EXTENDED STRESS Hotel.

My Cherryot was loaded to capacity, with the things i thought I'd need for two months, until an apartment became available.

At Extended Stay, I checked in with desk clerk--started to unload, and had to take several things up first (5 trips in elevator) before I noticed that there was a luggage cart in front with a tattooed guy leaning on it talking to another guy. "Oh a luggage cart!" I said. "I need that." He said he only had a couple of things and rushed off to get his task done so I could have it.

Meantime, I wanted to get the cats out of the Cherryot so they'd be safe and I'm sure they needed some freedom. That cardboard box in back of crate with litter was bound to be hard to lay next to.

I was trying to figure out what to do to get the cats up there safely. I also knew there was a limit of one animal, and so I had to be careful they didn't see two.

I emptied a small gym bag and tried to put Monkey in it, but she doesn't like being trapped, and I felt awful that I'd have to zip it up and scare her, and it was a small bag; I was stressing her more. So I dragged out the big red rolling suitcase, emptied it, and put her in it fairly easily, and then rolled her down the walk, through the breezeway, onto the elevator, all the while reassuring her in a sweet voice that it was okay and I was right here and we'd be in the room soon, etc. I always talk to my cats, explain things to them, as if they completely understand the English language. 


I put Monkey in the bathroom and closed door, went to get Biscuit. She's always harder to manage because these travel scenarios wear her out. Again, I discovered she was lying in the litterbox and wouldn't come out. She did that on my move here in 09. I had to move a bunch more things, just to get that huge crate turned so I could get the door open wide enough, because I had to reach all the way to the back to get her. Monkey just came out when I asked her to, and then I just picked her up. With Biscuit, it was another story. I would have to be aggressive and just grab her and poke her in the case, because no amount of quiet explanation would get her to do what I needed her to do. And I had to be careful she didn't slip out the door of Cherryot and run away. Horrifying thought for me.

SO she was in there and I asked her not to cry too loud so anyone would hear. Just as we reached the elevators, and passed a maintenance guy, she cried once, and I hurriedly coughed rudely continually, punching the elevator button. Finally the car came down and I rolled her in, and had another soothing conversation with her, for what it was worth. Even told her she was a pretty kitty and mommy loved her very much.

Got Biscuit in the bathroom with Monkey, and knew Monkey would console her, while I went to get the rolling cart and unload the rest. It still wasn't there.

Mind you, there was a memory foam mattress rolled up and attached to the luggage rack of the Cherryot, along with the litter box with that 35 pound container of litter, and couple other things. I didn't want someone to steal it. The bed, not the litter. My friends know that my foamy bed is as crucial to me as breathing, because I can't sleep on anything else without my back going out.

Finally I procured the luggage cart from Tattoo Guy and began loading it up. Hard to do, since most things were not neatly arranged in one size liquor boxes or crates. Had to be creative with stacking since a couple of the plastic tubs had no lids. I had to pull them out of the garden shed thing off the back porch of house and clean them out. Anyway, it took about 4 trips to get it all up there.

The entire time, I am limping because of my injured knee (thanks to my Awful X-- as in previous, X--as in crossed out, gone, no longer applicable), and my hands were so sore, and my spine felt like it had hot bricks for discs, my feet were throbbing, and my neck was making threats to rupture a disc again. If that happened, I was down for the count, and I would be completely immobilized. I hoped for good fortune and carried on.

Once in the room, I had intended to go straight to bed, too tired to shower. But then I had to find things and then I started unpacking in increments, and then before I knew it, I had unpacked everything, maybe it was just leftover nervous energy.

During this time, I was on the phone with my best friend Justi, and my spirits were considerably higher because I was allowing myself to feel relieved that I was somewhere I could rest. Make camp. I told her about the fine art of controlling a loaded luggage cart; it likes to spin around at will like a go cart with one bad brake.

Then I can't avoid the need for food any longer and about 12:30, I hoped there was a drive thru open. Problem was, I seemed to be in a section of the city that was a fast food dead zone. I drove North on Wadsworth, and saw nothing. I was going to use my Mango fast food app on my iPhone to find it but realized that app was lost in the last screwy update I did where I forgot to select to save apps. I searched it and got it again, while still talking to her, and she was on her computer trying to find me a place to get food too. Then I said I just wanted a cheeseburger and fries. Small. My stomach was shrunk. I had already lost five pounds from stress and exertion in the last 6 days. 

