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.

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.

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.

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.

Eligible Men

Ever since she began craving grandbabies, my mother has been taking annual inventory of the eligible men in my life. I tolerate this fruitless exercise only because some part of me appreciates the reminder that there are, in fact, eligible men in my life. Unfortunately, my mother hasn't accepted that I'm not yet desperate enough to settle for any of them. When I say settle, I'm not implying that they're not good enough for me. I consider myself quite blessed by the high caliber friendtele in my life, male or otherwise. But you can't force the heart. (Believe me, I've tried.)

"I know Tom likes you," my mother insists about my long-time best friend.

"Mother, please. That's practically illegal."

"What about what's-his-name, that worked with you...?"

"You mean Andre? The ex-drug dealer?" I try to convince her on the basis of his grammatically incorrect tattoo alone that we are not a good match. She is more concerned about his criminal resume.

"Who else do you know?"

"Let's see, there's Grant, the heathen; Brian, Tom's east coast counterpart; Jason-- oh, he has a girlfriend now..." I offer, thoroughly enjoying the futility of this exchange.

"Well, what about Mario?"

They say a picture is a thousand words. I'm no mathicist, but I figure a 3-D sentient talking picture is worth at least ten thousand. My mother knows Mario very well, so if she doesn't get it, there is no point in me even attempting to explain this one to her.

I met Mario when I worked at the warehouse. The next time I saw him was a couple weeks later during break. He walked right over to where I was napping, woke me up, and confidently asked in his Salvadoran accent, "Would you like to go on a date wit me?"

I was still kind of asleep, so I don't remember exactly what I responded, but I think it was along the lines of "NO." I could be wrong, though, because later he showed up at my house for dinner.

When Mario's car pulled up to my house, I caught him spraying cologne on a huge white teddy bear. He then presented this bear to me. I was a little embarrassed that I had nothing to give him in return; how could I have forgotten that it was National Inappropriate Gifts Day? I named the bear Luigi and gave him to my mom along with some baby clothes, to tide her over.

We've remained friends for years, Mario and I, but every few months I have to remind him that it's never going to happen. Last Valentine's Day was the last such opportunity for "the talk." He tried to give me a heart necklace and a Valentine card with a pre-written message including the line, "all the movies with all the lovers that say they're going to meet in Paris are not as romantic as just holding your hand." He claimed it was out of friendship. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he just didn't read it.

Mario was extreme all right, but he was not nearly as funny as Berto, the lead in my department. Mario at least had the nerve to straight up ask me on a date. Berto's version was as follows:

"So, I was thinking to maybe ask you to dinner."

"Oh, really?"

And that's as far as that went. Poor Berto.

Sometimes Berto would consult me about proper English. "Is it, 'one eye, two eyes,' or 'one eyes, two eyeses?'" he asked.

"It's, 'one eye, two eyes,' Berto."

"Oh. Your eyes is like stars."

Berto played drums in a salsa band. I must have shown too much interest in this, because one day he brought in a tape recorder, mumbling something about how he was practicing the night before and "accidentally" hit the record button. I suppose it was also on accident that he placed it in his bag, and similarly happenstance when he set it next to me, pushed play, and walked away. Boppity-bop-bop-boppity-bop-badubop-badubadubop... I just sat there in bewilderment at what just happened, wondering when the soundtrack of my life became all rhythm and no melody.

At least Mom and Luigi are living happily ever after.

Knock Knock

One of my duties at the store is to check the four fitting rooms, every half hour. In doing this, I become aware of society's lack of an established greeting for fitting room interruptions. After knocking on the door, I get everything from "Hello?" (are we on the phone?) to "I'm in here!" (don't worry, help is on the way) to "Who's there?" (to which I am strongly tempted to reply, "Interrupting cow"). Somebody needs to figure this out.

Stripper Name

My first day on the new job, I take inventory of my coworkers (not to mention 500 pair youth baseball pants that are impossible to fit properly on the hangers). Being here is a little like being in prison. We all ask each other what we're in for: "So, what were you doing before this?" Some of these people were doing high school before this.

The next getting-to-know-you inquiry I receive is in regard to my hypothetical stripper name (more critical than my actual name, apparently). At the rate my career is going, I'm going to need one. I choose Barbie. Later I learn that the girl who asked is, in fact, a stripper. (Must remember not to tell people that I work with a stripper - what would that make me?!)

The rest of the conversation revolves around art ("my new tattoo is gonna be, like, so rad"), local happenings ("...that fool come out of the club and be all trippin, sayin he gonna kill my boyfriend..."), sports ("...an later on I-84 those crazy @#$% tried to run us off the road), and family values ("family is overrated - that's how come I don't let my kids have a dad!"). I begin to wonder whether it is possible to get stupider just by hearing people talk. Babies get smarter listening to Mozart, right? I believe my concern is legitimate. Worker's comp?

Yes, at age 26, I have finally proven myself worthy of putting anti-theft devices on overpriced golf shirts. One day, while steadfastly doing this task for nine dollars an hour, my mind drifts back to the old warehouse and it occurs to me: There are illegal immigrants making more money than me.

I mentally cross out my name on my college degree and write in Barbie.