12.22.08
Last week I gave a girl seven dollars on my way back home. It was during Chicago’s worst wintery cold periods. You have to keep moving or your extremities start numbing up and freeze. Often, my eyelashes freeze together during these extreme cold periods. It really feels weird and kind of interesting at the same time. When you blink, your eyelids fight against each other. With effort, they pull themselves apart from one another very unnaturally. Anyhow, the girl stopped me on my way back home showing me a metro schedule in her hand, pleading for some fare to get back to the south side part of Chicago. I don’t know why I paused and didn’t just shake my head no and move on. The hesitation is what got me. Once you hesitate, you’re required to act charitable or look like a stingy asshole. If you don’t have something, you quickly flat out say no and move on, but the pause elicits hope. You then have to say no, feel sorry, feel like a shit head for not dishing out. For four years that I’ve been in Chicago, I have never given anybody anything on the streets. I won’t give beggars even five cents or any pennies from my pocket. I made an active decision a long while back that I would be fair to everyone and not choose anyone over others. Everyone would get nothing from me no matter how badly they looked or how badly they really needed it. The answer was always no. The action was to always walk on. So where did this seven dollars come from? I broke my rule. Now do I give everyone something every time they ask? She was a teenager or something under 21. She was blonde, not anything special, just an average girl. She was nicely dressed, looked very warmly kept despite the cold, and looked like she didn’t need any money but could be dishing out some herself. I think if she had asked for a dollar or some spare change, I would have said no, but seven dollars blew me away. Nobody who was trying to get money for some booze or crack would ask for that much. They would take what they could get. She was obviously not a professional beggar. I fumbled around and got my wallet out. I couldn’t feel anything with my gloves on, so I took off my gloves, big mistake. My fingers started to lose circulation and became stiff. I felt embarrassed as my wallet was so fat with cash, and it desperately tried to keep itself together. It wanted so badly to explode its seams spilling money everywhere. I pulled out a five and gave it to her and told her I needed my ones so couldn’t give that up. I felt terribly embarrassed that I had about fifteen stacked twenties all saying hi to her. She asked if she could have two more dollars. I then thought, now bitch, I just gave you five can’t you go ask someone else for two more? I couldn’t fathom who would have given some stranger five on the streets to begin with. So having stupidly said I wanted to keep my ones, I had to come up with something else. I started to dig for change. This process was now too much for me. I should have just given her the two dollars and moved on and spare my pained fingers who were yelling at me to get out of the cold. I now regretted on breaking my rule. Why did I pause, what was wrong with me? She wasn’t even cute. I started to pull out change with my frozen fingers. I handed her quarters, dimes, nickels. Then I dug down further into my bag for more change. I managed to collectively have two dollars worth of small change. While this was going on, she did compliment me on my jacket, liking it and saying how it looked thin, but at the same time, looked like it kept the wind off. Small cheap talk I thought, and all I could think about was how miserable I was at that moment. I was weak and gave in to this girl and now I was paying the price. I was having difficulty getting the change out with my numb fingers, and I was thinking yeah bitch it’s a thin jacket and I’m fucking cold. Then I actually started to shiver. I told her yes it was a thin jacket so you just need to keep moving to stay warm. The trick to being outside was to not stop moving. Did she get it? After she collected, she just said thanks and moved on. As I moved away I didn’t know what came over me and why I gave her money. I didn’t feel sanctified as one does after they’ve done some good dead. I didn’t feel like I got closer to accessing heaven, more like hell for all those beggars I’ve been refusing for the last four years. I felt confused at my behavior more than anything. The only thing I could come up with is that no one has ever asked me for that much money, so it had to be genuine, right? They always asked for spare change or a dollar, but never seven! Then I started playing number games and “what if” situations. If she had asked for a dollar, I would have straight out said no. If she asked for twelve, I would have looked at her like she had three heads. Seven was perfect! Then I started to play the gender and age game. I wondered if it wasn’t a young girl, would I just have kept moving, a man, or an old lady. Something was special about her that made me stop, and it really cost me very little, a few frost bites, some shivers, but perhaps it meant the world to her or maybe it only meant seven bucks to her, either way, lucky her. Would I have done it again knowing what I know now? Yes. I would. Nothing made sense to me, so I made a copout conclusion. I was vulnerable after a long day, and she got to me with her soft smile and her nice comforting voice.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
History
11.04.08
The day started with trying to focus my attention on work activities, but I could not. I was counting down to the evening’s event. Everyone was psyched-up and so ready for counts to come in. I expected nothing but a landslide for Obama as the polls’ percent was six ahead against McCain's for many weeks. The margin was so wide that it would have taken an earthquake to prevent everyone not to get to the polls and generate the inevitable win. We were told to leave the office early because of activities that night, meaning they thought there was going to be riots on the streets of Chicago. More eloquently the message could have been something more dutiful like, get out and vote and make a difference, do your duty to your country and leave to office at 3pm to do so. I got tickets and was going to the event, thinking somehow this was a special event only for the 65000 who got the tickets, but little did I know, just about anyone could sneak in, in addition, knowing that a lot less would probably show up with actual tickets while those who didn't have tickets would be the ones storming the place. I left the office as early as I could before the sun went down and did my long run outside. The weather was perfect, and I finished in the dark as usual. It was probably one of my best runs ever. I had too much energy, too much adrenaline, and too little patience in doing a leisurely run because I needed to get my ass to Grant Park as fast as I could. When I got back, I turned on the T.V. and knew that it was going to be a long night. No one ever talks about final results anymore until they have all the facts. They only give projected results. I was getting nowhere with the blabbering news and with these projections. The polls were closing on the east coast in four minutes. Don’t tell me projected counts, just tell me Obama won! Eventually after a quick shower and a quick glance back at the T.V., I made my way to Grant Park in my Obama gear, so politically charged and unable to retain my excitement. I met up with my co-worker and joined the mass of people all out in the streets trying to find the entrance. The energy was high and everyone was exhilarated. No one who supported McCain came out publically that night. They would have been lynched, tarred with feathers, dragged down the streets, and forced to wear an Obama sticker on their foreheads. We didn’t know what the hell we were supposed to go and ended up on the longest line in the world, somewhere on 8th street. I’ve never been on 8th street in my life and we didn't moved one block up in the hour we stood there. I called some people who were locals and they never heard of 8th street either. People all around us were wondering if we were standing in the wrong line. After some time, like an hour, some people went up and promised to call back with information about the non-moving line, but they didn’t call back nor come back at the end. So we decided to jump the line too. It turned out the line was bogus and everyone just entered all at once in the front. Typical and obvious, we weren't using our asian instincts. We got in, and I did my part by calling back to the people still waiting in line who stood behind us to come and come now! We picked up another co-worker on the way up, and I gave him my other printed, copied ticket. I printed two at work. Before we all headed out, he was fretting that he didn’t have a ticket and didn’t know what he would do. I told him we’ll figure something out and not to worry. Well, we got in all three of us on the same printed ticket. They weren't checking but just acting like they were checking. Bunch of goofballs dressed up in reflecting, yellow gear. No one was turned back nor asked to show proof, and everyone who had the balls to show any paper got themselves in. I found out the next day another co-worker just picked up trash on the sidewalk and got him and his wife in. The crowd was heavy and we started to push our way up. I was determined to get to the front. We moved up slowly for a long time, and I felt we were near the stage based on the growing overhead light coming at us. Eventually we hit a wall of people. They surrounding us, and I could not see above the shoulders and heads. I was too short in this particular section. Damit, my co-workers were short too. We were all the same height. I told my co-workers to lift me so I could see how far we were from the stage. We were nowhere close and it looked as far away as the moon. When they lifted me I just couldn’t believe how many people there were at this rally. It was impressive and breathtaking. Somehow it felt like time stopped and everything was moving in slow-mo as I looked forward at the small stage and the mass of people in between me and the stage. I slowly viewed everything taking it all in from right to left. I didn't want to be let down. I just wanted to sit there on their shoulders forever looking at the screaming crowd. It was somehow peaceful and very warming.
