A Certain Point of View

Todd and I went to Magic Mountain today. I had won two free passes at a museum Christmas party last year, and I had basically forgotten about them and they were going to expire on Wednesday. And it's supposed to rain tomorrow, so by God, we went to Magic Mountain today.

Neither of us had been to Magic Mountain in...literally...decades. We both wanted to try all the new coasters, the ones where you're suspended from above, the ones that have you in a harness and no floor, the ones where you go forwards and then backwards...woohoo!! The park was open from 10:00-8:00. Crowds should be pretty light, given how cold it was, right? We started out in high spirits.

We got there at 10:30. The first ride we went on was The Viper. A 40 minute wait, not bad, and it was great. (I remember how scary The Revolution was, many years ago, and this put it to shame. Boy, am I old.) The best part about it was you can see where you're going before you get there, and it's good and twisty turny with lots of loop-de-loops. Wow.

We got in line for the rollercoaster ride Goliath at 12:20, intending to do that and then get lunch. The sign for the line said the wait was 1:15, which was ok. After two hours of waiting, we considered leaving (we were hungry!) but surely the gate was around the corner. And let's face it, after two hours you're vested, and standing at the end of another line isn't appealing. We'd turn the corner and there would be more line. We stood in line for five hours.

(We were so bored, we made best friends with the couple ahead of us and the couple behind us. There was a teenage girl three people in front who was wearing a high school seniors sweatshirt with a list of all her classmates on the back and we started reading it and playing "Memory" off of it. St. Paul's High School must be a private Catholic school from up north someplace because I've never heard of it. Anyway, there were a whole bunch of Mexican-American names, and lots of repeats, like seven Ramirezes, five Romeros, three Ortizes, a couple of Sanchezes, some obviously Irish names like Margaret O'Brien, Jennifer Hennigan, and we figured out that there were five (I counted) Asian kids...Theresa Nguyen, Steve Woo, two kids with the last name Song, and one kid with a really really long unpronounceable Vietnamese last name. "Ok, Dave, quick, how many kids with the last name Ornelas are there?" (There was one.) He'd guess, and then we'd crane our necks to read her shirt again and make sure. Part of the game was to not let the teenager wearing the shirt know that we were doing this. Sad.)

Well, four hours and fifty two minutes. It was a good ride, but not that good. The other rides were facing a similar waits, and if we got in another line, we'd never get to ride by 8:00 closing time. If you wanted to, you could pay $15 for four fast-passes, which means you could cut to the head of the line for four rides. Bastards! We went home. Magic Mountain is about to get a strongly worded letter from me, dammit.

Todd had bought me marshmallow Christmas Peeps (they're not actually Peeps if they're Christmas tree- and snowman-shaped, if you ask me) as a surprise a week ago. We came home to find them covered in ants. Yuk. So we went back out, to Home Depot for ant traps. Sigh.

While we were there, Todd got the grand, grand idea to buy some fireplace logs and we had our very first fire ever in our fireplace. All the cats came to check it out. We curled up on the sofa under blankets, made room for cats who wanted company and watched the fire.

I say rotten things about Todd occasionally, I know. But I know I married a great guy. And it is a great, great guy who knows that nothing banishes a rotten day than setting stuff on fire, watching it burn and poking at it occasionally.

First off, let me say my Christmas was ruined this year because my nieces and nephews were rained out and couldn't make the drive to be with us. So there I was, with all these toys and goodies, and I felt very Grinchy as I repacked them in the trunk of our car at the end of the night unopened. I don't want anything for Christmas -- but I do enjoy seeing kids tearing packages open and I tried to get really good stuff this year. Sniff.

Anyway, back to the experience at hand:

My newest sister-in-law has taken on Christmas. We go to Todd's sister's house for Thanksgiving; we used to go there for Christmas too, until Todd's brother got married. Sigh. (No one wants to go to our house; too many cats, and not even basic cable. Good.)

Lori tries really hard. She drags out her best china, decorates the house until it looks like Martha Stewart bled to death in Las Vegas (lots of pretty details, lots of lights, lots of the color red, get it?), and I can't help but notice the stacks of Martha Stewart Living and internet recipes that she's researched just for us. But her best dishes are dusty, which makes the food taste funny. The recipes are new and different each year, untried, and some of them are pretty awful. I'll say it. She can't cook. She also can't seem to coordinate meals; I mean, this year, everything was creamy: the meat, the vegetables, the side-dish potatoes, the eggnog and two dips. She used fresh fruit and pine boughs for decoration and centerpieces and I'm fairly sure she was annoyed and insulted when we (her guests) started eating the centerpiece grapes. I understand what it means to have a vision and want to carry it out; but everything tasted funny and the grapes were really really good.

