A Certain Point of View

Funny how the grass is always greener.

My friend Jill aspired to be a doctor but fell in love, got married and is a school teacher in Las Vegas. Her son Eric is almost two? She is a riot. She's an terrific mom, and a dedicated teacher (she is constantly, constantly collecting things for crafts: empty toilet paper spools, for example.) The world is full of doctors. If I were a kid in her class, I would remember her forever.

My friend Rose is a teacher in L.A. So beautiful she can stop traffic. So talented, so busy, she leaves her canvases lying around her apartment, like postcards from a previous life. (Once upon a time, she did everything right; got into and out of UCLA, married a great guy and supported him while he struck it rich, retired from teaching to concentrate on her children, managed a spectacular home, and then kept herself and the children sane while he fell apart. She returned to teaching. She is one of the bravest, gutsiest women I know.) She has three extraordinary sons. I've seen her work psychology with her kids, and so can tell what miracles she works with her class.

My friend Vicki has one son, and lives with another single mom and her daughter. They just got a pool installed and the house is always full of kids and wet dogs. Vicki is finishing her book and teaching a full load at UNLV. Somehow, she manages to mentor me, and her graduate students, and any smart undergrads she might come across. And even some local museum professionals.

They all get up at some unholy hour and stay up until Letterman's monologue and do this seven days running! Mothers and teachers all, almost every move they make impacts someone else directly. I know I remember things my mother did and it affects me to this day. I suppose it's true that one can rise to the occasion, but I dunno how they do this stuff.

All three of them recently told me how lucky/ brilliant/ gutsy I am for going forward in my field and starting my private practice. Me, who can't stay awake seven days in a row, and so selfish I don't always like to share the warm spot on the sofa with a cat. (I like children but I'm certain I couldn't teach 40 of them. I like cats, I'm not certain I like five of them.) I have gotten the impression that sometimes they look at me, with no schedule, and they envy me. Me! Conservation, which is invisible, reversible, and gone in 50 years. And I look at them, with so many challenges faced and decisions made, with their sons and their lives wrought with so much work (although I'd envy daughters too!), and I envy them.

I know a fair number of my friends are convinced that Todd and I are about to get a divorce. I'm a scientist, or at least I think like one, sort of, and I've got evidence that we're not anywhere near that kind of trouble yet.

1. When we're watching movies that Todd's seen before, he likes to look over at me to see my reaction to funny scenes. (If it's a movie I really want to enjoy, I have to keep my eyes averted from Todd, or I know that something dramatic is coming because Todd will look over at me.)

2. Given his 'druthers, Todd would rather go hiking than visit a museum. Me, a museum represents work I don't have right now and I'm not about to initiate a visit, even to see a traveling exhibit with the Holy Grail, Tutankhamen, Princess Diana's sex tapes and JFK Jr.'s airplane. (I might want to see all the working sets of Star Wars Episode III., but that's not about to happen.) All by himself, Todd figured out that answering questions makes me feel smart, a feeling I've been lacking lately, so he drags me out and asks me questions. He's trying so hard. (I think it's cute that he's become a big fan of Crazy Sister Wendy.)

3. Four Words: Star Wars Christmas Album. It hasn't come in the mail yet, but I've looked for this album since I was 14. He ordered it for me after I had a really bad, horrible, terrible, no good day. My hero. My beloved. My Star Wars fan.

4. Now that my practice is really starting, Todd wants to make the studio look respectable. He's worried about the carpet in that downstairs room, that it might harbor mold, and he's willing to go a little further into debt to clean and seal the room. He wants tile, which is expensive. I want (area rugs?) carpet, which would cushion falling objects, or bare poured cement. What a man.

5. When Todd lost his tenure at UNLV, he felt so bad that yelling at him for losing his job and having to sell the house and relocating was completely pointless. After moving out to Vegas and carving out a museum career, we followed Todd's new job. I've been out of work in L.A., aka art- conservation- land. (Ironic that once I hated Vegas and felt like Zsa Zsa Gabor on Green Acres.) There are too many conservators already staking out museums, and too many preprogram interns working for free. Other work has also been slow. Arguing about money, I've only resorted to using the deadly "Well, if YOU hadn't lost tenure, I'd HAVE a job!" retort twice. I've been trying to carve out a new L.A. living, but I keep driving back to Vegas to work, and Todd worries about how I speed on the I-15. I just found out that Todd's been searching the Las Vegas teaching sites looking for jobs every week, willing to leave his tenure track position for me. Wow.

I did a Clinic at the Nevada State Museum on Saturday. That's where people come in with their art and artifacts and ask questions about care and handling. And thanks to PBS' Antiques Roadshow, we hafta keep repeating that magic phrase "No, we do not/cannot/will not perform appraisals." As a result of the Clinic, I booked two new clients!

One lady brought a pre-Colombian figure vase wrapped in plastic bags and stuck in a DSW shoes shopping bag, a wooden rosary box from her mother, a basket, a movie poster, a couple of textiles. (The limit was three objects, but never mind, this was the first Annual Clinic, and turnout was sorta slow.) Turns out, she is the founder and director of the Hispanic Museum of Nevada. Mind you, I lived in Nevada for six years and thought I visited every Museum...WHAT Hispanic Museum of Nevada?!

Turns out the dumbest guy I knew at the Liberace Museum is her so-called Curator. Brian was Exhibit Technician, and felt I, as summer intern, and not regular staff, should answer to him. It made him slightly nuts that I knew more than he did about museum work. It also made him nuts when I would contradict his wishes to the Director. I opined, "There is no point to committing to performing conservation treatments on the fur coats in the Fur Case, unless we can raise the money to fix the refrigeration unit in the Fur Case first; it's like performing liposuction on someone who is unwilling to diet and exercise first." Sorry; it's My Job. (That summer, he was 2 credits short of his B.A. Did he EVER finish?!) (WHY is HE employed?! WHY am I NOT?!) (Gaahh!)

After answering a few of her questions (Good questions. Nice lady. No museum background whatsoever. The rosary box had just come from NYC, traveling on her lap on the plane. Oh, dear. I had just finished telling her about relative humidity in NYC and Las Vegas, and its effects on wood when the box made a squeaking noise and hardware flew out! All by itself! Like on cue! Thank Fate I wasn't touching it.) I offered to email her a bibliography of books she should read. I also offered her my services and gave her my card and resume. I'm unsure of how much funding she has, but she didn't bat an eye when she asked what salary range I was looking for.

I just googled the phrase "Hispanic Museum of Nevada" and got a recent Review Journal article about its temporary home for the next two years. Two years! The museum keeps changing addresses. As recently as 2001, the whole museum sounds like four cabinets in the hall of the Mexican consulate!