"There's an Arby's on Jewel," she offered.

"I don't want Arby's, I want a cheeseburger. I'm looking for McDonalds and Burger King, because I knew they were open late, too."

"There's also a Wendy's on Jewel," she added.

"I don't want Wendy's because I want fries and I don't like their fries. Too fat."

I finally located the Wendy's though, and drove past it looking for ARBY's because she began extolling the virtues of sliced roast beef and cheese sauce and seasoned curly fries. I didn't see it, and my stomach was growling and I was a little dizzy from hypoglycemia. I turned around and went back toward Wendy's. "Fuck it, I'll got to Wendy's. At least they have cheeseburgers." And then I discovered they had something called a Baconator, with natural cut fries with sea salt. Enjoyed a playful conversation with the order taker and got my goodies. The fries were delish, and when I got back to the hotel and tried the Baconator, it became automatically my new favorite burger, so it all worked out.

There was much I needed to do--I didn't have time to actually let the emotional aspects kick in. I was afraid I wouldn't get things done if I was blubbering like a two year old. I had paperwork from the court and advocacy group people to go through, information to fill out, notes to take in Daytimer, figuring out my next steps and priorities. I still had bills I needed to take care of, (that my Awful X had failed to pay, though she had used my money to pay HERS for about 4 months while she stayed unemployed). I had to update my bank account info before the bills came due, etc. I started my water distiller and drank what was left in previous jug, so dehydrated. My eyes were bloodshot, and I looked terrible in the bright light of that hotel bathroom mirror. So I graced my best friend with a photo of that and MMS'd it to her.  
The fact that I would post this is perhaps an indication that vanity is not one of my shortcomings.
 
I looked like I'd been dragged behind a horse. Or at least my EYES had been dragged behind a horse. Or maybe a goat. A large, feral goat.

On the TV the size of a breadbox, I'm sort of watching some movie called Teen Witch about a coven of high school witches. Ironically it was partly about them discovering their powers to take vengeance on those who had wronged them, and I wished fervently for a little of that craft. Then I started watching another movie and eventually fell asleep.

Next morning, fire alarms go off, pulling me out the door onto the balcony muttering what the fuck? It stopped and I went back to bed, then the alarms went off again, just as I was dozing. I went back outside to look around to see if there was any smoke or firetrucks and heard a guest below me mutter What the fuck? which made me think that was quite the appropriate response. My nerves were raw by now, this 6th day of the debacle, with 3 hours sleep, on top of 2 on top of 2 on top of 3, on top of 5 on top of NONE and none. I was certainly not going back to sleep now. I checked to see if my direct deposit had been transferred to the new account from the old one, and it hadn't. I'm getting more and more stressed. I called the bank and they said it would happen within an hour. So I got dressed and went to the front desk to arrange to pay for another day.

Enter, stage right, the archetype of Rude Managers. Anne, I think her name was. I had missed checkout time at 11. And because my money didn't transfer to my new account yet, I explained and said the bank was correcting, would be ok within an hour, but she said I had to be out by 3p. She wouldn't let me pay for another day, even with a credit card, she said I had to pay for the week. I said the agreement I had made with them on the phone was to pay for two nights and then pay for a whole month, for this month and then May, until my apartment was available. She said I had to pay for the week. I said I could pay her cash or use a credit card for one more night and then she'd have over a thousand dollars for me to stay the month, and she wouldn't budge, she said get out by 3p. Now, this was particularly hurtful and aggravating, because I had explained my predicament to her on the phone, and she knew I was escaping a bad situation. Before walking out the door I said "Just remember, lady, Karma is a castrating bitch."

SO then I'm freaking out, because now, not only am I dealing with the bank glitch, but having to load the Cherryot AGAIN, with no place to go afterward. I'm not good at feeling helpless or trapped, and this was exactly that situation, in spades.

At Justi's counsel, I called the Apartments office to see if they had a different apartment that would be available NOW, and if not, a month to month one until the other one was ready. If not, where would they suggest I stay? I was trying to go to the bank while talking to Justi and got so disoriented, I didn't know where I was. Took me 10 minutes to get the map to make sense on my phone. All the while I'm chanting, I am stronger that her (D), I will get through this. I will be okay. And then i  was angry that I was dealing with all this because of her, and for the first time in my life, I used that word I hate so much. I shouted, "She is such a cunt!" 

