Netflix Flop

Let me say, first of all, that up until about six weeks ago, I was a happy Netflix customer.

They had nearly every movie I looked for, and I think it's great that renting a film no longer involves city traffic or stress about returning a movie on time. I just queue it up, wait 1-2 days for delivery. And, voila, it's in my mailbox.

[Assuming my mailman delivers mail that day — he regularly takes days off without having a temp fill in.]

I can keep the movie for as long as I want, with no late fees. With a flat monthly rate, though, the incentive is to watch as many movies as possible to get your money's worth.

But lately that's been nearly impossible.

Starting with the downed servers that cramped service for days just a few weeks ago — which I thought at the time they handled well (from a public relations perspective) — service just hasn't been the same.

Instead of a two day turn-around time between when I drop off a DVD and receive another one, the last few cycles it's been more like a 5-day turnaround. At one point I even reported two disks missing, having dropped them off early one Thursday and not hearing anything from Netflix by the following Monday (usually, you'll get an e-mail the next morning saying they were received).

But that's just the beginning.

Where in the World is Osama bin Laden? was sold out the one time I tried to see it in the theatre, so I saved it to my Netflix queue the very next day, hoping that meant I'd receive it the moment it came out on DVD.

When the film moved from the "saved" (in other words: not yet released) portion of my list to the "queue" portion, I immediately moved it to the #1 spot in my queue.

When the film released on DVD August 26, I thought for sure I'd have it August 27. But instead, its availability was listed as "very long wait," and it was another two weeks before this status was updated to "long wait."

I was immediately peeved, since by this point it'd been saved to my list for well over a month. Maybe even two. Shouldn't they have been able to meet their immediate demand by basing the number of DVDs ordered on the number of users who had the film in their queue prior to release?

But that, still, is not my biggest gripe.

You see, a co-worker/friend of mine was asking for my thoughts on Netflix, and I actually gave the service a glowing recommendation — with the aforementioned disclaimers referenced in our conversation.

He signed up and is currently in the third week of his free, 30-day trial.

Just for kicks, he added Where in the World is Osama bin Laden? to his queue this last Friday, when he still had some movies at home. The availability for him was immediately listed as "Now."

He suggested maybe I should remove it from my list and then add it again. You know... refresh my queue.

So I did.

"Long Wait," it said.

And this morning... well, early this morning he sent me this:*

(Click the image so you can read the type.)


Thing is, he doesn't even want to see the movie. So the good news is, he'll be loaning it to me when it comes in.

And while I'm happy about that, I'm nevertheless ticked at Netflix for so blatantly ignoring their loyal users in the quest to mislead (by prioritizing their demands) potential customers.

I understand this practice from a financial perspective but find it to be dishonest and unfair, all the same.

I think I'll just let my own screen capture, taken later this morning* — some two months after the film in question was saved to my list — speak for itself:



*Screen captures edited only to protect anonymity. No other changes made.

Still Further Proof that the Man Upstairs Hates Me with an Unabashed Passion

After penny-pinching for a few months and holding out for the best price possible, I recently bought some much coveted airfare at surprisingly low rates.

But necessity also compelled me to purchase a couple more outfits for work (figured "business casual" didn't call for holey shirts and frayed pants bottoms), which I did whilst enjoying a friends and family discount for the Republican Banana.

I even started shopping for a new wireless phone, as my contract was about to expire and it was time for an upgrade.

But God would have none of that.

Oh, no.

Rather, Maude has been suspiciously lazy and keeps adding on weight (not to mention, urinating in weird places), and a routine exam at the vet revealed that she most likely has a rare (though not entirely unheard of) condition that causes cysts — and secondary infections — to form in the bladder. What's that mean for me?

X-rays. Blood cultures. Urinalysis. Antibiotics via oral syringe. Temperature taking by means I'd rather not describe. Needing to add two more litter boxes to my one-bedroom apartment. Dietary supplements she turns her nose up at.

And lots and lots of money.

But oh, no, that's not all!

Of the two new litter boxes, the vet insisted one NOT have a lid.

So can you guess where Maude and Guest Cat both prefer to do their business?

Yes. That's right — number one and number two... from both cats... in the same, unhooded box.

That means litter all over the floor, occasional spill-over, and a smell that no amount of Glade Plug-Ins can erase.

The other two bigger, prettier — and most importantly, covered — boxes remain pristine.*

But that, still, is not all.

I went in for an oil change and found out my car was due for much more costly maintenance. So I paid the price, only to have them say, "Everything looks good."

But, hey, they topped off the windshield wiper fluid, and we all know how expensive that is (SMIRK).

In other words: I paid almost $200 for a few ounces of something I had a whole container of in the trunk of my car.

But wait — there's more!

Early this week, my cell phone (which is my main phone) went from old-but-functional to doesn't-hold-a-charge-overnight.

In other words: the battery is shot. As is its car charger, the bluetooth that goes with it, and the corded hands-free set I purchased to try and replace the latter on-the-cheap.

So I can replace the battery, bluetooth and car charger for my current phone at full price, or renew my two-year contract and get a new, better phone at a discounted rate.

OK, OK. I'm complaining when I shouldn't. But here's my real beef with the powers-that-be.

(And in this case, I mean Warner Bros).

The next Harry Potter film — originally slated to release this November — has been pushed back EIGHT MONTHS.

That's right. No more witches and wizards until July 2009.

That sound you hear — shhhh... — that's my heart dying.

A moment of silence, please.


*My priority, of course, is Maude's health — and I don't care if that makes me a crazy cat lady. Of course I wouldn't gripe about the money if I suspected she wasn't going to be OK. I'm taking donations all the same.

