The World Is Insane

So I wrote this in very early May, 2010, less than two weeks after the Deep Horizon explosion on April 20.  Honestly, that was the news event that made me tune back into the news, and the world.  I never posted this, and just found it in the edit queue.  Enjoy!


Does it seem this way to anyone else right now? I'm not typically a doomsday alarmist on a grandiose scale, I don't think the sky is falling or the end of the world is nigh. I'm a bigger picture girl, I majored in earth science (way back when), I tend towards a general sense of calm and serenity that comes from thinking in geologic time. I cannot help but notice (or in some instances, I concede, create) interconnectedness between past, present and future. Mine is a worldview glimpsed through a sort of wide-angle lens.

That said, shit is crazy right now!

Often, the news overwhelms me, makes me feel sad and powerless. I won't go so far as to say "hopeless" because - despite a secret desire to be darker, more brooding, more tortured and creative - that's very rarely the case. I'm a buoyant soul by nature. A ridiculous optimist. And so the news can get me down and seep in and threaten my sunshine and lollipops. And nobody wants to see that. So, sometimes I take a breather. I don't read the news, I don't listen to NPR for a while, I pop in a CD when Amy Goodman comes on the radio, you know the drill. Just sort of check out and focus in on a more personal level. And sometimes just check out.

But lately, what with springtime and sunshine and some progress on the raising-a-thirteen-year-old-daughter front, and upcoming move to my dream house, and little sprouting seedlings in my garden and soul-shaking emotional progress I've made in the past year and the ever-surprising, always-wonderful, consistently-funny, brilliant, special man I've recently met (yeah I'm gushing, I know) --- lately, I've been feeling pretty good. And like maybe it was time to check back in with world.

And oh sweet Jeebus it's kinda wild out there. The planet is shaking and erupting and flooding. Since the beginning of the year, we've seen devastating earthquakes in China, Haiti, Chile, Japan, Baja - and that's just the first few that come to mind. Just today, that unpronounceable Icelandic volcano blew FOUR AND A HALF MILES into the air, creating a massive ash cloud 1,000 miles long and 700 miles wide. Torrential rains in the southeastern part of this country have left 20 people dead in Tennessee and most of beloved Nashville underwater. Upwards of 250,000 gallons of oil per day (and likely more  than that, realistically) spews from the ocean floor into the Gulf of Mexico - and has been for almost two weeks - causing what could quite possibly be one of the biggest environmental disasters in human history. Citizens in Greece took to the streets, staging what were at first peaceful protests and have now turned into outright riots, in the face of austerity measures and an IMF quasi-bailout of the country's hobbled economic system. These measures (read: loans) will require years of sacrifice in Greece of the sort that will drastically change the economic climate of the country and the day-to-day reality for most of it's citizens. And then there's the whole looming catastrophic global economic breakdown... Oh, and the passage of SB1070, the mind-numbingly heinous anti-immigration law in Arizona that essentially legalizes racial profiling in that state. I mean, shouldn't it be clear when even Gov. Bob McDonnell - a man who recently decided to declare April "Confederate History Month" in his state of Virginia - announces his own misgivings about the bill, namely that it might not be "necessarily helpful to democracy," that something is very, very wrong indeed?

Oh yeah, and this guy married his cat.

And here's where I'd give you a witty sentence or two in summation, maybe bringing things back 'round full circle, but honestly I have no idea what to say.  I've been singing along to music in my car for a few weeks, spending my time online checking my gmail, reading my horoscope, dare I admit it? on Facebook...blissfully unaware of the madness raging outside my little cocoon of self-absorbed ruminations.  Right now a part of me definitely just wants to crawl back in.  I know I won't - I couldn't if I tried.  I'm frozen in awe, sort of terrified, and curious.