Since Saturday, I am totally obsessed with this little institution. As a result, I think I'm starting to understand why stalkers stalk. It's a little like a private little voyeuristic journey of discovery, watching something that doesn't happen every day, gross but fascinating. (I suppose stalkers like to watch their prey get into their cars, take their shirts off, etc, things that they may not be able to capture every day?) Watching a museum get founded is messy, weird, not something you see every day, and is sort of like watching a little fissure turn into a volcano, or watching little baby tarantulas hatching, or watching a bus go through a plate glass window in slow motion... I decided it was imprudent to visit today, given Brian's ambivalence towards me. I have dispatched my friend Jill, school teacher and mom, to take her son and scout the place soon, in exchange for lunch. (Sound effect: Sound track to Mission Impossible - DAH-da DAHda DAH-da DAhda neeninee, neeninee...)

Life is interesting.

Almost all the women I admire most are divorced mothers. I just thought I should mention that today.

"He Thinks He'll Keep Her"
Mary Chapin Carpenter

She makes his coffee, she makes his bed.
She does the laundry, she keeps him fed.
When she was twenty-one she wore her mother's lace.
She said "forever" with a smile upon her face.

She does the car-pool, she PTAs.
Doctors and dentists, she drives all day.
When she was twenty-nine, she delivered number three.
And every Christmas card showed a perfect family.

Everything runs right on time,
Years of practice and design.
Spit and polish till it shines.
He thinks he'll keep her.
Everything is so benign,
Safest place you'll ever find.
God forbid, you change your mind.
He thinks he'll keep her.

She packs his suitcase, she sits and waits,
With no expression upon her face.
When she was thirty-six she met him at their door.
She said: "I'm sorry, I don't love you anymore."

Everything runs right on time,
Years of practice and design.
Spit and polish till it shines.
He thinks he'll keep her.
Everything is so benign,
Safest place you'll ever find.
God forbid, you change your mind.
He thinks he'll keep her.

For fifteen years she had a job and not one raise in pay.
Now she's in the typing pool at minimum wage.

(Everything runs,)
Everything runs right on time,
(Right on time.)
Years of practice and design.
Spit and polish till it shines.
He thinks he'll keep her.
(Everything runs,)
Everything is so benign,
(Right on time.)
Safest place you'll ever find.
At least until you change your mind.
(He thinks he'll keep her.)

All right.

I don't know if Mary Chapin Carpenter is into marriage, knows about divorces, or is a mother, but I really think this is a great song. Except that, in my experience, it's usually the man that says "I think I need to get some cigarettes," takes the dog and never comes back.

5AM I was invited to give an Objects Clinic at the Nevada State Museum on Saturday the 22nd, midday. On the afternoon of the 21st, I was still in L.A., looking for clean underwear and waiting for my business cards to arrive. That the evening, a friend-I-try-to-never-say-no-to needed emergency babysitting, so I decided to drive to Vegas early Saturday morning. Lessee...if I got up at 5am, left by 6am, I should get there by 9:30 with no traffic and no cops, 10 if there's cops, and 11-12 if there's a bad accident. I set the alarm in our bed room and the clock radio in the next room, for backup.

At 5am, Todd shoved me out of bed. Thirty seconds later in the next room, the alarm went off to Lenny Kravitz' "Where Are We Running To." I padded down the hall to shut the radio off (that little trot helps me get up, see). As I crossed the room, I could see Jessie, who had been sleeping on the bunkbed next to the clockradio, giving the radio a dirty look. Poor Jessie, Lenny Kravitz is hard to take at 5am, I know. Hey, wait! Why would Jessie be awake? She's deaf and doesn't hear cats sneaking up on her, doesn't hear cat food, and my thumping footsteps were not that loud...? I set the snooze button. Jessie settled back down to sleep. Four minutes later, Cheryl Crow's "First Cut," and Jessie was really hopping mad to be woken up again. And her ire was distinctly directed toward the radio. Coincidence? I hope she's getting better. I've been cleaning the waxy discharge from her ears faithfully (she loves that...yeah, right) and that's been subsiding. I am hopeful.

5PM Do you ever wonder about mean people? Those angry people at the ticket counter at the airport, or that guy talking to himself at the bus stop? How about people who yell at animals? Wonder no more.

I stay at a friend's condominium when I am in Las Vegas. After a successful clinic, a couple of short meetings, I was in a hurry to get to my friend and mentor's to work on her book and get more stuff done. (We ended up going to a party thrown by her Chilean friend, but never mind.) I stopped at the condo to drop off baggage and take a shower. In the parking lot, a little striped cat with tear-streak markings (just like a teeny widdle cheetah, awww!) came trotting over on stubby little legs to say hello. Very friendly, very purry! And what big feet - she had six or seven toes on her front paws - what a lucky widdle wady! She felt rough, a little dusty, but well fed (no ribs sticking out here). Awww, and so very friendly. (I really don't approve of outside cats, but that's another story.) "Bye, sweetie, thanks for saying hi."

I walked away. She followed me to my unit. I walked faster. And up my stairs. I began to run. And as I fumbled for the keys, she rubbed her face against my leg and watched me. And watched me. And was still sitting there as I was leaving 30 minutes later. "Hi, kitty. Go home, now. Shoo." And was there when I came back, around 10pm. "Go on home, kitty. I got nothing for you. Go on." (Visual effect: Big, gloopy, bottomlessly sad eyes. Sound effect: Heart breaking like shards of glass. Somewhere, violins play "The Evil Landlord.") (Little voice in my head says "I always wanted a polydactyl cat...)

And now, this morning, Sunday, as I run screaming towards my car: "Go away! I don't like you! Get lost! Yeeee! Bleah!! Spawn of Satan! AAAAaaaagh!!!"

Upside: My friend Laura sent me a postcard from the Trapp family lodge in Vermont, where she vacationed. Cool. I must go there too, one day. "The Sound of Music" was my favorite musical as a child.

Downside: Todd has been singing his favorite bits from "The Sound of Music" ever since. "The Sound of Music" was my favorite musical as a child. Sniff. Todd is tone deaf. And to add insult to injury, he inserts the phrase "Egg and Rice**" into the song Edelweiss, a song I used to really love.

** Egg and rice is a favorite breakfast food for Japanese and Japanese Americans and Hawaiians. Crack a raw egg over a bowlful of piping hot rice, letting the heat of the rice cook the egg slightly. Not for people who fear botulism, weird textures, or the color yellow. Todd loves egg and rice. I do not.

My Art Opening. I sent myself through school, thank you very much. But for my senior art exhibit, I asked my mommy to cater the show; one thing she can really do, it's pick a good vegetable. It was spring, and with Martha Stewart still catering lunches in the Hamptons, I just wanted vegetables and strawberries and grapes, and I'd make/buy chocolate sauce and ranch dressing. I'd get the servingware and stuff, could she show up in the morning with carrots, celery, broccoli, cauliflower and tomatoes? The day of the show, she showed up with everything as I requested, but not chopped and ready to go. "Vegetables are better cut fresh." "You're going to do that in my dorm?!" And out of the bags, along with her cutting board, rolled the most meltingly beautiful beefsteak tomatoes. "And WHAT are you going to do with those?" I asked. "You asked for tomatoes." "How are people supposed to eat those? I didn't get forks. We're not serving burgers. I asked for CHERRY TOMATOES." Her eyes widened. "OH. Uh... You didn't specify." "Mommy, NORMAL PEOPLE would just KNOW!" My Daddy stuck his head in my door. "What'd I tell you. Big tomatoes are for burgers."