Well during all this, I was text messaging non-stop four people at once and constantly taking calls to see how the counts were going. My brother texted me asking if I was one of the million people in the park. I told him I was one of the million and one and he had to give me election updates. My best friend called and asked me where I was standing. He expected to locate me on TV.. Isn’t it obvious? He gave me updated stats and said that more people were on the right side of the screen and less on the left. We were on the right, so we moved our butts to the left hoping for better views and a closer position to the stage. It turned out there were two sections, one for the ticket holders and one for special people like Oprah and Jesse Jackson, campaign affiliates, high donators, the press, and probably those who got there hours beforehand and had a proper pat down to make sure there weren't carrying weapons, passed the lie detector test, and was drug free. We chanted, we cheered, we listened, and we relished in this historical moment. We screamed our hearts out, our legs were in total agony, and we needed to urinate badly. The text messages kept going all night long, and I kept trying to find people and arrange a gathering afterward. We actually did see Obama despite the fact the stage was perpendicular to our view. Throughout the night, all we got to look at was the gigantic TV. screen. But for one brief moment, he walked to his right and raised a waving hand to us all and we saw him. He was a centimeter big. We left amazed, elated, too moved to even know how to express what we just witness. 260,000 people all cheering for the same thing, celebrating the same thing, all crazed with delight, all looking at the new road ahead.
Afterward, we hooked up with an old friend of mine, an ex-co-worker, who decided that morning to fly into Chicago to be part of this rally. I don’t know if my silly idea started it all, but in the morning she texted me at 8am saying “Rock the Vote!” I replied “Totally” and wrote that I was going to the rally in Grant Park. She texted, “I’m so jealous” and I replied, “Join me!” and that's what she just did. That morning after 10 text messages and then after 20 text messages in the afternoon and various phone calls with me, she got out of work, voted, got herself on a plane, and arrived at Grant Park. We had drinks and food till 2am at Rock Bottom Brewery, talked, caught up on everything including our feelings of this incredible day, what lead up to this day, and what we foresee the future to be like in the next four years. We were still high on energy, pumped with adrenaline, and could do nothing but think how lucky we were to be part of this historical moment and witnessed it all. It was good to be with my co-workers, old and new. It was good to be in Chicago. It was good to win. And it was damn good to be a part of history.
The day started with trying to focus my attention on work activities, but I could not. I was counting down to the evening’s event. Everyone was psyched-up and so ready for counts to come in. I expected nothing but a landslide for Obama as the polls’ percent was six ahead against McCain's for many weeks. The margin was so wide that it would have taken an earthquake to prevent everyone not to get to the polls and generate the inevitable win. We were told to leave the office early because of activities that night, meaning they thought there was going to be riots on the streets of Chicago. More eloquently the message could have been something more dutiful like, get out and vote and make a difference, do your duty to your country and leave to office at 3pm to do so. I got tickets and was going to the event, thinking somehow this was a special event only for the 65000 who got the tickets, but little did I know, just about anyone could sneak in, in addition, knowing that a lot less would probably show up with actual tickets while those who didn't have tickets would be the ones storming the place. I left the office as early as I could before the sun went down and did my long run outside. The weather was perfect, and I finished in the dark as usual. It was probably one of my best runs ever. I had too much energy, too much adrenaline, and too little patience in doing a leisurely run because I needed to get my ass to Grant Park as fast as I could. When I got back, I turned on the T.V. and knew that it was going to be a long night. No one ever talks about final results anymore until they have all the facts. They only give projected results. I was getting nowhere with the blabbering news and with these projections. The polls were closing on the east coast in four minutes. Don’t tell me projected counts, just tell me Obama won! Eventually after a quick shower and a quick glance back at the T.V., I made my way to Grant Park in my Obama gear, so politically charged and unable to retain my excitement. I met up with my co-worker and joined the mass of people all out in the streets trying to find the entrance. The energy was high and everyone was exhilarated. No one who supported McCain came out publically that night. They would have been lynched, tarred with feathers, dragged down the streets, and forced to wear an Obama sticker on their foreheads. We didn’t know what the hell we were supposed to go and ended up on the longest line in the world, somewhere on 8th street. I’ve never been on 8th street in my life and we didn't moved one block up in the hour we stood there. I called some people who were locals and they never heard of 8th street either. People all around us were wondering if we were standing in the wrong line. After some time, like an hour, some people went up and promised to call back with information about the non-moving line, but they didn’t call back nor come back at the end. So we decided to jump the line too. It turned out the line was bogus and everyone just entered all at once in the front. Typical and obvious, we weren't using our asian instincts. We got in, and I did my part by calling back to the people still waiting in line who stood behind us to come and come now! We picked up another co-worker on the way up, and I gave him my other printed, copied ticket. I printed two at work. Before we all headed out, he was fretting that he didn’t have a ticket and didn’t know what he would do. I told him we’ll figure something out and not to worry. Well, we got in all three of us on the same printed ticket. They weren't checking but just acting like they were checking. Bunch of goofballs dressed up in reflecting, yellow gear. No one was turned back nor asked to show proof, and everyone who had the balls to show any paper got themselves in. I found out the next day another co-worker just picked up trash on the sidewalk and got him and his wife in. The crowd was heavy and we started to push our way up. I was determined to get to the front. We moved up slowly for a long time, and I felt we were near the stage based on the growing overhead light coming at us. Eventually we hit a wall of people. They surrounding us, and I could not see above the shoulders and heads. I was too short in this particular section. Damit, my co-workers were short too. We were all the same height. I told my co-workers to lift me so I could see how far we were from the stage. We were nowhere close and it looked as far away as the moon. When they lifted me I just couldn’t believe how many people there were at this rally. It was impressive and breathtaking. Somehow it felt like time stopped and everything was moving in slow-mo as I looked forward at the small stage and the mass of people in between me and the stage. I slowly viewed everything taking it all in from right to left. I didn't want to be let down. I just wanted to sit there on their shoulders forever looking at the screaming crowd. It was somehow peaceful and very warming.
Well during all this, I was text messaging non-stop four people at once and constantly taking calls to see how the counts were going. My brother texted me asking if I was one of the million people in the park. I told him I was one of the million and one and he had to give me election updates. My best friend called and asked me where I was standing. He expected to locate me on TV.. Isn’t it obvious? He gave me updated stats and said that more people were on the right side of the screen and less on the left. We were on the right, so we moved our butts to the left hoping for better views and a closer position to the stage. It turned out there were two sections, one for the ticket holders and one for special people like Oprah and Jesse Jackson, campaign affiliates, high donators, the press, and probably those who got there hours beforehand and had a proper pat down to make sure there weren't carrying weapons, passed the lie detector test, and was drug free. We chanted, we cheered, we listened, and we relished in this historical moment. We screamed our hearts out, our legs were in total agony, and we needed to urinate badly. The text messages kept going all night long, and I kept trying to find people and arrange a gathering afterward. We actually did see Obama despite the fact the stage was perpendicular to our view. Throughout the night, all we got to look at was the gigantic TV. screen. But for one brief moment, he walked to his right and raised a waving hand to us all and we saw him. He was a centimeter big. We left amazed, elated, too moved to even know how to express what we just witness. 260,000 people all cheering for the same thing, celebrating the same thing, all crazed with delight, all looking at the new road ahead.
Afterward, we hooked up with an old friend of mine, an ex-co-worker, who decided that morning to fly into Chicago to be part of this rally. I don’t know if my silly idea started it all, but in the morning she texted me at 8am saying “Rock the Vote!” I replied “Totally” and wrote that I was going to the rally in Grant Park. She texted, “I’m so jealous” and I replied, “Join me!” and that's what she just did. That morning after 10 text messages and then after 20 text messages in the afternoon and various phone calls with me, she got out of work, voted, got herself on a plane, and arrived at Grant Park. We had drinks and food till 2am at Rock Bottom Brewery, talked, caught up on everything including our feelings of this incredible day, what lead up to this day, and what we foresee the future to be like in the next four years. We were still high on energy, pumped with adrenaline, and could do nothing but think how lucky we were to be part of this historical moment and witnessed it all. It was good to be with my co-workers, old and new. It was good to be in Chicago. It was good to win. And it was damn good to be a part of history.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Copy Function
10.12.08
Right before leaving the office for the day, a coworker of mine said that life was like a copy function, in particular a BPS copy function which we use for configuration in SAP. He said you copy yourself from L.A. to Chicago each week. We have the same meetings each week. We have lunch at the same time each day and get to work by a certain hour each morning. You run every day and he takes the same train back and forth each morning and evening. He said all this to create some laughter, which we all smiled and agreed with nods, but little did he know these things torment me all the time. I end up with another year that has passed without knowing where all my days went. The only time I’m not copying myself in daily routines is when I travel, and only when I travel for fun. Each day is different from the next and what I eat and see varies tremendously. There are no routines when traveling and everything is made up as you go.