Georgia On My Mind

Apologies for two political entries in a single week, but I need a forum to sort through my confusion in regards to the Georgia / Russia conflict.

Maybe I'm not following the timeline properly, but I'm pretty sure last week Georgia tried to deny South Ossetia (by force) the independence it's been vying for since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and Russia (by force) told Georgia to leave South Ossetia alone.

And then President Bush steps in to tell Russia to end its Georgian aggression, asserting our allegiance with Georgia and calling Russia all sorts of dirty names.

Seriously, Bush? Seriously?

Is it just me, or wasn't Georgia the initial aggressor here? Or to rephrase the pop-lingo: "Georgia shouldn't write checks its military brass can't cash."

Essentially, the skinny kid punched the much-bigger-kid's little friend, and now the skinny kid is crying foul.

I mean, I'm as concerned about Russia as the next person. After all, the new Russian president was essentially appointed by the former Russian president, and the former Russian president is the new prime minister.

If that doesn't wig you out, allow me to rephrase:

Something is rotten in the state of the Kremlin, and it ain't the old potatoes outside the vodka distillery.

Even still: does that give the United States the right to tell Russia to leave Georgia alone when, in fact, Georgia "started it"?

Or is this all a microcosm for what we've done in Iraq?

Yeah, Bush, that's just what we want. As though our military isn't spread too thin already, let's add Russia to the playing field. And once this whole Olympics thing is over (oh, what ironic timing!), surely we can continue the international competition by inviting China to join in.

And, oh — oh! I hope North Korea wants to play too.

Now here's an idea: let's do the democratic thing and take a vote: all in favor of using our words to diplomatically (rather than offensively) tell both sides to chill, say "I."

And if that doesn't work — and Bush continues with the heated name-calling — here's a tip for Russia.

Say it with me.

I'm rubber, and you're glue...

1/0

The camel and his straw may be a cliche, but it most certainly is not a myth.

In fact, I have felt it very recently: that inscrutable push over a ledge I've previously traipsed with relative elegance (all klumsiness aside).



And, no, I'm not talking about how, this weekend, I fell down half a flight of stairs at a popular sporting event only to hear a crowd utter "Ohhhhh!" in a sort of bemused unison.



[In hindsight, I actually found that experience to be rather humorous myself.]

It doesn't matter what I'm talking about, really: the particulars so seldom do. Because, with moments like this there is little to say but the obvious:

Nothing I do now will change a thing.




And yet: my perspective has changed entirely.




Losing people is funny like that; like that favorite pair of socks and the mysterious mate that slinks away after a single washing.

It's gone. There's nothing you can do. Best to move on while your legs are still strong enough to do the walking.



And so onward you drive, 5 mph in a 40; your 20 miles taking 90 minutes. You crawl and you sigh, watching and marveling as you're passed by scowling women in every shade of Mercedes; and blue-toothed men gesturing from their Beemers and six-cylinder Inifities.



I, too, could go on forever, you think.

[And often do.]



Along the way there are homes, too: brilliant, beautiful castles and mansions interspersed with the occasional, charming cottage (more my style). And yet: all beyond anything I'll ever see from the inside.




"My life goal," I tell family and friends, "is to have my own washer and dryer."

Forget the 4 bedroom home and the picket fence. Forget the 2 1/2 children and the 3 car garage. Forget the book deal and the trip to Scotland: I want to stop doing my laundry where the cockroaches outweigh my cat and the change machine is graffitied with gang signs.



Is that too much to ask for?

Some days, yes.

Yes it is.



And there is this train, this beautiful train. Layered with dirt, puddles of urine caked half-dry and sticky in particular corners. The people are amazing, looking every direction but at each other.

"This is my stop," you say, lost in the middle of everything.

"This is my stop."




You look around you only to see what you knew all along: that every head is down





and no one is listening.

Memoirs of the Passing

Everyone traded in those days.

My ham sandwich for her peanut butter. My necklace for her dog-eared copy of The Princess Bride.

His calculator watch for my tin pencil case.

It was pink, I remember, and bore the logo of some sort of bubble gum: Bubbalicious; maybe Hubba Bubba. Whatever it was, it was the pride of my collection and he wanted it.

And how could I refuse him, particularly when his offer was so generous? He being one of the earliest crushes of my youth (Erik Estrada and Hulk Hogan notwithstanding), with his dark hair and eyes; ivory skin; that inscrutable cowlick; and a smile as ornery as it was innocent.

Kids loved him — I mean, he wasn't the playground jock (in hindsight, I don't recall ever seeing him on the playground — or in gym, for that matter) or the class wunderkind. But he was a good kid all the same, and even I — at the young age of eight — could see it.

And so it was to him that I parted with my beloved pencil case, making regular visits to his desk to see what treasures it stored. And in turn: he'd give me the occasional scented pencil or dinosaur-shaped eraser.

You know — valuable stuff.

The school year passed in kind, and then the summer, but then a funny thing happened when classes resumed:

He was nowhere to be seen. Not in my homeroom, not in any. He had disappeared as if overnight, an absence not easily missed by the dozens of kids who listed him among their friends.

In time we learned that he'd transferred to another, much larger school in our county for reasons that remained unclear. But he was somewhere, at least, and we took solace in knowing that he hadn't yet vanished from this planet altogether.

At some point that year, a class field trip took us to the county courthouse for a mock signing of the United States Constitution. Rumors quickly began to circulate that Steve* was there — that he was part of the elementary school choir belting out patriotic tunes from the rafters.

