This Is Why I'm Like This: Postcards From The Warehouse

  I am the only white woman of a certain age in this warehouse. There are two other women of not color, but younger than I. The rest are male or Latina or Vietnamese or African American or a mixture of many. It makes everyone treat me a bit differently, which is really OK, but at first I assumed they all hated me. Nope, they just thought I was a spy.

  Considering I'm blogging about them, they aren't wrong.

  On the line I am with L, K and A, and sometimes "Neck Tattoo", who is not consistently in attendance. My first two days, didn't have my headphones and had to listen to K's music as for some reason, he also does not have headphones. I don't know why. He has one of those Twinkie shaped speakers. I am still unsure of what, exactly, he is listening to. Sometimes it sounds like comedians, sometimes it's rap and on more than one occasion, based on the volume and timber of the speaker and the boisterous audience, I thought there was a revolution being planned. I turned around at one point, as I thought I recognized the voice, and K immediately turned it down. "Is this too offensive? I can turn it off." I smiled, I was just wondering what the hell it was, not suggesting he turn it off. It happened again the next day, when I turned around to see what was holding up the line behind me and he repeated his thesis. "If this is too inappropriate, I can turn it off." I smiled and said "Dude, I teach high school, you can't offend me."
  Turns out, this is not accurate. After two weeks--even with my headphones in I hear strains of "N" words and "F" bombs---I'm not so much offended as I am over it. I've never heard such sexism, misogyny, and anger that seems to be disguised as rap/stand up or whatever. K loves it and frequently responds to the Twinkie box with a "Ya, that's right" or repeating a phrase. Clearly he is not upset by the sexism, misogyny or vulgarity. He's about 24 years old, so I suppose it's just my age. But I'm on his line, so I'm not going to be a jerk about whatever gets him through eight hours of monotony.

  I have thus far listened to : Every Christopher Titus album, Tina Fey's Bossypants, "Confessions" with Jimmy Fallon and a variety of guests, two Kathleen Madigan shows, Kevin Hart "Let Me Explain" as well as anything else I can find of his (I've listened to the white water raft story at least four times, I love it) Steve Martin's "Wild and Crazy Guy", several Tiny Fey and Amy Poehler interviews, all Duran Duran videos,  Guns and Roses, Bon Jovi, Beastie Boys and a smattering of smaller stand up posts, as that seems to be what I enjoy most.  If King Soopers does not hire me as a stock boy tomorrow -fingers crossed-next week I intend to listen to John Cleese's memoir. All in all, to sum up: I'm Whitey (thanks Christopher for allowing me to call myself out like this),

  Part of the line gig is to cut down cardboard boxes to be used inside other cardboard boxes. This is done in a very precise way and A had to demonstrate it for me. I don't agree with his anal approach to exacto knifing off the flaps first, then cutting the box into rectangles. I believe you can achieve this by putting the whole box on the giant paper cutter and hacking through it. NOTE these people have no idea I have a recent scar on my hand from the miniature version of this thing in my copy room. Just as I question their choice to give me an exacto, I question their choice to let me cut the boxes. Let me be clear, I was shown how to do it correctly. A was painfully slow and deliberate in his demonstration. I just don't want to do it that way. So when it needed to be done, and A and L and K were all deep in their own headphones/twinkie shouting, I sashayed myself over to the massive, rusted, farm equipment paper cutter and proceeded to do it my way.
  I folded the box in half and began to hack through the cardboard, feeling like a butcher in Jersey who is agitated after he's had to pay off the protection guys. I was humming along to my boys "SABOTAGE!"
  Within a minute, L was at my side, smiling that huge beautiful smile of hers. She reached for the rusty blade slowly, like taking a ...blade from a crazy person and said  "Let me do it, OK?"
  "I'm fine, I got it, why won't you let me play?"
  She continued to smile, as a good leader will, and shook her head. "I got this."
  "Why do you hate me?" I laughed and stomped back to my place on the line.
  It is exchanges like these that explain why I will never be allowed anywhere near a forklift.

  K does these awesome ballet stretches throughout the day, and even though I can read an analog clock, he tells me every day when it's break time. I appreciate his desire to make sure I get my breaks, but I wonder if he thinks I'm "special".

  They let me have a drill on occasion, and I get to drill in four teeny tiny microscopic screws seven thousand times. When I started doing it, L said to listen for the stripping sound on the screw, that is how you know it's in all the way. I disagree, but again, she's the boss. So I screw them in until I can hear the screw stripping. K stopped me and said "You're stripping the screw, you don't have to do that." Again...not my circus, not my monkeys, not my screws. Thankfully, I can get them all the way in without stripping the screw, and nobody has given me any notes on my performance.

  I did have to be shown how to pack the single brackets. I'd been building and packing the triple brackets, and had not packed the single ones. So I began doing it the way we do the triple ones, and L appeared at my side with her big smile. I took out my headphones and said "I'm doing it wrong, huh?" She smiled and showed me how to pack 50 of them in the box and walked away. Whatever she's listening to on her headphones requires that she respond occasionally. At first I thought she was on the phone, but who's on the phone for eight hours? I realized she's listening to something she agrees with, and needs to reaffirm her support. But sometimes I still think she's on the phone.

  A speaks limited English and is so shy he can barely function. On his breaks, he sits back in the boxes and takes a nap. I like him a lot, but there is little opportunity to chat on the line, and I seem like a pushy teacher when I do talk to them, because I'm always asking about their lives. I found out K dropped out of massage therapy school because he couldn't afford it, and L is engaged to B across the aisle in printing. There are a few couples in the warehouse and they take their breaks together and it makes me stupid happy. Two young ladies bring their leftovers, and they may just be roommates but I like to believe they are a couple. They only speak Spanish to one another, though, and I don't so I can't eavesdrop. The Vietnamese ladies in production fill the giant jugs of wonderful smelling Fiji soaps and lotions, and bring food in Tupperware that looks wonderful. The shipping supervisor, who also oversees the whole warehouse, has a Kevin Hart thing going for him in many ways: he is African American, he is funny, he is positive and upbeat and he is short. He high fives me every day and tells jokes and in general, is someone I would call a "leader", not a "boss".

  I am not long for this gig, as I am hoping to get hired part time at Barnes and Noble or King Soopers down the street. Something much closer to home that I can do during the school year. But I really don't hate it. These people are just trying to make it on $12 an hour. Which is impossible, as we all know, but they are collectively positive, friendly and nowhere near as mean and bitchy as I am. And I have a career, guys. I may not like it, but I have one. I have a home and two cars and I work these gigs to help my kids pay off their student loans because they are working shitty $12 an hour jobs or for a small business owner who is not scheduling them enough,trying to live their lives.

 So in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: I am not above working anywhere in the name of helping my girls with their bills. And I have stopped bitching about teaching. That is what the warehouse was for, instead of paying for therapy, I got paid to figure it out on my own.

  Scene.

