, when you just stabbed me in the lip."
In my earliest memory of going to the dentist, he gave me a ring, any ring I wanted. They were all cheap metal adorned with precious fruit, and I chose pineapple. It became my prized piece of jewelry. I was four; perhaps I misunderstood the reward and thought he was proposing to me. Children get confused easily. And why shouldn't they? Life is confusing. You begin by floating around inside someone's belly and from there it only gets weirder. Meanings, of symbols or words, are especially difficult to decipher. I know a toddler who thinks her daddy is a nice lady, and another whose favorite color is diet pink. How was I to know that a ring wasn't a proposal every time it was offered? About a year after the pineapple incident, I had another misunderstanding. I liked the curly-haired boy who sat next to me in our first-grade class. Inspired by puppy love, I wrote a poem of sorts, a work of art in crayon on construction paper: "To: Jacie / Nolan is my boyfriend / Don't tell anyone / From: Abra." Of course, Jacie immediately told everyone. Eventually I learned the actual definition of the word "boyfriend". Before that, though, Nolan stole my brand-new eraser and poked holes in it, so I broke up with him (unbeknownst to him). Art supply abuse is a deal-breaker.
The dentist didn't mistreat erasers, as far as I knew, but our engagement was effectively broken when he moved his practice across town. The new dentist gave out toys! As I got older and began a new relationship -- with the orthodontist -- it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't have loved the dentist so much. It came to my knowledge that the two were good friends. The orthodontist's last name sounded something like "Psycho," and I could imagine them having lunch together, conspiring ever crueler forms of punishment...
Dentist: Abra has been slacking on flossing. I'm so pissed. You got any ideas?
Psycho: I can always tighten the braces up a notch.
Dentist: I'm envisioning something more... painful.
Psycho: Well, how about affixing a metal bar to opposing teeth that will slowly pull them together?
Dentist, raising his glass: Brilliant! Cheers.
But that was only a bitter daymare of someone going through that teenage I-hate-the-world-and-the-world-hates-me phase. Now that I've grown out of that, I love the dentist once again.
Indeed, I love the dentist, but I hate the hairstylist. I have to confess, I have never been to the same one more than twice. It's pretty much always the same routine to thwart me:
1. Picture. I always use a picture, so as to minimize misunderstandings. The stylist immediately tells me why my hair will never, ever look like this. Which brings me to what I was trying to avoid...
2. Explaining. I attempt to use verbiage and gestures to convey my vision. The stylist ostensibly restates my request "in her own words".
3. Acceptance. Lacking proficiency in hairspeak, I can only repeat Step 2 before inevitably nodding and agreeing reluctantly. The stylist then does the opposite of what I wanted, and I leave looking worse than I came in.
Most of my salon experiences in Korea were literally a cut above anything I'd had before, but I finally fell head over heels for a stylist, happening upon this salon the day before I flew back to the States. Everyone in Korea has amazingly cute hair like anime characters, but based on the misinformation (lies and deceit!!) of American stylists, I wasn't sure it would work on me. "Your head not wrong shape," I was assured. "Your hair not too thick." And so I got the BEST HAIRCUT of my life with DOUBLE the communication barrier for less than TEN DOLLARS, calculating how much that would increase if I flew to Korea and back every six to eight weeks.
Inversely, my one experience with Korean dentistry was disappointing. After examining my mouth, the dentist concluded, "It's not too bad... but it's not too good either. The bad news is you have..." Drumroll, please. "...some fillings." Huh? Don't I know that? I figured she got her English mixed up; she meant to say "cavities." Then she continued, "The good news is you don't have any cavities." Oh, thank God, because for the last decade I had been wondering what those metallic spots were.
Back at home, I gave up on plotting ways to bribe my one true stylist to move to America, and set out to find a replacement. I superstitiously (or racistly) thought a Korean stylist would be a sure bet, so I found one nearby and gave her a chance. What she gave me in return could only be described as Early 90s Newscaster Barbie. Now I really need a spa day. Has it been six months yet?
