Nocturnal Doings

Ok, so I was going to write about my nocturnal state of mind, but of course wanted to find an appropriate image to include. So what do I do but wikipedia "ghost"--which is fine, but then I came across the image to your left, which in my state of mind, here in my dark house just after the bewitching hour, is just sort of freaking me out. And yet I keep it there. Now I will have to sleep with all of the animals in my bed.

I can't even do this entry because this photo is scaring me.

It's Time to Kill Your Dog, Folks. Liberty Insurance Says So.

Some folks are cat people, and others are dog people, and in many cases, never the twain shall meet. But in our household we swing both ways. Yes, we are bi-petual, and will lavish attention on all creatures great and small, regardless of race, creed or sexual orientation.

Alas, it's a cold, harsh world outside these walls, and we have recently witnessed some extreme prejudice when it comes to our furry familiars.

Most recently, we made a trek up to Ohio to look for a house. We thought we might rent a place first, and then leisurely peruse the area for a suitable home to purchase in due time.

Eagerly, we consulted the Yellow Pages to source real estate agents and put them to task. At first, sensing our innate decency, no doubt, and our full purses, they were filled with vim and vigor, ready to bring forth addresses galore that might fit our housing needs. That is, until they got to... the "pet" question--thrown casually at the end of the survey, as if an archaic inclusion that surely no one would answer in the affirmative. But we did. Yes, 2 dogs. One cat. Breeds? Umm, mini-greyhound and (more softly) a German Shepherd. Yes, a German Shepherd. The agent would then summon an alternate personality, and his/her tone would invariably assume that officious timbre one uses with children when they engage in outlandish acts ("No, Billy. We do not tinkle on the baby's head.")

Yes, with that final disclosure--our shameful pet status--we joined a special caste of untouchables: the pet people.

Well fuck them, we said. We want to buy a house anyhow, not rent. So with this in mind, we set about finding our dream house. After participating in a bewildering paper chase/busy work extravaganza (see "I Pine..." below), we secured--well almost--a fair approximation of that dream house. And this was no McMansion, but a bona fide vintage dwelling, lovingly constructed in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and ninety, A.D. It is/was? situated on 3 glorious acres on which the dogs could, if allowed, romp and frolic till to their heart's content. Indoors the house has scads of room, ample enough so that man and beast might co-exist in blissful harmony. Perfect! Or not...

We're so close to our closing date that we can almost taste it. But there's a hold up: the pets. Yes, forget those rights to pursuit of happiness and constitution/amendments that say we have some agency here in the land of amber waves of grain. This only applies to those who are NOT in possession of ...firearms? No, that's not it. Drugs? Nope. Pets? Yes, if you dare to flaunt your pet loving ways then you, dear citizen, are putting yourself and others at risk, and Liberty Insurance, for one, is not going to stand for it. You can count on that.

And so our final hurdle before we close--to procure homeowners insurance--is proving to be yet another mindless obstacle constructed by the Special Olympics bureaucrats of the housing world: the insurance company--who notoriously feel that using that lowest common denominator of the academic world--the statistician--justifies the quashing and squashing of dreams. This time, our beloved, middle-aged German Shepherd, Kazan, is holding us up. Now on any given day, Kazan can be seen begging our cat Pissy Boy for clemency, as said cat holds him hostage at dinner time. This dog--did I mention that he's on Liberty's "vicious animal" list??--has been known to cry out in alarm at the sight of the vacuum cleaner, to groom his nether regions with wild abandon, to engage in hostile acts against the monkey sock toy, and finally, to lick the hands of complete strangers before collapsing on the floor at their feet and begging for a belly rub.

Yes, it is fitting that Liberty Insurance is wary of this vicious creature. It is fitting that in these dire economic times, with a domino effect housing crisis in our midst, that the good folks at Liberty have taken it upon themselves to provide some meaningful standards to help the American people participate in the tax base, and to take to heart the task of building our economy back up. With these things in mind, I must concede, it is totally fitting that we are denied home owner's insurance, when this evil miscreant we harbor could be the undoing of the insurance world, and the American people. I applaud you Liberty Insurance, for your sound business practices.