This Is Why I'm Like This: On The Assembly Line

    So, I never explained truly why I'm at the warehouse.
    Besides the fact that I lost one of my directing gigs, I also cannot seem to get hired anywhere doing anything. I have applied at King Soopers, Barnes and Noble and my local liquor store. I even applied to shop and deliver groceries, but nobody in my neighborhood uses the ap. I find this to be suspicious, don't you? Like "Hand Of God"  suspicious. I'm still applying, but nothing is happening so I'm still at the warehouse.
     But I blew through all of the quality control stuff, and spent last week on the assembly line. I kinda hate it, but I like money and nobody bothers me, which is nice. I literally put in my headphones and assemble shower brackets for eight hours.
     I enjoy the schedule. I hate the drive, the damn thing is in Aurora. If I go in with Jim I can do 9-5, but everyone clears out at 3pm, because the warehouse hours are 7-3 So I stay alone and assemble some stuff, and I enjoy the solitude. I worked both shifts, trying to decide which is best. I really hate the drive, not the distance---it's an hour---but the other drivers. People gotta stop moving here, dude.
    The line manager, L, doesn't seem too worried about my hours.When I show up I know what to do,  I do it. and that's all that matters. Nobody is checking my work, really, unless I'm doing it wrong, in which case one of the other four on the line will show me how to do it right. It's even more mind numbing than quality control stuff, at least that was different every day. There are seemingly millions of these brackets, they're never ending. The only variety is if the guy doing the packing (whose name I still do not know, but he's nice and has a tattoo on his neck so that's how I refer to him "Nice Neck Tattoo") falls behind a bit, then I help him pack and bag.
    I'm in the middle. There are five of us if we all show up. L unpacks the plastic backs, Arturo cleans them and puts on the blue sticker. Kristian puts in the locks and drills the backs on, then I clip the three dispensers on the front and check that the locks work. Then they're rebagged in the same plastic they arrived in, and repacked. Scene.
   Mind Numbing.
   If anyone gets bogged down, I help with locks and drilling backs, or packing. L has the fastest gig, unloading and cleaning the backs so she's never behind. Sometimes Arturo's stickers give him trouble, but for the most part, he's good. It's the locks and drilling Kristian does that could use an additional person to speed up the process. Until I came along there were only four of them, and I guess that's how I ended up over there, they needed the help and I showed up the first of June volunteering to help. Except they're paying me, I'm not a volunteer. Anyway, in my professional opinion they still need another person on the line. Arturo wasn't there Friday, and last week Nice Neck Tattoo left at ten am, and things really slowed down. But nobody seems to be too wound up about how fast we're going, so I'm not sure I'm having a "real" assembly line experience. I think of Roseanne Barr (didn't she work on an assembly line on her show?) and Norma Rae and Laverne and Shirley and Lucy and Rosie the Riveter. I'm in good company. But I feel like they had bosses that wanted higher productivity all the time, and that's not happening where I am. The only thing I know is the first day I was on the line, I heard L say they wanted to ship a thousand of the brackets that day. I have no frame of reference for identifying if that is a lot or typical.
    I entertain myself with ghetto math, adding up how many brackets each box holds, trying to count boxes to see how many we've unpacked and repacked. I forget the number five minutes after I've calculated, because my music stopped and I need to choose a new band or comedian to listen to.
   I like having scheduled breaks. They break at 8.30, 10.30 and 12.30, leave at 3. They just drop where they are and walk away, then pick it up when they return. This is such a foreign concept to me, as I work through off periods and lunch at school. The morning stretch before lunch is the hardest, I think I'm still asleep at the first stretch. 10.30-12.30 is a really long time when you're standing in one place doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over....
   I have bruises on my hands from popping in the clips. It's just not work I'm used to and I do have arthritis, so it's an adjustment. But standing on my feet all day is not as horrible as I thought it would be, as I can stretch or walk around as I like. Kristian does ballet stretches that I love. Arturo and L sit most of the day at the table. I tried sitting the first day because L recommended it, but it was worse than standing.
   I'm not the best at drilling, my eyes are bad and the screws are tiny, but I like the break in the monotony. It's not hard work, and most of the people who work there seem pretty happy. Nobody complains. Last week we had to go on lock down because the cops were raiding a house in the neighborhood behind the warehouse. I asked Kristian what that meant and he replied "We lock the warehouse." I sounded stupid, so I told him that it means something completely different to me and he said "Nope, we just shut the doors and keep working." So it wasn't much of a break, except that Nice Neck Tattoo did not return after the 10.30 break, which was right after the lock down. Nobody knew where he went or seemed too worried, though L and I thought it'd be fun to believe he ran because of the raid. But he was back the next day. Alllllrighty then.
    I feel like I could leave for months, and randomly show up one day and they'd put me to work, not expecting me to return and not wondering where I'd been. What an odd experience, but not unlike teaching, really. It's been proven time and again anyone can do my job, I'm not special. At least here I have no delusions of importance, I know anyone can do this, and someone will when I leave.
   I thought about not returning, it really is boring but not in a bad way. They're paying me, somebody has to do it and they're paying me. At first I didn't like the monotony, it's too much time without thinking and when I get off, the hour drive home is just an extension of my numb head. I don't realize I'm tired until I walk in the door, and then I can't manage to vacuum or grocery shop because I'm so unplugged I can only sleep.
   So I'll head back three days next week, I'll go in with Jim to avoid having to drive. I can stay the extra two hours working alone just fine. It's weird, I don't work there but I work there. I feel like Jack Black in High Infidelity,  He's fired but he keeps coming back. I don't work there but I work there. I am living a true paradox. L said they told her I was there for the summer. I said "Don't rely on me, I have no idea how much I'll be around." She smiled and said "OK, not a big deal."
   Guess I'll be around a few days for another week. Then we'll see.