In my earliest memory of going to the dentist, he gave me a ring, any ring I wanted. They were all cheap metal adorned with precious fruit, and I chose pineapple. It became my prized piece of jewelry. I was four; perhaps I misunderstood the reward and thought he was proposing to me. Children get confused easily. And why shouldn't they? Life is confusing. You begin by floating around inside someone's belly and from there it only gets weirder. Meanings, of symbols or words, are especially difficult to decipher. I know a toddler who thinks her daddy is a nice lady, and another whose favorite color is diet pink. How was I to know that a ring wasn't a proposal every time it was offered? About a year after the pineapple incident, I had another misunderstanding. I liked the curly-haired boy who sat next to me in our first-grade class. Inspired by puppy love, I wrote a poem of sorts, a work of art in crayon on construction paper: "To: Jacie / Nolan is my boyfriend / Don't tell anyone / From: Abra." Of course, Jacie immediately told everyone. Eventually I learned the actual definition of the word "boyfriend". Before that, though, Nolan stole my brand-new eraser and poked holes in it, so I broke up with him (unbeknownst to him). Art supply abuse is a deal-breaker.
The dentist didn't mistreat erasers, as far as I knew, but our engagement was effectively broken when he moved his practice across town. The new dentist gave out toys! As I got older and began a new relationship -- with the orthodontist -- it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't have loved the dentist so much. It came to my knowledge that the two were good friends. The orthodontist's last name sounded something like "Psycho," and I could imagine them having lunch together, conspiring ever crueler forms of punishment...
Dentist: Abra has been slacking on flossing. I'm so pissed. You got any ideas?
Psycho: I can always tighten the braces up a notch.
Dentist: I'm envisioning something more... painful.
Psycho: Well, how about affixing a metal bar to opposing teeth that will slowly pull them together?
Dentist, raising his glass: Brilliant! Cheers.
But that was only a bitter daymare of someone going through that teenage I-hate-the-world-and-the-world-hates-me phase. Now that I've grown out of that, I love the dentist once again.
Indeed, I love the dentist, but I hate the hairstylist. I have to confess, I have never been to the same one more than twice. It's pretty much always the same routine to thwart me:
1. Picture. I always use a picture, so as to minimize misunderstandings. The stylist immediately tells me why my hair will never, ever look like this. Which brings me to what I was trying to avoid...
2. Explaining. I attempt to use verbiage and gestures to convey my vision. The stylist ostensibly restates my request "in her own words".
3. Acceptance. Lacking proficiency in hairspeak, I can only repeat Step 2 before inevitably nodding and agreeing reluctantly. The stylist then does the opposite of what I wanted, and I leave looking worse than I came in.
Most of my salon experiences in Korea were literally a cut above anything I'd had before, but I finally fell head over heels for a stylist, happening upon this salon the day before I flew back to the States. Everyone in Korea has amazingly cute hair like anime characters, but based on the misinformation (lies and deceit!!) of American stylists, I wasn't sure it would work on me. "Your head not wrong shape," I was assured. "Your hair not too thick." And so I got the BEST HAIRCUT of my life with DOUBLE the communication barrier for less than TEN DOLLARS, calculating how much that would increase if I flew to Korea and back every six to eight weeks.
Inversely, my one experience with Korean dentistry was disappointing. After examining my mouth, the dentist concluded, "It's not too bad... but it's not too good either. The bad news is you have..." Drumroll, please. "...some fillings." Huh? Don't I know that? I figured she got her English mixed up; she meant to say "cavities." Then she continued, "The good news is you don't have any cavities." Oh, thank God, because for the last decade I had been wondering what those metallic spots were.
Back at home, I gave up on plotting ways to bribe my one true stylist to move to America, and set out to find a replacement. I superstitiously (or racistly) thought a Korean stylist would be a sure bet, so I found one nearby and gave her a chance. What she gave me in return could only be described as Early 90s Newscaster Barbie. Now I really need a spa day. Has it been six months yet?
20120221
Lost
Of all that I lack, a sense of direction is perhaps the most sorely missed. Mine is so bad, I've gotten disoriented in my own two-bedroom apartment. I've even lost my car.
Visiting a synagogue one day, I left the service to use the restroom, which was like the prize at the end of a maze. The most amaze-ing part was that I didn't get lost in the basement somewhere. But when I reentered the sanctuary, everyone was facing me! I froze. How did I end up at the front? I backed through the door, bewildered. I sat down on some steps to take some deep breaths and find some logic in this madness, and I came up with three possibilities:
1. I went the wrong way.
2. The entire congregation turned around.
3. I just opened the door to a parallel universe.
I'm used to getting lost, so I deduced that the most likely explanation was that I went the wrong way and came through a different door somehow. But carefully retracing my steps brought me to the same door. I couldn't think of a single reason the entire congregation would turn around and face the back, so obviously I had entered into a magical land where everything is backwards. I opened the door to see what adventures awaited me in this other dimension, but this time everything was normal again! New probability:
4. My exorbitant nutmeg consumption has finally caused me to hallucinate. I knew this day would come.
When the service ended, my friend Mandy teased, "I saw you look confused when everyone turned around." Apparently it is a regular part of the service to face the various banners on the walls while reciting creeds or something like that. I think I'll lay off the nutmeg for awhile, anyway.