My First Job. My mother waved me off on my first day of my first job after graduation. She jogged alongside my car, waving, which I thought was sweet, if a little dramatic. Too dramatic. I got pulled over by CHP two miles down the road because someone called it in, believing they had witnessed a car being stolen, the original owner perhaps pounding on the window. Despite leaving 90 minutes commute time to travel 15 miles, I showed up late for my first day at my First Real Job.

Birthday Presents. When I was little, I always got pretty good birthday presents from my mother. Or at least, I think I did. I don't know why I believe that, because her record is pretty bad. One year, I got The Club. Another year, I got (yet another) scary Japanese dancer doll. One year, in an attempt at being hip, I got a Chia Pet, without any irony intended. My therapist told me to let it go, and to tell my mother to STOP buying me gifts for my birthday because all they ever did was hurt my feelings. This was a novel idea! It hurt my mother's feelings, actually, when I asked her to stop buying me birthday presents, and the following March, she disobeyed. She got me something extra special, she said, excitedly. I opened it up. It was a Japanese paper dancing umbrella. "Do you want I should take up dance, Mommy? Or do I not know enough culture?" "Oh. I guess I've always wanted one." And she realized, painfully, that she really did hurt my feelings.

My Husband. When we moved from Las Vegas to Los Angeles, there was a chunk of time where we lived with my parents while we looked for a house to buy. Todd was always appalled by the way I treated my parents and the way we all treated each other. My mother would call my name 3-4 times before I'd answer. Why? Because sometimes, most times, she'd get distracted by something else and answering promptly was a waste of time. Explaining that to Todd was also a waste of time. After about two weeks, though, of "Yes? Yes, Mama? Yes?? WHAT IS IT???" "Nothing, dear. I just wanted to hear your voice." he was also answering on the third call. He also became a remarkably motivated home buyer.

My Cat. During this same chunk of time where we lived with my parents while we looked for a house to buy, Doc and Wyatt lived with us. Wyatt loved my parents because they gave bigger tidbits from the table than us and had tuna regularly, his favorite. Doc, the sweeter natured and more social of the two, after living with my parents for 60 days, has never been quite the same since. Spoiled rotten and allowed to wander wherever he damn well wanted all his life, Doc was now forbidden to go onto the kitchen counter and my parents room. And wherever my Mommy didn't want him. My Daddy played with him too roughly, too, maybe. He began to feel persecuted, I think, and took to hopping onto the high bookshelf for hours, where no one could reach him, not even us. (One day after Daddy had played with him, he climbed into his pet carrier, used a claw to close the door after him, and meowed to be taken home. Now! And cried when we wouldn't do that.) Now, when Mommy (and certain other guests) comes over to visit, Doc gets really bushy and stalks her through the house.

Isn't it interesting how values work? Todd and I both know the value of a buck, but our priorities are different and the ways we stretch money are different.

I shop thrift stores year round. Todd needs new clothes every September because he teaches, but he waits for sales and stocks up, which I think is cute. ** Of course, this means I occasionally come home with cheap weird kitchen gadgets and other stuff I probably didn't need, just because they were a quarter. But then, when I buy video or audio, I make absolutely sure I'm going to listen to it or watch it over and over. Star Wars. Indiana Jones. John Mayer. But Todd buys video and audio and then trades 'em like baseball cards. ** I read labels, buy house brands, and have a little plastic card on my key ring. Todd, in addition, clips coupons, reads circulars (!), shops on double coupon day and actually remembers to send in those little rebate thingies and get money back (!!). ** I like warehouse stores for computer printer cartridges, macaroni, and bulk cheese. Todd likes warehouse stores, too, but will buy a big bag of potatoes and let 'em all but four sprout, which makes me nuts. ** I would rather buy a pint of Ben & Jerry's than a gallon of cheap ice cream. Todd thinks that's nuts. Sigh. ** Todd recycles. I gotta reuse - can it be a cat-toy? ** Todd gets a stain on a shirt, and it gets donated to Goodwill. I grew up with "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without." so now I'll bleach it or patch it or wear it to bed until it starts getting ratty enough to wash the floor. ** When Todd lived alone, he got congratulatory letters from the DWP for the lowest water usage in the area and rebates. I take looong showers. Sorry, Todd; everybody needs a vice. ** Todd got a membership at the Japanese American National Museum (JANM) and takes advantage of every member free day at reciprocating local museums. I'm a member of AAM and get in free (with a guest! with a guest!!) everywhere whether I want to or not. ** Todd gives to charities and political groups. I give to my school. ** Todd gives to homeless people. I don't. ** Todd figured out the best cell phone deal and the best ISP deal and the best re-fi deal and then confidently negotiated. I really really tried to understand but I would still carry a beeper, still use AOL and still rent. Of course, I would only have one cat. ** Todd's most recent unnecessary purchase was a telescope valued at well over a grand for substantially less. My most recent unnecessary purchase was the complete history of Middle Earth by Tolkien, new, at full price. (Yeah, we're both dorky, I'll grant you that. Wipe that smirk off your face, or you're not invited for the lunar eclipse viewing in October. Nobody gets to say lousy things about him but me.) ** The Restaurant I've Been Wanting to Visit: Picasso, at the Bellagio hotel and casino in Vegas. The Restaurant Todd's Been Wanting To Visit. All You Can Eat Seafood Buffet on the corner of Broadway and Rosemead. **

Thankfully, neither of us will go to a mall the day after Thanksgiving or Christmas, preferring to hunker down at home and thank God we survived another family shindig.

Went to another interview again today. They didn't call back again today. (For those of you who wonder, I've gone through nine (count 'em, nine) internship interviews and five (count those too) for-real-money interviews SUCCESSFULLY...I can DO this) But lately I think they think I'll cop an attitude or something. The man who was working at the reception desk was a young Latino, shaved bald, in baggy black pants, a big gray button down shirt and big black clown shoes. When he turned to call in the interviewer, I could see his gang tat on his neck! (I sort of wondered if he kept his shiv at his desk. With his blue bandanna and his gun.) Now, WHY won't they HIRE ME?!

"Ma'am? Oh, um, ma'am, your attitude is showing."

Todd admitted sheepishly that he wanted a new telescope after playing with Daddy's and bid (and won one, oops) on eBay. I was annoyed. I suppose I should be really bent. (Um, did I just have an entry about that four letter word that starts with "D" and rhymes with "Bet?") But I can't stay terribly mad. Todd works so hard and he should have play money. (Todd is a conservative guy, a cheap guy. Todd uses coupons when we go out; Todd used a two-fer coupon on our third date.) Todd gets mad at me because he says I waste too much water showering and I tune him out, so I guess we're even. And he found "The Star Wars Christmas Album" on the 'net and he bought that for me today. I've been looking for my own copy of "The Star Wars Christmas Album" since I was 14. A quest, ended. (On eBay, it was selling used for $80.00! and still bidding! He found it used for $7.00. People are weird about eBay.) I love him. I loooove him.