I looked for him as my class rounded the building, eventually entering into the room where kids my age were dressed in robes. I looked up to see him smiling down, breaking form to wave to me (and perhaps whoever I was with — I seem to have blocked out the the faces of my companions in this particular memory). I waved back, smiling, wondering if his new school desk housed that old familiar tin.

***

It is funny to me how sometimes the particulars of a memory will escape me: like the faces of my friends on that trip, or the actual grade I was in when my classmates and I split into smaller groups and played a game designed to generate discussion of current events (not to mention, learn more about our peers).

The game went a little like this:

You'd draw a card that asked a Yes or No question about a current event with an ethical twist that forced one of your classmates to determine how they would handle a situation. So you'd draw your card, read the question silently to yourself, write down on a piece of paper the person in your group that you were going to pose the question to, and then whether your felt their answer would be "Yes" or "No."

When Todd drew his card and then turned to me, I wasn't nervous in the least. From a young age I'd had an understanding of worldly, political events — couple that with my firm belief system, and I had nothing to fear.

Until I heard his question.

"If you were the principal of an elementary school and you found out that one of your students had AIDS, would you allow them to stay?"

I should add here that the Ryan White story was not far removed from us, neither in distance nor in chronology (in fact, Ryan was the age of my older sister). And so much the particulars about the disease (including its pathology) hadn't yet reached the masses. There were rumors that it could be transmitted through sweat; there were rumors of angry, HIV+ patients spitting on the open wounds of non-infected people in hopes of contaminating them. We didn't know yet if mosquitoes, in all their blood lust, could transmit the virus, and suddenly the idea of being "bitten" was more than just a minor inconvenience — it was something to lose sleep over.

All of these thoughts buzzed through my pre-pubescent mind as I formulated my response, still fumbling for words and pleading to be allowed to qualify my response.

"Well, can we make sure they don't participate in activities where they could get hurt?" I asked. "And will all of their teachers have rubber gloves just in case?"

But my inquisitor wouldn't allow exceptions. "I think you just have to answer 'yes' or 'no,'" he said.

My babbling persisted all the same: I said that it was very unlikely to be the kid's fault that they were sick, and I'd really like for him/her to be able to stay, but we knew so little about the disease. I said I worried about how the kid would be treated if other students found out, with my response fluctuating between nervous extremes: more sweat oozing from my pores in those few minutes than in all the hours I spent — years later — huddled into a computer lab taking comprehensive exams for my graduate studies.

Todd looked at me, a curious expression magnified (and yet distorted) by his bottle-cap glasses.

"I guess since we know so little..." I paused. "And since I can't guarantee anything... I'd have to say 'no' — at least for now. But maybe once we learned more, that could change."

"So you're saying 'no?'" he asked.

"If I have to choose one or the other with so little information — yes. I'm saying 'no.'"

"Wow," he said, throwing his card onto the table. "I thought if there was anyone in this room who'd say 'yes,' it'd be you."

I don't believe I've ever been quite so ashamed of myself.

***

Again, years become hazy as I cannot recollect the day it was when I saw his picture in the paper, a friend having called to tell me to turn to page three.

I didn't recognize him at first: only the name, there in bold at the top of the page, followed so loudly by his age — was it 18? Was it 19? Maybe 20? Why can't I remember?!

"Oh my God," I said. "What happened?"

I read the obituary looking for the tiniest morsel of a detail. But little was given — just enough to make us wonder as the rumors circulated, later to be clarified as fact.

He was a hemophiliac, an illness that created the need for transfusions at the most unfortunate time in our nation's history.

And however long he was sick, none of us knew. Did he have it when we knew him? Did he know? Does it matter?

And I wish I could fill in the gaps. I wish I could paint — beautifully and flawlessly — the recollections of my life.

Because there are times, I swear to you, when I hope to God that I was asked that question (as I believe I was) two or three years after he had disappeared from our school. That he never had to hear me say that — yes, Steve, if it'd been up to me — that I may have lacked to courage to stand up with my friend.

That cute boy with ivory skin, dark eyes, a cowlick, and a mischievous grin.

And yet: somewhere in my mind's eye I imagine him joining us as that table, his face a curious mixture of fear and disappointment as I clumsily worked my way to my final response. And once again I feel, burning deep in the pit of my stomach, a certain shame that will never be undone.


*Not his real name.

The Everlasting Yawp

On more than one occasion, I've been asked how I came up with my blog title.

"What is a 'yawp'?" readers sometimes ask. "And why do you call your blog that?"

Previously I'd addressed those questions individually as they arose, and I did so again when a friend — who apparently wasn't paying attention in literature classes we took together — looked up "yawp" in the dictionary and informed me that to "yawp" meant to "clamor" or "complain."

But upon further inspection, I found out the the connotation of "yawp" is far different from my intent — or Walt Whitman's, for that matter:

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world. ("Song of Myself")

In which case, for me, "yawp" has nothing to do with "raucous or querulous speech" (Dictionary.com) and if my blog has more to do with "a noisy, foolish utterance" (also Dictionary.com), then I've completely failed in my objective (though I'm be the first to admit there's plenty of that here, too).

But for this "yawp," you'd have to look to Whitman for a definition — to understand the sort of earth-shattering emotion, universality, spirituality and cosmic understanding that goes into a yelp of "barbaric" proportions.

Which isn't to say I'm trying to compete with Whitman (I can't), but that sometimes I understand the burning desire to shout over rooftops.

Even as I fail, time and time... again.

The Ugly Truth about V.D.