Wired

What a day! Fuzzy and buzzy and distracted most of the day and ended up losing (1) my access card for work on my lunch hour while running to catch the train (which I did not catch, to the amusement of a group of SLC workmen), and (2) my daughter (subsequently found, no worries). It was just that kind of day. I made two trips up to the 21st floor war rooms today and both times either forgot certain necessary files or brought the wrong ones altogether. And trips to the 21st floor are not trips I like to repeat, as the "priority service" elevator (total misnomer) takes forfuckingever and once you finally make it up you step out into the lobby, which is akin to stepping into the sweaty, hairy armpits of a giant hobo with raging body odor. You know this kind of body odor: the kind that lingers, that prickles your olfactory senses 5 stops past where the b.o. offender (b.o.o.) got off the train. And no matter how big of a breath I manage to draw in before stepping off that elevator, it's never quite enough to get me to the office doors, get them unlocked with the special key while balancing an unruly stack of files, and get safely to the other side. Where, strangely, it doesn't smell like b.o. at all. And then you wonder if the lobby really smells that bad. And then you finish your business in the war rooms and go back to the elevator in the lobby and realize yes, yes it is that bad. Its actually worse than you thought. Or maybe it just gets worse all the time. Perhaps it is a constantly evolving b.o., not unlike b.o. left untreated on human specimens. It's absolutely offensive. And the Utah Sports Commission and some other kind of place share the very-swanky office on the other half of the 21st floor, and thus use said b.o. lobby. And I really don't understand why they don't do something, except for maybe they just don't notice. (But how could they NOT notice?? Seriously.) I actually had a discussion one day with a guy who was waiting in the b.o. lobby with me for the "priority service" elevator (the whole situation is just a nightmare, really), and he asked what was wrong, presumably because I was burying my face in my sleeve.

"I just can't handle the smell in the lobby," I say.
"Oh," he says. "I guess I never noticed."
"Do you work here?" I ask.
"Yeah, for the Commission."
"And you NEVER noticed that it smells like b.o. right here?"
"B.O.? Really?" He's honestly surprised and thoughtful for a moment. "Hmm. Nope, I'm probably just immune."

At which point I realize I don't like this guy. Mainly because he started a conversation with me that required me to breathe the b.o. air rather than the Downy-freshness of my sleeve, and then just rubs it in further by being all nonchalant about this VILE, RANCID LOBBY OF DEATH. Like I'm the crazy one. No guy, maybe the acrid stench of this lobby has burned out all of the cells inside your nose, but I am NOT crazy. It could win "Stinkiest Lobby in the Entire World" contests. That's how damn stinky.

Anyway. So it was that kind of day. But I did get some new and fantastic bras from my neighbor, which was a total score. And - major development - I'm writing this from my home computer (old girl's still chugging along, if a big sluggish), after finally buying the wireless card and bribing the downstairs neighbor with a poster of Salt Lake from the '70's that I found at Sam Weller's (they're pretty cool, and only $5.00!) to come and do the hi-tech savvy stuff that I can never figure out. So now we're all up and running and I am able to really ramble (watchout!) as I look at my view of the Capitol all lit up at night just out the windows behind the monitor. Ahh. Life is nice and calm up here in my little computer room in the little city so far away from the life I used to know...

I Promise I Won't Punch You

Hello blog. Hello readers. [Echo...] What a lameass blogger I am! And I miss my blog. Funny, surreal, irritating, thought-provoking stuff is happening all the time (my neighbor alone provides enough material for a near-daily rant) that I want to report to you, my favorite four friends who come here to read my silly ramblings. And even more so recently, with the departure of my dear and funny friend Richy from my life - Richy, who listened to my rambling stories every day for the past few months, good man, and remembered them, and laughed even if they weren't all that funny and pretended to be interested even when they weren't all that interesting. So now I have nowhere to turn to ramble except for this little salty spot in the cyberuniverse. But despite working my ASS off here at the old jibby job, I can't seem to unbury myself from the constantly shifting (but never shrinking!) piles of work that surround me in my little cubicle of love, and STILL haven't gotten around to buying the wireless card to get the interweb at home. So the posts are few and far between these days, but bear with me - the future is WIIIIIDE open.



I don't even know what that means. Sorry. I heard a little Tom Petty on the classic-rock-radio in the copy room this morning and all day now I've been repeating lyrics in conversation as the songs roll through my brain. This is the danger of the copy room. You go in there to make one innocent copy and for three days you're singing Janie's Got a Gun without ever knowing what happened.



And then somehow you find that your life is so incredibly lame that you are taking a few minutes at work to write on your blog, and you're writing about work. Because you are trapped in a terrifying mirrored bubble where work looms omnipresent at all times, stretching into the vast horizon of your bleak, bleak future...



But that's depressing, huh?

What I really came here to write was the ONE interesting thing that happened to me this weekend. Yes, there was really only one noteworty moment in 48+ hours. Because Karan was on a kayak trip that nearly killed her and I don't have any other friends that I actually hang out with in this town. So this is a story about strangers. Go fucking figure.