Visiting a synagogue one day, I left the service to use the restroom, which was like the prize at the end of a maze. The most amaze-ing part was that I didn't get lost in the basement somewhere. But when I reentered the sanctuary, everyone was facing me! I froze. How did I end up at the front? I backed through the door, bewildered. I sat down on some steps to take some deep breaths and find some logic in this madness, and I came up with three possibilities:
1. I went the wrong way.
2. The entire congregation turned around.
3. I just opened the door to a parallel universe.
I'm used to getting lost, so I deduced that the most likely explanation was that I went the wrong way and came through a different door somehow. But carefully retracing my steps brought me to the same door. I couldn't think of a single reason the entire congregation would turn around and face the back, so obviously I had entered into a magical land where everything is backwards. I opened the door to see what adventures awaited me in this other dimension, but this time everything was normal again! New probability:
4. My exorbitant nutmeg consumption has finally caused me to hallucinate. I knew this day would come.
When the service ended, my friend Mandy teased, "I saw you look confused when everyone turned around." Apparently it is a regular part of the service to face the various banners on the walls while reciting creeds or something like that. I think I'll lay off the nutmeg for awhile, anyway.
20120121
Club Contra
I am convinced that at any given moment, something incredible is happening in the world -- you just have to find it.
The first time I went contra dancing, I determined that it was the nerdiest thing I had ever done, which is saying a lot. Until the second time I went contra dancing. This night was advertised as "Club Contra". I didn't believe it until I saw the lights from the disco ball racing along the walls and heard the thumping beat. We're going to do-si-do to this? We all donned glow sticks and someone went around painting one-of-a-kind tribal designs on our faces with glow-in-the-dark paint. Keep in mind that the contra crowd is largely over fifty. If someone had accidentally wandered in off the street, they would have been shocked and appalled: This is what goes on at the neighborhood recreation center at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday? How long has this been happening?!
As my partner is swinging me round and round in the neon-splashed darkness, I wonder how it is that I became part of this insanity and whether the teenaged DJ is experiencing the same existential crisis. How does a DJ even get a gig at a contra dance? (The only reason I even know about contra dance is because of ballroom dance... it's a slippery slope.) Bringing hip-hop to contra is like bringing a vegan dish to a Southern cookout - just going to be smothered with cheese.
The culture of contra dance is confused enough without bringing hip-hop into the mix, anyway. Perhaps due to the archaistic nature of the activity, people seem to have no idea what era to dress from. Anything goes, from shorts with bowling shoes to bright orange hippie dresses with lace-up suede moccasins.
Dance fashion is a problem in general -- just look at prom. Girls wear fancy ballgowns straight from Cinderella so they can jump around to hip-hop like they're in a club? Why don't they just come to Club Contra? Prom doesn't even have glow sticks.
The first time I went contra dancing, I determined that it was the nerdiest thing I had ever done, which is saying a lot. Until the second time I went contra dancing. This night was advertised as "Club Contra". I didn't believe it until I saw the lights from the disco ball racing along the walls and heard the thumping beat. We're going to do-si-do to this? We all donned glow sticks and someone went around painting one-of-a-kind tribal designs on our faces with glow-in-the-dark paint. Keep in mind that the contra crowd is largely over fifty. If someone had accidentally wandered in off the street, they would have been shocked and appalled: This is what goes on at the neighborhood recreation center at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday? How long has this been happening?!
As my partner is swinging me round and round in the neon-splashed darkness, I wonder how it is that I became part of this insanity and whether the teenaged DJ is experiencing the same existential crisis. How does a DJ even get a gig at a contra dance? (The only reason I even know about contra dance is because of ballroom dance... it's a slippery slope.) Bringing hip-hop to contra is like bringing a vegan dish to a Southern cookout - just going to be smothered with cheese.