"Are you okay? You're funny tonight."

I actually think that O.J. Simpson got a fair trial and is currently serving an interesting, if brutally cruel and unusual, sentence. As deluded as he might be, being free and playing golf in Florida somewhere, his kids hate him and he and everybody around him must be aware that he has become a universal punchline to jokes on late night TV, on par with Monica Lewinsky and Oliver North. After a lifetime of football, powerful rich white friends, dinner at Mezzaluna and real good ugly-ass shoes, everybody looks at you funny when you walk into McDonalds in yer flipflops, and the parents of every little bimbo you date freaks when you ring their doorbell. Oooh, that's gotta sting.

Michael Jackson, on the other hand, now that's going to be a harder sentence to carry out. I've been watching plastic surgery shows with some interest. How hard would it be to either A) look like himself again circa 1975 with his friendly old nose; or B) go all the way and just turn him into Janet? The former would be harder, but imagine the medical history made and the justice served.

Do I persist on watching the news in the morning?!

I need a job. Any job. We're going slowly, about $600/month, into debt. In the L.A. market, we should sell our spectacularly appreciating house and run. (Sound Effect: NOOOooo!!!!! Visual Effect: Startled birds fly away from nearby trees.) My spare time would be more easily taken up with stuff I should be doing for my little practice if I weren't trying to find a job or washing work clothes for some dead end interview or arguing about money. Gee, Todd and I never fought over money before.

I bought that crap they tell you in school about how I can be anything I wanted to be. But that's not really true, is it. There was no way in hell I could be a model. There was no way in hell I could be in the NBA. I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a media personality. That was okay; who wanted to be a model and not eat anything? ((BTW, I went from wanting to be a horse (I had a strong imagination and anything was possible) a veterinarian (everybody does this, right?) to being a writer (ditto) to being a journalist (ah, high school) to going into publishing (college, where you discover that almost everything is just office work!)before I went to school to be an art conservator. Along the way, I worked in a law office, a medical transcription place, a prosthetics r&d place, a grocery checkout, a movie theater, and I'm starting to forget where else.)) Whatever I did, I realized a while ago, it had to be something where, if you hung around similar people long enough, they'd make you one, too. Like a doctor or a lawyer. You hang around enough of them long enough, they'd make you into one, too. As opposed to, say, a cartoonist or a rock singer, where a formal education indicates nothing and hanging around them a lot can be hazardous to your health.

I'm not going to whine about my situation (yes I am) because I wanted to be here (yes I did). I have my degree, I have my little practice, I have my first customer, I have a tiny bank account. I got depressed all by myself, I made the decision not to apply for fourth year work (no more internships, no, no!), I made the decision not to ask for help from school for what I should do. Because I know what I have to do. It's just easier said than done. At these low times, the nasty little part of my brain kicks in and thinks unpleasant thoughts. Like, if some of my other classmates screwed up as royally as I did, their parents would scrounge up work for them via art and business connections. And I really have no business going into this business. I'm a rube. Good purse and cheap shoes: a rube.

Worry, worry, worry.

My Daddy is grumpily going through a series of medical exams with flying colors. Gee, it's so good to know he's so healthy, but he's still feeling lousy.

Quarters. When the state quarters started coming out, Daddy noticed them right away and started collecting them in a haphazard way. He wouldn't spend let Mommy use them for busfare and they started piling up. What was he going to DO with quite so many Delaware quarters? For Christmas of 1998, I got him one of those cheap cardboard albums with 50 quarter-sized holes cut in into a printed map of the U.S. Mommy was annoyed that Daddy couldn't quite squish the quarters into the slots without her help, (which gave her One More New Chore) but at least the stacks of duplicate quarters could finally disappear. In time for his Citizenship test, Daddy had memorized the names of all the states, their capitols, and even a fair number of their state birds and flowers. Last year, he called me up, hopping mad. "You mean to tell me, these holes don't get filled up until 2008?!" He howled. I could hear Mommy laughing in the background. "I guess you have to live longer than you had planned," she hiccupped.

Stupid. Daddy suffered through the first Star Wars movies with me; I was too young to go alone. He suffered through them over and over and over when they came out on video, too. His favorite sci-fi movie was E.T.; he swore that he would be a better parent than the one in the movies and help me if there were an alien in MY closet. One day Daddy wondered aloud of there really could be life on other planets. Fresh out of a science class, I went into a long ramble about the number of stars in our universe alone similar to our sun; the number of planets circling the number of stars similar to our sun; how we can detect certain gases on these likely planets from the light they reflect from the stars they're close to, and how, yes, it's likely that there is life on other planets, it might be more advanced, it might be mold spores, but chances are pretty good and it's arrogant for us to assume that we're all alone. Daddy listened to all this intently. He looked at me patiently, as one does with someone really very very stupid, and said gently, "Caroline, the stars are stars, but the sun is the sun (and not a star)."

Deep Thoughts. There's a Gary Larson cartoon where a bunch of cows are grazing and one of them looks up and says "Grass!! All this time! We've been eating GRASS!!" After getting fired after a total of 3.5 hours of work, I called all my friends for support and sympathy. "Bizarre." "It wasn't you." "You didn't do anything wrong." "Maybe they wanted a blond." "The boss's nephew probably became available." "There is nothing, absolutely nothing about you I would change." After hours of talk, whining and sympathy, I still felt like crap, but at least I knew I had good friends. This morning, having nothing better to do, I drove to my parents house because Daddy got a scary new letter from Medicare he wanted me to read. (It was nothing.) After a couple of errands, we went to House of Pancakes. Over eggs, pancakes and coffee, I unhappily told him about my temp assignment, what I wore, how we could have used the money, how gung-ho I was, and how quickly I was dismissed. Daddy listened gravely. (Mommy would have told me I probably DID talk too damn much, and then we would have fought.) I began going into my doubts (already gone over before!) about what I might have said, how I acted, how I looked, when my Daddy put down his fork and put it to bed in three words. "Shigoto dakke da. (It's only work.")

Naomi and I are slowly cleaning out my house and her house. Unemployment and good company put to good use. Yay, us. Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay! Rah, Rah!

Todd came home to a lovingly cleaned, dusted and carefully arranged just-so living room. With candy in a bowl on the table! Ta-da! And Todd looked around, smiled with pleasure and said "Oh. Good."

"Good? No, no, no, no, no! I'm depressed. Todd, Todd, I gotta be trained like a puppy on newspaper. When I do a behavior that you like, you have to be really really positive and reinforce my behavior. Yay! Yay! WhoopieEE!!!!! Hooorayy!!! Wheeeeeee!" I said patiently. My therapist told me to be straightforward about things I need from Todd. And I should ' allow myself to feel my successes,' rather than say 'oh, I'm supposed to have had that cleaned months ago.'

"Oh." Todd said. So he went back to the living room, looked around carefully, smiled and said "Great."

Low growl: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeE!