This Is Why I'm Like This: Substitute Teaching, La Porte, Tx, 1989/90

The University of Houston (originally posted 2018)
         In the early 90's, so early it was almost the late 80's, because it actually was the late 80's, I decided to substitute teach while going to school on Planet Houston. I was hired in La Porte, a city south of Houston and known for being a bit "rough" at the time. The city was largely blue collar workers, etc. Those neighborhoods are always considered rough, but let me tell you, that after 14 years of teaching in a suburban school, blue collar kids are not "rough". They're just big, and sometimes multi colored and not always what others perceive as "scholarly",but they don't shoot each other. Just saying.
       My UH schedule left me two days a week without classes, and I had tech in the afternoons. Why not? What could go wrong?
       I was 23 years old. I  was 5'7" and weighed 120 pounds and owned a single suit, purchased when I needed to start applying for jobs after we moved from Denver. I had no clothes due to the Thieving Bastards of Arlington, Tx, but that's another post.
       We lived in Seabrook, but Seabrook didn't have a school district that I could sub in. Or maybe their standards were too high, who knows. I can't be expected to remember everything. I do remember that Houston Independent School District had requirements I did not meet. Also teachers were being stabbed and bullied in HISD at that time, so I got hired in "L.P",  down the road, a district willing to hire a young college student to substitute teach. I had zero classroom experience as a teacher, but of course I had fifteen  years of classroom experience as a student in addition to years of babysitting and stage management, and I was willing to do it for sixty bucks a day. How hard could this be?
      My very first day subbing at the high school, I was befriended by an imposing woman named Letisha Jones*. Even in my stupid suit I was under dressed next to Letisha. She was awesome, her hair was a magnificent black shiny mountain, her jewelry was all gold but tasteful and glorious against her dark skin, her suit was a real tailored suit, not off the rack. Her nails! Her fingernails were impeccable and she was already an imposing woman before she slipped on her name brand heels. I was Schleppy the Clown in my old character shoes, the only 'heels' I owned. She showed me my classroom, introduced me to admin as I walked through the halls looking up at the students. These kids were mostly giants and Letisha was at least six feet tall in her heels. They must put something in the water in L.P. She shepherded me to my room, where the large blonde wood desk sat with the blackboard right behind it. I flashed to the movie Teachers and imagined I would be as cool as Nick Nolte. Letisha told me I would enjoy my day, they were mostly upper level Language Arts kids, and her room was right next door. She also indicated the phone on the wall, and told me to pick it up in an emergency and an administrator  would be right down. I would need to know about this phone later at the junior high, but that's another post.
        The day went smoothly through lunch. I was surprised at how nice all these kids were to a sub. I remembered giving the subs in high school a hard time: switching seats, pretending to be someone else, talking incessantly. My band friends would switch instruments on sub days. Choir kids tried sitting in the wrong sections, but that wasn't nearly as funny as the band kids. They always were more clever.
        I walked into the hall during lunch, searching for the teachers' lounge. Somehow the giants seemed less threatening when they were in the classroom, out here in the hall I felt exposed without Letisha's arm around my shoulder. I started having a panic attack. I darted through the holes in the human sea and ran into the teachers' lounge, unwittingly slamming the door behind me. Then I leaned against it and looked up to find everyone staring at me. There was a clump of teachers in tableau, some seated, some standing, and a thin veil of smoke. A Voice from the Teacher Clump said "Dear, this is the teachers' lounge. Are you lost?"
        Confused, I squinted through the smoke at the Coke machine and took a few steps toward it. As I did, an imposing arm placed itself around my shoulders. Letisha's booming voice emerged "This is Ms. Martin, she's our new Lang Arts sub. Also theatre, right Ms. Martin?" The clump of teachers' expressions changed and a few "Hi's" and "Welcome's" were mumbled as they returned to crying and smoking, which everyone knows is what you do in the teachers' lounge. Letisha bought me a Diet Dr. Pepper (I weighted 120 pounds for a reason)and despite her friendly smile, I bolted as fast as I could back to my classroom. The teachers' lounge was dark and smokey and...they thought I was a student! That's what happened! How funny! I don't even look like an adult. This is a reality that plagued me throughout teaching, even as I aged, I never felt like an adult.
         The class after lunch was going along, and I gave them their writing assignments. A young man in the up stage right corner of the room, dressed in a long black duster, black Chistian Slater hair falling in his face, lankily wore his desk as a costume piece and just stared at me. I asked if he needed anything, and he just whispered. The rest of the class silently watched the show. I asked him to repeat himself, I couldn't hear him, and he said, loud and clear "Sex".
           "I can't help you with that, sorry."
           The class burst into laughter.
           Christian Slater Wannabe did not. He upped the ante by glaring right through me. I met his gaze--you can't scare me, I'm in theatre---and held it until he dropped his eyes.
           The rest of the period, he lounged in his up right spot and whispered "sex" under his breath. By about ten minutes into class, we all  became bored and just ignored him. This did not effect his determination, he continued to whisper "sex" at specifically timed intervals until the bell rang. I admired his commitment.
            At the end of the day, Letisha came by to ask me how it went. I told her about Christian Slater and she shook her head. "Oh, Jake," she said and chuckled as she whispered "sex".
            "I didn't know what I was supposed to do."
            "Well, other subs--when he bothers to show up---have just picked up that phone and had him taken to the office. You may be the only one to just ignore him."
             "Is he in one of your classes?"
            "Not this year, I had him last year. I just ignored him. All admin does is make him sit in the office, he isn't going to learn anything there except to hate school.  At least if he's in class he may accidentally learn something."

            After I subbed in L.P. , finished college, started a theatre company, had children and became a teacher, I found myself adhering to Letisha's advice when it came to these types of kids. And to this day, unless they are somehow dangerous or truly unruly, I just ignore it and keep going.
            Maybe they'll learn something by accident.
                                                                                                                                    *Letisha Jones was not her name, but that is close.

                                                                                       *The kid was also not named Christian Slater.
Second Verse


        The one and ONLY time I ever subbed at the junior high school, this is what happened: I put on my one suit, a lovely navy blue pencil skirt/fitted jacket combo from Dillards. I drove to the school. I checked into the office. The friendly secretary welcomed me warmly, I received a campus map, a schedule, a room number and lesson plans. I walked to the classroom, settled in behind the desk and waited for the kids.
         The student desks were neatly lined up, five rows across and six deep. Every desk was taken, the kids sat in their assigned seats, answered "here" when called upon and in general were just fine.
         It's fine, they're fine, stop looking at me.
         I was learning quickly that the teachers during this time left me a lot of in class reading and writing. Which likely had more to do with the fact that I was subbing language arts than anything else. So the kids had their heads down, working on their assignments.
          During third period , a fairy portly young man in the second from stage right row, second seat, seemed a bit fidgety to me. I didn't hear any voices, nobody was talking, but he kept looking over his left shoulder at a kid in the fourth row, fifth seat back. As if they were communicating telepathically. Or maybe he heard voices. As long as they were quiet, what did I care?
          I sat on the edge of the desk watching the class and memorizing a monologue for my own class, when the Portly Young Man leaped from his seat with a mighty cry. I thought maybe he had been stung by a bee, which is how much logic I applied in this situation. There was  no explanation otherwise.
          In addition to springing to his feet, he twisted his body around to the left and vaulted from his second row seat to the fourth row, fifth seat back, grabbing that kid by the throat.
          The entire class jumped to their feet and immediately took sides, splitting the room and shouting encouragement, depending on their allegiance. The portly boy seemed heavily favored.
          In the few seconds I had to piece together that he was not stung by a bee, I realized he was attacking his oppressor. This kid had been bullied for years,and had chosen today to fight back.
           It's fine, I'm fine.
           Knowing there was a helpful phone right behind me that I could pick up and raise an administrator, I instead made the decision to intervene.
           There had been very little "sub training" past filling out paperwork. The only thing they really said was "Do not touch the students." They had said that a lot when I was hired.
           Adhering tightly to this sage advice while deciding if I was going to let these kids pummel each other , I hopped into the fray. All 120 pounds of menacing theatre student/sub, pencil skirt and all.
           I did, after all, hold a green belt in tae kwon do. I know, I know, no autographs please, I'm telling a story.
           I grabbed the larger kid first, getting him in a headlock. I was being  kind when I called him "portly", as he outweighed me by at least forty pounds, maybe fifty. The other kid was smaller, so I grabbed him by the ear. I'm not kidding. It was hilarious. Well, hilarity is relative to time. It's hilarious now.
           I pulled them over the desks to the front of the room. I looked back at the class who were all frozen with dumbfounded looks on their faces. I nodded my head at a girl and said "Please pick up that phone and tell them to get down here."
           As she called, the bullied was still trying to get to his bullier. I may have been little, but I was strong, and he couldn't get his head out of my lock.
           When the girl hung up the phone, she told me what I already knew. "He's been bullying Bobby* since kindergarten."
            Two male administrators in ties appeared at my door. Both stood frozen, much as the students had. I imagine it was quite a scene: tiny blonde in a pencil skirt and jacket with a digruntled junior high boy under each arm. I smiled, "These two have an issue," I rotated my shoulder so they could see Head Lock's face. "Would  you please deal with it?" They nodded silently and each man took a boy with him. Neither administrator touched either boy.
             I turned to my class and smiled. "It was nice to meet you. I'm fired."
             As one gush of breath and pent up emotion, they all laughed and  then told me stories of what they had witnessed over the years between these two boys. I listened, I let them decompress, and after about ten minutes they were ready to resume their classwork.
             I returned to my perch on the desk, wondering if they would send an administrator to escort me off the premises. I had, after all, broken the only rule I was given when I agreed to this job. Do Not Touch The Students.
            The two administrators never returned, but the boys did. The smaller one had an ice pack on his face---Bobby had gotten him good---but Bobby just looked tired. They both schlepped back to their desks, took out their work, and resumed.
            We held that tableau until the bell rang.
             The next class started, no administrators emerged.
             Probably there is nobody else to teach this class, I reasoned. They'll fire me at the end of the day.
            After my last class, I walked to the office to turn in my paperwork. The secretary smiled at me in the exact same way that she had in the morning. "How was your day?"
             "Ummmm....you didn't hear?"
             Her smile did not falter. "No....?
             "Today is the day Bobby decided he's not taking it any more. He attacked his bully. During my class."
              "Oh my goodness, that is terrible. Are you OK?"
              I couldn't help staring at her as if she had guacamole on her face. "Yes....I'm fine. I didn't even rip my skirt."
               "Well, I hope this isolated incident does not effect your impression of our school. We'd love to have you back."
               I looked over her shoulder at the administrative offices. All the doors were closed.
               Unsure if I was being stopped in the parking lot on the way to my car, I waved at her as I left as if I were in a fog. Surely someone was going to fire me. I'm not supposed to touch the kids.
               At my car, I actually paused and looked around for police officers, or a truck with nice young men in clean white coats.
               Instead I saw Bobby, head down, getting on his bus. And his bully getting into a car with his dad.
              When I got home, nobody was waiting for me. There were no messages on  my machine.
               I kept expecting a call from the district, telling me I was fired. When I did get a call, it was a week later, when the Junior High called to ask me to sub. I declined.
               They called on a day I had school. I couldn't have done it.
               Even if I had wanted to.