For those of you pleading shamelessly for your significant other to buy you any variety of expensive jewelry for Valentine's Day — or you boys who are seriously considering such a purchase — I would just like to take this moment to remind you first that if love could be purchased, Hugh Grant would've committed no crime.

And second: "Blood Diamond" isn't just a movie title. In fact, those shiny things you poke through your ears and slip over your finger don't just cost a lot of money. Rather, there's a decent chance any number of people died as a result of your gross mis-estimation of beauty. No offense.

Have a nice day!

Ellie Mossy Nary

el·ee·mo·sy·nary, adj.
(e-li-ˈmä-sə-ˌner-ē, -ˈmō-; -ˈmä-zə-)
of, relating to, or supported by charity

For the past few years, most of my charitable donations have been directly to people: whether friends or co-workers raising money for a cause, or firemen and Misericordia volunteers at busy intersections.

But a couple months ago another charity — which addresses an illness that most commonly afflicts children, but is also increasingly common in adults — sent me some lovely address labels. I couldn't use them and not pay for them; couple this with the fact that I had long wanted to do something for this particular non-profit, and I decided to go ahead and cut them a check.

It wasn't a huge amount by any means: more than enough to cover the costs of the labels and kick a little fundage into their research.

I wish I could say my story ends there but, alas, this is just the beginning.

Now before I proceed, allow me to say that I understand non-profits send out "gifts" like that precisely because it guilts people into a donation, thereby increasing the likelihood of a response.

But I had no idea what was in store for me.

In the past 12 weeks, I have received at least one new set of address labels every week. And though I would like to report that each set comes from a different charity, in fact the vast majority (though not all) of them have been sent by the original charity to which I donated. In which case, I'm pretty sure they've essentially spent all of the money I sent to them by sending me more labels — and thus more pleas for donations.

I'm terribly conflicted about this, as I do feel an inclination to donate again. And again. And I feel like I can't use the labels in good conscience unless I pay for them. But if they keep sending to me, and I keep paying...

Here's the thing: I don't need this many labels. Heck, I bought a whole bunch when I moved last spring, and I've not even used half of that lot. And now I have hundreds more! Some Halloween themed, general fall themed, winter themed, Christmas themed (three sets from three different charities), underwater themed, rose themed and now — spring themed!

So here's my question: when is enough enough? Do I buy into their gimmick by donating every time they send me something I didn't ask for? Or do I put away my checkbook now, refusing to support a charity — no matter how good its cause or its intentions — that clearly wastes a great deal of money?

Bear in mind, I'm not a wealthy person. And I do volunteer my time, so I "give" to charities in other ways.

But on this issue, I'm torn. Feel like a jerk if I don't donate each time. And a sucker if I do.

Zen and the Art of Butt Dialing

Who dialed You was me indeed
And me Wireless with one flaw
Tho' Yuppies, blue in tooth and claw
With chagrin, phoned despite no need. ~Alfred Lord Tennyson***

---

A few months ago I went to call (who I thought was) the last person in my call history, which I can quickly do from my mobile phone by simply hitting "send."

But the name that popped up wasn't someone I had ever called before. In fact, it was the friend of a friend who called me once when he was in town visiting — several weeks prior to this — trying to talk me into hanging out with them. I stored his number just in case I needed to call him later that evening.

I didn't.

So imagine my surprise when I see his name there and — thinking I'll need to call my friend to make sure everything was all right (my immediate response was that something was wrong, as the call had come through around 7 a.m. that morning) — I press further into the matter only to realize I had called him.

For four minutes.

It's called "butt dialing" — and it's an epidemic that's infecting gym bags, book bags and tight pockets nationwide.

***
But it's rare I accidentally call someone I seldom and/or have never called. Generally, my blasted Blue Tooth headset — squeezed tightly into the corners of my shoulder bag — will automatically turn on if pressed. And then automatically dial the last person in my call history with one additional short press of the button.

This, I am sorry to say, happens far more often than I care to admit. In fact, I'd estimate I "butt dial" at least once every couple of weeks, thanks in part to the fact that there's no convenient way to store these tiny headsets (how about a compact case, for crying out loud!), and in part to the fact that Motorola decided it was wise to activate these beasts by simply exerting a modest amount of pressure (I'd prefer a small switch, though I realize those could break off).

Now, I don't mean to blame technology for my own shortcomings. It's true I can turn off the Blue Tooth feature on my phone, but that means if I want to use my Blue Tooth headset (which I only use when I need to make a call while driving, or when multi-tasking from home), it takes four more steps to fire it up each time I want to call someone — which pretty much defeats the purpose of hands-free dialing. ***
So, anyway, I've long had a reputation among friends and family for not revealing too much by way of my personal life, or for participating in community gossip.

I decided fairly early in life that I should carry on private conversations as though they were being overheard. In other words: be wary of saying anything that could hurt someone's feelings (even if they're nowhere to be seen) or leaking any details about my life that I wouldn't openly share with Mom and Dad.

And as I sat at the Swedish restaurant Saturday morning and got out my phone to set the ringtone to silent — and realized I was unwittingly "involved" in a five minute conversation with someone's answering machine —

I decided that — now more than ever — it's best to be careful what you say (or do) aloud.


***Just kidding. That's me revisiting the original Tennyson. In 2008.

Not a Hippie

OK, yeah, maybe I like the smell of patchouli candles, and maybe I'd burn more incense if it didn't give me such a terrible headache. Maybe I occasionally wear peasant skirts, and maybe I get all warm and fuzzy when I see that Florida's Natural is finally promoting the fact that it's one of few national brands that doesn't get its oranges from South America (not that I have a problem with South America — it's just that the current method for harvesting crops there comes at a huge expense to our environment).