I reported to a new temp job today, right on time. I wore the conservative end of "business casual," which was a pair of black slacks, maroon turtleneck, and black flats. (It was my #$%&% bad luck that their office was decorated in maroon and black. Someone tried to sit on me.) I was supposed to be 'temping' for the Receptionist, who was going on vacation next week. I was training today, tomorrow, and replacing the vacationing Receptionist all next week, and trading off on Monday.

The First Hour, I met my so-called supervisor, who gave me a tour of the large office, introduced me to people, and showed me where the bathroom and the coffee pots were. This ended at my cubicle. Bye-bye, Supervisor. The Second Hour, I worked with the Receptionist, going over things that needed to get done, like how to answer the phone, how to work the copier. IT came by and assigned me my very own email (internal and external) address for the next eight days, complete with passwords. The Third Hour, everybody went into the Big Weekly Staff Meeting, so I watched the HR Assistant answer the phones and asked her questions. I tried answering a couple of phone calls. The Fourth Hour, I tried my hand at answering and routing phones. I did reasonably ok, for a first hour, dealing with a really large switchboard. (I mean a huge switchboard! How archaic.) I got a message to see the Temp Agency during my lunch hour (which happened to be in the same building, downstairs.). I went to lunch at noon and went downstairs to the temp agency.

Where I got told the assignment was over. They didn't like me.

I was fired. I was not to return upstairs. Did I leave anything personal? Their contact thought I was 'very nice, very intelligent,' but "talked too much," and was a 'bad match." They didn't like me? I'm sorry, what did you say?

Gee! It was natural to have questions, no? I felt it was important to feign interest in their product, no? During the hour when HR lady and I sat and stared at phones that did not ring, should I have not made some sort of conversation?! (She brought no work materials. I had no further work assignments. Should I have busily picked my nose?) To my knowledge, I did not make inappropriate comments or sexual advances. When asked why I was temping, should I have dumbed myself down and said I was a housewife returning to the working world? A prostitute trying to make it off the streets? "The life really ages you. I'm only 22." (An aging porn star trying to make ends meet while the L.A. porn industry AIDS epidemic works itself out? That one maybe somewhat hard to believe.) Boy, if they thought I talked too much, it's a good thing they had no idea what I was thinking. My usual subversive thoughts.

Everybody was so very very pleasant, friendly and welcoming. Should I not have asked the IT guy about his vintage Star Wars mug? (Hmmm. Was it the HR lady I spent the hour with? The HR lady looked like 'Flo' from "Alice" and snapped her gum. She smelled like "Lair du Temps," which I didn't know they still made. If I knew this was a probationary period, (But I was assigned an email address! Two of 'em! And secret passwords!) I may not have said some self-deprecating jokes, but for the life of me, I don't think I said anything particularly witty. (which in my case would almost certainly be controversial.)) How very Stepford.

The adhesive I used to glue my jaw shut has failed. My butt hurts where the door hit me. Whine. Where is my medication!? And when is Prisoner of Azkaban premiering again?

About The Man I Married

Everybody has SOME expectations or assumptions about the man they'd marry. You know, tall, dark, handsome, rich, white and stupid, yadda, yadda, yadda. I knew, for example, I'd never marry a Republican. I didn't think I'd marry a jock, but I found I was wrong. We'll be married six years, June 13. Here then are the top ten things I didn't expect about the man I eventually married. Here's to you, Naomi, who introduced us, kicking and screaming.

I didn't think the man I would marry would be:

10. A High School Letterman.......... in golf. Dorky, and geeky. (They give letters in golf?!)
9. Japanese American, let alone Asian. I always dated Out; white, black... Well, who knew? Mother was thrilled. How annoying.
8. Anti-choice. But he's very strongly environmentalist, so all his candidates are pro-choice, so it doesn't matter. But it gave me pause. I had to seriously consider my convictions. And what I was willing to do to defend them. Love is weird.
7. Wearing a mustache. Thought it made him look older. (It didn't.) And the annoying thing is, once I got used to it, he got tired of it and shaved it off!
6. So utterly art and music illiterate. Coming out of school immersed in art, there is something refreshing about this... But the only time I impress him is when we're watching Jeopardy.
5. Monolingual. Yonsei can order food in a Japanese restaurant. That's about it. Charming, in a way.
4. So good at couponing. He understands the fine print on all those coupons and airline offers. He's got a brilliant legal mind. And he's cheap.
3. Such a slob. Slobbier than me?! How is that possible?
2. A clotheshorse. One stain and the shirt goes to Goodwill. (Me, it's use it up, wear it out, make it do or do with out. I go to Goodwill to shop, not donate.)
1. Good looking. (Ok, he's not Aragorn, but he's not Gollum or Gimli, either.) It's the Billy Joel effect in reverse!

Graduate school is a time of personal growth for students. There are those who think personal growth can be encouraged and simulated by shoveling loads of sh*t on graduate students, as if they were flowers. (Even if this is so, too much of a good thing can kill you. A glass of water sustains you. Four inches of standing water can drown you.) In graduate school, I learned how to think for myself and how to be self reliant. Or, at least, as in Star WArs, I learned to make it up as I went along.

I wrote this letter to my best friend when I was in graduate school. She sent it back to me recently because she still thinks "it's one of the funniest things you've ever written." (You know, Mickie, I wrote it looking for, um, sympathy. You know....sympathy?) Well, if she thinks it's THAT funny, fine; I'll share it.

Is it funny?! You be the judge. Me, I have tried to put this episode behind me and am grateful to be home. I am also grateful to my friends (hint, hint!) who guard my secret identity zealously and would never ever pass this stuff around. Right?

Mickie, I have a website for you: www.ratemypoo.com which is published by the same folks that bring you ratemykitten.com The former is not for the squeamish or weak of heart. The latter is not for the easily annoyed. Be certain you know the difference between Latter and Former before serious investigation.

- Red Five, standing by.

"My traumatic experience this morning. This starts with my landlady.

"My landlady knows a lot of people in my program and in the area. She knows my Director, D__ H__ N__ and watched her grow up. She tells me 'Ohhh, she had SUCH a thing for the Beatles!' And when I assured her she still does, she says 'Oh, those H__es, they're very sensitive people. I'm sure she's still That Way. Cried over George, too, I imagine. Yes, those H__es are such sensitive people.'

"I asked her once about the previous tenants, and was there anything they did that was annoying and that I should try not to do? After telling me stuff not to do, she says 'V___, (my friend who had the place before me) now, she was clean and tidy, and very quiet; but she's from a tropical climate, you know, and she had that apartment BLAZING hot all the year thru! And her husband, he took the LONGEST showers ever. The water meter jumped whenever he visited.'

"Now.

"Since I've started taking this medicine since January, [I got diagnosed with depression and was on my first anti-depressants. Ah, grad school! - R5] I keep plugging the toilet and having to ask the landlord to come up and 'visit.' Twice, so far. I'm totally constipated and when I unload, there's a lot and it's all hard. I try to go at school. At night. Alone. The professors wonder what I DO there at night some nights, I'm sure.