When I first started out from college looking for my first job, I interviewed with a lot of companies, but only a handful did I actually do an office visit. I had an interview with a company called Morton-Thiokol, the company that makes propulsions and missiles, the company that blew up the Challenger with their faulty O-rings. While there, I interviewed a lot of employees, and they were very knowledgably and seemed extremely shrewd. They were also in their fifties. While sitting having lunch in their cafeteria, I felt like I was in a senior citizen’s housing center. I was drinking chocolate milk and they were all drinking coffee with their meals. I grew very alarmed and very troubled as I saw myself sitting there one day just the same.
So here I am today doing my mini-copy functions each day but my career hasn’t always been the same copy functions. I feel like I had a good run and my work locations have been more like Ben & Jerry’s flavors. Even though I have been working with the same application since the very beginning, I have grown into an expert in my field and extended my original skills to beyond what I started out as. Even still, what is really mundane is really at the micro level. There are too many daily copy functions and I do feel the drag sometimes. I have the questioning thoughts of my existence, my purpose, and the question of: have I given it all that I have to my life or have I just wasted most of it. What exactly is there to give anyway? The only way to get rid of these copy functions is to travel and see the world. It’s the only time in my life I feel really free and alive. There are new things to see, other cultures to experience and learn from, other types of food to taste, and different terrain to unearth. Your stress level should be around whether or not you’ll make the next train or bus schedule or where you will have your next possible shower or next possible place to sleep, do you have enough toilet paper, or where you can find the next public bathroom. It shouldn’t be about getting an excel document out before the deadline to leadership who can’t even bother to open it up, and if they did, they couldn’t understand the damn thing anyway. Your stress shouldn’t be centered on people seeing you walking in late in the mornings or worrying about if people will question your time entry when you take long lunch breaks. Not sure how things should change or could change, but the mini-copy functions are everywhere, and I wonder if my coworker knows how depressing and dreary his statement really is. It’s not something I can change either by sprucing up my days, but I do lose sight of the copies because it is a routine we all do and get comfortable with, having each day merge together, having each day just roll onto the next day, and unfortunately, having every cell in my body age with time and many are dying and falling off, their spunk lost forever. A different coworker wrote ‘There’s just not enough hours in a day to do everything’ in an apologizing email sent out to people fearing that he sent something out too late that he thought was vitally needed. It was neither too late, important, nor was it desired to begin with, and his comment about not having enough time in a day to do more work than he could possibly do, just shows you how focused people are with this useless crap. I find that there’s not enough time in the day to go for my long ass runs or to surf the net or read books or do music or eat out with friends or just do the basics, living! How I would like to practice cooking or improve my French or pick up my art again or workout for 3hrs straight! Ahhh, how nice that would be to workout for 3hrs straight! ....sigh....They all do copy functions and extend beyond their normal schedules and routinely work overtime, which are super copy functions. It’s a disease, which I am staying far away from, and I can only look longingly towards my next traveling vacation.
Right before leaving the office for the day, a coworker of mine said that life was like a copy function, in particular a BPS copy function which we use for configuration in SAP. He said you copy yourself from L.A. to Chicago each week. We have the same meetings each week. We have lunch at the same time each day and get to work by a certain hour each morning. You run every day and he takes the same train back and forth each morning and evening. He said all this to create some laughter, which we all smiled and agreed with nods, but little did he know these things torment me all the time. I end up with another year that has passed without knowing where all my days went. The only time I’m not copying myself in daily routines is when I travel, and only when I travel for fun. Each day is different from the next and what I eat and see varies tremendously. There are no routines when traveling and everything is made up as you go.
When I first started out from college looking for my first job, I interviewed with a lot of companies, but only a handful did I actually do an office visit. I had an interview with a company called Morton-Thiokol, the company that makes propulsions and missiles, the company that blew up the Challenger with their faulty O-rings. While there, I interviewed a lot of employees, and they were very knowledgably and seemed extremely shrewd. They were also in their fifties. While sitting having lunch in their cafeteria, I felt like I was in a senior citizen’s housing center. I was drinking chocolate milk and they were all drinking coffee with their meals. I grew very alarmed and very troubled as I saw myself sitting there one day just the same.
So here I am today doing my mini-copy functions each day but my career hasn’t always been the same copy functions. I feel like I had a good run and my work locations have been more like Ben & Jerry’s flavors. Even though I have been working with the same application since the very beginning, I have grown into an expert in my field and extended my original skills to beyond what I started out as. Even still, what is really mundane is really at the micro level. There are too many daily copy functions and I do feel the drag sometimes. I have the questioning thoughts of my existence, my purpose, and the question of: have I given it all that I have to my life or have I just wasted most of it. What exactly is there to give anyway? The only way to get rid of these copy functions is to travel and see the world. It’s the only time in my life I feel really free and alive. There are new things to see, other cultures to experience and learn from, other types of food to taste, and different terrain to unearth. Your stress level should be around whether or not you’ll make the next train or bus schedule or where you will have your next possible shower or next possible place to sleep, do you have enough toilet paper, or where you can find the next public bathroom. It shouldn’t be about getting an excel document out before the deadline to leadership who can’t even bother to open it up, and if they did, they couldn’t understand the damn thing anyway. Your stress shouldn’t be centered on people seeing you walking in late in the mornings or worrying about if people will question your time entry when you take long lunch breaks. Not sure how things should change or could change, but the mini-copy functions are everywhere, and I wonder if my coworker knows how depressing and dreary his statement really is. It’s not something I can change either by sprucing up my days, but I do lose sight of the copies because it is a routine we all do and get comfortable with, having each day merge together, having each day just roll onto the next day, and unfortunately, having every cell in my body age with time and many are dying and falling off, their spunk lost forever. A different coworker wrote ‘There’s just not enough hours in a day to do everything’ in an apologizing email sent out to people fearing that he sent something out too late that he thought was vitally needed. It was neither too late, important, nor was it desired to begin with, and his comment about not having enough time in a day to do more work than he could possibly do, just shows you how focused people are with this useless crap. I find that there’s not enough time in the day to go for my long ass runs or to surf the net or read books or do music or eat out with friends or just do the basics, living! How I would like to practice cooking or improve my French or pick up my art again or workout for 3hrs straight! Ahhh, how nice that would be to workout for 3hrs straight! ....sigh....
Monday, October 6, 2008
Accident
10.06.08
I got into a car accident a couple weeks back. I was running on four hours of sleep and about ten hours of direct interaction with the business users pissing on practically everything they could think of, and in a place where every corner looks like every other corner. Even with the never lost navigation system, I lost myself every time. The place is plagued with divided highways shrouded by trees on both sides, and there’s me, lost in thought and not gone for my run with pent up frustrations and endless anxiety and stress. When I got hit, taking my entire car front completely off, I was moving only 1 mph. I just let my foot off the brake and looking stupidly to my right when there was only one way the cars could possibly come from. Flying straight down a curving hill going about fifty or sixty was a SUV driver. I was on unfamiliar roads and was only fifty yards from my hotel which sat right in front of me. Right when I got hit, I shut my eyes not believing my stupidity. I didn’t think about my safety, of damages to myself or to the car, nor about the laborious paper processing that would take place soon after. I thought about how I’ve made such a lame mistake. On any given other day, my alertness and my sense of reasoning would have been clearer. I sat there for about fifteen seconds with my eyes closed thinking what a dumb fuck. During the filing and police incident reporting process, I was still in a daze. I admit that it was my fault but from any third person’s point of view, one would have thought it was the other person’s. Someone watching would have seen my unmoving car being hit, ripped open as I sat at a stop sign. Little did they know I had my nose out too far and was slowly inching forward. I had to apologize to the woman who had just come out of work still wearing her nursing pajamas and on her way home. I felt really terrible and as if someone foreign and very unlike me took over the wheel and did what was unheard of by Anny. I asked her if she was okay, she nodded, and we both looked at her car. She only had a flat tire and small foot long horizontal slash on the bottom side of her car door. She was driving some old SUV that was very boxy, old school style. She said to herself out loud, too loud, that thank god she didn’t have her children with her. I thought I made it clear that it was my fault and begged for her forgiveness already by apologizing endlessly when I got out to go see if she was okay. Well at that point, I felt like I should have told the police that it was her fault. There was also a witness sitting across the way at the hotel, the hotel I was trying to get my ass to, who would have backed me up 100 percent. He came up to me before the policeman came and asked if I was okay and needed a witness to the event, and when the policeman arrived, he made the same comment again to the police. I so could have closed the lady out. In reality, it’s not like I did what I did on purpose and certainly I didn’t act defensive about the whole thing when being questioned.