But I've never smoked anything, and I don't own a single Grateful Dead album.

[Though I like them OK.]

So, um... take that, people at work.

It's My Potty and I'll Cry If I Want To

The Good News: My toilet has been sufficiently repaired, insofar as flushing is now a veritable breeze. I simply push the lever, and — voila! — homeostasis is achieved. No holding, jiggling or caressing required.

The Bad News: The porcelain cover to my toilet tank now looks like this:

(That yellow stuff is gorilla glue peeking up through the parts I was sorta able to fit back together).


The Ugly News, Part I: I appear to have a single, tiny sliver of said porcelain lodged into the soles of each of my feet.

The Ugly News, Part II: Tank covers aren't sold separately from tanks. At least, that's what I was told at each of the three hardware stores I went to — including two big chains and one locally owned treasure. I did, however, find a plumbing supply store that sells them online. Now, once I figure out which model of American Standard toilet I have, I'll be spending anywhere from $60 to $150 for the lid.

The Ugly News, Part III: Yesterday while attempting to straighten up my bed, I noticed the sheets were soaked through at the head of my bed. Ditto with my pillowcases. Upon further inspection, I realized yellowish water was oozing out of my walls in three different spots, even damaging the back of the painting that hangs behind my bed (which just happens to be my favorite piece of unoriginal wall art). I've yet to determine the cause, and for now I'm calling the mysterious substance "ectoplasmic residue."

Where are the Ghostbusters when you need them?

Random Thoughts Concerning the News

In the Future, Even Wires are Wireless
So Amazon recently unveiled the Kindle, which the company is describing as a "wireless reading device."

While I certainly see the merits of this new contraption, I would like to take this moment to remind everyone that books — or "reading devices," if you will — are wireless, too.

---

Sometimes You Gotta Let the Story Speak for Itself
So I've been getting really irritated with NPR lately, as the last few broadcasts I've heard have had obvious editorial undertones despite being presented as actual "news." Even though I generally agreed with those undertones, the news — in my perfect world — is never slanted. It's presented "as is," regardless of the opinion of the reporter and his/her employer. This goes double for you, Fox News.

Anyway. I first noticed this story yesterday and was amused to find it completely devoid of a slant. It tells the story, has quotes supporting both sides, and ends.

It's written like that for obvious reasons.

---

Time to Make the Donuts
I wish I could take credit for the below image, but I can't. It was sent to me via e-mail without credit to the photographer.

Go ahead.

Laugh.



It's OK to have a sense of humor.

Sorry About Last Night Urchin

The title of this post has nothing to do with this post.*

Rather, it was the subject line of some spam I received today, and it amused me enough that I felt compelled to share.

And now for something completely different.

Ever since I moved into my most recent apartment — in my "series" of apartments — flushing the toilet has been anything but simple.

You have to hold the handle for 5-10 seconds in order for it to flush properly. And even then, there's no guarantee everything'll go down.

A couple months ago, the handle stopped working altogether, and when I peered into the tank it looked like there was a "string" connecting the handle to the flush valve, where normally there is a chain.

The "string" appeared to be broken.

So I called my landlady, hoping that when the "string" was replaced, I'd no longer have to "hold the handle" in order to flush.

Because, contrary to popular belief, I *do* have more important things to do with my time. Like brushing my cat's hair, counting the number of pink bears in my Beanie Baby collection, and writing boring blog posts about toilets.

And wouldn't you know it, not only did I still need to hold the handle, but after the "string" was replaced in addition to holding the handle, the water would henceforth keep running unless I jiggled the handle 2-3 minutes after the flushing was complete?

Call me crazy, but I don't think flushing a toilet should be so complicated.

But I dealt with it all the same, my frustration culminating in embarrassment when a couple friends visited two weeks ago, and the "string" again broke around 1 a.m. Sunday morning. I informed my friends, recommending they "hold it in" until we could find someplace to go (literally) in the morning.

I woke up around 7 to the sound of someone jiggling the handle and removing the tank lid.

"I fixed your toilet," one of my friends boasted in lieu of good morning.

"Awesome! You're quite the plumber," I continued, adding the requisite joke involving plumbers and crack.

She further informed me that the "string" (more observant readers have likely detected the annoying presence of quotation marks in this post) was actually a rusted old wire that was broken into two pieces that hooked into each other.

In short: she had hooked them back together (which is most likely all my landlady did in the first place, and most likely what she'd do if I called her again).

And I hoped that'd work. Hoped the fix would at least carry me through a couple more months.

But it hardly lasted the day. In fact, I'd estimate in the last week, I've "repaired" my toilet more than a dozen times — and I was out of town for three days. A couple of times, even, I got out my gloves and my pliers and set about to reconfigure the "hooks" altogether so they'd be less likely to slip loose from one another.

And each time: that'd work for about 24 hours before a piece of metal would break off, turning one of the hooks into a straight (and now shorter) wire.

And, yes, each time I'd STILL need to hold the handle and I'd STILL need to jiggle it afterwards to keep the water from running.

But last night I got out the gloves and the pliers again. And I "fixed" it. Again.

And now for the first time since I moved in, I neither have to hold nor jiggle the handle.

AND it flushes.

I doubt this porcelain bliss will last long — the wire is bound to break off again eventually, thereby unhooking the makeshift mechanism and flooding my bathroom floors anew.

So, Santa, if you're listening:

I'd like a new flush valve and all the necessary accompanying parts for Christmas. And maybe someone to install it for me correctly, too.