I felt bad that no one wanted any cocoa or any eggnog. I saw her Martha Stewart Living for December and she was dying to serve the cocoa with her homemade snow-flake-shaped marshmallows (!) and her Martha Stewart Christmas eggnog. I answered in the affirmative to her offers of more treats and goodies, (which I'm convinced my in-laws thought was piggy of me) because I could see that she had worked so hard to trot out these things for us and nobody seemed to want them. And, well, after a couple of bites, I realized maybe they were on to something that they weren't sharing with me. I tried to be a good guest, as I could see she was trying so hard to be a good host. I exclaimed over each pretty detail and complimented her on her dishes and sauces.

But there was an undeniable grimness about my compliments. And there was an undeniable grimness about her efforts.

Oh, thank you for small favors, 365 more days until next Christmas.

I guess this assignment was scarier than I thought.

I went to bed on Monday, December 22, after Letterman. I woke up Tuesday, December 23, at 11:30, brushed my teeth, had a snack, brushed my teeth again, and went back to bed. I woke up Wednesday, December 24, at 9:00am.

Good thing the @#$%& Christmas shopping is done. And there's no good TV on Tuesday night, anyway.

I got fired today. I’m a little pissed off because the assignment was until January 31 and I’ve cleared my doctors’ appointments and various dates, when I didn’t have to. The Vendor Manager, the girl who had emergency surgery, is coming back tomorrow. However, I learn that she has breast cancer and might be out for further operations. “Can we ask for you again? Are you available?” “Well, IF I’m available, I’m always happy to serve.” I respond. Turns out they’ve gone through four temps in the week before I showed up, that’s why they’re so backed up. The managers treat me very very very nicely today. I’ve dropped the Ned Flanders and keep the Martha Stewart today. Seems to me that they could still use my help to really catch up, but if they want to abuse breast cancer girl, and they’re too cheap to keep me, that’s not my problem. I need to work on my defense this week and next week, anyway.

The owner of the company was supposed to come in yesterday, Tomb Sunday, but it turns out he had a heart attack Saturday night after the Christmas party. Oh, dear. His 12 and 10-year-old sons come in to get his personal belongings off his desk. No, I decide, I don’t want to come back. Even if I do get to wear jeans and sweatshirts. I’ve told the agency about the breathing incident and the spitting verbal abuse and they finally break down and tell me that they are rotten clients, too. They agree that I’ve done well under crazy circumstances and tell me I don’t have to go back. Whew.

I sit in a different station today, near Jennifer’s desk. She is whistling Christmas carols today. I’ve made a point of not using my inhaler this morning, so I sound like Darth Vader, but amid the noise of phones ringing and people talking, I don’t think she notices. (Todd says I'm mean and passive aggressive. I always tell him I married him because he's so much nicer and better than me.) It gives me satisfaction, anyway. Now, I’ve always noticed that her significant other calls a lot and her voice changes for him, soft and sweet. Sitting closer, I realize that when he calls he’s screaming and I can hear every word. (WHY DIDN’T YOU MAKE THE BED THE WAY I TOLD YOU TO? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO EAT FOR LUNCH TODAY?) Her answers, while patient and sweet, are worded so it sounds like she has a happy marriage. I’ve seen through her. Now I realize that she wears long sleeves and short skirts with dark hose. Does the whole office know, or am I the only one who has heard these calls? (Later, Todd says, “Maybe that’s what she gets for marrying a white guy.”) I can’t say I feel bad about what I’ve said to her, about my happy life, about my nice husband. She still takes advantage of all these single moms and uneducated people every day, and I got in that dig to remind her that that assumption is not ok, and that some of us have it better than her, neener neener neener. I do go out and use my inhaler, though. Imitating Darth Vader is not fun anymore.

There are more chocolates on my car hood, which I think is nice. I go home feeling fortunate, very fortunate indeed.

The Context: Saturday, I showed up at 7:45 and I was the first one at work. The building was locked, so I sat by the door for 45 minutes until someone arrived with a key. The Christmas party for the Company I work for would be held Saturday night. I was not invited, which was understandable, because I’d been there exactly three days. It didn’t bother me that people talked about what they were going to wear. It didn’t bother me that no one told me “Sorry, employees only.” It didn’t bother me that no one lied “Oh, we thought you knew you were invited!” the next day. Nope -- it bothered me that no one was disciplined for talking and talking while customers were holding on the phones.

(It bothered me because, on one occasion, I got up to stretch and was looking around the shelves for Tylenol. “What’s up?” boomed the boss, from his computer. In one breath, “I’m looking for the Tylenol, I just found it, thank you for asking,” I called back. “It would really help if you don’t talk much today,” snapped the boss. (Uh, I always thought the rule was don’t speak until spoken to.) Well, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Turtlenose. Sheesh.