Well it took a long time for the cop to do all the paper work and she was trying to change her tire. She was having problems getting the tire off of her back, where some jeeps have their spare sitting on the back outside exposed for everyone to see while driving. I could have helped her but after her comment and after such a defeating day, I couldn’t lift my soul up. I sat there thinking what I needed to do next, which was to find another Hertz rental place and change out the car. The light was dangling and some sort of liquid was leaking. I didn’t want a tow truck to come either. I could only think of all the cost and time that would come with it, especially when I declined the insurance waver during the initial rental agreement to begin with. Finally the whole thing was over, and I tucked the wires into the car so they were not going to drag on the floors as I drive, and the cop pushed the dangling light back into the car and nothing else was on the front on the bottom, no grille, no nothing. It was naked. The bumper and the entire front were on the side of the road. The lady all of the sudden turned extra friendly and looked at me all concerned and told me to drive safely and that the roads here are very dangerous and hoped I'd make it to the airport okay. She helped me with directions to the airport. The cop also along with the lady gave instructions making sure I knew how to get where I needed to go. I drove at most 30mph on the interstate highway with my hazards on. I was getting nowhere at this speed and going any faster could make the car explode, especially when I didn’t know what liquid was coming out of it. It made terrible sounds the whole way and if I tried to go faster it would only rattle louder telling me to chill out with the pedal. I made it there alright and had to do a left hand exit on the interstate. I was thinking ohhh shit as I was crossing the whole highway going around 25mph for that left hand exit. At least it was around 9pm at night so that was my only benefit.
It took over an hour to get another car, and believe it or not, all they had left were vans! How low could my day possibly get. They then found a suv that I could rent, so I took that and that was a monster when I finally got in. It was so big, I could have fit Willy in it. It also had a never lost navigational system in it, which I used for the next five days, and each time getting lost still the same. I was too embarrassed over the whole incident that the next day at work, I didn’t mention it to anyone but one other person. The other people were all new people I just met, but soon enough gossip spreads, and they all found out. The whole thing was embarrassing because it was after a long discussion about my failure to find the Kensico Dam, the place where I wanted to go to for my run. I had already mention how I couldn't find the dam, which they thought was too funny since it was just down the street. I went up the street. So I couldn’t possibly bring up the car accident after that. They would think I’m a ditzy driver. A local woman there said that the 9A road was a terrible, dangerous road, and I’m like “Hell YES, let me tell you about it!” They all knew before the day was over what happened that previous evening and categorized me as a ditzy driver.
After the accident, I don’t think I went above 40mph anywhere I went. I was driving like a paranoid old person, a soccer mom, and always taking the far, right-side lane and going super slow. Traumatized, yes, but this time I got the full insurance package and everything I could think of adding to the damn car just to make sure that I was covered even if I drove the car off a bridge.
I got into a car accident a couple weeks back. I was running on four hours of sleep and about ten hours of direct interaction with the business users pissing on practically everything they could think of, and in a place where every corner looks like every other corner. Even with the never lost navigation system, I lost myself every time. The place is plagued with divided highways shrouded by trees on both sides, and there’s me, lost in thought and not gone for my run with pent up frustrations and endless anxiety and stress. When I got hit, taking my entire car front completely off, I was moving only 1 mph. I just let my foot off the brake and looking stupidly to my right when there was only one way the cars could possibly come from. Flying straight down a curving hill going about fifty or sixty was a SUV driver. I was on unfamiliar roads and was only fifty yards from my hotel which sat right in front of me. Right when I got hit, I shut my eyes not believing my stupidity. I didn’t think about my safety, of damages to myself or to the car, nor about the laborious paper processing that would take place soon after. I thought about how I’ve made such a lame mistake. On any given other day, my alertness and my sense of reasoning would have been clearer. I sat there for about fifteen seconds with my eyes closed thinking what a dumb fuck. During the filing and police incident reporting process, I was still in a daze. I admit that it was my fault but from any third person’s point of view, one would have thought it was the other person’s. Someone watching would have seen my unmoving car being hit, ripped open as I sat at a stop sign. Little did they know I had my nose out too far and was slowly inching forward. I had to apologize to the woman who had just come out of work still wearing her nursing pajamas and on her way home. I felt really terrible and as if someone foreign and very unlike me took over the wheel and did what was unheard of by Anny. I asked her if she was okay, she nodded, and we both looked at her car. She only had a flat tire and small foot long horizontal slash on the bottom side of her car door. She was driving some old SUV that was very boxy, old school style. She said to herself out loud, too loud, that thank god she didn’t have her children with her. I thought I made it clear that it was my fault and begged for her forgiveness already by apologizing endlessly when I got out to go see if she was okay. Well at that point, I felt like I should have told the police that it was her fault. There was also a witness sitting across the way at the hotel, the hotel I was trying to get my ass to, who would have backed me up 100 percent. He came up to me before the policeman came and asked if I was okay and needed a witness to the event, and when the policeman arrived, he made the same comment again to the police. I so could have closed the lady out. In reality, it’s not like I did what I did on purpose and certainly I didn’t act defensive about the whole thing when being questioned.
Well it took a long time for the cop to do all the paper work and she was trying to change her tire. She was having problems getting the tire off of her back, where some jeeps have their spare sitting on the back outside exposed for everyone to see while driving. I could have helped her but after her comment and after such a defeating day, I couldn’t lift my soul up. I sat there thinking what I needed to do next, which was to find another Hertz rental place and change out the car. The light was dangling and some sort of liquid was leaking. I didn’t want a tow truck to come either. I could only think of all the cost and time that would come with it, especially when I declined the insurance waver during the initial rental agreement to begin with. Finally the whole thing was over, and I tucked the wires into the car so they were not going to drag on the floors as I drive, and the cop pushed the dangling light back into the car and nothing else was on the front on the bottom, no grille, no nothing. It was naked. The bumper and the entire front were on the side of the road. The lady all of the sudden turned extra friendly and looked at me all concerned and told me to drive safely and that the roads here are very dangerous and hoped I'd make it to the airport okay. She helped me with directions to the airport. The cop also along with the lady gave instructions making sure I knew how to get where I needed to go. I drove at most 30mph on the interstate highway with my hazards on. I was getting nowhere at this speed and going any faster could make the car explode, especially when I didn’t know what liquid was coming out of it. It made terrible sounds the whole way and if I tried to go faster it would only rattle louder telling me to chill out with the pedal. I made it there alright and had to do a left hand exit on the interstate. I was thinking ohhh shit as I was crossing the whole highway going around 25mph for that left hand exit. At least it was around 9pm at night so that was my only benefit.
It took over an hour to get another car, and believe it or not, all they had left were vans! How low could my day possibly get. They then found a suv that I could rent, so I took that and that was a monster when I finally got in. It was so big, I could have fit Willy in it. It also had a never lost navigational system in it, which I used for the next five days, and each time getting lost still the same. I was too embarrassed over the whole incident that the next day at work, I didn’t mention it to anyone but one other person. The other people were all new people I just met, but soon enough gossip spreads, and they all found out. The whole thing was embarrassing because it was after a long discussion about my failure to find the Kensico Dam, the place where I wanted to go to for my run. I had already mention how I couldn't find the dam, which they thought was too funny since it was just down the street. I went up the street. So I couldn’t possibly bring up the car accident after that. They would think I’m a ditzy driver. A local woman there said that the 9A road was a terrible, dangerous road, and I’m like “Hell YES, let me tell you about it!” They all knew before the day was over what happened that previous evening and categorized me as a ditzy driver.