"I did it again, last night. I left it until the morning and tried to flush again, but to no avail.

"Can you imagine what the landlady is going to say about ME?! WAAAAaaaaahhh!!!!!! Can you imagine what I can imagine the landlady is going to say about me?!

"I got kind of desperate this morning after the second flush. I got a long plastic knife and sliced at the... um... blockage. Rather the consistency of peanut butter, after sitting in water all night. It flushed. Hooray!!!

"I ate a lot of seeds and nuts the other day...I wonder if that was a bad idea. I've been trying to have lots
of fiber....

"I'm really very distressed about this. I'm not sure which thought is more traumatic:

"Being remembered as "Nice girl, but hard dumper" by the landlady, who would probably tell most of Wilmington, Delaware.

"Having to slice it into....It.

"Being worried that I'm going to do it AGAIN.

"Whimper."

I'm not so terribly sad anymore, but it's always life affirming to make a list of those things you're looking forward to, those stupid trivial things. And you know how I like lists.

Harry Potter books 6 and 7 ** Star Wars Episode III ** My firstborn (I'm making assumptions) ** My sixth cat (I'm sure there will be one) ** My next conservation project. ** The next Democratic president ** The girl Prince William marries, and the ensuing pandemonium ** Prince Harry, ditto ** My secondborn, if I'm up to it. ** John Mayer's newest album. ** The end of the war in Iraq. ** Being able to meet people at the airport again. ** Summer vacations ** A 'normal' job. ** Weaning off medication; it could happen... ** Getting every window in this house actually opening and closing. ** Unpacking every box from every location, Wilmington, Tucson, L.A., Las Vegas... Nah.. ** The next really bright comet. ** The next lunar eclipse ** A really good celebrity murder. ** Or at the very least a sex scandal. ** A startling archaeological discovery, something to rewrite the historybooks and/or piss off the Creationists ** Getting my Daddy finally feeling really better ** Threatening my Mommy with a trip to the OB-GYN **

Have you gotten this little bit of hope forwarded to you yet?
I present to you, in its entirety, a little bit of internet baloney that was forwarded to me (ahem!) to cheer me up...

"A quick overview of one man's life:
Age 22: Failed in business.
Age 23: Ran for legislature and was defeated.
Age 24: Again failed in business.
Age 25: Elected to legislature.
Age 26: Sweetheart died.
Age 27: Had a nervous breakdown.
Age 29: Defeated for Speaker.
Age 31: Defeated for Elector.
Age 34: Defeated for Congress.
Age 37: Elected to Congress.
Age 39: Defeated for Congress.
Age 46: Defeated for Senate.
Age 47: Defeated for Nomination for Vice President
Age 49: Defeated for Senate.
Age 51: Elected President of the United States of the United States.
That's the record of Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln's deep conviction that God had given him a commission to fulfill accounted for his deep humility and ability to push on in the face of difficulties and failures that would have discouraged most people. "

What the author omits, of course, is that last and most relevant entry:
Age 56: Dead by Assassin's Bullet.

C'mon, of all the people who have lived victoriously in the face of great difficulty, this was NOT the man to write about. If you must write about Lincoln, focus on his leadership during a difficult time in our nation's history or something, hm? (Somewhere, out there, someone is writing a similar one of these about G.W. Bush and his remarkable study habits, I just know it.)

Someone asked me if I would rather have been smart, or pretty. Today, I would prefer to have been pretty. There is no antidote for the madness of being smart. (I would like a double scoop of Rosalind Chao, please. With a light sprinkling of Tamlyn Tomita. Thank you.)

When I was in college, I had a friend with an Unreasonable Request. Chris said I was "the most amazing, positive, and funny person she had ever met." She "loved me, loved to hang around me." And she "had an unreasonable request, could I try to honor it?" "Yeah? What was it?" I asked, thinking it was a request to be put up in my room for a couple of nights, or a 4am drive to the airport, (sure, no problem!) or something like that.

"I want you, no, I need you, to be my Exclusive Friend."
"I'm sorry?"
"I need you to be my Exclusive Friend. Be my roommate next semester. Don't talk to anyone else but me."
"I'm having trouble understanding this. Not anyone? Not even in class? Not our friends? Stuart? Candice? Larry?"
"Not anyone. I want you all to myself."
"You're right, that's a totally unreasonable request, Chris. I can't do that. There are lots of things I can do, but I can't do that. The logistics alone to accomplish that boggle the mind. You can't be serious."
"I'm serious." She began to cry. "Why not? I would be your very best friend. I'd buy you whatever you wanted and try to satisfy your every wish."
"I'm really flattered, but we both have so many friends! We're in college for a reason! We can't limit ourselves like this! I mean, for example, how would I pass my classes if I didn't participate?"
"You would, you're so brilliant!"
This went on for hours, until Chris finally locked her doors, tore up a Coke can (I still can't drink Coke) and jammed the metal into her wrists. Sprayed with blood, I had to wait until she fainted to dig in her pockets for her keys and call for help. I visited her at Cedar Sinai Psych Ward, where they made her talk with me. Chris dropped out of school some months later, but she was so angry with me, she never spoke to me again. That was, well, okay with me.

Cut to the present. I idly wished to my friend Naomi that she could come over and just hang around while I cleaned out old junk and straightened up my house. Seeing as she's decided to quit her job and go full time into pursuing her dream of singing. (In Reality, this means we're both temping, sigh.) And She Said Yes. I reminded her this is a Totally Unreasonable Request. And she still said Yes. Incredulous, I asked if she was sure. And she still said Yes. Wow. So we've been listening to CDs, rearranging books, scaring cats, and goofing off for a couple of days. It makes Todd scarce, too, a side benefit.

I can understand now why Chris did what she did, many years ago, although I wouldn't have done it, then or now. It gets lonely when you're mentally ill, and it helps to have funny, positive company to hang around and keep you functioning. (Oh, dear. More wisdom points accrued means Sanity points are lost. Oh, no! Some people would say Dungeons and Dragons references in your everyday conversations is also a bad sign...) Anyway, during the day, I let Naomi answer her cell phone and at night, I let her go home and talk to other people and stuff. Coke cans and blood are not involved in any way shape or form.

"A critic is your best friend," said Ben Franklin, "because he tells you where your weaknesses are." (I'm paraphrasing something I heard on The West Wing. Sorry.") Yeah! That's what I meant, last entry! So, what was I supposed to learn from some of these people? Because I could tell some of these people right back that they were incredibly self-involved and worried about things that really weren't terribly important.

I ran into a person, who I'm sure isn't too fond of me, at a Kentucky Derby party. For the first time ever, I had a good seat near the TV. And felt guilty about it. And my enormously pregnant friend Lin was standing across the room. I kept looking to see where she was standing. I kept waving to her. Finally, I turned to this person-who-I'm-sure-isn't-too-fond-of-me, and said, can you watch my seat? I'm going to see if Lin needs to sit." To which she firmly responded, "If she needed to, she would have done so by now. SIT." Oh. Good point. So, I sat.