Then I had to pull over and take a deep breath, because I was losing it and I had to keep control in order to get myself out of this situation. I continued to chant I'm okay...I'm strong enough to deal with this, it's just temporary, I'm okay...

I went to the bank, and they were so nice. They did a credit memo, based on my direct deposit, and made $2000 available to me, in cash. I'm standing there at the counter at the bank, tears streaming down my face, my body throbbing, my knee killing me, desperately needing a drink of water, food and some sleep. I redeposited enough cash to cover the 200 dollar security fee, and $20 application fee I wrote temporary checks for at the Apartments, plus some fees for the cashier's check. Traded out the other cash for that. I kept hearing that song in my head by Billy Pilgrim: Got my own falling-apart-ment....

SO I left with a sealed envelope of $2000 and felt slightly better. Except for the possibility of being mugged. That would have been the first horseman of the Apocalypse. I tried not to think about it. At least I had money. I'd be very careful. I also had the $300 from pawning my guitar--which i was loath to do, as it is beloved, and a symbol of happier days when i was playing and singing with my band in front of a receptive audience... But strangely, having cash is not always helpful these days. Most people won't take it. And temporary checks are shunned. And I didn't have a debit card yet to get to my funds that way.

As it turned out, with the apartments, I didn't even have to go to the second choice of a month to month or third choice of asking them to refer me elsewhere, because they had an apartment. It was a 2br,  with a private garage…it cost more of course, but just as Justi said, I make more now and can afford it. Plus when I get my storage, I'll have an extra $135 from not paying that; and my Cherryot pays off in May, so starting in June, that will be an additional $330 per month I'll have. I was relieved, though still shaky and skeptical...

I spoke with Shelia (had spoken to Kayla earlier too) they all knew the story of what had happened. When I got to the Apartment office, Kayla came out of the far office with her arms wide, saying "You poor thing! Come here, you need a hug~!" and she gave me a big hug. It almost made me cry. She said not to worry, I was home now, and everything would be okay. That also nearly made me cry, because it did feel like home. All the things home is supposed to feel--safe, pleasant, convenient, with supportive people around you.

Before any business was done, Shelia came over to sit with us and the two asked me details of what happened. I talked about more of what I'd been through and details about D's arrest and that night when she threw the gun in koi pond. They were both rapt. It was like sitting with two old friends. They know I'm gay and they don't care. They were supportive and encouraging. It felt so good and went a long way to relieve my stress. I said I would be writing all about it.  Kayla said I ought to do a memoir about it. I said I already have a memoir about events 10-14 years ago; I had hoped never to have this kind of thing to write about again, at least not if it was nonfiction, and happening to me; but this is another kind of drama that would work as a memoir, yes. Or I could just make it fiction. They both said they would LOVE to read it.


Kayla rushed through the application process. When I went out to get my banking information, I grabbed the new final proof for Achilles Forjan and gave it to Kayla. She was genuinely thrilled and said she couldn't wait to read it.

So then, I went back to the bank to get a cashier's check, and re-deposit the 200 and 20 to cover the temp checks I wrote for security deposit and app fee, and trade off cash for cashier's check. Always nice to be recognized and waved over to a clerk at your bank--but I wish it wasn't because I had been in there earlier in crisis mode.

All this, I did without a single Xanax.


I headed over to my new place, feeling relieved, stunned, exhausted and a little happy, all at the same time. I kept thinking, and miles to go before i sleep...

EXTENDED STRESS Hotel.

Birthday Bash

Retro-post

18March

Stealing some time, here. Too much to tell. mainly, on the 12th, the day before my birthday, we had probably the worst episode to date. D. lost it completely. She swiped all the stuff from the coffee table, the end table, smashed a bunch of liquor bottles, threw her new bong across the room into the wall, breaking it. She sat and screamed over and over at the top of her lungs. I got scared she was suicidal, and i went into the bedroom to check the .38 in my drawer--it was already unloaded. I suppose she did that for MY safety. Ironic. Then i was checking her work gun and couldn't get it out of the holster--it was dark. She came in behind me and i'm sure thought the worst--I could tell she assumed I was suicidal--which i wasn't-- and i said, "no, I'm just trying to unload it.." and i guess she didn't believe me and grabbed it, took it out the back door and threw it in the koi pond. I'm thinking, why didn't she just throw the ammunition in there? why the whole gun?