After the accident, I don’t think I went above 40mph anywhere I went. I was driving like a paranoid old person, a soccer mom, and always taking the far, right-side lane and going super slow. Traumatized, yes, but this time I got the full insurance package and everything I could think of adding to the damn car just to make sure that I was covered even if I drove the car off a bridge.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Big Baba
03.31.08
The big baba was in fine form this weekend displaying all kinds of erratic emotions. She talked a lot to herself as if she was her own best friend, very Gollum like. We had lunch in the same bagel, breakfast joint we normally go to each time I come to Atlanta, only because we don’t know where else to go being no longer an Atlanta dweller. They ordered breakfast food, and I grew faint at the thought of breakfast food. Nothing appeals to me here, and I always have the hardest time figuring out what I could possibly order and also be willing to put down my throat. They both ordered coffee, caffeinated for the big one and decaf for the little one. The big one kept saying that it was strong coffee, really good strong coffee. We chatted and covered the basics. There was nothing to talk about really, and I hate revealing anything about my welfares to them because any info I give to them might as well go straight onto YouTube. I end up hearing it later from random people I don’t even know. I kept the topics generic and tried to get them to talk more by asking endless questions. Unfortunately their stores were always the same. They have only a past and not much of a future. There’s always tension between both of them. I know they would much rather have lunch handled separately, far away from each another. I can’t understand why they still continuously act so juvenilely girlish with one another. You’d figured at their age all those female games would seem rather pointless. If one started to say something, somehow the other one would cut in with a totally different story to make the other one feel inferior. They would go back and forth endlessly, and we’re put in an awkward situation not knowing whose side we should take, obviously neither one’s. After the devastating lunch, the little one decided to walk back to her house on her own, probably totally pissed off, annoyed, and irritated, and wanting to get the hell away as fast as she could from the other one. This little one is so frail and small with osteoporosis, you question if she could make it across the parking lot, yet all the way back on her to her house. It seems like she could hardly lift her arms to open a car door but she always manages, she always manages. She can also drive on her own, walk far distances, get her own groceries, entertain people, and go to parties on her own. She is still very much alive. The big one has physical problems with her shaky hands, hearing problem, and vision. She has aliments all over, had colon cancer, and is in chronic pain, which I’m sure the little one feels also, but the big one isn’t shy about airing hers. You’ll see the big one for the first time after a six months hiatus, and you'll ask her how she’s doing. She'll tells you she’s lost half her vision, her lower right back hurts, shows you her wrist, which is tied up with a wrapping brace, and tells you how old she is, and tells you that she wonders if she will die tomorrow. It breaks my heart to see her in such a state and know that she works so hard each day to stay alive. She goes and buys flax seed oils to prevent colon cancer, gets shitake mushroom pills for another anticancer remedy, endless pills of this and that, and spends hundreds of dollars each week on promise pills. She reads everything, believes in everything, and is willing to try everything regardless how ridiculous it might be. She fills up notebook pages of what to mix of this and that to help an aging sick body live longer. She is disillusioned by health magazines articles that promise her ultimate vigor and what she sees on the TV about miracle pills and what she hears from the other elderly folks in her building. She tries so hard and is beyond obsessed with what she believes is the cure for cancer. She wants to live so much and has so much hope in her research, and I just don’t know how to help her because we are all aging and losing in this battle.
We took her to Kmart to return shoes she bought the other day. She insisted on going to Kmart and refused to go to target the other day. She bought five pair of shoes. She doesn’t get out much. One time shopping at any store could be all the shopping she would get for the entire year unfortunately. She made a comment about her shoes as she was in the checkout line. She said that she didn’t know if she would live long enough to wear all these shoes she's about to buy, but they are so cheap. They are only five dollars! Her eyes were wide and had goofy grin on her face. There was only one shoe out of the batch which was in the twenties, and she spent a long time deciding on this pair, sniffing them, touching them, thinking about them, and perhaps licking them a bit. Anyway, those were the shoes she returned back to the store. The next store was whole foods where she bought two bottles of flax seed oil and some bread since the little baba commented on how good the bread was. She had to see what she was missing out. Then we went to Publix to do her grocery shopping. I was thinking how she normally walked slowly and had her wrist pain going on, so I took it easy pushing the cart slowly on her behalf so she could keep up. Next thing I realize she commented on how slow I was going and she took the cart out of my possession and pushed the cart down the aisle really fast like a completely possessed old lady who just got an adrenaline shot. Must have been the strong coffee. She was lifting milk gallons on her own, bagging things on her own, careening down the aisles, zigzagging all around. She knew where everything was and told us to go get this and that on aisle three and aisle four. She looked on her list and saw that she was missing something and was not sure where it was exactly. There was a pause and we all held our breaths. She guessed on aisle four, and when she got there, she was correct. She gave a giggle-laugh saying how she was right and that goofy grin came back. I love her smile. She does it so rarely, but when she does, it’s like sunshine. She was in a really great mood and we attributed all the hype up energy to the strong coffee she had earlier. Anyway, we were in the milk aisle, and she really wanted the Mayfield milk. Apparently it was her usual purchase brand. She associated the yellowness of the carton with the brand. It was a lot more expensive than the Publix brand, and we kept trying to get her to go for the Publix brand. She insisted on Mayfield but then there was a date problem. Mayfield expiration was April 13th. She couldn’t deal with the number thirteen. She went through every single gallon in hopes to find one that wasn’t thirteen. They were all thirteen, and only the 1% milk had a different date. She ended up with the 1% instead of the 2%. We must have been there for ten minutes, looking for a suitable gallon, debating the date issue, and the pricing of each brand. We did a shit load of shopping and the grocery cart was totally filled to the rim. I don’t’ think I’ve ever filled up an entire shopping cart before. I’ve seen others do it and don’t know how it is possible for someone to eat so much, but she’s packed up the cart completely.
After all that shopping and while finally back in the car, she sighed and said “I waited a long time for you to come back to Atlanta. Oh, how long I’ve waited.” She had two full days of shopping and god knows how long she’s been dreaming of getting those shoes from Kmart. In the car she started to ramble on about how the other baba could walk and drive and do her own shopping. She started to become Gollum again. She rambled on and on about her physically handicaps, her hands, her eyes, and how she relies so much on her children and grandchildren to buy her necessities and take her places. She talked about her age over and over again and how she used to be young, how her hands used to work, how she could see and read better. Abruptly, she came out of her gollum state and said, “Oh what has happened to me. Oh god, oh god, what has happened to me?,” as if she just suddenly realized how old she really was. There was a pausing silence. My heart was breaking. All I wanted, more than anything right then and there, was to give her that magic pill.
The big baba was in fine form this weekend displaying all kinds of erratic emotions. She talked a lot to herself as if she was her own best friend, very Gollum like. We had lunch in the same bagel, breakfast joint we normally go to each time I come to Atlanta, only because we don’t know where else to go being no longer an Atlanta dweller. They ordered breakfast food, and I grew faint at the thought of breakfast food. Nothing appeals to me here, and I always have the hardest time figuring out what I could possibly order and also be willing to put down my throat. They both ordered coffee, caffeinated for the big one and decaf for the little one. The big one kept saying that it was strong coffee, really good strong coffee. We chatted and covered the basics. There was nothing to talk about really, and I hate revealing anything about my welfares to them because any info I give to them might as well go straight onto YouTube. I end up hearing it later from random people I don’t even know. I kept the topics generic and tried to get them to talk more by asking endless questions. Unfortunately their stores were always the same. They have only a past and not much of a future. There’s always tension between both of them. I know they would much rather have lunch handled separately, far away from each another. I can’t understand why they still continuously act so juvenilely girlish with one another. You’d figured at their age all those female games would seem rather pointless. If one started to say something, somehow the other one would cut in with a totally different story to make the other one feel inferior. They would go back and forth endlessly, and we’re put in an awkward situation not knowing whose side we should take, obviously neither one’s. After the devastating lunch, the little one decided to walk back to her house on her own, probably totally pissed off, annoyed, and irritated, and wanting to get the hell away as fast as she could from the other one. This little one is so frail and small with osteoporosis, you question if she could make it across the parking lot, yet all the way back on her to her house. It seems like she could hardly lift her arms to open a car door but she always manages, she always manages. She can also drive on her own, walk far distances, get her own groceries, entertain people, and go to parties on her own. She is still very much alive. The big one has physical problems with her shaky hands, hearing problem, and vision. She has aliments all over, had colon cancer, and is in chronic pain, which I’m sure the little one feels also, but the big one isn’t shy about airing hers. You’ll see the big one for the first time after a six months hiatus, and you'll ask her how she’s doing. She'll tells you she’s lost half her vision, her lower right back hurts, shows you her wrist, which is tied up with a wrapping brace, and tells you how old she is, and tells you that she wonders if she will die tomorrow. It breaks my heart to see her in such a state and know that she works so hard each day to stay alive. She goes and buys flax seed oils to prevent colon cancer, gets shitake mushroom pills for another anticancer remedy, endless pills of this and that, and spends hundreds of dollars each week on promise pills. She reads everything, believes in everything, and is willing to try everything regardless how ridiculous it might be. She fills up notebook pages of what to mix of this and that to help an aging sick body live longer. She is disillusioned by health magazines articles that promise her ultimate vigor and what she sees on the TV about miracle pills and what she hears from the other elderly folks in her building. She tries so hard and is beyond obsessed with what she believes is the cure for cancer. She wants to live so much and has so much hope in her research, and I just don’t know how to help her because we are all aging and losing in this battle.