________________________________________________________________________________
 

This Is Why I'm Like This: Theatre Broke Up With Me

  As I was relaxing in Steamboat yesterday, sitting with a colleague/former colleague, she asked what I was doing this summer. She asked, knowing I direct summer camp shows, and was expecting show titles and ages of kids as the answer. I laughed and said "Working in the warehouse. I think theatre broke up with me."
   She laughed.
   I laughed as well, but it doesn't make it any less true.
   Granted, theatre has not thrown my CDs out the door of her car and onto the lawn. But she has been removed from my working environment. She doesn't even speak to me, and I don't walk to her end of the building.
    She hasn't called any of my ex's to commiserate about what a psycho I am. Largely because I don't have any ex's
    She did cut me off when I made a minor communication error, which I guess she felt was like forgetting her birthday. So my second chance/gig was yanked away without pause. She was pretty pissed about that.
    I was not invited back to any of her friends' camps, either, this summer. They all took her side in the break up.
    I dragged myself to the other side of town for an audition last week, waiting in the lobby hoping she would at least look at me so we could talk this out. Nope. I don't think she heard me at all.
    I'm not a rank amateur, I am not awaiting a phone call or email asking me to come back.
    At first we were kept apart by a third party who hated me and wanted us separated. But now, after three years of struggle, I guess she decided it was too much work to try and stay together. It was only over the summer, anyway, we aren't allowed to speak during the school year. And I am definitely older now, and she doesn't age, and theatre is a young person's gig I am told. I am told that a lot. A Lot.
   And so, theatre finally broke up with me.
   Good thing I like working in the warehouse. Although, admittedly, I do put in my headphones and listen to musicals or podcasts with actors talking about the craft. But not all day. It's too much all day. Maybe an hour, then I return to the fashion of Duran Duran  who I watch as well as listen to, because they are beautiful, or KC and The Sunshine Band. Because that's the way he likes it.
    But I have not listened to Neil Sedaka quite yet, or any other break up songs.
    Because breaking up sucks.
    But is it hard to do, really? This feels like it's dragged on for ages, dude. Just throw my shit out the car door and move on. I keep using that example because it's my favorite. I've never broken up /been broken up with (you just read that in the above paragraph, I have no ex's), but I did witness the throwing of CDs out of a moving car in lieu of words or a phone call, and frankly, it was hilarious. Particularly  because the fact that they were dating was supposed to be a "secret".  A public break up of a secret relationship is always good  entertainment.
     So all in all to sum up, I think she just threw my shit on the lawn.
 

This Is Why I'm Like This : Gatos Diablos Summer 19

14 June 2019
   I must go back and retrieve my old gatos posts, because they are wonderful/hilarious. They also explain why I think it's funny to botch Spanish like I do.
   Also, my Crosstrek is named "Francisco", because that's fun to say.

   The new Don has emerged. Strumph, AKA "Bitey" has made a bold move this June by killing the bunnies in the front yard instead of the back yard. In past years, perhaps in deference to their alliance with the fox, they have left the decapitated lapins on the deck in the back yard. They were easily cleaned up, Jersey bodega owner style, with the back yard hose. This year, she has premiered their new dumping ground: the top of the driveway. There is more direct sunlight here, a better chance that the battered bunnies can be baked into the cement. It is also not an obvious location, we keep the cars in the garage and there is no foot traffic at the top of the driveway.

  This is a challenge. I struggle to understand what they are trying to communicate to me in the first place,  but changing the dump site to a place not easily seen vexes me. Every morning, the animals are let out of the back door. The deck was the natural spot for displaying the gutted bunnies as a warning to all. But the driveway is off the beaten path. I don't even know the corpse is there until I've  returned home. The only reason I caught it this week was that our cars were all shuffled into the driveway with the spare room moved into the garage.

  Unlike the back yard, the driveway has only one option for corpse removal. The retaining wall cuts off access to one side of the driveway, so the only direction to scoop or spray is towards the trash cans. Which is great, ostensibly one can scrape the remains into the trash can with a garden hoe, whose name is "Block". Our garden tool is named "Hoe Block", because  "Yo Mamma smokes crack rock". I digress. If I hoe scrape the bulbous, jellied rabbit internal organs, they roll around and pop, making more of a mess, and making it impossible to pick them up with the hoe. The garden hose, unfortunately, is also inconveniently located up by the front door, over the retaining wall. I have to schelp up the stairs to get it. Of course I go up and down the stairs facing forward as instructed by Dick Van Dykle, but it's still more effort than turning on the hose with one hand and sipping my coffee with the other. Which was my standard tableau these many years, as I mumble "damned cats" in my best Jersey dialect and wish I also had a cigarette.

   And so I must ask, as "Bitey", ascends to her new identity as Don, what is the message she is sending? The back yard dump sites were originally set up as an alliance between the Gatos and the fox, who left the cats alone in exchange for an easy meal. It took us a season to figure that out, the cats would leave the bunnies on the patio in the evening, and in the morning they'd be gone, gobbled up by the fox. There was a fox den a few doors down, and many "Missing Cat" signs around the neighborhood, yet ours were always unscathed. AHH! Good one, "Da Bear", excellent alliance. That was the year we were overrun by fox, and there was a black pup in the den that we all doted over. Then they just disappeared. For a few years, the bunnies ran the range and the fox were gone. So were the coyotes. We heard it was mange. But this year I hear the coyotes loud and proud, and I see fox everywhere, so nature has decided its time. Maybe Gatos were not able to keep the population under control, and Mother Nature stepped back in to balance it out. Maybe Bitey is pissed off at losing her job to the fox, and, since she was young when the alliance was struck, she has no idea how to make this work. Maybe she's just too young to be Don.