I Want to Lie Shipwrecked and Comatose

Where oh where did the best space opera ever made go? Why has it ended and why has no one thought of something any more clever to take its place? Is it because we're not British? Is it only the British who can compose deeply layered dramadies capable of nuanced black humor, social commentary and acid freak non-linear story lines? Is it? I will think about this some, and hope to come up with a solution in due time. In the meantime, revisit the great old end credit song from the masterpiece series.

Indian UPS Store Man, Why Do You Hate Me?

Here in rural suburbia we don't have a lot of choices when it comes to public services. I've been here for two years and still don't know where (or even if) the post office is. What we do have, located conveniently in the Harris Teeter cloned strip mall near my home is a UPS store. This establishment is run by, I believe, the proprietor, who happens to be a gentleman from India. I use the term gentleman loosely, and with artistic license, for he does not, by any stretch of the imagination, qualify as a gentle man. No, he is a mean spirited tyrant who in no way embodies his countrymen from that fine sub-continent from which he hails.

When I think of India, a number of things come to mind: a population approaching 1.1 billion souls, a rich and antiquated history, the best kind of savory, spicy victuals you ever want to taste, lovely feminine saris worn by raven haired lovelies. And a lilting kind of vocal cadence that shines through even spoken English. I also think of gentle folk and gentle ways when I look through my rose colored eyeglass (yes I know it's a hot mess in terms of economic and social issues, but I'm using broad impressionistic strokes here, so go with it). So, my UPS Store "gentleman" doesn't fit the bill. At all. What's wrong with this man, you ask? Well for one, he hates this country. This country, of course, being America. Now I'm not one of those patriotic zealots who wave a flag at the drop of a hat. I see the good, the bad and the ugly in this fine country of ours. But I do hate ignorance. And more than ignorance I hate mean spiritedness. Now, I try to give folks who are pissy and sour pussed the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they just found out some horrible and life altering news, lost their job, their loved one(s), their house, or who knows what. Bad things happen, and this can put you in a decidedly bad mood. But there are some folks who walk the earth with a chip on their shoulder, and I suspect my UPS Store man is one of them.

I know that this is not a fluke--his bad mood--because I've had dealings with him going on two years now. Ever the poster child for white middle class guilt syndrome (coupled with intensive training in cultural awareness as an anthropologist), I am acutely aware that other people are simply more deserving than I, and as such should be revered as I revel in self-admonishment. That's just the way it is, what with the sins of the fathers and stuff floating around and inhibiting good karma. So be it. So with that in mind, every time I must post a parcel, buy stamps, send a fax or conduct any type of business that requires the diabolical UPS man's services, I am on my best behavior. Polite. Gentle. Submissive. Unquestioning. Patient. All of those things Americans who have to wait in line for a service generally are not. I consider this my penance for having a roof over my head and two known parents. And the UPS man's response to this? He is rude to me. Not so much so that I feel justified in taking my business across town to another UPS guy, but subtly and with deeper undercurrents of detectable loathing.

Since I am the domestic goddess cum hausfrau of my household, it's up to me, generally, to deal with all matters postal. So the spousal never--until recently--had to deal with the surly UPS guy. Every time I reported the rude and generally aggressive posture of the UPS guy, the spouse would pooh-pooh me and tell me I was reading way too much into things. That is, until recently, when HE dealt with this man. Was the UPS man rude to my male, foreign spouse? No, he was not. But it was revealed to me, with acute mirth and hilarity, I must say, that a friendlier and even somewhat conspiratorial side of the UPS man's personality emerged when a fellow foreigner entered the room. The following occurred when my husband dealt with this man:
1. UPS guy pointed to a poster he had behind the counter of the Taj Mahal and asked his patron if he knew the building. Spouse replied "Yes, why that's the Taj Mahal. Everyone knows that." To which UPS guy hissed in response "No Sir. They do not. Americans do not know this fine building. It is only foreigners educated in better schools who know this building. It is a pity and a shame how ignorant these Americans are." [I'm really not exaggerating here]
2. Spouse had to send a fax. He was charged exactly HALF the amount that I was charged when sending a fax, by virtue of his maleness, his foreignness or BOTH (I suspect both).

When I learned these things, I seriously thought about confronting the UPS guy, but then thought, no, maybe he has his reasons. Maybe he had a hard life. Maybe I should go home and don a hair shirt and strike myself repeatedly with a flogger since I was born with means. Maybe...