Later, she tried to dig it out with a rake, and couldn't, saying that was a fucking $900 gun. I wanted to say "Well you're the one who threw it in there." But i didn't. Finally as I watched her get more and more agitated about it, i got worried that losing that gun would set her off again, and i got into the pond to get it--not knowing how cold the water was--it literally took my breath away. Then i slipped on the algae and fell. COLD. PARALYZING COLD. I got up, and slipped and fell again, wrenching my back. I finally climbed out and went inside, to take the clothes off. I've never felt water so cold in my life. I thought it had warmed up with the nicer weather we've been having. But obviously not. She just watched the whole thing and didn't try to help me.

The biggest problem was during all that,  i was faced with a horrible decision--to try to help her get through this, or call 911 and have her put on 10-90--a 78 hour psych hold. But i knew i couldn't take care of the bills and such since she handles all that now, and was worried, and of course also knew this would screw her dream of going to paramedic school and getting a job as it would be on her record. But i was so afraid she was literally in such bad shape psychologically, that it was the only thing to do. I agonized, and finally just forced my arms around her and held her while she screamed, i told her I loved her and i wasn't going anywhere, and we would make it. trying to calm her. It was awful. i never want that to happen again. 

Looking back on that...it lasted something like 15 hours...it was one of the most horrible days and nights of my life...I felt so helpless, so cornered, so frightened...it was like someone was rolling my guts up in barbed-wire pulley....all she could say the next day (13th--my birthday) was "Sorry I ruined your birthday." Yeah, just like New Years, Christmas, Thanksgiving, our anniversary, starting a business together, our trip to Alamosa, your marriage proposal to me...all those special events have been ruined. If i had some perspective then--like i do now--I would have left then (or much sooner, or not have moved in there at all). I would have said, "Yes you did ruin my birthday. You've also ruined this relationship and you're about to fuck your entire future.  Why can't you pull yourself together? You can't expect me to put up with this much longer..." But I opted for compassion. I told her not to worry about my birthday, that i just wanted her to be okay, that i wanted us to get through this and have that life we dreamed about...

I was stupid.

Birthday Bash

The Universe as Conscious Nemesis

Tuesdays. Usually innocuous. A day between that awful first day after the weekend and the hump-day that keeps us going until we reach another weekend.

But mine was off-kilter. It began in the wee hours, as any lurking ghost-reporters would have told you, I was cursing (again) the sad state of affairs in the world of Customer Service. They should just go ahead and change that moniker to Customer Disservice. I was on hold with Comcast, trying to figure out why I could not get online. This, after spending the last week, at the rate of 10 or 12 hours a day, trying to get my failing computer back into working status. There had been some nasty viruses in residence, that i finally found and removed using Malwarebytes. Seems the mother of them all these days is called AntiVir Solution Pro. It's claim to PC-crashing fame is that it pretends to be a program that found some nasty malware on your computer and politely--then insistingly--offers to remove it if you click the button. It even tells you it can sell you the ultimate way to get rid of them. All that clicking does is infect your computer more. The really malicious part of this fake-spyware program, is that it usurps your computer so completely, that you can almost never get around it. It keeps you from opening any program--including another virus checker. I got around it by booting into Windows and quickly going to task manager and removing any unfamiliar processes running, before the virus could take over. Then i ran Malwarebytes and got rid of it. But the damage was done. Apparently, there had been some corruption going on for some time. Anyway, I was trying to get back online so i could do some research and fix the other residual issues, and just could not get the networking devices to operate. So when I was on hold with Comcast for about a half hour, i finally reached someone, and then promptly got disconnected. I didn't call back. I was afraid I'd have a short fuse and couldn't bear talking to some foreign person who couldn't understand English--after i had so carefully pressed one for English.

So I called my tech service, Magic Flash Drive, and connected with the one guy who didn't seem to know what he was doing. They had no selection for English, and so I got a guy from --i don't know--Pakistan? Heavy accent, language barrier--there was no way to tell him what was going on, it seemed. He kept asking me stupid questions that let me know he hadn't understood a word i said. "Did you press enter?" or "are your cables connected?" In fairness, he's the only one at MFD service I found like this. The other two guys I've dealt with have been great. I've discovered that the good ones always seem to work after 11pm.  Anyway, I was very frustrated, and by this time, my partner, D. was about to be home from work (she's a night supervisor, EMT and Security Officer for a certain community. Love a woman with a stethoscope and a gun).