And don't tell me there are people out there without indoor plumbing who'd LOVE to be in my situation. I know it, and I feel badly for them.

But I don't pay what I pay in rent so I can count to ten every time I flush my freakin' toilet, then jiggle the handle, and then remove the tank lid for repairs 2-3 times a day.

Thank you.


*Alternative Titles for This Post
Potty Mouth
Flushed from the Bathroom of God's Heart
God Hates Me and My Toilet
I'll Get You, My Potty!
Are You There God? It's Me, Flushing.
It's My Potty and I'll Cry If I Want To
It's My Potty and I'll Flush If I Want To

The Simple Life

When it comes to fashion, I've long touted my tastes as simple at best, innocuous at worst.

I like earthy colors: shades of brown and pale blues. Deep red and burnt orange. I prefer comfort a million times over style, the clearance rack over the hottest runway releases.

I'm a tomboy just as comfortable in camouflage khakis and sandblasted jeans as I am in the peasant skirts and sun dresses more commonly aligned with the least conspicuous nouveau hippie.

I prefer homemade jewelry, little faux pearls and small silver hoops over anything you'd find at Tiffany's, and I think diamonds rings are an egregious waste of money.

And if you're going to make me go shopping, please... let's go to REI or a bookstore or World Market or maybe — if we really must shop for clothes, let's keep it quick.

Because, well, life is short and my tastes are simple.

Or so I've long foolishly and falsely claimed.

***For whatever reason, I've done an unhealthy amount of shopping in my past couple weeks. New dress shoes to replace the ones with holes in them. New, longer skirts in preparation for the coming winter. New sock monkey house slippers because we all should have a pair. Et cetera.

And what this has all revealed to me, above all other things, is that shopping for simple styles is anything but simple.

Example: a few months ago I spied a pair of Born boots at a department store going out of business. They were exactly what I'd been looking for: they'd fit as nicely under a long, flowing skirt as they would something shorter and plaid. No heel. No bells and whistles. No flair. Just simple, basic, built to last and originally priced way beyond my means.

But it was a clearance sale, after all, and for the low, low price of $40 I could've owned dream boots that were originally marked for significantly more than that.

The problem, of course, is that my size 8 1/2 foot is among the most popular. And so, naturally, they didn't have my size in stock.

Tuesday I went out in search of anything that resembled those Borns. And, naturally, I was sorely disappointed.

Recent searches online have proven to be equally fruitless. No one has my size. And the only other boots I even sorta like aren't on sale.

Also Tuesday night, I found the skirt I was looking for: a natural, creamy white with soft folds at the bottom, thick material to keep me warm, and — above all other things — it fit like a dream. Add to that it was on the clearance rack — and all around me people were shouting ecstatically when they realized their cargo was significantly less than what the price tag read — and I foolishly allowed myself to hope that a genuine bargain was in my clutches.

I ran it over to a price scanner, shoved the bar code under the glowing red eye, and stood a little dismayed to realize the price was exactly what the tag read: $140, marked down to $101.

Sure, it was "on sale." But it was on the clearance rack, for crying out loud. Those things are supposed to ring up for even less than the lowest marked price.

I mean, I'm a writer and writers, as you all likely know, aren't exactly beacons of wealth. So I marched the skirt back over to the "clearance" rack and returned it to its home among the other Ralph Laurens.

Because I knew I could easily buy 2-4 "decent" skirts for that price.

And I insist on being a sensible shopper.***But, let's be honest.

I'm being anything but sensible. Dropping way too much cash on new work clothes, even if I do need them. Replacing my Payless no-name MaryJanes with (admittedly much more comfortable) Merrells. Going to the mall before (or after) I go to the gym all the while still making it clear to anyone and everyone that I absolutely despise shopping.

And I know what you're thinking. And, no, my mama didn't raise no fool.

I know precisely what this is about.

Because no matter how desperately I want for things to be simple...

They seldom are.

Tempus Fugit, Part IV

And then, sometimes, you walk — not run — around the city.

You leave your iPod at home and tune in to the sound of the wind beating across the water and banging American flags against metal poles; the whirl of cars sweeping by, one after the other all along Lake Shore Drive. The blare of horns from angry taxi cabs and the anxiety of small children hungry for dinner.

But the sun is low by this point, and by the time it's gone the people are, too. So it's just you, and the sounds, the waves and the no swimming sign. There's the pier, and small dunes, and electric light reflected from tall buildings.

And it hits you, standing there, absorbing and perceiving, that you haven't been fair —

Haven't been fair at all.

That it is not — despite your protests — the city that you so despise.

But rather your life in it.

***

Yesterday a co-worker and I went to REI, one of few stores at which I actually enjoy shopping. She and her husband have decided to take up snowshoeing and hiking and maybe even camping, and though I am by no means "seasoned" in any of these things, they are most certainly among my favorite past-times.

As we wandered around the store I realized I'm not quite the novice I once was. I gave her advice on supplies for all of the above. Looked at packs and explained which ones were for day hikes, which ones were for back country, etc. I explained hydration packs, and showed her which poles she'd need with her snowshoes. Told her the secret to zipping two sleeping bags together, and said (forgive me, REI) that for their purposes they could find cheaper tents elsewhere.

Don't get me wrong: I'm no expert on camping or hiking or snowshoeing or anything for that matter. But it felt strange, later, when I realized just how natural it was for me to talk about these things, how easy it was for me to offer tips to someone with less experience.

Like driving six miles from home in a busy part of the city last night, a feat that would've terrified me even just a year ago. But I did it all the same, arriving at my destination without a compass or a road map or even breaking a sweat.