I suppose it's true and I should shut up and enjoy my good fortune once in a while. And of things to be told, it's not the worst thing in the world, to be told you're too damn solicitous, is it. Some weaknesses, I think I'll keep.

Sit-com? What sit-com? I've heard from a mess of old friends. It's as if a massive brainwave (must be the new meds) erupted from my head that told them to call or e-mail me, which they did. They are all so different, but all so cool, and so close to ME, which makes me want to ask some questions. Why do people want to be friends with ME? Am I only attracted to people who validate ME? (And is that wrong?) Why, in a time when so many people are fighting and dying, do I find so many people repellent? Why can't I see the good in all people?

I knew MunMun in high school. We were in Journalism together. I thought MunMun was a really terrific writer, and always read everything she wrote. Montsy Fontes (We got to call the journalism teacher by her first name) used to use MunMun's writing as examples for the other kids (when MunMun wasn't looking, so she wouldn't get a swelled head). Some of us thought she was sort of a teacher's pet, but I still thought she was really cool. Too cool to talk to me. She hung out with Abby Travis, who wore a lot of black and wore black lipstick and played guitar in a girl band and was kind of mean looking. Abby was always nice to me, but I was kind of scared of her. MunMun wrote in my yearbook to keep writing, because she'd keep reading, which I thought was really cool. I saw MunMun at a book signing for Montsy in 1990? MunMun found me on Reunion.com, before they started charging for memberships and we started talking. She always has interesting stuff on her mind, which makes me think up interesting stuff I didn't know I had in my mind. We made each other laugh. (I always knew we would!) She started me blogging. She emails me encouragement if I stop writing for more than a week. I love that. She's going to library school, but she's a writer. She still thinks I'm a writer. I love that, too.

I know Abby Travis was cool. And probably really nice. Why couldn't I like her? For that matter, why couldn't I just say hi to MunMun in high school? All that time...wasted.

Naomi was this girl I met at MOCA. I hated everybody at MOCA; they were all too pale, wore too much black, and drank too much coffee. Seriously, the staff was between 27 and 40, so affairs were common and people avoided each other in the halls. How professional. Naomi was none of those things, and far too cheerful. Nobody liked her. I didn't like her. I kept running into her in the elevators, and she could really chatter. On just a few short conversations, Naomi was convinced that she knew 'the perfect man' for me, and I was convinced that I liked her still less for that. On Christmas Eve, Naomi's department went for Christmas lunch at a raw oyster bar (knowing that Naomi is an observant Jew!) and I found her in her cubicle (having been ditched for Christmas lunch, myself) sitting all alone. (See what a shitty place MOCA is?!) "C'mon! We're going out, and I'm buying! What're they gonna do, fire us?!" Naomi was, unlike the MOCA staff, sweet, and funny, and very very fun. Turned out we had mutual friends from different circles. I found out that Naomi sings, professionally, as well as works in arts management. She was devoted to Ryan,(whom, frankly, I decided I really didn't like) and I learned a lot about love and devotion from her. We left MOCA together, those idiots, her to go to LACMA, and me to go to the J.Paul Getty Museum. (She finally came to her good senses and left Ryan, the jackass, which was painful for her. But she is hopeful, and I'll be there. She so deserves someone who worships her.)

She introduced me to a guy named Todd, who I later married, too.

The People In Black were perfectly great people. For whatever reason, I just couldn't seem to get accepted, or feel comfortable, or feel safe around them. Why? And sometimes, I wonder what (intellectual/ social/ museum opportunities?) did I miss? It's funny, because I rather like wearing black. I just wasn't a Person In Black. Was I just not thin enough? Slutty enough? Certainly, I had the art history snob education. What was I missing? As for Ryan, well, Ryan was indeed a delightful man. Talented, creative, my impression of Ryan was as a large child who needs a lot of attention and but is unwilling to give anything back and can't understand why that doesn't work in a human relationship that does not involve nannies or parents.

Tatiana was the girl I was supposed to simply hate in graduate school. At 21, she was the youngest in our class. Possibly, the youngest (at least one of the youngest) to enter the Program. Lots of people (why do people do this?) told me they thought she was too young, not qualified, blah, blah, blah. "Hate her," they seemed to instruct. I suppose, to put it in a nice light, these people wanted to cushion me, prepare me, the hard-luck loser-applicant, to meet the Golden Child: where she applied once, I had applied four times before being accepted into the program. (Mind you, I had gotten into other places before, I had decided to wait and try again to places I really wanted to go to. That's a conscious decision, not a circumstance; circumstances really are for losers.) Most of the people I had trained with had accepted with one interview, so I had already gotten over the disappointment thing. I'd draw my own conclusions. Was this person nice? Funny? Did she breath through her nose and could you hear it across the room? Did she have a voice like Ethel Merman? More importantly, would she laugh at my jokes? (It's all about me, see.)

Our class was labeled (correctly, although a number of my classmates denied it) "competitive" and "intimidating." After a few short months, I would have called us all "bitchy." (Yep, I can be incredibly bitchy, too, while we're on the subject; after all, I'm from L.A.) I know that conversations about classmates habits and skills were had, all the time. I'm convinced we all had identifying titles. (This is so NOT what I meant by wanting a nickname.) I know a phreaked a few people out by my scary resume, so for a while, I was The Experienced One. Anyway, Tatiana was Youngest. Smartest. Class Superstar. Showoff. Having been there for her undergraduate work, she was familiar with the professors, and so got slapped Professor's Favorite. Having worked with the professors on continuing projects, Most Accomplished. ((Gee, I rather liked her right away. She was approachable and unassuming; funny, but not-too-perky. She had a high, musical voice (she sang in musicals as an undergrad) and her breathing was totally undetectable. And she laughed at my jokes. Even the ones no one else got. Even the one about the Sufi blender. (!?) She's short and has brown hair, too. Deal with it.)) It's not like she should have to apologize for any of that, no? I suppose I liked Tatiana because I recognized myself in her. I was smarter, brighter, faster, (cuter!) and sort of cheerfully arrogant / confident (and that's ok, you know, when you're smart, bright, fast and young) when I was younger. It's like my brain had more working RAM back then and could work math, chemistry and personal problems faster. (And when I was in College, they didn't even sell designer coffees! I did it on NoDoz and Trukers' Friend!!) I tried to be pleasant throughout the two years we were all there. I tried to share my so-called 'rich experiences' in the real field. Tatiana, at least, was often interested. Tatiana and I talked a lot late at night. And when she told me about meeting John, I rolled my eyes and called it first: he was The One. I was right. Neener, neener, neener. Tatiana and John were married last summer. I was right, I was right, I was right! (Um, I was told I was wrong a LOT in grad school and now my therapist says I should "allow myself to 'feel my accomplishment' when I'm right.") I was right, I was right, I was right, I was right.