Ready for a break from the Tech-nightmare, I stood up, cursing my screwed up knee, and D.'s 100 year old Siamese, Kidd, urped on the floor, and so I had to clean that up. Then I was heading for the fridge for water,  walked into the dining room, and found a surprise. A big puddle compliments of The Little Bastard, as i call him. He's an irritating, incontinent dog who comes upstairs from the basement apartment, currently occupied by my partner's mom. He had finally managed to claw down the gate and make it upstairs. It's a stark reminder of why I don't generally like dogs. So i had to clean up that mess. 

Then D. called and says that she'll be late, because she had a flat, and gave me the whole story of how completely aggravating the whole thing was, and then she finally made it home and we went to my doctor's appointment at the VA.

Now, i have a knee-jerk stress response to going to the VA. My normal blood pressure of 120/70 become 145/100. It's related to that whole nightmare i went through for years with them and the military (for more details than you could ever hope for, see my memoir, Falling Through the Cracks: The Misadventures of No One Famous for a full telling of that crap). Surprisingly, the appointment itself was good. Meaning, I didn't feel the need to kill anyone, but the medication I needed would require a visit with another doctor, and that might be a week away. 

When i came out, i had to text D. to find her. Seems she'd gone to put money in the parking meter and found a ticket from the overzealous security folks who work there. 25 bucks because her tire was a bit over the line--only because the guy next to her parked like he was legally blind, and was way over the line on the other side of her. Bastards, all.

We took pictures of the situation, just in case we needed to plead the case, but ultimately, you just have to pay tickets like that when you work at night and would have no sleep on court day, and then have to go back to work that night in that condition. So much for professional courtesy. Or good sense.

So after that, we went back home and she had house and yard stuff to do so I could go do some errands I'd put off--deposit a rebate check into my dangerously low account, and to Wal-mart. On the way, at least three people tried to kill me with their paltry driving skills. When i got to the bank, i found they were not opening until 10am, so i had to put the check into the ATM night deposit. But I didn't know my account number. Luckily that was in my iPhone, but unluckily, my iPhone was in the Cherryot. So i had to walk way over to where i had found the last parking space on earth, and get it, and look up my number. I finally got the deposit in, sure that the scary bandanna-wearing Mexican guy was a gang member about to honor his initiation by mugging me, (but avoided that fate, at least) and headed off to Wal-mart to return the airbed i had purchased in an effort to find rest since the demise of my coveted foamy mattress.

I am afflicted with an inability to sleep on anything other than foam. I had been worried I would never be able to get another mattress like that because it seems that foam is made from petroleum products and we all know how the prices have risen on that. The mattress i was replacing had cost me $80 five years ago. Now, it seems, a comparable one (8" high density

sofa foam, sized for a full bed) was now around $300 and to cut it they would only charge $600 or so. Insane. For that price, i thought, I could just go with memory foam. But i knew those beds were several thousand. I thought maybe i could find just the mattress. So i began to search. My best friend was always trumpeting about the wonders of Overstock.com for good deals on everything, and so i looked there, and lo! --I found a 4 inch mattress topper in memory foam for around $80. I decided four inches of foam was better than no inches at all. (See? size really does matter). I ordered it and had it shipped. So, the trip to Wal-mart was to return the airbed, which was half-deflated the next morning after using it the first time. We took it off the bed and went back to the regular mattress with an eggcrate foam piece on top.

As most of you who read this blog knows, in the interim, i had to put my cat, Shoes, to sleep, and was dealing with the crash of my computer, which renders my whole life to shreds, and i just

didn't do much of anything else for a while, including keep track of the fine print on receipts that said airbeds had to be returned within a certain number of days. So here I am at Wal-Mart, dumbly trying to get a refund. When the clerk explained the time-limit, I argued. (What a shock.) I told her I had been dealing with a computer crash and a sick cat who i had lost, and just didn't get back in here in that time. Didn't' know there was a limit. She refused. I asked to speak to her manager. She refused. I asked to speak to the manager above her, and HE refused. Now, I'm thinking about my cat again, and crying, and thinking about my dead-in-the-water computer, and crying some more, and angry and upset that i seem to have wasted $45 on a bed i wouldn't use. The best they could do was exchange it. So they gave me another bed of the same kind. I left feeling like this was another example of stupid rules that should be broken sometimes by those with the authority to do so.