We took her to Kmart to return shoes she bought the other day. She insisted on going to Kmart and refused to go to target the other day. She bought five pair of shoes. She doesn’t get out much. One time shopping at any store could be all the shopping she would get for the entire year unfortunately. She made a comment about her shoes as she was in the checkout line. She said that she didn’t know if she would live long enough to wear all these shoes she's about to buy, but they are so cheap. They are only five dollars! Her eyes were wide and had goofy grin on her face. There was only one shoe out of the batch which was in the twenties, and she spent a long time deciding on this pair, sniffing them, touching them, thinking about them, and perhaps licking them a bit. Anyway, those were the shoes she returned back to the store. The next store was whole foods where she bought two bottles of flax seed oil and some bread since the little baba commented on how good the bread was. She had to see what she was missing out. Then we went to Publix to do her grocery shopping. I was thinking how she normally walked slowly and had her wrist pain going on, so I took it easy pushing the cart slowly on her behalf so she could keep up. Next thing I realize she commented on how slow I was going and she took the cart out of my possession and pushed the cart down the aisle really fast like a completely possessed old lady who just got an adrenaline shot. Must have been the strong coffee. She was lifting milk gallons on her own, bagging things on her own, careening down the aisles, zigzagging all around. She knew where everything was and told us to go get this and that on aisle three and aisle four. She looked on her list and saw that she was missing something and was not sure where it was exactly. There was a pause and we all held our breaths. She guessed on aisle four, and when she got there, she was correct. She gave a giggle-laugh saying how she was right and that goofy grin came back. I love her smile. She does it so rarely, but when she does, it’s like sunshine. She was in a really great mood and we attributed all the hype up energy to the strong coffee she had earlier. Anyway, we were in the milk aisle, and she really wanted the Mayfield milk. Apparently it was her usual purchase brand. She associated the yellowness of the carton with the brand. It was a lot more expensive than the Publix brand, and we kept trying to get her to go for the Publix brand. She insisted on Mayfield but then there was a date problem. Mayfield expiration was April 13th. She couldn’t deal with the number thirteen. She went through every single gallon in hopes to find one that wasn’t thirteen. They were all thirteen, and only the 1% milk had a different date. She ended up with the 1% instead of the 2%. We must have been there for ten minutes, looking for a suitable gallon, debating the date issue, and the pricing of each brand. We did a shit load of shopping and the grocery cart was totally filled to the rim. I don’t’ think I’ve ever filled up an entire shopping cart before. I’ve seen others do it and don’t know how it is possible for someone to eat so much, but she’s packed up the cart completely.
After all that shopping and while finally back in the car, she sighed and said “I waited a long time for you to come back to Atlanta. Oh, how long I’ve waited.” She had two full days of shopping and god knows how long she’s been dreaming of getting those shoes from Kmart. In the car she started to ramble on about how the other baba could walk and drive and do her own shopping. She started to become Gollum again. She rambled on and on about her physically handicaps, her hands, her eyes, and how she relies so much on her children and grandchildren to buy her necessities and take her places. She talked about her age over and over again and how she used to be young, how her hands used to work, how she could see and read better. Abruptly, she came out of her gollum state and said, “Oh what has happened to me. Oh god, oh god, what has happened to me?,” as if she just suddenly realized how old she really was. There was a pausing silence. My heart was breaking. All I wanted, more than anything right then and there, was to give her that magic pill.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Laundry Lady
02.28.08
I met an interesting lady yesterday while doing my laundry late at night. I usually do the laundry as late as possible to avoid people and this lady was there behind the other side talking to herself when I walked in. I couldn’t see her but could only hear her babbling about something. After giving up on trying to see who was and who she was talking to, I went about my business of putting the clothes into the washer. I found out that she was trying to purchase something from the vending machine, this only after hearing the bottle fall down the shaft and onto the bottom catching device. She finally came around the corner and I finally got to see the anticipated unveiling. She was an overweight black woman in her late fifties and handicapped. At first I thought her disabilities were due to her weight problem and irregularly shaped body. She had an oversized ass that stuck out like ears on her hips. She was wearing all black clothes which stuck to her body because her body was bulging out everywhere. She had black tights on but her thighs were like wall columns and she had folds of fat folding over each other almost oozing out of her pants. She shuffled along as she walked passed me and it looked terribly burdening for her to move from one side of the laundry room to the other side. She said hi as she walked by and I greeted her also. I placed all my stuff in and closed the lid, and picked up everything around me and took a glance at her as she moved around her area. She occupied what looked like three washers or four washers. I went out of the room and into the next room where there is a small gym and got onto the elliptical machine and started peddling. The television was on but the sound was very low, which I preferred anyways because I was going to listen to my music. The remote was on my machine and I changed the channel around so that I ended on Conan O’Brian’s show. About ten minutes into my elliptical ling, the lady came into the room pushing what looked like her laundry cart but without any laundry in it. I didn’t blame her because I took my laundry basket and washing detergent into the gym afraid that it might be stolen. She started on some physically machines working her arms and I just went about elliptical ling and looked on at Conan. Eventually she started to approach towards my direction by pushing her black cart along with her. That was when I noticed that it wasn’t a laundry cart at all but a stroller walker for handicaps. She came next to the machine to my left and was looking at the television. I offered her the remote saying that I wasn’t watching anything and she could do whatever she wanted. She said she just wanted the volume louder. It took her awhile to find the button and then she started changing the channel and going through the channel display menu to find out what was on. I helped her with the page down button showing her how to navigate the channel display menu pages. All this time I was still peddling on the elliptical machine and she settled into a recumbent bike next to me and also onto a news station channel. When I looked up I saw that it was FOX news, damn! Why did I let her change the channel. The news broadcast was talking about the primaries and candidates again. Being FOX news, I wanted to get out as fast as possible and wished that my wash was over by now, but unfortunately, I still had ten minutes. She started the conversation. She asked if I liked it here. I thought she was talking about the apartment and said it was okay and that I’ve been here for three years. What she meant, I later found out, was if I liked Chicago. She first asked if I lived here, and I said yes, and then asked if I liked it here. So I assumed that she was referring to the apartment complex. Anyway we got much further on because she was that talker type, and I was just the person who made grunting sounds and nods. Apparently for the last year since April she was paralyzed with both her legs and her arms. She was in a terrible traffic accident and was now having physical therapy along with medical help and surgeries at Northwestern University. She had all kinds of problems allergically reacting to medicines she was taking and also not being able to lift her arm passed a certain level. She talked about how difficult it was for her to brush her hair and when she talked she had a croaking, somewhat, crackling voice. It turns out she had to go through speech therapy too to get her voice back, which was now stronger and better. It must have been a terrible accident and it took place just last year. What I found out was that she was from New York upstate near Buffalo. I did a double take and wondered why she was here in Chicago, since traveling must be difficult with her disabilities. Her accident and health cost were being covered by her auto insurance and not by her health care. The health care in Buffalo was terrible she said, and she told me horror stories about how they mistreated her symptoms and caused her more issues so now she is in Chicago for proper care. The television showed a picture of Hillary Clinton in action, talking about health care and the Nafta program. She said that that women (Clinton) did nothing for health care. The health care was so poor in Buffalo where she lives at, and the city was poor in general and needed a lot of state funding and help. She’s a New Yorker and knows what Clinton did as a senator, or as she said, didn’t do as a senator. I couldn’t figure out how she could afford living in Buffalo while also living in Chicago in a pricy apartment in River North, getting medical help, and having a child in college living in fancy apartment in Westwood California. She has a daughter in film studies almost ready to graduate this year, who also lives in the most expensive part of Los Angeles other than Beverly Hills or Bel Air section. As I gather more and more information from her, or she voluntarily gave them to me, it turns out that she is pretty well off. You couldn’t tell by what she was wearing or how she was acting in general, but her husband is a medical doctor and she used to live in Stanford Connecticut, another ritzy place. What finally impressed me was who she was affiliated with. She said that she was at Hilary’s fund raiser and how she was involved with it and all into that political stuff, but she ended up not voting for Hillary at the end, but her husband did. She did vote for Hillary when Hillary was running for the senate seat. She also was invited to the second inauguration of Bill Clinton, and get this; she receives Christmas cards from Al Gore. I was impressed. I looked at her stroller walker and on it was a little blue book that was titled “The 10 Minute Bible.” I felt sorry for her, thinking that she was trying to become a quick believer now that situations were rough. She could have always been a believer, as well, and this was fun reading material. My time was well passed the wash cycle 30 minute allotted time. I got off the elliptical machine, and she slowly followed, getting off of the bike. I opened the door for her four times in total: out of the gym, into the laundry room, out of the laundry room, and back into the gym. She’ll be doing laundry all night till two in the morning she said and looked puzzled at me as she saw me carrying my wet, washed clothes out the laundry room. She asked if I wasn’t going to dry them. I told her I didn’t dry my clothes in the dryer and just spread it all over my room and it all dries up by the morning since the temperature was set in the mid seventies in my room. She nodded and said good idea and moved into the gym pushing the walker slowly forward. I said goodbye. Her name was Marianne. She lives on the eighth floor. I live on the seventh. Hopefully our paths will cross again.