  Her move to the front yard was also demonstrated when I was out front last week to get the mail, and noted a wounded bird on Francisco. I took a few steps and realized that Strumph was poised on the retaining wall, ready to pounce on the poor thing. I stopped and decided I would scoop up my feathered friend, his leg was dragging and it appeared he couldn't fly. I paused and made sure he couldn't see Strumph, who I hissed at to no avail, her focus was that of a lion on a Giselle. The bird looked at me, took a moment to pause and when I reached out---this entire time I'm running scenarios through my head, knowing there are no wild bird rescues up here, I'll have to drive the bird to the tech center, did I throw out all the shoe boxes--- he found the strength to fly away. I started a bit, shocked he was not as wounded as I at first took him to be. Maybe he just needed a break from the blitz,  a moment to collect his thoughts in the midst of the assault. He flew off, a bit crooked but seemingly able to get air. I turned to face Bitey, still poised for the pounce, but now looking like I was her target.

   She has also weirdly become more loving. She lets us pet her more than four strokes at a time, and sleeps at the foot of the bed. This cat wanted nothing to do with us for years, and now that she's a killing machine on her own---the others have pretty much retired, old and fat. Like for real. Laying around eyeing us like they still matter and we still care. Sigh. Isn't that just how we all age?

   Scene.

This Is Why I'm Like This: The Death Of A Pub

  Jim and I joked that the Ironworks was part of the trifecta of that shopping center. With a stupid amount of generous parking and its location two doors down from the church and across the parking lot from the gym, it was the anchor for any day of the week. Except before 3 pm on weekdays, because he never did open for lunch, which might have saved him.
  Jim started stopping in on weekends about eight years ago when he would take Mongo (his Harley) out for a ride. He'd stop in afterwards because it was dark, in need of updating and a cooler temperature than outside and it had been. A craft beer, in fact, that he actually liked. And so it began, and slowly I would stop in after the ride. Then we'd stop in on an occasional evening. Then we joined the gym, and well, you might as well stop by after the gym. Then we added my dad to joining us on Fridays and just like that, we had a pub.
    Over the years we've been frustrated when he runs out of our beer, with his sad, sagging menu and his seemingly relentless refusal to clean the place up. On one hand it's kind charming that it still feels like the 80's, on the other you need to clean your taps and fix the Diet Coke. We watched waitstaff come and go, and a bartender that was part owner was also dethroned and exited. We noted the staff, in general, sure drank a lot on their shifts, to the point that they could become unable to do their job. This was a line I have no patience for, as I've worked in enough bars to know you should be fired for that behavior.
    The last two years, after the only good cook he's ever had left in an alleged fight over how to cook bacon,  we started to truly worry about business. Friday nights would be packed but only until 8 pm. The menu did not improve with the spike in business, and the service worsened unless it was "S", who'd been there a t least two years. He started running out of the craft brews on a frighteningly regular basis, and Jim's beer never did return. The staff was drinking more, and business was tanking. He wasn't changing up the open mike night, or trivia, or karaoke, and there would be ten people there for the band on Saturday.
   He also ran out of Budweister beer. Budweiser. Why do I see him at King Soopers buying pub supplies? Shouldn't he be ordering through a supplier? Hmmm....
   In comparison, to the north west less than half a mile is the Westrail, who moved into a difficult building (it's changed hands at least three times) with no parking, who is packing them in nightly. Fresh menu, they don't brew their own but have Avalanche and other brews on tap. Packed. Every night. The new place to the south and east is Mannings, a bit more upscale with less room at the bar and even worse parking than Westrail, and packed every night. Again, they aren't brewing their own and they have a functioning kitchen staff and interesting menu. A bit further east, there is Great Frontier  brewery, a delightful converted Meineke shop run by a CPA turned brewer and still a CPA. Small patio, small seating area, brews his own. No kitchen, he uses food trucks and allows patrons to Grub Hub. Packed occasionally, he's been going strong for two years. And then there's Fiddlesticks, which is like Ironworks all grown up. They're the same kind of 80's set up with a massive bar and pool table pit that makes me smile. Good outdoor seating where people smoke, not great parking, and a solid bar menu of fried deliciousness. They don't brew their own, they're serving Avalanche and Coors and...they're packed on a Monday night.
   When the city of Lakewood seized the business, we were coming to the gym. After our workout we legit felt lost. What now? We decided to try Mannings. Turns out, it's expensive to drink and eat when the staff aren't too trashed to charge you.
   Now that we have no choice but to be good citizens, we've cleaned out the garage, packed up the spare room downstairs, repotted some plants. I even washed the dog. I manage to make it to yoga more. It's terrifying.
   We've talked for years of opening a place, a pub or small breakfast restaurant (Golden needs one, badly, if anyone is interested, they've nothing going on for breakfast), just something that's Not Teaching. The conversation spiked a bit after Ironworks closed, because that place should have been a gold mine. He's brewing on site AND has a kitchen AND has parking. Dude, how'd you screw that up? With the Fed Center and Hospital up here, and the examples I've given in previous paragraphs, he should have been packed constantly. I don't know his life. I don't know why he didn't pay any employees at all the last two years. I don't know why he didn't pay his brewer. I have no idea where the money went, I only watched his inability to make any more of it.
   Jim made noise about getting a small business loan. But in all honesty, I don't think we want to work that hard.
   But it feels like we lost a family member. We had pub friends, and it was a place Harp had started to take her friends as well, and she'd chummed up with the wait staff too.
   I don't know what else to say.
   RIP Ironworks.
 

This Is Why I'm Like This: Warehouse, Second Verse, Same As The First

   The warehouse people arrive at 7 am. As my ride is from the front office who arrive around 9, that's when I get in. The warehouse is almost vacant by 3pm, with only one forklift guy on shift and one guy in production. I don't know what he's doing, it looks like sorting brackets. He's seated and is watching TV shows on his phone.

    Tuesday.
    8.45 I enter with Jim, get my apron from his office and punch in. I have a time card and it's weirdly delightful for me to punch in. Even though it's computerized now, not like back in the day when you got that satisfying "CH-CHUNK". The screen politely reminds me to punch in and, and when I slide my card, it says "Punch Successful". I find it comforting to be told I've completed an electronic task appropriately.

   8.46 I walk to my station to realize it's been largely disassembled. I suspected as much, as I was not in Friday and Quality Control was not in on Monday. Everyone is so minding their own business I have to walk to the production office and find the Young Assistant who was so friendly last week. I ask him if he can fetch the barrels for me, as a forklift is required and I don't have a Class Two rating like Ripely did. He is happy to see me, as apparently had I not arrived he would have had to splooge sunscreen today. I said "I said I'd be back, I'll finish what I started." He may not hear me as he's fetching the forklift, celebrating that he is free of this task.

   8.48 Once the barrel is in place, I locate a trash can and realize I have no idea where the plastic bags are. Again, I venture into production and ask the young lady who seems to be in charge. She kindly walks me to where the bags are stored, introduces herself, "L", and we have a pleasant exchange about how there was no way I'd have found the clearly marked bags tucked back in the maze of production.

   8.53 I have boxes of sunscreen, barrel of goo and trash can with bag. Now I have to open the barrel. Which is...bound to two other barrels with one of those ratchet tie downs. Which is fine, except this one seems to be defective and I cannot loosen it to get the metal rim off of my barrel. I pop the metal rim, hoping it can be squeaked past, but no go, the strap needs to be loosened. I continue to pull on the lever that indicates it will release the strap, and it does not. I again go fetch someone, this time a young man down the aisle with a clipboard. I explain my dilemma, and he is happy to help. When he gets to the barrel, he struggles with the strap and says "This is broken...." then wrenches it hard and loosens it right up. I am grateful, again, as I thus far have not been able to do anything on this job today. The young man mumbles a "Welcome" as he hurries back to his post. I assume he's embarrassed for me.