Saturday I venture out to Lowe's for some paint for the kitchen, hinges for some doors, curtain brackets, etc. It was project weekend, because that's what I do when I have no life. This incredibly dorky, splotchy-faced, bright-eyed young fellow assisted me to the curtain bracket aisle and was really just overly sweet and helpful. When I go to checkout, his checkout line is the shortest, so I get in it. And promptly realize why no one was in that line, despite the two other open registers having lines spilling back into the power drill department. The man and woman in his line - she middle-aged and obese, he late-twenties and moderately attractive, both emanating an unmistakable white-trash aura, despite being clad and accessorized with all the trappings of middle-to-upper class American consumer culture. You know what I mean, yes? The hard-living types who have enough money to dress and purchase and live, superficially at least, like "the rest of us."

Ok, I officially feel like an asshole.

Except not that much, because THEY are the assholes of this story. Not quite mother-son, not quite romantic-duo, these two shared an intimacy, and apparently a fifth of whiskey or ten, that was PALPABLE in the checkout aisle at the home improvement warehouse. As I stand there assessing them, judging them, imagining the trajectories of their lives - for a good three to four minutes, mind you - I realize that all of their purchases have been rung and are in the bags, ready to go. All that remains is for them to PAY FOR THEM AND LEAVE. Which, I suspect due to the fact that they spent the morning, and perhaps the previous evening, drinking copious amounts of whiskey (the smell is the giveaway on this one), was exceedingly difficult for them to accomplish. She's rooting around in her purse for much too long looking for, I can only assume, her wallet. But no, she's actually looking for her phone.

The phone cannot pay for your PVC connectors honey. Get your fucking wallet out already.

This is what I want to say, but do not, because my mother raised me to be good and Catholic and demure and to hold all my rage inside and never ever ever ever let it out.

She pulls out the phone, opens it, looks through a few screens, says to her companion, "Did Tracy ever text you?" He shakes his head negatory. "That bitch needs to get on the horn already! I can't get anything done until she gets on the damn horn. GOD!" Then she starts to cackle. He's cackling. He's undoing and redoing his belt buckle for who the hell knows what reason. She pokes him in the arm, "Are you even listening to me? I don't even know why I ask, you never listen." They're both cracking up. Because apparently this is hilarious.

And the poor Lowe's guy just stands there, not having any idea what is going on or what, if anything, to do about it. He opts for my frequent favorite: the do-nothing-and-hope-things-don't-end-badly-option. He looks at me, I give a faint shrug and small smirk that says I feel for you buddy. And meanwhile the insanity rages on, unabated.

Suddenly, the lights come on.

"Hey, you better find your wallet in there so we can PAY for this stuff! Ha ha ha haaa!" He is not drunk enough that he cannot re-fasten his belt while doubled-over in laughter.

"Shit! I forgot what we were even doing! Haaaaa!!" She roots around in her purse.

And just when I think this little episode couldn't get any more entertaining - frankly I was not expecting much delight in my trip to Lowe's - the Universe, perhaps sensing my recent battle with a gripping personal malaise, offered up a little something to make my fucking day. And yes, I realize it may be a little sick that I take delight in these things, but I don't have a whole hell of a lot going on these days, so just give me this.

After another good minute of purse-rooting, she finds the wallet, and swipes the card. And swipes again. And swipes again. She is doing something wrong.

"Just swipe it one more time and if it doesn't go through I can type the number in," says geeky-sweet Lowe's guy. She goes to swipe. And the drunk guy PUNCHES the Lowe's guy! Right in the ribs that protect his fragile Lowe's-guy heart. And this was no sloppy-drunk-on-a-Saturday-morning little skin grazer. It was a full-on, BRUTAL hit that knocked Lowe's guy backwards at least a meter or more. I think it was probably meant to be playful (in the convoluted consciousness of drunk-man-on-a-Saturday-morning), but was executed with much more fervor than originally intended. If there ever was an original intention.

My mouth is hanging open, I'm sure. Lowe's guy's mouth is hanging open as he regains his posture and shakes it off. And drunk guy, pretty much immediately, says, "I'm sorry man. I don't even know why I did that! Ha!"

"Um-" Lowe's guy doesn't really know what to say. I mean, he's awkward enough to begin with, and shit like this just doesn't help.

"I have Tourette's."

"Oh-"

FUCK YOU!" Once again, executed with too much zeal, so now everyone in every aisle has whipped around to see. "Ha ha ha! No, not really man. I'm just kidding. Ha ha ha!"

At this point their transaction has been processed and Lowe's guy is handing them their bags of merch. Drunk Lady is laughing so hard she can't even really function, so Drunk Guy, who is still standing directly across the scanner from Lowe's guy, picks up the bags and yells, "FUCK YOU FUCKFACE!"

And as they walk toward the sliding doors, he turns back around to Lowe's Guy and says, "Gotcha!"

[Scene.]