Camaraderie: There is a large pile of chocolates and goodies on the table by the door. "Eat, eat!" cried the boss. I looked up and smiled at him. "Except temps. Temps have to be here three days before they get to eat goodies. I see you looking at me." He smiles at me. I smile back "Hey, it's ok. I was born in a rice paddie and my mother didn't pick me up until her shift ended. Asian women are tough." He cracks up. However, at no point does he say 'just kidding, please have some chocolate.' I don't take any. Its yucky looking, anyway. Jerks. Later, I find chocolates and candy on my car hood. It's a small parking lot, and it must be obvious that the unfamilar car is the temp's car, my car. I continue to find candy and Post It notes with smiley faces every night. Despite my usual cynicism, I'm touched. It's like something out of The Little Princess, by Frances Hodgeson Burnett.

Professionalism: I went to my family’s annual Christmas party Saturday night. I woke up late (blush) and arrived at the office at 8:30, ready to apologize profusely. (Of course, I’m supposed to show up at 9:00, but I offered to show up at 8:00 to help with the backlog, so actually, I’m early.) The senior manager, who wasn’t scheduled to be there, is in, and she smells funny. “Kara (the manager that's supposed to be here and watching me) is hung over. Everybody else is hung over or it’s their day off. I’m sure people are just running late.” She’s not happy. Nobody else shows up. I work steadily. The phones are ringing off the hook, but no one is answering them. Two people arrive wanting to work, but they would be working overtime so they’re sent home. (Cheap bastards.)

I find it appalling that the outgoing message says that all phone lines are incredibly busy and you may be on hold for a very long time and to please try Internet correspondence; otherwise, they are welcome to hold for an operator. This makes the company look very busy and/or very incompetent. At 4:00, when the office is supposed to close, the outgoing message will change to say that the office is closed and to please try Internet correspondence and thank you for shopping! In Mayberry, if Cletus wanted to go fishin’ and hung a sign on his door ‘gone fishing’ and if you needed something bad to ask Irma in the post office, that’s honest, quaint and charming. In the 21st Internet century, I find this not charming.

Annoying Questions: Jenny is obviously agitated and I try not to annoy her. But I annoy her with my very presence. “Are you doing that, right? You’re not asking any questions.” “You’re doing something totally new and it worries me when you’re not asking any questions.” I like to answer with a big insincere smile and “Thank you, I’ll not hesitate to ask when I have a question.” “Don’t worry, Jenny, I’m not a troglodyte.” There’s my inner struggle again: if you don’t like me, I’m not going to like you. I have taken a dislike to her and find it amusing to use extra large words in our daily interactions. (I enjoy an unholy satisfaction as, out of the corner of my eye, I watch her slip a dictionary off her shelf. I think my evil desire to irritate is leavened by my natural instinct to teach.) Her facial tics are noticeable and occur across the canvas of her face; staring her straight in the face is fun, like watching fireworks in July. It occurs to me that this might appear intimidating…good.

I finally do need to ask a question. Jenny sticks her fists on her hips and begins: “I TOLD YOU ABOUT THIS THIS MORNING. I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU ASK QUESTIONS OVER AND OVER AND OVER! REFUNDS ARE ALWAYS …” (I forgot how to do something, so sue me. I only asked once more.) After several interactions, I become aggressively cheerful and aggressively polite. After a particularly good tirade, I slowly wiped the spit off my face (as I kept my eyes on her twitching face) and slowly smiled: “Wow! That was great! Thank you for always helping me!” My own special blend of Ned Flanders goofily-self-righteous-annoying (“Thanks, neighbor!” “Okelydokely!”) and Martha Stewart clipped (“I’ve found, IF you hold your knife at a 45 degree angle, you can make accurate, deep cuts, EXACTLY where you want them. There. PERfect. See? Hiding the body will be soo much easier now.”) is good because 1. I’m still annoyingly polite and can’t be shouted at further 2. Makes me sound completely oblivious andI can’t be accused of anything, but I'm really maddening. 3. Makes them feel really stupid. 4. Makes me look really stupid, but only to people who aren’t paying attention. (Oh, wait. There’s no one around today!)