As i was unlocking the door to come back in the house, i heard a crash. I walked in and said "What the fuck?" A cabinet had fallen forward, inexplicably, and scattered two potted plants, trinkets and a store of food all over the dining room floor. I thought it was lucky I'd cleaned up the pee, or else we would have been plucking that stuff out of a stinky puddle. I asked her how the hell it fell over and she said she didn't know. It just fell over. For no apparent reason. There were no cats anywhere near it. I told her that the shadow people she always saw at night at work, who appeared and disappeared, must have followed her home, and oh great, now we have our own poltergeist. We cleaned up the mess and I said, "Baby, I think the universe is out to get us today and we ought to just stay inside and hide everything sharp." She agreed. We are of like-mind.

I told her about all the crap I had been dealing with, and that I had cleverly decided i would just wait a few days and take the airbed to another Wal-mart and get a refund within the time limit. That's when D. pointed out that the clerk had written "exchange only" on the receipt. Foiled again.

So I have to wonder, when I have days like that, if there really is such a thing as a conscious universe, and if it has the ability to peg you as the subject of its wrath. At least now, those bad days are shared with someone who loves me, and we can weather the storm together.

The Universe as Conscious Nemesis

One Thing After Another

The bird, the partner, the dog, the Fed Ex lady, coffee...

Status quo.

My cockatiel, Bingo, lives in a huge "condo" cage with every toy and snack and luxury a bird could want. But she begins to shriek as soon as daylight hits the windows, her nocturnal sleeping clock disengaged by sunshine. My usual groggy reprimands, like, "Bingo, hush" and "Bingo, shut up!" and "Goddamn it, Bingo!" don't help. But you know, i just always hope i won't have to get up. She wants out of her cage so she can perch on my shoulder, leave lots of poopie on my shirt, bitch at me to scratch her head, then bitch that I'm not doing it right, then jump down and pull all the cigarette butts from the ashtray and drop them in the floor along with paper clips, my lighter, and that pill I'm supposed to take each morning. Then she must punch the edges of all paper products with her beak, and eat all the pencil lead, (if there's any to be had), try to climb on my coffee cup for a drink, to which i say "It's hot" and she tests the side of the cup with her tongue just to check my story...

So forgive me, if I'm not too keen on getting her out of the cage.

But the shrieking. Lord God in heaven.

The only thing I've found that cures it (aside from avian homicide, or the free-for-all i just described) is to take her from the cage and put her in a dark closet or the other bathroom. The darkness makes her think it's time to go to sleep. And i have some peace so that i can go back to bed for a few more hours... I do that, and return to bed.

Just after slipping into dreamland, Giz, my mixed breed dog (the guess is half spaniel, half chihuahua) climbs up to the bed and starts to invade my personal space. Meaning, he walks up the length of my body and lies down on my chest. And whines. I ask if he has to go out- and i get that excited keening sound as he catapults himself off me, leaving another series of toenail scratches on my skin. I get up and go to the door, avoiding the dido movements all around me as he revs up for the trip outside. Another phobia, though, is of wet grass. So he goes to the edge of the walk, and squats about 3 inches away from the grass...on the concrete. I call to him sharply, and his flow stops as he darts back down the walk. "Oh no, you're not coming inside until you go--" I have to drag him toward the grass, but he still won't go.

So i go back inside and get my shoes and leash, and return, snapping the leash on his collar, and walking out into the wet grass, calling him. He finally goes, but not after a sniffing trek through the grass and back around to the pine bark--an acceptable compromise so that i can go back to bed finally. My partner is awake, and there begins some witty banter, at my expense, the details of which escape me. Finally, i just said "Stop aggravating me--i want to go to sleep." We do. A few minutes later, Giz starts making that awful sucking, "sick" noise in his throat that always wakes me up; a precursor to some ugly warm mess on the rug that i have to clean up. I rushed over and called his name, as if to scold him for this thing he could not control. He darted out from under his little sleeping tent, and i had to coax him to me so that i could drag him into the bathroom...i had to drag him since he doesn't like tile or linoleum floors. Another of the mysterious traumas he must have suffered before i adopted him from the Humane Society.... Now both children are in separate bathrooms. I set about cleaning up the mess. Done with the cleaning, my allergic rhinitis sneezing fit arrives on schedule. I have one or two every morning, but only after i am up and around, so now i'm looking for Puff's Plus with aloe. I have to get up and go to the bathroom to blow. I grab a peanut butter bone for Giz to let him know he's not really in trouble just because he made another bile stain on the carpet...he holds the bone in his mouth, stares at me uncertainly, moving toward the open door. I tell him it's okay, he can go.