I Pine, You Pine, We All Pine for Sub-Prime

But those days are long gone, left rotting and festering in the past like so much road kill. It's done and dusted, our national bacchanalia devoted to the attainment of that which we cannot afford.

So my question is: why must I suffer for the sins of the fathers? Why must I beg for alms as Wells Fargo peers nervously through their one-way security mirror, poised to press the panic button at a moment's notice? Where's MY Horatio Alger booty that I was promised in the womb? I am baffled and stunned, but mostly just disappointed in myself for not jumping on the bandwagon while the getting was good.

After all, crack addicts, trailer park denizens and delusional would-be celebrities from all walks of life have had their day in the sun. They've stood in the flimsy shadow of affluence and walked the halls of pressboard mansions. Sure, many a proud home owner was forced to forfeit the spoils when it became clear that the Wallmart cashier's salary was not sufficient to pay the mortgage. And many, with greater math skills than mine, were baffled when the repo man emerged from the humid depths of Hell to reclaim a lost soul. We children of the American Dream--much like dogs--live only in the glorious moment, the moment when Santa Claus bestows a fantastic gift but fails to include batteries for the coveted toy.

At this very moment I'm trying to get my hands on my own celebrity crib. It's modest by Malibu standards, and furthermore situated on a sparsely populated patch of forgotten territory deep in the wilds of Ohio. You'd think Wells Fargo would want to encourage growth in a wasteland such as this. In fact, they are surprisingly timid. The great and entrepreneurial spirit of risk and generosity is gone when I need it most. The high stakes gamblers once employed by lending institutions across the nation have been replaced by officious, shrew-like bureaucrats.

Now I'm not naive. I know that folks like to be assured of a sure thing--like getting their loan money back in due time. But shouldn't the safeguards these lenders use have some meaning? I mean here on planet Earth. Not in the sterile and hermetically sealed halls of the money plant. Is it really true that 20% down, a whopping good salary, money in the bank and a good credit score are not enough for these folks? It is. They must probe more deeply into the anal recesses of one's history, to satisfy their sick need for reassurance. It just makes me want to collect welfare and live in a double wide trailer when I am asked to justify personal banking deposits in the miniscule amount of $100.00. How is that relevant? If it's my tooth fairy money, or the proceeds from a mafia subsidiary, what business is it of theirs?

Additionally, the perky automatron in charge of my application was most interested in a long forgotten American Express account that I had closed out some time in 1992. What, if any, meaningful information could I possibly provide in this matter?

And then there's my poor, beleaguered alien spouse. He's old school, since he's from the old country. He pays cash on demand, does not amass debt, and contributes regularly to his savings account. He therefore has a zero credit rating, which, in the eyes of the interest grubbing creditors, is a far greater crime than HAVING debt and NOT paying your bills. It's a bewildering system, and one I'm hard pressed to explain to my confused immigrant spouse.

Alas, there's not a lot I can do other than don my sequined unitard and jump through the fiery hoops put before me.

Ohio, you are calling, but I cannot yet come to you. And so we wait.

Paula Abdul, what is it pussy cat?

I've actually been thinking about Nancy Grace, not Paula Abdul. But I just Googled NG to see if I'm alone in my feelings of revulsion and awe, and I am not. In fact, there are a number of web sites dedicated to her undoing in the strongest terms. I had planned to devote a long-winded riff to her nasal offensiveness and the sad state of broadcast journalism when a person such as Grace gets dedicated air time, but others have done this already, so I will not. I feel comforted that I am not alone. So I will move along to the next offensive person on my list. This was a toss up between Vladimir Putin and Paula Abdul. Unfortunately, my feelings toward Putin are somewhat ambivalent. Though I fear his desire to reinstate a USSR-style regime in Mother Russia, I admire--against better judgment--his taut and limber frame, his stately swagger, and his penchant for Judo and tiger wrestling. His confidence is seductive, but I will not go there. No. I will talk about Ms. Abdul since my position in this matter is much clearer.