I met an interesting lady yesterday while doing my laundry late at night. I usually do the laundry as late as possible to avoid people and this lady was there behind the other side talking to herself when I walked in. I couldn’t see her but could only hear her babbling about something. After giving up on trying to see who was and who she was talking to, I went about my business of putting the clothes into the washer. I found out that she was trying to purchase something from the vending machine, this only after hearing the bottle fall down the shaft and onto the bottom catching device. She finally came around the corner and I finally got to see the anticipated unveiling. She was an overweight black woman in her late fifties and handicapped. At first I thought her disabilities were due to her weight problem and irregularly shaped body. She had an oversized ass that stuck out like ears on her hips. She was wearing all black clothes which stuck to her body because her body was bulging out everywhere. She had black tights on but her thighs were like wall columns and she had folds of fat folding over each other almost oozing out of her pants. She shuffled along as she walked passed me and it looked terribly burdening for her to move from one side of the laundry room to the other side. She said hi as she walked by and I greeted her also. I placed all my stuff in and closed the lid, and picked up everything around me and took a glance at her as she moved around her area. She occupied what looked like three washers or four washers. I went out of the room and into the next room where there is a small gym and got onto the elliptical machine and started peddling. The television was on but the sound was very low, which I preferred anyways because I was going to listen to my music. The remote was on my machine and I changed the channel around so that I ended on Conan O’Brian’s show. About ten minutes into my elliptical ling, the lady came into the room pushing what looked like her laundry cart but without any laundry in it. I didn’t blame her because I took my laundry basket and washing detergent into the gym afraid that it might be stolen. She started on some physically machines working her arms and I just went about elliptical ling and looked on at Conan. Eventually she started to approach towards my direction by pushing her black cart along with her. That was when I noticed that it wasn’t a laundry cart at all but a stroller walker for handicaps. She came next to the machine to my left and was looking at the television. I offered her the remote saying that I wasn’t watching anything and she could do whatever she wanted. She said she just wanted the volume louder. It took her awhile to find the button and then she started changing the channel and going through the channel display menu to find out what was on. I helped her with the page down button showing her how to navigate the channel display menu pages. All this time I was still peddling on the elliptical machine and she settled into a recumbent bike next to me and also onto a news station channel. When I looked up I saw that it was FOX news, damn! Why did I let her change the channel. The news broadcast was talking about the primaries and candidates again. Being FOX news, I wanted to get out as fast as possible and wished that my wash was over by now, but unfortunately, I still had ten minutes. She started the conversation. She asked if I liked it here. I thought she was talking about the apartment and said it was okay and that I’ve been here for three years. What she meant, I later found out, was if I liked Chicago. She first asked if I lived here, and I said yes, and then asked if I liked it here. So I assumed that she was referring to the apartment complex. Anyway we got much further on because she was that talker type, and I was just the person who made grunting sounds and nods. Apparently for the last year since April she was paralyzed with both her legs and her arms. She was in a terrible traffic accident and was now having physical therapy along with medical help and surgeries at Northwestern University. She had all kinds of problems allergically reacting to medicines she was taking and also not being able to lift her arm passed a certain level. She talked about how difficult it was for her to brush her hair and when she talked she had a croaking, somewhat, crackling voice. It turns out she had to go through speech therapy too to get her voice back, which was now stronger and better. It must have been a terrible accident and it took place just last year. What I found out was that she was from New York upstate near Buffalo. I did a double take and wondered why she was here in Chicago, since traveling must be difficult with her disabilities. Her accident and health cost were being covered by her auto insurance and not by her health care. The health care in Buffalo was terrible she said, and she told me horror stories about how they mistreated her symptoms and caused her more issues so now she is in Chicago for proper care. The television showed a picture of Hillary Clinton in action, talking about health care and the Nafta program. She said that that women (Clinton) did nothing for health care. The health care was so poor in Buffalo where she lives at, and the city was poor in general and needed a lot of state funding and help. She’s a New Yorker and knows what Clinton did as a senator, or as she said, didn’t do as a senator. I couldn’t figure out how she could afford living in Buffalo while also living in Chicago in a pricy apartment in River North, getting medical help, and having a child in college living in fancy apartment in Westwood California. She has a daughter in film studies almost ready to graduate this year, who also lives in the most expensive part of Los Angeles other than Beverly Hills or Bel Air section. As I gather more and more information from her, or she voluntarily gave them to me, it turns out that she is pretty well off. You couldn’t tell by what she was wearing or how she was acting in general, but her husband is a medical doctor and she used to live in Stanford Connecticut, another ritzy place. What finally impressed me was who she was affiliated with. She said that she was at Hilary’s fund raiser and how she was involved with it and all into that political stuff, but she ended up not voting for Hillary at the end, but her husband did. She did vote for Hillary when Hillary was running for the senate seat. She also was invited to the second inauguration of Bill Clinton, and get this; she receives Christmas cards from Al Gore. I was impressed. I looked at her stroller walker and on it was a little blue book that was titled “The 10 Minute Bible.” I felt sorry for her, thinking that she was trying to become a quick believer now that situations were rough. She could have always been a believer, as well, and this was fun reading material. My time was well passed the wash cycle 30 minute allotted time. I got off the elliptical machine, and she slowly followed, getting off of the bike. I opened the door for her four times in total: out of the gym, into the laundry room, out of the laundry room, and back into the gym. She’ll be doing laundry all night till two in the morning she said and looked puzzled at me as she saw me carrying my wet, washed clothes out the laundry room. She asked if I wasn’t going to dry them. I told her I didn’t dry my clothes in the dryer and just spread it all over my room and it all dries up by the morning since the temperature was set in the mid seventies in my room. She nodded and said good idea and moved into the gym pushing the walker slowly forward. I said goodbye. Her name was Marianne. She lives on the eighth floor. I live on the seventh. Hopefully our paths will cross again.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Air Travel
01.27.08
I spend a large part of my life on planes and in airports. It also feels awkward if I’m not heading towards the airport or sitting on a plane. Often people ask how can I stand it, the waiting, the delays, the hassle, mechanical failure, snow storms delays, rain storms delays, drizzling rain delays, congestions, holiday traffic, etc. I’ve grown so accustomed to it so that now I’m surprised when I do actually come in on time or when things go absolutely smoothly or when I get in early, where pilots make it a point to tell you this in bold letters. But if I felt so strongly each time a delayed occurred and let my emotions take over me, my blood pressure would be sky high and I’d probably had hundreds of heart attacks by now. I guess I’m a beaten dog and just waiting patiently thinking how I can get my revenge later, which is soon forgotten with thoughts of hunger and food problems. People wonder how I do it. I don’t even realize that I’m doing it and just go along with it, but one thing that pisses me off more than anything is when I end up with a seat where the overhead light doesn’t work. I’ve been shafted so often in this situation now that before I even sit my ass down, I press the button to see if it is functional. And if it is not, what can I do but just sit in the dark. I once rang the flight attendant to see if they could help out and really not sure what they would actually do. I imagined they would have a spare bulb, but now that I’m so aware of the overhead apparatus, I see that it involves a screwdriver and not just a bulb exchange. Screwdrivers are weapons now. They just do what I do and push the button in and out relentlessly over and over again, but what I want them to do is do some electrical engineering work, get down to the root of the problem and rewire it right or ask the pilot to push that imaginary special button that I know they all have hidden somewhere in the cockpit and turn on the backup generators to fuel the secondary bulbs. That should be one of the qualifying tests for all flight attendants is to fix light problems besides trash collecting and dishing out useless food and drinks to people. I doubt they even report it in because I swear I ended up in the same damn seat with the same damn overhead light problem each time I sit in this section or particular spot on the plane. This is what my problem with flying, truly, is being stuck in a seat without a light. People next to me are usually sleeping or watching some movie and I feel bad asking them to switch the light on for me. There are limited things I can do in the dark, like sleep and twiddle my thumb around basically. Another problem with traveling is when I plan or schedule engagements with people to do once I’ve landed and cannot fulfill them. It pretty much happens all the time because 90% of the time, I’m delayed. It’s not that terrible if I can minimize the error beforehand but if it is a situation in which I’ve landed and we’re stuck still on the plane and just hanging out like mindless cattle in a large crate, that’s the worst. I feel like slamming through the walls of the plane like the incredible hulk and running through everything, steel walls, concrete walls, just to