    9 am OK, everything is ready except I don't have a Swiss Army knife to open the boxes and caps. Schlep up to the production office, but nobody is there. So I head to the front office to ask Jim if I can use his. He has a spare one in his desk drawer, score. I encounter Quality Control who tells me the Facilities Manager has a "cache" of knives. I compliment him on his word choice and continue back to my spot, as he was not in the office when I needed a knife from his cache, which Quality Control called "Cash-ayyy", emphasizing the "ayy". Nicely done.

  The Facilities Manager is the guy who bought Shoniqua from me after I wrecked her. He restored her and loves her and gave her a great new home, but he is always awkward around me. Dunno what that's about. Last week when I arrived to work, I needed something from him, and he was busy and abrupt at first. Once he looked up at me he went white, and started stuttering.  Dude, I'm not the queen, I need something to hold the plastic bag inside the barrel, like a clamp. It's fine. And how's Shoniqua? Give her my love.
 
   9.05 am and I am on it. Open box, dump 24 individually wrapped sun screens on top of closed barrel. Remove 24 individual plastic wraps. Pop 24 individual lids using your handy dandy Swiss Army Knife tool. Break down box. Sploooosh 24 individually wrong sunscreens into barrel. Throw containers in trash. Put phone on You Tube, choose Duran Duran and go. Bliss.

    9.30 "L" is schlepping a load past me and pauses. I take out my headphones and smile. "What they got you doin'?" she asks I indicate my routine and say "They're marked wrong, I guess."
     "So they have you working production?"
     "Is this production?" I ask, as I am wedged at the end of a loading aisle.
     "Ya, that's me. I'm responsible for all of this area"
     "You guys do the filling, right?"
      "Ya, mostly filling, sometimes sorting. I do stuff up front if they need to. I've done this stuff before to...(she indicates my Sacred Ritual). I don't mind. I like it."
       "Did  y'all fill these?" I ask matter of factly.
       "Probably, hard to know who did it."
       I took at her. She can't be more than 22. Generously proportioned, black skin completely blemish free. I think she's beautiful.
      I ask "How long have you been here?"
      "Year and a half."
      "You like it?"
      "Ya, a lot. I am responsible for this area, I want to move up, you know, I don't want to stay on the same level."
      "Cool, you seem happy."
       "What they got you doin' after this?"
       "I dunnno, I think counting brackets? I guess you have a semi trailer out there full of them." She nods. "Then I'm supposed to sort soap."
       "That's cool, I don't have to do it I guess, I'm happy to. What else do you do?"
       "I'm a teacher. This is quiet. I like it."
       She smiled like I said "I'm a shark, I like to be on land."
       "Okay, you let me know if you need anything else."
        I smile as she schleps away and put my headphones back in, realizing I'm on You Tube, I could be watching videos while I do this!
        So let it be written, so let it be done.

       10.35 Break time. I head up front to fetch my "Space Yogurt". I pass Quality Control and he says "Is it break time already?" I look at the big analog clock and answer "For those of us who can read an analog, yes."
       He laughs and walks into the break room ahead of me. "And drive a stick. I saw this thing about a guy who doesn't have an alarm on his car, because it's a stick shift. Nobody can drive  a stick any more." He turns toward his office, and while I'm in Jim's office eating my space yogurt, I hear him playing his guitar.

       10.50 back at it. Open box, dump 24 individually wrapped sun screens on top of closed barrel. Remove 24 individual plastic wraps. Pop 24 individual lids using your handy dandy Swiss Army Knife tool. Break down box. Sploooosh 24 individually wrong sunscreens into barrel. Throw containers in trash.  Duran Duran has played out, and I'm thinking of switching to a musical, even though the delight of watching their videos and recalling that I used their hair color as a guide for mine never tires. I look up to see a Fork Lift guy paused nearby. Generally they just whip around me, as I am clearly in everyone's way. He's smiling at me. I take off my headphones and smile back.
      "A lot better than students, huh? More quiet, better than those loud kids all day?"
     "Smells better, too." I quip. Damn I'm funny.
     His smile falters, and he fumbles "But teaching is rewarding I'm sure."
     I'm pretty sure I rolled my eyes against my will. "Ya, I'm sure."

    12.30 lunch break. I walk to the break room and almost run directly into Jim, who was coming out to find me. I punch out (I get to punch out and back in for lunch!) and Jim scrounges around the fridge for our lunches that we packed this morning. I think next week I should eat in here with these guys instead of in my husband's office, maybe I can eavesdrop more story ideas. 'cause I'm a total jerk like that.

We realized last night that the dogs would be created almost 10 hours today if I work the whole shift. I figure nobody really cares how much I get done, nobody's in a hurry, and I can't leave the dogs crated that long. I decide I'll leave about 2. I want to get to a point that I can finish this thing by Thursday. I have 19 boxes left at lunch, which is almost halfway there, 34 boxes total to start. If I can get through two more before I leave, I can finish by Thursday.

   1-2 same as before, but listening to the Chicago soundtrack and thinking of cool warehouse  icons, like Ripley in Aliens. And what's her noodle in Flashdance, who was construction and welding not warehouse so never mind. Norma Rae! Mr. Miyagi coulda worked in a warehouse! Yasssss. This shit is zen, man, busy soccer moms need to come work some time in a warehouse, it will fix everything. Why pay $22 for a zen yoga class when you can make $15 emptying sunscreen? None of these people are anxious, unhappy, grumpy or inflicting an agenda on others. They're just doing what they do. Zen. Dude. I hate to leave but I have dogs.

    Quality Control stops by. He asks me if I like lotion? "Not any more," I joke. He puts a large container of body lotion on my barrel and tells me the story of how it's orange, but the customer didn't like the color and returned it. But because the color is not indicated on the opaque bottle, it was returned to stock, then resent to the same customer. I laugh with him as he acts out the scenario of returning and restocking, and fetching and how the mistake happened. "It needs to leave," he smiles. I thank him and promise I won't return it to the stock. He smiles back and shrugs, again, no rush, no fuss, no anxiety. Just groovy.

    So I punch out, and drive home to let the dogs out and finish sorting the boxes from the spare room, the Last Purge from the renovation! It's oddly unsatisfying, as I can't watch videos due the amount of attention I must give to this task. But I can listen to music. Zen relaxation is the choice.

    Sadly, it is not the same. Disappointed, I finish my sorting, load the ARC donations into my car and take a nap.

    You heard me.

    It was glorious.

This Is Why I'm Like This: Comic Con Costumes A Brief Overview

There are signs all over Comic Con....I mean Pop Culture Con...that say "Cosplay is not consent". At first glance, this statement is unnerving, but it continues to explain that it means photographs without consent. I guess, just because you dressed up and went to a public place with thousands of people, nobody is allowed to take your photo without asking? Ugh. You're in public, anywhere, I can take your picture. Scene.

Anyway, Harp took a few photos with others from her Naruto tribe, and I only took one. Because I don't watch Naruto, or Dragon Ball Z. I have not seen Game of Thrones. I do not know who 90% of these people are dressed as. Harp had to explain the Fat Thor, who walked past us a number of times, I kept wondering if I knew him, but why would I know anyone dressed as Fat Thor?