The culture of contra dance is confused enough without bringing hip-hop into the mix, anyway. Perhaps due to the archaistic nature of the activity, people seem to have no idea what era to dress from. Anything goes, from shorts with bowling shoes to bright orange hippie dresses with lace-up suede moccasins.
Dance fashion is a problem in general -- just look at prom. Girls wear fancy ballgowns straight from Cinderella so they can jump around to hip-hop like they're in a club? Why don't they just come to Club Contra? Prom doesn't even have glow sticks.
20110301
Corporate
Working for corporate is not how I thought it would be. The workplace seems to be designed by child-me: It looks more like a college campus than company property, with a huge sports complex and beach volleyball -- except no one's skipping to play Frisbee in the lawn. And -- is that a treehouse? Seriously, there are two men in suits and ties having a lunch meeting in a treehouse. Or treeoffice. Nope, it's actually called the treehouse, which means I wasn't just seeing what I wanted to.
Soon everyone hates me because my job is to fire their employees. Well, their contingent workers, anyway. They only hate me over the phone, so I don't mind. It just seems odd that they would be so upset to lose a worker who physically assaulted his boss the last time he worked for us.
Since I'm in HR, people are always asking me to get them a job. The funny thing is that I am contingent labor myself -- even though my job is to fire people, technically I am not even an employee of the company. So stop asking me; I can't even get myself a job! But if you do get a job here, I can take it away.
After awhile the daily tedium of two hours of spreadsheets and six hours of busywork in a tiny room with no windows begins to take its toll. Although the life has been sucked out of me until I am a scary joyless robot, my coworkers still flash a big smile at me every time they pass me in the hall. I begin to suspect that the reason everyone is so nice to me is because they want to prevent a shooting spree.
Soon everyone hates me because my job is to fire their employees. Well, their contingent workers, anyway. They only hate me over the phone, so I don't mind. It just seems odd that they would be so upset to lose a worker who physically assaulted his boss the last time he worked for us.
Since I'm in HR, people are always asking me to get them a job. The funny thing is that I am contingent labor myself -- even though my job is to fire people, technically I am not even an employee of the company. So stop asking me; I can't even get myself a job! But if you do get a job here, I can take it away.
After awhile the daily tedium of two hours of spreadsheets and six hours of busywork in a tiny room with no windows begins to take its toll. Although the life has been sucked out of me until I am a scary joyless robot, my coworkers still flash a big smile at me every time they pass me in the hall. I begin to suspect that the reason everyone is so nice to me is because they want to prevent a shooting spree.
20100715
Real Job
I've been with the company for weeks now and I'm still not sure what we do. I must finally have a real job now, because I do less and get paid more.
That's not the only nonsense here. Each month we pay $200 for a parking pass that gets filed in a cabinet. I couldn't find the folder it goes in, so I figured it would be all right to file it on my dashboard in the meantime.
That's not the only nonsense here. Each month we pay $200 for a parking pass that gets filed in a cabinet. I couldn't find the folder it goes in, so I figured it would be all right to file it on my dashboard in the meantime.
20100607
Elevator
Do you ever try to get excited about going on an elevator? Sometimes I try to psych myself up for the elevator, like it's a carnival ride. I've been temping at this office in the second tallest building in the city, on the 22nd floor, so I have a lot of opportunity. I pretend I'm a time-traveller from the 13th century and I've never experienced such speedy vertical transit before. Riding the elevator is the highlight of my day. It's amazing!
Or how about cars? Imagine the thrill of zipping down the freeway if you were from the Middle Ages. It would be like a roller coaster. And phones would be a real trip, being able to instantly communicate with someone miles away instead of waiting for months to receive a letter by horse-mail. The whole world is Disneyworld for a time-traveller. The whole earth is The Happiest Place on Earth.
But I'm from now; driving during rush-hour is irritating, my phone continually reports that they've hired someone else, and it's entirely possible for me to ride an elevator and cry myself to sleep on the same day.
Or how about cars? Imagine the thrill of zipping down the freeway if you were from the Middle Ages. It would be like a roller coaster. And phones would be a real trip, being able to instantly communicate with someone miles away instead of waiting for months to receive a letter by horse-mail. The whole world is Disneyworld for a time-traveller. The whole earth is The Happiest Place on Earth.
But I'm from now; driving during rush-hour is irritating, my phone continually reports that they've hired someone else, and it's entirely possible for me to ride an elevator and cry myself to sleep on the same day.
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