More Annoying Repetitive Questions: The office is like a tomb. Jenny whistles while she works (the theme from Jeopardy, over and over). This is annoying, even though we are about 30 feet apart. My asthma is acting up. Every once in a while, I sigh, or maybe I squeak. Sometimes, I can hear a wheeze in my chest. It should be no big deal, I’ve used my inhaler, I’m actually pretty quiet. After each noise, Jenny asks “Are you ok?” (“I’m fine.”) “Are you ok?” (“I’m fine.”) This interrupts my rhythm of work, and starts to piss me off. Finally I smile sweetly and say “Jenny, thank you for worrying about me. It’s always been so noisy in here that you’ve never noticed. I have asthma. It’s been acting up since the fires. It’s not contagious. I have my inhaler. I’ve never lost consciousness or anything; I’m in no danger. Thank you for being so concerned.” I return to work. She returns to whistling. The temperature in the office rises noticeably. Finally, she asks, “Can you stop doing that?” And I’m ready for her. “Gosh, Jenny, breathing is sort of important to me! (Big, cheesy smile!) I’m sorry if the noise bothers you, but asthma is a DISABILITY I can’t do anything about. (Solicitously, seriously now.) If you like, why don’t you turn on the radio, or maybe whistle louder, and I am happy to put my earplugs in?” She’s not stupid; harassing me about a disability leaves them open to an ADA suit, and I’ve dropped the D-word. She knows it, and she knows I know it. It’s hard to turn away from her face; it looks like a bubbly pot of tomato soup.

The Last Word: Since no one else is going to show up, she sends me home at 1:00. “You’re just going to have to make up your hours next week,” she says, as if it’s my fault for having to leave. “I thought Cathy was coming back next week,” I said. “Oh, that’s right. I guess you can’t have your hours then. Sorry,” she smirks. “That’s ok. I don’t need to work. I just wanted to help, you guys really need it.” I smile back. “What does your boyfriend do?” She asks, finally curious. “Oh, my husband teaches at Cal State LA.” I say carelessly. “He thought temping might keep me sane during the day while I work on my thesis defense at night. (I cock my head and smile bigger here) Isn’t that a good idea? He’s such a good guy. Well, good night, see you tomorrow!” I can’t look at her face, I’ll laugh. I resent the assumption that I’m in desperate need of money and that she can jerk me around how she likes. I get in that last jab for all the uneducated single moms and other powerless people I know she’s jerked around. She’s Asian, and I know her demographic well; I get satisfaction knowing that she’s probably annoyed that I married smart and Asian.

There is no great loss without some small gain, said Laura Ingalls Wilder. I lost my innocent faith in service centers and Internet stores. I gained a new appreciation of Dilbert cartoons – I always thought they were funny, but now I think they’re hilarious.

The Context: I signed with a temp agency a while ago, recall? I got my first assignment doing "data entry" until 1/31/03. It's official: I am a cybercitizen, I work at a company that exists only on the Internet. From what I've gathered so far, this outfit puts pictures, descriptions and prices of kitchen junk on their site, customers send them orders, and the outfit calls the vendor/warehouse agent and has the thing shipped to them. The overhead is low (so the prices are pretty good); a small boiler-room office with 20 or so computers, Internet, phonelines, utilities, 7-10 people answering phones. The drawback seems to be that lagtime between the customer's email order for XX---discovering that all our vendors and friends in warehouses don't actually have XX---finding out when XX will be available and when it will ship---and when/if it will get there. Note that the Vendor Manager, who is paid to worry about this lag-time, had emergency surgery. I don't know for what.

What I do: "Data entry" in this case is not accounting or inventory, no, no, no. I enter customer data into e-notices informing the customer their purchases will NOT be arriving in time for Christmas. (The computer system generates a list of customers every day that ordered something that is backordered or out of stock. If everything was ok, those customers would be e-mailed notices telling them their item is backordered and what would they like to do now?, within 24 hours of ordering. They are right now 7 days behind; a customer who ordered XX on 12/14 is not getting email notification until 12/20 or 21 that says XX is unavailable until 12/31.) Boy, people are really really really angry. I am grateful I specified I do not answer phones. I can hear screaming through people's headsets.

Are you following this? Basically, I ruin people's Christmases for a living, 9:00-5:30 @ $10/hr.

Stress: The first day started out ok but I came home really crushed and defeated. Everybody was friendly, but by the end of the morning, my supervisor was, like, "Can you go any faster? I was hoping you could get through a day of backorders in the morning." "I need you to go as fast as you can, okay?"

On my first day, I started doing 35 emails/hr. By the afternoon, I was doing 60-65 emails/hr (I have two screens - you hafta look up backorder status on one and generate emails on the other). That's 1/1min, or more, because I had lots of questions and my supervisor couldn't always get to me right away all the time and I'd have to sit there, stuck. (Like, sometimes, you hafta thump the computer screen to unfreeze the menu! Can I intuit that?!) The Mail-Order-Manager computer program (MOM) has a BOnotice soft-template, where you just click the variables (date of availability, etc) and type in a subject heading, usually the object description.