 Know who I know? Batman. With Adam West and Robin weirdly on all fours in that bat side car and Julie Newmar and Burgess Meredith and Frank Gorshin and my favorite, Cesar Romero as the Joker. And I am old, and I loved these people and at Pop Culture Con 2019, I was awash in my daughter's childhood, and then ....then I passed MY CHILDHOOD. They were seated together, and when I asked to take a photo, they sprung into their pose so quickly and professionally I wondered if they were Frank and Julie and Cesar.

Harp was some Naruto character that was complimented, and other Narutos stopped her to take photos. I was like "Do you know her?" and Harp laughed and said "Nope," because same show is family I guess, and the hell is that? We don't need that kind of community behavior happening, thank you very much, we are DIVIDED by political bullshit and must stay as such for the overlords to maintain control.

   HOW CUTE IS SHE???? CUTE ENOUGH FOR CARY ELWES TO SAY SO!!! (see Elwes blog)

 Like such! Harper  met two sisters sporting SPIRITED AWAY, another movie she watched relentlessly as a child.  These ladies built their own costumes, and the inside of "No Face" was mostly duct tape and I was impressed, again, with the level of commitment these people have in creating pieces to just walk around the Denver Convention Center in and Be Seen.

 I dunno dude, I think I'll go back next year. We're talking about making it a family thing. It's boring but not boring to walk around and people watch. And we saw Tara Strong and Christopher Lloyd and Tom Wilson, and a lot of Game of Thrones costumes and stuff I didn't understand. Like why so many Harley Quinns and why is nobody wearing pants?

    These questions, and many others, will be answered in next year's episode of....SOAP! HA ONLY PEOPLE MY AGE ARE LAUGHING EVERYONE ELSE IS LEFT OUT.

          SCENE.
AND AGAIN BECAUSE THEY EARNED IT. LOOK AT THOSE DETAILS, THE CANES, HER CAT SUIT WAS THE SAME FABRIC I SWEAR!!! ABSOLUTE PERFECTION.

               

This Is Why I'm Like This: "Comic Con" and Cary Elwes

   2019, a year I had hoped would be about healing. Mending the broken and shattered previous years. Sometimes more has to be broken, I guess, for it to be put back together. I no longer hope. I have faith, as I heard Jim Carrey state "Hope crosses its fingers as it walks through the fire, Faith jumps over the fire." So. I have Faith. Like George Michael.
    I have  a list of Things I've Never Done, and it changes every time I think of something. I'm never retiring, so I've decided to instead have experiences and enjoy them now. Even menial. Even having to work second and third jobs.
     I've never worked in a warehouse---blogs ongoing on that topic, as I will likely be there at least four days a week this summer.
     I've never attended Comic Con. Even though yesterday I went to the convention center and had my first Comic Con experience, I was a year too late for Comic Con. It's now called Pop Culture Con. Which is stupid, but whatever, not my circus, not my lawsuit. The point is that technically, I still have not attended a Comic Con, but I attended Comic Con.
     Harp was supposed to go with her friend Will on Friday, but he had to work at the last minute, so I was her replacement date. I've never even wanted to attend Comic Con, it sounds like a big money suck.
     I wasn't wrong.
     Its entire purpose is to separate you from your money.
     But she paid for the tickets, so someone had to go and why not? I'd heard there were cool cosplay costumes and people watching.
     I hated it immediately, because I had put some cheese sticks and a water bottle in my bag so we would have snacks---I'm a mom and we're on a budget. They rudely made me throw it all out so I could pay $4 for a bottle of water inside and $8 for a salad.  Standing in line awaiting entry, I spotted the cutest little Freddy Mercury. He lifted my soul after the hefty Wolverine standing to my left. This was after my snacks were thrown out and before I knew the cost of water. So my spirits lifted.
     We arrived early to ensure we would find a sweet spot in line for Cary Elwes' autograph. These curtains are set up to shield the celebrity and those receiving autographs a handful at a time from the rest of the line. We were very near the front, maybe ten people ahead of us. But there is a separate line along the edge for "fast pass", those who paid extra to wait in a faster line. They really didn't move much faster, but we got there early. I could see this being a good expenditure if you were arriving an hour into the signing, you could avoid the great General Admission unwashed. Except you're standing right next to us, not avoiding us at all. One of the fast pass women was very chatty, she had met Tom Wilson at a previous Con and was delighted that he remembered her when she saw him again, and was of course going to see him again today.

       The signing was to begin at 10.15. At 10.27 Cary Elwes emerged from the curtained inner sanctum and waved at us. I tear up, my God, he looks great. I'm really going to meet the guy who is in one of my most favorite movies, ever? Harper's smile is bigger than her face leaving little room for her massive blue eyes. I look at the clock, "Why are they like that?"
       "He's fashionably late." Harper states matter of factly.

       The faces of those emerging after their moment with Cary Elwes were pure joy. All of my carping about paying for an autograph, which is ridiculous, he doesn't need the money, went away. People were having him sign products, like a Westley bobble head, that they could easily turn around and sell. So I suppose this is a way to discourage that? Or to make a profit cause they assume you're in it for profit? It sucks, autographs should be free and you shouldn't sell them on eBay for a quick buck. That's what I think of that.
       This is Harp's first celebrity encounter and she's beside herself with glee. She's glowing and nervous. She has to choose an autograph or photo, which will it be? We've only money for one of them, and I'm pushing for a photo because that's more proof.  But she decides, when the woman asks, on an autograph and she'd like him to write "As You Wish". She giggles uncontrollably  as she is handed the sticky note labeling her request, and others in line are heard whispering "I'm going to have him write that!" Like Harp invented the idea, NOBODY HAS EVER THOUGHT OF IT BEFORE THIS WILL BE THE FIRST TIME HE WRITES 'AS YOU WISH' WITH AN AUTOGRAPH.  Hilarious.
         The woman directly in front of us in line is in military garb, has short hair and I misidentified her as "sir" when she dropped her cash and I returned it. (That happened twice, I'm a very honest person). She has something in a bag, that looks like a frame, and something in a poster roller. I assume it's a poster from Princess Bride.  She is very focused and quiet, and when we get inside she unfurls original artwork she's created for Cary Elwes to sign. He is impressed and chats her up about how she created it, and suggests she talk to the vendors about selling her work. She is an example, I suppose, of someone doubling the value of their art by having it signed by the subject matter? Or not, it was one piece of  art, likely it's hers to keep. Either way, go you, Cary Elwes had a conversation with you!
         The gentlemen behind us, in full Star Trek NG garb, are discussing the ins and outs of the Fast Pass, asserting it's not a hardship to wait in a longer line and it's a waste of money. They trade stories of standing in one line with a friend in another, and managing to double the photo/autograph experience.They then begin a debate on Back to the Future, as Christopher Lloyd is also here and they may attend his panel. The shorter gentleman has a satchel with plastic covering to protect his autographs, he is getting them for two people, I am assuming a wife and friend. They are to be personalized to them, and he has opted for "As You Wish", but purchased the combo, so he's doing a photo as well. The design must match previous combos, however. This is not his first rodeo.
          Two people to go and then we're in, Harper looks like she's going to faint. We can see him through the thin fabric, and comment on how great he looks and how short he actually is and can you believe we're meeting Westley? I think it'd be more fun to have him sign my favorite line from the film, which is grandpa padding his pockets and saying "Okay....allllright.....Okay", but that's not his line. I laugh to myself at how truly and deeply funny I am, then I look at Harp and almost scream "My Westley will come for me!" I can't believe how stupid excited I am to meet this man for thirty seconds. This movie is deeply ingrained in my children, they've watched it since they were wee, small enough to be afraid of the ROUS', so for a few years we just skipped that part. Even though when were at the zoo, I'd point to the Cabybaras and say "See? They're real and not mean at all."
         OK, we're up. Holy shit. Entering the inner sanctum. The gentleman in charge of taking photos grins down at us, we must've looked excited, and says "I know, right?? I couldn't believe they put me in here today, I get to hang out with him all morning." Lucky bastard. Where do I sign up for that job?
        Cary Elwes is stunning. I think of Tina Fey talking about celebrities on SNL, and how they look like regular people except they have better teeth and nicer watches. Cary Elwes doesn't show his teeth much, he smiles like a duck for those ahead of us getting photos, but his hair and skin are flawless. Genetics and a team of highly trained professionals are keeping this man looking fantastic. The other thing I note is the energy. He's calm, and he's...kind? He's going through his blocking, the assistant takes our money and the book we've asked him to sign with the sticky on it with our request, and slides it to him. He shakes hands and asks names, and doesn't seem bored and is not rude. This is not Alan Rickman in Galaxy Quest at all, which is kinda what I expected. If you don't know my reference, watch that movie, it's perfection. Cary Elwes is  genuine and authentic and grounded. He has held up a bit with the military woman, asking about her art work and genuinely interested. It's our turn and he extends his hand to Harper. "What's your name?"
         She hesitates, and I wait for her to either pass out or throw up on the nice man.
         "Harper," she stutters as he shakes her hand.
         "Cary."
         Then his hand is at mine, "What's your name?"
         I took his smooth hand and I am unsure of what I said. He smiled and looked down at the book.
         "Is this an original printing?"
         "Not original but it's the one from before the 80's when you were on the cover meah blah smurrrr...." I just stop talking.
           Harper is standing, staring, eyes wide, enraptured. She can't process it all, she's truly Star Struck in the truest sense of the phrase. She can't move. I think she's going to cry.
           Cary Elwes takes her hand again and smiles, "Oh my, you're a cutie, come here." And he stepped around the counter and hugged her.
           She stopped breathing.
           He extended his hand to me again and I thanked him again, and we somehow stumbled out of the inner sanctum.
            We decide jokingly that her behavior made him think she was special needs, and so he hugged her. Or he's a smart man who sees Star Struck all of the time, and is kind enough to be appreciative. Either way, we stumbled out and the people in line saw our faces and asked "Is he nice?"
           "Ridiculously so, he hugged her!"
           "NO!"
           I laugh "I think if you cry he'll hug you." The women smile and say "That's gonna happen, anyway."
          Harper was taking photos of the signed book, and spamming her social media with "CARY ELWES HUGGED ME AND SAID I WAS A CUTIE" as we continued to hover near the entrance. We were told by a minion we must clear and we cannot take any photos of the sign, but too late, Harper already did. I looked at her after we were fussed at and she said flatly "Don't tell me what to do."