I know i won't be going back to sleep now, so my first impulse is to make coffee, but both sides of the sink and both counters are full of dirty dishes. I unload the dishwasher, fill the carafe and then discover there aren't enough fresh beans in the grinder. Well, i love fresh ground coffee beans...and besides, that's the only way I'll get coffee out of them, aside from eating them whole, which i prefer not to do. So i have to grind some. I hate the noise- and maybe my partner will too (since said partner is still asleep) So then I'm sitting down with my beloved coffee and checking my email when Fed Ex knocks- Giz goes crazy barking and whining as always. He is traumatized by knocks on the door, too...The package is for my partner who is still in bed. I toss it on her legs and go to my office, where i close the door and hope to get this written.

And how was YOUR morning?

One Thing After Another

Clearly Not An Alternative

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)


With a phone and a pager, I could manage to drum up some clients for my little home pseudo- business. I spent almost all the income from a previous set of shows to make that happen. I went with a digital phone company because I liked the features and they only required $250 for a deposit.

My recent Chapter 7 Bankruptcy insured that a deposit would be required with any new service. Oddly, my previous good standing with the local phone company did nothing to decrease the $500 deposit they required from me in order to have cell phone service.

My first bill arrived, to the tune of $400. I knew there would probably be taxes and such added to the bill, but since I was expecting the $49.99 monthly charge, this was a bit of a shock. In examining the bill, I noticed that I was being charged for an additional month of service, another phone number, the phone itself (which I did not even purchase from them, but from Radio Shack), a month of service for the other phone number, plus taxes, and another deposit AGAIN.

I spent the next two months trying like crazy to remind them of the concept of "customer service." Each time I called the local store, I was confronted with a menu of options. If you’d like information about this, press one. . . If you’d like information about that, press two. . .If you’d like to hear an endless list of our promotions whether you’re interested or not, press three. . . I kept waiting for that selection, If you’d like to speak to a human, press twenty-seven. . . But it never came. Once it got to the end of the menu, the honey-dripping voice instructed me to stay on the line to speak to a "customer advocate." I waited, enjoying the strains of Air Supply’s I’m All Out of Love, and then Barry Manilow’s Looks Like We Made it. I recalled this as my High School Prom theme song. Appropriate, since it was a surprise to most of us and our parents that we graduated at all.

Finally, a "Customer Advocate" answered—not by saying "How may I help you?" like in yesteryear, but "Your account number, please." Whether we admit it or not, we have all become just numbers, like those prisoners you see in old movies in striped shirts with digits across their chests. I always hated that. I didn’t want to give them all my information, I wanted to get right to the point. But of course they had to have it in order to pull up my account and verify everything I was saying, because, you know, most customers lie through their teeth about everything.

In great, put-upon detail, I described the problem and got very little sympathy, and a whole lot of attitude. I was put on hold several times while she "researched the problem," and each time she returned from this dubious research, she assured me, in so many words, that they don’t make those mistakes. She asked me if I had a receipt for the deposit, and I said no (kicking myself) because I had paid in cash. *A method of currency unrecognizable and non-transferable after the year 1990.

"We always give you a receipt," she said haughtily.

I told her I received some sort of invoice, but that my deposit was not noted on it. Further, I recounted the fact that after my information was entered that day, their computer system went down, and the clerk had to re-enter everything, and wasn't it possible that the deposit wasn't noted the second time?

She didn't believe this was possible. "Our cash drawers would have been off by that amount if it wasn't."

All I knew was that I had paid the deposit. And maybe, just maybe, the charge was noted, payment noted, bringing me to zero, then entered as a charge, but not noted as paid the second time. This would be an error in their favor, and therefore resistant to change. Money is always the bottom line. My lack of money is always the norm. My lack of luck is always the norm, too. It was like my Guardian Angel was on vacation. I have this theory about Guardian Angels. Some of them are good at their jobs, and some aren't. What I know about the machinations of heaven, you can fit on the head of a pin, but at least I know what the pins are for. They're for gouging out the eyes of some Guardian Angels. I lovingly refer to mine as Murphy: as in "Murphy's First Law: Anything that can go wrong, WILL."