I understood how urgently these emails had to go out, even if it wasn't my fault they had piled up. I realized, later, that there was no human way I could get them done any faster on my first day. But, can you see, I felt bad on three levels: I don't like working for questionable businesses. I hate sending bad news. I hate being bad/slow at sending the bad news - the telephone staff get yelled at even more if the customer never got a notice.

Math: Lemme see... The list for 12/13/03 had 580 clients-to-be-disappointed. 12/14/03 had 780. It took me my first 1.5 days to do about half of 12/13. (My second afternoon was spent doing something else.)

Today was my third day. I finished 12/13 (270?) and most of 12/14 (450?). 270+450=720 entries; 720 disappointed people. 720 entries in eight hours is 41.2 seconds each, or 90/hr. I can't figure out how to factor in three potty breaks, occasional blinking and headscratching. And one short conversation.

"You've only on 12/14?" Fuck you!

Not All Bad: I do have some ... entertainment. The e-mail notice has a subject line, like a normal email. To get the recipient to recognize the notice as not spam, headers are usually object descriptions or titles. Unfortunately, the space allowed is limited and words get lopped off. Some orders are really funny:

Subject: Conair Ultimate Turbo Nose (& Ear Trimmer)
Subject: KitchenAid White 9 Speed Hand(mixer)
Subject: KitchenAid Ultra White Power (Blender)

(A 9-Speed Hand sounds like a naughty toy, no? I wonder if Michael Jackson needs a Turbo Nose, just $19.95. Ultra White Power sounds like something else he might like, too. Or maybe that's one of those Southern gentlemen's associations.)

The kids who take the orders/verbal abuse are really friendly. Mostly college kids and recent grads. I felt at home right away and the sense of camaraderie is strong. The nicest thing was after the supervisor's "You're ONLY on 12/14?" when everybody told me that it was ok that the notices were late. They told me their excuses for the customers: "You didn't get our email notices? Do you have spamguard? We email bulkmail and sometimes they don't get through." "I do show that we mailed you on Wednesday, you didn't receive it? Let me verify your email address (screwing up the address on purpose) gosh, Yahoo Store imported your e-mail address funny..."

Love and Deadlines: Camaraderie is strong among the telephone support staff because the callers are often angry or rude. While it might be the company's fault that the gift is late or we didn't notify the backorder status fasts enough, it's not that staffer's fault and screaming at her really doesn't do much, doesn't even make the caller feel better. The thought of a child disappointed at Christmas is heartrending, ok, yeah, but it is hard to be sympathetic when the gift in question is a Robot Roomba Intelligent Floor Vacuum meant for an adult who has in all likelyhood dealt with disappointment before.

I think that if you're that upset about a Fiestaware bowl being delivered late for Christmas, something is inherently wrong somewhere...family and friends and love shouldn't have deadlines. And Fiestaware is ugly, anyway, what the hell is wrong with you? (I've come to hate Fiestaware for many reasons...ugly, overpriced, gauche, easily chipped, and you know what, Fiestaware is a word that is really hard to type fast. Try it.)

Now, you know how I feel about things that are fraught. Christmas makes people act funny. If a drug made people act like people-angry-about-delayed-Christmas-orders, it would be illegal. But verbally assaulting people in the name of Christ, love and family, well, that's ok.

# posted by redfive : 9:58 PM

I paid cash for a Christmas present and got back $2 more change than I should have. I noticed it in the parking lot, when I saw what I thought was a five and five singles was a ten and two singles.

I used to go back and return the change. Lately, I've found that when I do, the cashier gets really upset and I get treated as if I've lifted the money. I have gotten weak. Maybe I'm too cynical, or too broke, too, but mostly I just can't stand the treatment.

It's hard to be honest when being dishonest is so much easier. Don't ask me if you look nice, because I'll probably lie and say you do. The social consequences of telling you those pants make your butt look big are too painful for me to consider.

You know that saying, "Live Every Day as If It's Your Last"?

That's kind of a tall order, isn't it? Planning your wedding would be out of the question, as you might die the next day, right? (But then, commitments would be completely out of the question - this would explain the 1970s to some of my elementary school classmates.) You know, living each day as if it's your last would require a serious amount of planning. How many trips to Disneyland/Hawaii/your idea of heaven here__________ before the happy wears off? When would the grocery shopping get done? I would have trouble doing the second-to-the-last-day-of-your-life things, like cleaning the bathroom so I can leave the house not worrying about strangers going through the house.

I have trouble with day to day things as it is.

Maybe the Voice of Authority is trying to say "Live Your Life Without Regrets" which is more doable. You know, tell your spouse you love him before you get on a plane, don't stay angry at one person for long, that sort of thing. But then the Voice of Authority should just say so.