Me: the same girl who once drove for hours trying to go to a friend's party just ten miles away. Me: the same girl who nearly won a Darwin Award for her hiking travails in the Blue Hills. Me: the same girl who nearly drove over a frozen Walden Pond in an attempt to find it.

That's not to say I don't still get lost — I do.

But in very different ways.

***

Today is Halloween. People are in costume, offices are decorated, and at 10 a.m. a group of kids will start circling around, opening their bags with silent pleas for candy (most kids these days can't be bothered to forge those three magic words).

TANGENT: Whenever I type the word "forge," I instinctively add a "t" to the end. Thank goodness for backspace.

I didn't decorate, though I thought about it. I didn't come in costume, though I have one at home. Everyone's excited, and the whole office is abuzz with chatter. There will be a party at lunch time, and contests, and photos and at one point the day will be over. Tomorrow will arrive, and with it the task of undoing the day before.

The ritual tearing down of the celebration. My least favorite part of every holiday, of every gathering.

The long wheeze of a balloon slowly deprived of its helium.

***

And then, yes, there will be lunch.

But you will sneak away minutes before with your shopping list of shaving cream, lotion and No Doz.

You will fill your tank with gasoline for the possibility of road trips, and empty your wallet for an uncertain gift.

And you will sneak back, quieting away to your desk in hopes that you can avoid the questions:

"Aren't you hungry?" they'll ask.

"Yes," you imagine your response. "Very much so."

And they will point you in the direction of food line, never understanding that that is not what you meant.

Not what you meant.

At all.

The Next Gasp

Now for a limited time, you can see the Louvre (or a reasonable facsimile) without updating your passport.

And so people came in by the bus loads Saturday, filling the parking lot and cramming into the entryway to purchase their tickets for this special exhibit.

But it was too nice a day to spend indoors, if you ask me. Never mind that I hadn't been to this particular museum in nearly a decade — and never mind it's not often I make it back "that way" — try as I might, I just couldn't bring myself to walk through those big glass doors for anything other than the occasional restroom break (in which case: thank goodness for free public art).

You see, the Indianapolis Museum of Art has a rather impressive general collection — particularly relative to the size of the city — but it also has one sizable advantage over most other art museums: it isn't landlocked by concrete.

So not only is general admission free, but the surrounding gardens are free for the traipsing. And so: rather than find myself alone among a sea of faces inspecting ancient Roman art... I kept to the trails, where I was (quite literally) alone with my thoughts.

***For 90 minutes, there was no one but me. No one but me and, for a brief 30 second encounter, an old man who shuffled his feet to walk. We smiled at each other: he as he exited the greenhouse, and me as I stooped down to photograph random wildflowers (forgive me, I don't know the names of most things).

We walked onward to our respective destinations: that proverbial nowhere and everywhere, just... wandering... hoping (or so I imagined) our random paths might lead to whatever it was we were looking for.

And I did find something out there that day: things I'd forgotten about. The sound of my footsteps crunching over leaves and through pebbles. The smell of an autumn breeze jaunting around the bend. The chattering squirrels and the occasional shout of a child somewhere far off in the distance: ("Look, Mom! A waterfall!").

It is funny how these sounds sometimes echo, rousing us out of that proverbial lethargy as quickly as they return us to it. Waking and sleeping, waking and sleeping...

You keep walking; thinking. You shake your head so as to work loose the toxins, but find yourself stumbling upon the same thoughts and images time and again.

You bend down to pick up a red leaf, its chlorophyll restricted to the ravine along its veins. You spin it stem-first between your thumb and your index, drinking in the smell of it before you return it to the ground (but this time: a little off the path, so no one steps on it) and move onward, as before.

Just walking. And thinking. And kicking dust up with your shoes, filling the air with fog and your lungs with the painful anticipation of your next breath, which you fear — somehow — may never come.

Behind the Curtain

The Beauty of Anorexia

So, listen, I don't consider myself to be poor by any means. On paper my salary looks fine, but when you add in living expenses it's just enough to make ends meet in this city (and take the occasional plane ride to wherever) — provided I stick to a reasonable budget.

But in the past three months, things have been a bit unreasonable. I'm lost without my camera, but my Sony decided it was time to leave me. So I got a new one.

I was under a time constraint to make a VERY expensive fix to my old, beaten up car that literally wasn't worth the cost to fix it. So I stressed about it for weeks, weighed the pros and cons of all my options... and finally got a new one just in time to avoid a pink slip (and a huge fine).

And then almost immediately thereafter, my computer showed gross signs of distress. I tried to make it last as long as I could, waiting for my savings to recover from the amount lost for the down payment of my car. I spent the interim researching laptops (mine was five years old), in search of the best proverbial bang for my buck.

But I realized early on that I couldn't wait for long — my computer was getting worse and worse, so I ordered a new one, finally.... only to have the old one officially give up (taking all of my files with it) two days before my new one arrived.

I still haven't figured out if my files are retrievable — been working too late to even try, except to note that the new cord does indeed work, and my old machine will stay on for however long I care to look at the blue screen of death. Believe it or not, that's a good sign as it means my hard drive isn't necessarily fried (though maybe it is) — it probably was a matter of the recurring electrical shorts making it very, very unhappy until it eventually gave in altogether.

Last night I purchased an enclosure for my laptop hard drive, and will try accessing my files that way... I'm told (thanks AJP and Washington) that even though an operating system is installed on my hard drive, when you convert an internal drive to an external drive, a new computer will treat the old drive like a storage disk, from which you can pull data.