          As we digest our first encounter at my first "Con", we realize it's only 11 am.
          And we're done. We can go now. Nothing is going to top this.

         
                               The illegal shot, "Don't tell me what to do." --Harper Martin


   

This Is Why I'm Like This:Raising Millennials, First Verse

   I am going to open by saying this is not a trash post about millennials.

   I am a high school teacher, and parent, and I've seen all sides of the crisis.
 
   Last night, while drinking in the street with my neighbors (Thank you Allison), who also have kids the same age, I found sympathy in the reality of the struggle, but no answers. Just a lot of drinking. In the street. Which was actually awesome, it reminded me of block parties and backyard gatherings from my childhood. I have a neighbor who is relentlessly determined to keep us as a neighborhood, Old School.

    What I found was a common acceptance that our adult children are going to have to move home after college, and it's not entirely their fault. Nor is it ours.

     I worked my way through school working a few jobs because, as my neighbor pointed out, one class cost $500. We had no cell phones, which you cannot survive without these days, so the apartment landline was $20 bucks. You could grocery shop at a budget of $35 a week. If I continue along this line, I will sound very Jimmy Stewart reminiscing on how gas was a nickel a gallon and the movies were ten cents. I know when I was a kid, mom could send me up the street to Tastee Freeze with a dollar, and I'd get a burger, fries and coke and still have change to get fake candy cigarettes at 7-11.

   These kids are graduating with over $100,000 in student debt, with degrees and internships that sometimes don't yield jobs at all, let alone one that will pay $14000 a month in rent, plus phone, plus gas, plus groceries and insurance and student loan. Unless their parents were financially able to pay for their schooling, or pay off their loans, the bulk of them will end up living back at home.

   I have alumni that had to move back for several years. Several have been fortunate enough to buy a home by the time they are 28 or so, but I suspect some parental help on that end. Unless they are also fortunate enough to be in a relationship, and at least one of them has a good paying gig. But I've seen it, it exists, and it makes it all the more frustrating for everyone else because instead of celebrating their success, parents look at their own child and use it against them. How come you can't manage to even buy a car but he can get a house....blah blah blah. Because it's really, really hard and not everybody is wired the same. Some people are more motivated, some goal oriented, some do not struggle with mental illness or at least don't find it to be debilitating. Many simply have no idea what they want to do, and cannot afford college to "explore their options", and so give up. I am thrilled for those who make it out, and I celebrate, and I find my own children comparing themselves and I say "We are all on our own journey. Relax." I used to say "As long as you can pay your bills, you'll be fine." But of course now they can't pay their bills. Current example, Harp has changed massage therapy jobs four times now since October. She changes each time at the promise that this one will be the money maker. It never is, they don't book her as much as she needs, or the management structure causes issues, or the company itself is struggling. Dude. Genoa makes $12 an hour as a preschool teacher and with her salary plus Jose's as a cook, they can barely manage the $800 a month they're paying for their shit hole in Durango. I do mean Shit Hole. It's a "renovated" hotel, so their apartment has no kitchen.

    We keep fussing at them about a budget, but how do you budget what you don't have? This is why we, as her parents, have no retirement or way of helping either one of them out, except to let them move back home.

     I'm not whining, I am explaining. I feel like there are others out there in the same situation. You're not alone, my friends. Come hang out on my street one summer night and share a beer with us.

      Everyone's story is different. My experience paying my way through school is mine, and sure, I am frequently disappointed in my financial  life. I was unable to afford a masters degree, which keeps me from making more as a teacher. I'm married to a guy with a masters whose still underpaid, so it doesn't always universally transfer to  the money train.

    This generation doesn't need our judgment, they need our help. Real, tangible, help. College expenses spiraled out of control during our watch and I saw no one taking to the streets defending their child's right to the same quality of education that they had at a reasonable price.

   As parents, many who have also changed careers once or twice and who have no hope of a retirement, our version of helping is to let them live with us. We can't say "do it yourself" because when we left home or college, rent was $500/month. We can't just wave our arms and say they're lazy, because they aren't. They're mentally ill, they're full of anxiety, they're worried and deeply in debt by the age of 21. They're working as hard as they can at jobs that don't pay enough for them to live.

   As millennials, they have to stop blaming us as well. If a job doesn't work out, find another one but in God's name stop pulling no call no shows, you're giving you're entire generation a black eye by being irresponsible. Just call in. Find another job, but find one, and understand that days without pay add up when the bills come due.

    Again, this is not everyone. I see semesters abroad and internships and am truly happy for those families. But none of them live in my neighborhood, and precious few are my alumni.

    Just like the left and the right need to stop throwing rocks and find a solution, so do the generations. We're not helping each other at all by blaming.