I didn't do anything I had planned to do today. Damn.

Wow, my readership can be awful grumpy. Yes, I know, the season is, or can be, full of magic. It's a time to count blessings. It's wonderful to get together with your family(assuming you like your family).

I'm just saying that the season is fraught. It's not Laura Ingalls Wilder's day anymore. No one would be happy with a tin cup, a heart shaped cookie, a stick of candy and a penny any more. And I admit it, I use presents given and received as a barometer of sorts, (do you?): Do they like me? Hey, wow, they remembered that offhand comment I made last summer! I don't like them much, can I cheap out and get away with that thing? Oh, I loooove them; I must get them that thing they mentioned last February that they haven't gotten around to buying yet. Occasionally, politics come into play and the people I most want to buy extravagant presents for are the ones it's least prudent to do so. And then there is a budgetary factor, and I wish then I won the lottery. And it's sort of bad that the most fun people to shop for are the ones I haven't seen in a while, isn't it?

It occurs to me that I don't need anything. Well, I need a magnetic paper towel holder, but I'll get that myself, thanks. Ever since the 1994 Northridge earthquake, I've discovered I don't want anything. I'd rather just be hugged a lot, reassured I'm loved and missed and told I'm not nearly as pointlessly overeducated//peculiar//stupid//socially awkward//grossly overweight as I think I am.

You know, I like and admire Jewish Christmas. Is that an L.A. phenomenon, or do other people know what I'm talking about (and know I'm not being anti-Semitic)? Jewish Christmas is that pleasant low-key way to spend the day, wearing jeans and sweatshirts, eating Chinese takeout and going to see a movie or two with friends and/or family. Pleasant. Happy. Not freaked out. Housecleaning not involved. How enlightened. Oh, wait, their Winter Shindig lasts EIGHT crazy days. Whew. Yeah, they deserve a nice, low key thing like Jewish Christmas.

Britain has Boxing Day, a day to take it easy, how enlightened is that. ((Well, not really, as it turns out) Boxing day is Christmas for the worker families, thems that got Boxes from the Lords up at the Manor, hence the term, Boxing Day.)

I watched Charlie Brown Christmas tonight. (I'm paraphrasing here) Lucy Van Pelt says "In honor of the season, I'm putting aside our differences, Charlie Brown, and I'm wishing you a Merry Christmas." Charlie Brown asks, "Why only now? Why not all the year through?" To which Lucy responds: "What are you, some kind of fanatic?"

Why do people buy Christmas and Hannukah presents for our pets? I'm convinced animals have feelings, but it's not like they know or care about our religious beliefs or secular observances. What kind of suckers are we?

Nobody at our house has been very good this year, anyway.

Doc and Wyatt have been trying to re-establish dominance in the house; they have succeeded at keeping Todd and me awake at odd hours. Doc wails like this: "Reorr Rreorr Rreorrr. " Wyatt wails like this: "wyea wyea wyea!"

Odo has recovered fully from his terrible injury and malnutrition. He is muscled, alert, handsome. A charmer. A biter. A handful. A fighter. And then came the day he bit LBK on the neck and tried to climb on top of her. He wonders, often and loudly, why he is penned in the dining room. Odo wails like this: "Wow! Wow! Wow!"

Cute? Funny? You think it's cute at 3am: "Rreorr wyea! Wow! wyea! Wow!"

Little Black Kitty has adjusted remarkably well into a good housecat. She's gained weight and has become social, running to see who's come home. She avoids the males, particularly Wyatt, who picks on her because she's so timid. Sometimes she gets excited and draws human blood, however.

And then there's Jessie. Medicating Jessie can take upwards of 90 minutes daily. Jessie can hide her medication under her tongue, walk around and meow, and spit it out almost 10 minutes later. If she's feeling good, she will really fight her meds. If she's feeling lousy, she's easier to medicate, which is distressing.

There is something wildly unfair that the only cat in the house that would respond to her name and come when called has gone stone deaf. The vet hopes this is temporary. Meanwhile, boy, is she on a lot of medications: a steroid, an antibiotic, a thyroid thing, eyedrops for her droopy eye. I finally gave up trying to keep them straight and bought a geriatric's day-by-day pill dispensing tray. Jessie now strongly dislikes me. Although we've instituted a Policy where "Only Caroline feeds Jessie canned food" Jessie distrusts me. In the evenings, she likes to sit on Todd's lap and give me dirty looks.

So. Of the three cats that don't bite, one hates me because I pill her constantly and the other two don't like me because I give the other one all that canned food and all that extra attention. The other night I climbed into bed and the two cats left together and went to sleep in another another room. Sniff.