get out. That would be so unprofessional of me, but I can see myself smashing through the plane and jumping down from the plane and landing with a huge thud sound, shaking the earth around me, cratering it somewhat with my hard landing, then stomping forward and bouncing through the heavily congested runway with people screaming and security going chaos all around and then climbing myself back up to the jet way to make my final escape. But of course, I sit as everyone sits, obediently, but I feel the rage building up and there is absolutely nothing I can do but repeat over and over again in my head how unfair everything is. It’s just unfair. It’s just unfair. You get the pilot’s intercom announcement saying something that doesn’t help pacify you but just makes you groan more. You just keep saying, why me, why now, just go, just move, go, go, go. You could be inches away from getting to the gate and it’s just feels like agonizing torture and you endlessly keep checking the time wondering when it will ever end. Every minute feels like two. Eventually they set you free but only just for you to stand up. No one moves and everyone seems to take their own sweet time, like aging isn’t a problem for them or something. I imagine climbing over all the people and walking on their heads like Crocodile Dundee did at the end of the movie as he moved towards his girl. I almost certainly end up behind someone with too many overhead luggages who struggles to get each one thing down or someone who’s so obese it’s like squeezing toothpaste out a tiny ass hole or someone with thousand of kids. In all cases, they are breathing hard as they walk forward as if they were climbing kilo man jaro, and I’m taking what only seems to be like baby steps towards to front of the plane and counting the number of rows I have left on the plane for me to exit. Once in the jet way you would think you could make a fast break through it all, but the large assed ones or the too many luggaged ones would weave back and forth like a drunk driver that takes both lanes, and I’m still starring sadly at their backs the whole way through the jet way and still being tortured slowly by their slowness. It gets worse if they drop something or if something unbalanced slides off their carefully stacked monument they created so carefully, and I must emphasize, created so slowly. Then at last you finally hit the open space and feel what one must feel when one is about to drown, out of air, out of breathe, and burst openly to the water surface gasping the sweetness of air of freedom. You start your manic fast walking technique, but then it’s more like the movie Back to the Future with the flying cars everywhere, where everybody has their own way of flying, or in this case, walking and their own willed directional paths. You end up dodging and changing tempos and almost doing acrobatic tricks to get around people, strollers, those damn stand stiller creating human road blocks! The escalators are the worst. If you are not the first one on, you might as well be the last one. No one moves on those things because America, in all, is totally lazy. They are willing to be lifted, pushed forward by machines because they probably think effort is a sin. Then when everything is all done and you are back in your comfort zone surrounded by familiar things and people you know, you forget it all. You forget all the drama you just had, the pain you felt, all the pent up anger and heads you wanted to rip off, the spiteful words you wanted to scream out, the rage you wanted to show the world but had to show civility instead for fear of attention, and of course, the police. You end up normal again, relieved, slightly tired and exhausted, and the blood pressured is much lower than before. And again as if it was only a bad dream, which is soon forgotten, your thoughts move towards food again and hunger strikes your belly hard.
I spend a large part of my life on planes and in airports. It also feels awkward if I’m not heading towards the airport or sitting on a plane. Often people ask how can I stand it, the waiting, the delays, the hassle, mechanical failure, snow storms delays, rain storms delays, drizzling rain delays, congestions, holiday traffic, etc. I’ve grown so accustomed to it so that now I’m surprised when I do actually come in on time or when things go absolutely smoothly or when I get in early, where pilots make it a point to tell you this in bold letters. But if I felt so strongly each time a delayed occurred and let my emotions take over me, my blood pressure would be sky high and I’d probably had hundreds of heart attacks by now. I guess I’m a beaten dog and just waiting patiently thinking how I can get my revenge later, which is soon forgotten with thoughts of hunger and food problems. People wonder how I do it. I don’t even realize that I’m doing it and just go along with it, but one thing that pisses me off more than anything is when I end up with a seat where the overhead light doesn’t work. I’ve been shafted so often in this situation now that before I even sit my ass down, I press the button to see if it is functional. And if it is not, what can I do but just sit in the dark. I once rang the flight attendant to see if they could help out and really not sure what they would actually do. I imagined they would have a spare bulb, but now that I’m so aware of the overhead apparatus, I see that it involves a screwdriver and not just a bulb exchange. Screwdrivers are weapons now. They just do what I do and push the button in and out relentlessly over and over again, but what I want them to do is do some electrical engineering work, get down to the root of the problem and rewire it right or ask the pilot to push that imaginary special button that I know they all have hidden somewhere in the cockpit and turn on the backup generators to fuel the secondary bulbs. That should be one of the qualifying tests for all flight attendants is to fix light problems besides trash collecting and dishing out useless food and drinks to people. I doubt they even report it in because I swear I ended up in the same damn seat with the same damn overhead light problem each time I sit in this section or particular spot on the plane. This is what my problem with flying, truly, is being stuck in a seat without a light. People next to me are usually sleeping or watching some movie and I feel bad asking them to switch the light on for me. There are limited things I can do in the dark, like sleep and twiddle my thumb around basically. Another problem with traveling is when I plan or schedule engagements with people to do once I’ve landed and cannot fulfill them. It pretty much happens all the time because 90% of the time, I’m delayed. It’s not that terrible if I can minimize the error beforehand but if it is a situation in which I’ve landed and we’re stuck still on the plane and just hanging out like mindless cattle in a large crate, that’s the worst. I feel like slamming through the walls of the plane like the incredible hulk and running through everything, steel walls, concrete walls, just to get out. That would be so unprofessional of me, but I can see myself smashing through the plane and jumping down from the plane and landing with a huge thud sound, shaking the earth around me, cratering it somewhat with my hard landing, then stomping forward and bouncing through the heavily congested runway with people screaming and security going chaos all around and then climbing myself back up to the jet way to make my final escape. But of course, I sit as everyone sits, obediently, but I feel the rage building up and there is absolutely nothing I can do but repeat over and over again in my head how unfair everything is. It’s just unfair. It’s just unfair. You get the pilot’s intercom announcement saying something that doesn’t help pacify you but just makes you groan more. You just keep saying, why me, why now, just go, just move, go, go, go. You could be inches away from getting to the gate and it’s just feels like agonizing torture and you endlessly keep checking the time wondering when it will ever end. Every minute feels like two. Eventually they set you free but only just for you to stand up. No one moves and everyone seems to take their own sweet time, like aging isn’t a problem for them or something. I imagine climbing over all the people and walking on their heads like Crocodile Dundee did at the end of the movie as he moved towards his girl. I almost certainly end up behind someone with too many overhead luggages who struggles to get each one thing down or someone who’s so obese it’s like squeezing toothpaste out a tiny ass hole or someone with thousand of kids. In all cases, they are breathing hard as they walk forward as if they were climbing kilo man jaro, and I’m taking what only seems to be like baby steps towards to front of the plane and counting the number of rows I have left on the plane for me to exit. Once in the jet way you would think you could make a fast break through it all, but the large assed ones or the too many luggaged ones would weave back and forth like a drunk driver that takes both lanes, and I’m still starring sadly at their backs the whole way through the jet way and still being tortured slowly by their slowness. It gets worse if they drop something or if something unbalanced slides off their carefully stacked monument they created so carefully, and I must emphasize, created so slowly. Then at last you finally hit the open space and feel what one must feel when one is about to drown, out of air, out of breathe, and burst openly to the water surface gasping the sweetness of air of freedom. You start your manic fast walking technique, but then it’s more like the movie Back to the Future with the flying cars everywhere, where everybody has their own way of flying, or in this case, walking and their own willed directional paths. You end up dodging and changing tempos and almost doing acrobatic tricks to get around people, strollers, those damn stand stiller creating human road blocks! The escalators are the worst. If you are not the first one on, you might as well be the last one. No one moves on those things because America, in all, is totally lazy. They are willing to be lifted, pushed forward by machines because they probably think effort is a sin. Then when everything is all done and you are back in your comfort zone surrounded by familiar things and people you know, you forget it all. You forget all the drama you just had, the pain you felt, all the pent up anger and heads you wanted to rip off, the spiteful words you wanted to scream out, the rage you wanted to show the world but had to show civility instead for fear of attention, and of course, the police. You end up normal again, relieved, slightly tired and exhausted, and the blood pressured is much lower than before. And again as if it was only a bad dream, which is soon forgotten, your thoughts move towards food again and hunger strikes your belly hard.
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