The debate continued with all the other items on the bill, and I explained that I had signed up first on the Internet from their web page, but found out later the page was outdated, and no longer counted as a real order. It must have counted somewhere, because I got charged for the first number and all the fees that went along with it. She said she would research the issue and call me right back.

I listened intently, but never heard my phone ring.

Since I was getting no semblance of "customer service," I called back, waded through the tiresome recordings, reached another human, explained it all again, and asked for the number of a district manager. Happy to be rid of me, she gave me the number, and I hung up to call him. Predictably, I got his voice mail, and left a message, again explaining the problem.

This game of cat and mouse went on for the next few months. Explaining and re-explaining the problem to each new Customer Advocate and District Manager, until I was ready to kill them all. Meanwhile, my bill went unpaid, as I refused to send payment until everything was worked out. My service was disconnected just before a flat tire in the middle of nowhere required me to use my phone to call for help. Naturally, this was necessary because I had a flat spare tire awaiting the emergency in which I could curse it. I had to walk several miles to a pay phone and fill it with change in order to find someone to come fetch me. With my physical disabilities this was particularly unpleasant.

Eventually, I actually spoke to one of the managers, and he agreed to "meet me halfway" by charging me half the deposit again and one month’s service charge. Reminiscent of the cop who was nice enough to give me only two tickets. He assured me the service would be restored if I paid this amount at the local store.

At this point, I was endangering the few clients I had for my computer work, and felt that if I had my service, I could get on with things and eventually get the credit back to me or onto my account. I agreed to pay, albeit under duress. *Murphy’s Technology Law #16: To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer.

So I went down to the store as the District Manager said to, and gave them the cash (everything I could scrap up including my rolled pennies). After they took my money, they informed me that I had to pay for next month too, or they wouldn't turn my service on.

I stood there, my system REALLY low on Paxil, and began to feel a little like one of those Postal Workers who show up with an empty conscience and a full clip. I said, "I was told by the District Manager that if I came down here and paid this, my service would be turned back on." She gave me some slime about "policy" tempered with a really shitty attitude, like I was some gutter rat who had the audacity to touch one of their phones--and I just lost it. "I want you to call him and verify what I've said. And I want you to call him right now."

"He's not available right now."

"How do you know that, until you call?"

"I know he's out of town."

"That's okay, he has a CELL PHONE!" I shouted.

"He's NOT available," she said again.

"Who's your supervisor?" I said, REALLY LOUD. *Murphy’s Technology Law #13: The first myth of management is that it exists.

She said SHE was the supervisor. I said, "Who'd you sleep with to get the job?"

The look on her face was almost worth all the hassle from the last few months. She said, "You can't have your service 'til you pay. Next!" And looked right past me to another customer.

It was at this point that I believe I went ballistic. I said, "I want to see a REAL manager, and I want to see one now!" And I went right past her BEHIND THE COUNTER and started searching the back offices. I was aware that I was causing a scene, and that other customers in the store were staring at me, thrilled that they would get to see something as exciting as a "Caught on Tape" episode.

She yelled at me, "I'm calling the police!"

I yelled back, "Call them! I need to file a report on THEFT BY DECEPTION!" and I continued to look for a manager. There was NO ONE to be found, and when I came back to the front, she was on the phone with the police.

I can't tell you how close I came to snatching the receiver from her hand and beating her to death with it. When she hung up, I had decided that those cell-bunks were a little less that friendly for my back, and I didn't want to spend the night on one. So I leaned over the counter and got in her face and whispered, "Watch your back," and walked out. I guess it was a threat. I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to have some kind of last word with her before making my exit. "Caught on Tape" was now quickly turning into an episode of "Cops."

*Bad girl, bad girl, whatcha gonna do. . .whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

By the time I got to my car, I think a massive aneurysm was in order. I had earned 4 tickets, been up to my neck in the red tape and bureaucracy of government offices, totally overwhelmed with chronic pain, sick to death of struggling to get by on sandwiches and coffee and five dollars per week, feeling terribly worthless, victimized and generally sorry for myself.Then I had to deal with this garbage on top of all that. I mean, what had I done to deserve such turmoil and hardship? Hadn't I tried? Hadn't I kept my chin up and my head down?

On the way home I cursed God, Buddha, Mohammed, Ghandi, Republicans, fertile women, and a couple of Toyotas.

Clearly Not An Alternative