And of the two cats that do bite, well, enough said. I'm just a sucker. A big walking chew stick. If I were smaller, they'd eat me.

Christmas presents for pets? These guys are spoiled enough in real life, and real life is expensive here.

Got a phone call from my Advisor. My package got there. Isn't that amazing? That's $86 amazing, if you think about it.

Do you think it wouldn't have gotten there if I didn't watch the weather report for the east coast? I need to go change my pants.

I just send my ridiculous thesis/portfolio thingie UPS overnight. I drove to the UPS store in San Marino, surely they know what they're doing. It's Saturday, but it'll get there Monday, come hell or high water. And I paid $86 for the privilege. There is a blizzard due on the east coast. Please, let there be no downed planes. Anywhere.

The feeling one gets after sending something like this off isn't really one of relief. It's more the feeling one has (I would imagine) after taking RU-487 pills. No, that's not right. Maybe poison. No, too permanent. Ok, ok, how about a really strong emetic. Gulp, gulp, gulp. Going, going, gone. Down the hatch. Nothing you can do now, except sit still, worry and hope. Is it starting? What's that gurgle? Is it working? What's that noise?

I can't get myself to buy into the holidays. They're fraught. There's just too much angst and emotion spent on getting details exactly right and buying the right thing. And we hafta do it once a year. Once a year! (Jesus just couldn't be born on a leap year, could he. And Christians couldn't just keep the celebrations all to themselves, could they. Wouldn't it be scary, if, maybe, Muslims were right about something?)

I think it's good to be suspicious of something so regularly scheduled that soooo many industries profit from. Food and hospitality. Vintners and boozemakers. Fashion and Cosmetics. Entertainment. Manufacturing. Shipping. Wholesale. Retail. Travel. Finance and credit card companies. I'm not even counting the bottom feeding clean-up crew, the therapists, psychiatrists, pharmaceuticals, Dear Abby, and hired hit men. The Powers That Be have even created a word for people like me who won't buy in: "Grinch!" Ah, peer pressure: the fearsome secret weapon of last resort.

I'm not a Grinch. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. Laura Ingalls Wilder's description of a prairie Christmas 100 years ago is incredibly touching. She was so excited to get a heart shaped cookie, a shiny tin cup, a new penny and a stick of candy, she remembered it in great detail 50 years later to write about it. Do you remember what you got when you were seven? How excited were you? Would you be excited if you got a heart shaped cookie, a tin cup, a stick of candy and (adjusting ever so slightly for inflation) a crisp new dollar?

Yes, I've taken my medication this morning. I'll go crawl back under my rock now.

I would think this even if I wasn't on a medication that kills my appetite, I swear. I don't think the new combination of anti-depressant with neurostimulator (appetite suppressing is a side effect) is talking. I think. Anyway, I can lose 100 pounds and still look like Imelda Marcos. I know because I've tried.

You know, of course, the more you weigh, the more you need to eat to maintain the same weight. (That goes for skinny people and fat people.) The more you weigh, the more you eat. Stands to reason that, in the course of a day, Ewan McGregor would eat more than Natalie Portman to keep from feeling hungry.

It works backwards, too: The more you eat, the more you weigh. And then, the more you weigh, the more you eat... U.S. food manufacturers have figured out that the chubbier the populace is, the more food we have to eat to maintain our weight just to keep from feeling hungry. So they can sell more prepackaged product. If Natalie was given Ewan sized portions all her life, and told this was a 'normal meal,' well, she would eventually start to look like Jabba the Hutt.

Remember when you could hold a large soda in one hand? I'm convinced fast food places have been supersizing sodas and fries so we get chubbier still and then need to eat more still and hafta come back. It doesn't even matter if we don't come back to THEIR store -- they know we WILL, eventually, because we'll be eating so much. How else can you explain doubling the amount of product (fries, Coke) for $0.30?

And the same goes with king size candy bars. They've figured out that people (like me) feel bad buying TWO, so make ONE bigger. Hey, look, it's cheaper, too! (It's good to know your weaknesses. There is something in Marketing called "Buy In." It's good to be aware of what you "buy in" to, and why. (I buy into buying one, not two. I buy into "The Simpsons," "Harry Potter," "Star Wars," L.L. Bean clothing, California politics, Martha Stewart's weddings, John Mayer's dorky stage persona, David Letterman's teeth. I buy into liberal guilt, ugly shoes and PBS. I buy into stupid things. I buy into 'good things.' Some people might say I'm overassimilated, or maybe I hate my race? I cook rice, married Asian, and, last I checked, my nose wasn't falling off. ) )

Anyway, I bring this all up because I just heard Dr. Phil talking about America's weight problem and how he's going to get us all to lose weight. (Ok, sorry, I guess it's been going on a while, I'm a little out of touch.) Conspiracy skeptics, ask yourselves, WHY is Dr. Phil teaching us about how to lose weight? Is HE losing weight? Katie Couric taking a colonoscopy exam is one thing. If Dr. Phil thinks he's qualified to talk us through losing weight, (and I think we should check his bank statements for payoffs from the food industry, mind you) I'd like to see
Michael Jackson teaching Positive Self Image classes;
Prince Charles studying for Certification in Family and Marriage Counseling;
Rush Limbaugh doing a radio-call-in drug counseling show; and
Scott Peterson lifeguarding Mommy & Me swim time at the YMCA.
Puh-leeze.