As a devotee of American Idol, and an erstwhile denizen of the 80s, it should follow that I would have greater tolerance than most for Ms. Abdul. I'm sorry to say that this is not the case. I do not care for the way she flaunts her abuse of pharmaceuticals on prime time television, and I especially do not believe she is qualified to be a music critic and judge. This latter point is the reason I'm up now at 1:40 a.m. and not ensconced in my duvet beneath the soothing oscillations of my white noise fan with Pissy Boy entrenched between my legs. It is Ms. Abdul who keeps me awake, thanks to that infomercial I felt compelled to watch earlier this evening. You see, Paula has her own line of costume jewelry. It is, as one would expect, a garish collection of bangles encrusted with rhinestones and sappy maudlin type engravings, which Ms. Abdul admitted on live television to having composed herself. The consumer may buy a gargantuan sparkle bracelet with the following words embossed on the inside cuff: "He Loves Me, I Love Me More." I mean really. What does that tell us? Is she advocating narcissism? And if that much self-love abounded why in god's name would that person resort to such a level of self-bedizenment? I submit to you that one would not waste money on a trinket that would detract from one's natural beauty and innate self-love. Only a self-loathing and attention-seeking philistine would purchase something from Ms. Abdul's insulting line of glitter crap. Truly.

Next: Why is she a featured judge on America's favorite talent show, American Idol? I have some vague recollection of her having had a minor hit in the 80s with accompanying music video that involved Ms. Abdul wrestling a rodent. Prior to that I believe she was a cheerleader. As far as I know, cheerleaders do not sing. They chant. Nor do they work in an industry where singing is even practiced, unless we count the Nation Anthem, which we do not. No, Ms. Abdul is decidedly NOT qualified to pass judgment on others when it comes to vocal ability. The fact that she has slithered her way into the good graces of Simon Fuller, the Faustian producer of the show, means that her talents surely lie elsewhere, and I, for one, find this type of behavior shameless, particularly at her age.

Bedlam, Nocturnalism & Talking to Oneself

I've only been on my own for two days, but already there's been a breakdown in the social order. Yes, the spousal consort has cut a trail to the godforsaken middle of nowhere, leaving the little lady at home until safety and democracy can be established at the new homestead. But that little lady is not home polishing her tea service and sewing bed shams. Oh no, she is becoming rather too comfortable in her own skin. For when social pressures are removed, that is to say, when one has no responsibilities, no obligations, and no appointments with others of the species, well, a strange kind of metamorphosis begins to take place.

First of all, time becomes irrelevant. I don't even know where my watch is these days, and my only sense of passing time has to do with celestial events. Since my shades have been drawn due to a fit of paranoia the other night (a delusional episode involving the belief that the landlady was lurking in the bushes and snapping unflattering photographs), even the sun, the moon and the stars have lost their significance. It is always twilight here. This has an impact on otherwise regimented activities, like meal times. I know instinctively, that coffee must be consumed immediately upon waking. And I know, as do all animals, that solid food is essential for survival. However, it is not until my menagerie of house creatures warns me that dinner time is imminent that I too begin to forage for sustenance. So far this has been strictly vegetarian fare. Not because I am a vegetarian, but because I lack the will to actually prepare and cook something more substantial. Leaving the house for fast food is an equally alarming prospect since that would require changing out of my battle worn night clothes and into something society might deem appropriate.

Then there's the bio-rhythm. Left unchecked and unharassed, I gravitate toward naps. Long, luxurious mid-day naps. This leaves me bright eyed and bushy tailed come night time. Without the natural healing warmth of the sun to guide my disposition into a happy place, I am left feeling haunted, hunted, manic and restless. I naturally try to alleviate these feelings by engaging in meaningful tasks like Face Book and compulsively checking my email. Sometimes, I wander down to the living room and flick through the 800 television stations Direct TV has bestowed upon us, and invariably settle on some program I would never ever usually watch (lately LOGO gay TV, the 700 club, and some Spanish channel that seems to be devoted to soap opera programming.) I watch these things because no one is here to stop me. There's no negotiation required when one is alone. One may engage in flatulence with impunity, sprawl across the entire bed and make use of all bed pillows with impunity, bathe for 2 hours, dine on red hots and beets, externalize internal dialogue (i.e., talk to oneself), use the bathroom with the door wide open, feed the cat on the kitchen counter, let the dogs sleep in the bed, talk to one's mother in London for 3 hours straight, refuse to brush one's hair, and engage in much spontaneous lip-syncing while perambulating around the house...just to name a few.

So what will become of me, I wonder? Will I become a feral suburbanite? Will the spouse be forced to send me back to obedience school when he sees how I've gone to seed? I will just have to wait and see...