My hope is that I can pull data. Cause if not, there's no other option but dropping my drive off with an expert.

And I hear that's not cheap.

So, anyway, in honor of all these expenses — coupled with the fact that I've only worked out twice in the last three weeks — I've decided to stop eating.

Or, rather, to eat significantly less.

Not only will I save BIG, but I'll look smaller.

Everybody wins.

In Tangles

In addition to the significant increase in traffic, the computer woes*, and sundry other life events, the pace at work has picked up considerably.

That is to say: I've worked through lunch, and then stayed anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 hours late almost every night in the past three weeks (excepting a couple nights last week, which appears to have been the lull between two very hectic storms). And, yeah, staying 30 minutes late isn't a big deal — the average is closer to 70 or 80 minutes late a night, honestly.

I knew early on that yesterday wouldn't be much better; I had to cancel lunch and post-work plans by 9:30 a.m., when I realized there was no chance I'd have the time to get away for either. Jump ahead to 40 minutes after I'm scheduled to leave work. I drop something off with my boss (who's also been pulling a lot of late nights) and he says something to the effect of: "I know it's been a rough day — go out and have a beer."

One of his peers is sitting across from him, and nods approvingly.

Me: Oh, yeah. That's right up my alley. I'll go have a few beers and then drive home.

Boss: Hey, whatever it takes to relax.

His Friend (Laughing): Just go and do whatever it is... you do.

Me (Turning to Walk Away): Go home and cry myself to sleep it is!

They both laughed.

(They thought I was joking.)


COMPUTER UPDATE: I didn't go to the Geek Squad just yet — waiting for my new cord to arrive in the mail to see if that is indeed where the short is (the wire is exposed in one spot near where it connects to my laptop, and other folks who've owned the same machine generally complain about how easily the cord wears out, leading to shorts), and whether or not I can power up. If I can, I have a few options of things I can do on my own before I enlist the aid of professional help. Best case scenario, this is a power short that ticked off my hard drive and caused it to start in safe mode, making all of my files to appear to be missing though they're there if I can force it to start "normally." Worst case scenario, my hard drive is completely fried and data cannot be retrieved (or it can be retrieved at the $1,600 "worst case" expense quoted to Washington). There are some in-between options, too.

Nightmare on My Street

Almost a year ago to this very day, I abandoned the (not so) ExpressWay that marred my daily commute — taking anywhere from 40 minutes (rare) to 2 hours to travel one way (I've had it take 3-4 hours when the weather is bad) — in favor of a single side street that was a reliable 45-50 minute commute each way.

I mean, on this alternative route there's only one lane 80% of the time, and the speed limit is always 30 mph (though in some stretches it's easy to get away with 40)... yet you're moving almost constantly, and are considerably less agitated by the time you arrive to wherever it is you're going. And, sure, occasionally there are problems and interludes of road rage, but those moments are few and far between in comparison to the "Express"Way.

The added bonus: if traffic sucks and you want a diversion, you have the opportunity to turn off every 1/4 mile or so, which compares to the "Express"Way where there are only 5 or 6 exits on a 20 mile stretch (in other words: if things tank... you're stuck).

After months of taking the "Express"Way, my alternative route bordered on a godsend. I didn't look back and haven't bothered to take the "Express"Way since — excepting rare times when I was was traveling between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. (a wide-open pocket of opportunity for comparably "fast" travel).

But, alas, my solace is no more.

You see, the "Express"Way is undergoing construction... a minimum of one lane down in both directions at all times — and two out of three lanes down late in the evening.

They're telling people to not even bother taking the "Express"Way, and this morning as early as 5:50 a.m., traffic was already in the red.

How does this impact me, you ask, since I don't take the "Express"Way?

I'll give you one guess as to the officially sanctioned alternative route for people traveling from my section of the city, and heading anywhere in the same general direction.

Yes. That's right.

I left 15 minutes early today and was still 15 minutes late.

Now, before you tell me I should take the train or ride my bike, you should know I would *love* to do either... or any combination thereof. But I live nowhere near a train stop that goes in the same direction of where I work, and between the transfers and buses and shuttles I'd take, that commute is estimated at just over 2 hours one way.

As for cycling.... I live 20 miles from work, and we have no shower facilities. Couple that with the fact that there aren't any nearby bike paths linking my home to work (in fact, I'd be on busy city streets about 1/2 of the time, and then dark forest preserves the second half), and that alternative isn't safe, either.

But that's not all!

The news just keeps getting better....

Three weeks ago I ordered a new computer, as my home machine has been giving me serious problems. I was even worried enough about it that I tried backing up some of my files multiple times, but there's a short somewhere on my machine, and it randomly shuts off, making it impossible to do anything.

But I got an e-mail yesterday telling me my new computer was finally on its way and I was ordering a new electrical cord for the old one (where I believe the short to be) so, never fear, I'll be able to transfer everything to my new machine in 3-5 days. Right?

Right?!

Nope.

Because, last night, all of my files disappeared.

All of them.

My master's thesis. All my old papers. All my stories, my poems, my e-mails, my pictures and my music.

It's all gone.

So much for getting a big hard drive on my new machine. Looks like I don't have anything to put on there.

And, now, before you tell me I'm over-reacting and it's no big deal....

I'm a writer. A photographer and, above all other things,

A sentimentalist.

I'm just hoping the Geek Squad can help without causing too much financial damage (though, honestly, I'll "charge" whatever it takes). Cause between the new car, computer and camera (why does everything have to break at once?!!)... I may just have to cut food, health care and Christmas out of my budget.