I realized I miss living in Las Vegas. There's a goofy sort of optimism here that Los Angeles really doesn't have. (It doesn't matter if there's not enough water, they'll just build it and problem solve the water issue later.) Houses are big, new and cheap. I miss the two side-by-side sinks in my old bathroom. I used to think it was absurd, (more surface to clean, bleah) but there is something nice about brushing your teeth together in the morning and not having to wait your turn to spit.

Las Vegas, for all its neon, is an unassuming place. In Vegas, I can walk into Prada and the clerk will help me because she thinks I actually might buy something; this wouldn't happen in Los Angeles. The Strip isn't that bad, either; take Koval or Industrial and go in the back way to the casinos if you really must go, and avoid the traffic. (But then, if you live in Anaheim, how often do you go to Disneyland?) The slot machines in the supermarket are jarring, but there's something sort of charmingly weird about showgirls in their metal bikinis buying groceries at 2AM, dog food and children's cereal, yogurt and Soft Scrub.

Off the Strip, it's a conservative little Mormon town, with trash pick up twice a week (twice a week!) and a reasonably efficient city and county infrastructure. Good roads. Nice parks. It's a real city, though, with real problems; the ratio of ok people to weird people is about the same as L.A., but in Vegas they're often more easily identifiable. I think it's a desert effect - if you're not taking care of yourself (alcohol, drugs, mental issues) the sun and wind will make it show up a lot quicker.

Another thought: When I lived in Santa Monica, the house dust was gray. When I lived in Wilmington, Delaware, the house dust was black. In Las Vegas, the house dust was pink!

There's not a whole lot of Culture in Las Vegas, that's true. Theater. Orchestras. Museums. I came to realize that what I enjoyed about Culture was the ability to ignore it if I wanted to. Which I got very good at, in Los Angeles. If a good exhibit/show came to Vegas, I was forced to make it a priority and see it before it packed up and went away. I had to pay attention. Hmm.

I guess it helps my point of view that Nevada has exactly ONE art conservator, and jobs might be plentiful and I'm not there. The grass is always greener on the other side of the state line, I suppose. In Las Vegas, the grass didn't grow at all very fast and you didn't hafta cut it much. Most folks had desertscaping, anyway. And pink house dust.

I've been on this new medication called Topamax, since November 2. It's used to treat epilepsy, typically. It's supposed to help my neurons communicate with each other better, (Can you imagine:"Hello?" "Hello yourself! How are you?") and boost the efficacy of the anti-depressant I'm on. The interesting side effect is that it kills appetite. I mean it, all thought of food: *poof*

In the last four weeks, (counting Thanksgiving, mind you) I've lost 16 pounds!

Without even trying. I'm just not hungry. And when I am hungry, or when I force myself to eat, I get full rapidly and feel ill quickly. Isn't that weird?! The even weirder thing is that I don't even notice the weight loss -- could my body image be that poor? It might be because I'm not actively trying to lose weight. (I've been taking to wearing tie-waisted clothes, yeah. I note that a couple of skirts that were way too tight are starting to look wearable again, ok.) It's nice. Scary, freaky, but nice. (I mean, did you read Thinner, by Stephen King?!)

Still, 16 pounds is a considerable amount of weight, you'd think I'd notice SOMETHING. I lost the equivalent of two adult cats, for Chrissake.

The psychiatrist says that this side-effect does not tend to go away over time. So after a while, when I look like Callista Flockhart's arm, we'll have to find an appetite stimulant of some sort. I can't imagine. I'll probably think I look fat. I thought I looked fat when I was a size 10. Cute, maybe, but fat.

Hey, does this mean that naturally way-too-skinny people aren't epileptic? I bet Callista Flockhart isn't epileptic. She might be a lot of other things, like, say, unemployed, but probably not epileptic.

When I was first diagnosed with depression and began taking anti-depressants, I got dry mouth and began routinely carrying a small bottle of water. And then I started noticing all the Beautiful People carrying small bottles of water... Could they ALL be on various psychiatric medications...? Nah. Nah.