I was fond of several of my classmates, but I can actually pinpoint the very moment I decided I loved classmate Tatiana forever and ever, amen. Two of my classmates, Judy and Joanna, seemed to talk incessantly, and they seemed to talk incessantly about forgettable subjects like high school and college social circles. One afternoon, they discussed prom dresses. Yawn. (For the record, and I did try at one point to take part in these vapid conversations, my prom was during the Lady Diana/Ronald Reagan era (making me sound impossibly old to some of my classmates), and so my dress was a black taffeta double-skirted affair with enormous poofy off-the-shoulder sleeves, a snug Princess seamed bodice with a sweetheart neckline, which I wore with long black gloves and my mother's pearls. I thought I was the height of fashion. But I digress.) Judy reminisced about the unimaginable horror and embarrassment she endured when she attended a school event and discovered another girl in the EXACT SAME gown. Joanna listened sympathetically and asked why the silly woman at the dress shop didn't check the all important List of Where Dresses Were Going to be Worn That Season to make sure there wouldn't be a duplicate dress at that particular date and function. To which, Tatiana, who, with the rest of us, was listening and sort of half-heartedly participating, asked, "Joanna, what planet are you from?" Tatiana could pull off such a remark without getting her face slapped.

Tatiana was refreshingly honest, occasionally brutally blunt, but always faithful, ethical, and, well, good. Really good. Some would say brilliant. (And she would probably blush here.) And then there was me, who needed to be on medication but didn't know it yet. And eight other people under lots and lots of stress, who may or may not have needed to be on medication. Now, it's my own fault that I always thought that, despite various backgrounds, we would all be united in our interest in material culture and conservation. NOPE. I always assumed that I would like all my classmates. At least a little. NOPE. I always thought that I'd enjoy social intercourse of most kinds. NOPE. Several of my classmates talked often and in great depth of shoes. Shoes! Shoes!! For your feet!!! (Under stress, I realize, but )Some classmates could be extraordinarily two-faced, sucking up to the professor one moment, and saying how unreasonable the assignment was the next. Certain professors gave out assignments on the assumption that we would pair off and work on them together, but our class studied in threes and fours and I ended up studying alone. Raising my hand to ask a question, sometimes I would hear an audible sigh "there she goes again, asking her stupid questions" (if ya really gotta know, you really gotta know! It's why we're there. It's why I'm there!) I felt targeted in the cross-hairs of somebody's wrath. I started getting an inkling that people thought I was sucking up to Tatiana for help in Science or just sucking up to the class Star. Did she think that too? Pride took the better of me and I worked and suffered alone. (Cartoonist Gahan Wilson once said "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're NOT out to get you...") Depression began to take its toll; two years of constant competition will eventually get to you. I spoke to almost no one my third year. Mortally embarrassed after Orals, (and no one gave me the Class forwarding address list, I figured you didn't get one unless you were Worthy) I came home and kept to myself. Even after I graduated for keeps, I kept to myself.

Tatiana wrote me an email this week! She had missed me. I was unbelievably happy to see her name in my inbox, I had missed her so. How foolish I had been.

So what makes us friends, exactly? Despite everybody telling me not to be? Despite our age and background differences? (Our dislike of shoes is hardly basis for a strong relationship.) But then, who cares?! More importantly, what made it so hard for either of us to like, or at the very least, get along with the other classmates? They were all perfectly nice people, clean, well brought up, good manners, only one Republican in the group. Their values were not so far different from mine. I am not very competitive, which should be good for classmates who are very competitive, no? ((I thought, if anything, that stress would bond us against a common enemy: not the professors, exactly, but the deadlines. We all worked hard to get into this prestigious program, we'd all work together to get out! We were all in this together! Most assignments, everyone knew, were individual, and impossible to cheat on, but easy to work together with. I went in, fully expecting to support and be supportive, in a spirit of cooperation with my classmates but got little outside of assignments where cooperation was necessary. (I once pulled books for a classmate that I thought would be helpful to her and was met with shifty-eyed suspicion. Ouch.) What did I do that offended or irritated so many people so irretrievably?)) What opportunity for growth did I miss here? What could I have learned from these people? Am I so stuck in my own sphere of experience that I can't understand and embrace another value system? What's wrong with me? What's wrong with them? Am I THAT West Coast? Was my behavior that appalling? Maybe. Maybe not. (One of my classmates always wore low rise pants or skirts and whenever she bent over or squatted in class, she revealed to me the top of her thong. I began keeping a running list of colors and styles. She had a lot of 'em. If I maintained a blogsite back then, I would have run what I believed to be the complete list. I will say now what I've wanted to say for almost three years: not only did I find her values throroughly screwed up, she had a brushably hairy butt. (Hey, did Monica Lewinsky (who made this thong thing acceptable) have a hairy butt?) I once again remind everyone that I have never claimed to be a nice person.)

I suppose I should be old enough to be able to recognize and be compassionate of behaviors and aggressions and competitiveness born of youthful insecurities. But I'm not, because the trouble is, most of us are still dealing with youthful insecurities, and I'm of the opinion there really isn't much excuse for aggression and lack of self control of any sort. I'm here to report that the unpleasant secret to growing older and just growing old is that all the feelings you had in middle school never really go away, you're just supposed to be able to deal with them differently. A rotten year a long time ago, punctuated with a series of natural, manmade, and automotive disasters, taught me that life really is a short trip. To continue the road trip analogy, it really is a waste of grief and energy to roar down the freeway shoulder just to cut a whole line of people off, or speed up and pass that one car in front of you that's driving juuuust a little slower than you'd like and has been resolutely ignoring your tailgating (A big SUV did that to me on Little Santa Monica today - it wasn't like we were going anywhere any much faster, the light was red up ahead!). No one is going to remember who got to where, and when and how fast they got there, but just how decent or shitty you were on the trip, or at least how hard you were trying.

My friend Christy and I have been unofficially polling friends during late night conversations. (If I haven't gotten to you yet, it's because I just haven't gotten to you yet, or you were so tired, you didn't notice.) So far, we've been at this a couple of years, basically, the response is variations of "Life is short."

Mine was "It's not THAT important." (i.e., taxes, bills, phone calls, tv shows, GPA, new shoes, whatever...) I learned that after the Northridge earthquake, and after a fair number of other bad experiences, that the human relationships are a lot more important than the stuff you thought were important, the resumes, the GPAs, the CDs, the cars, the material crap, etc., etc. Basically, a variation of "Life is short."

Life IS short. Hurry up.

The other thing I was recently thinking about, was that "99% of most things are dreck." This could be another variation of "Life is short," but just bear with me. Keep reading. Please?

When I was in college, I was never really challenged. I studied not a whit and had an absurdly high GPA. In the very back of my brain, where I store Urban Myths that Might Be True and Television Schedules for Shows I Don't Admit I Watch, I wondered if I was a rube. A poser. As much as I loved conservation and museum work, one of the reasons (one of those reasons you keep in the back of your brain and don't tell people) I wanted to go to grad school and why I kept reapplying to art conservation and why I picked the program I picked was that I had to work and work and work for it. Beg to get acceptance. Once in, could I do it? Were East Coast schools all that they were cracked up to be? The cachet, the need for acceptance, the need to prove myself able to cut it intellectually, all that came into play when I made my decisions to go into conservation. I admit it.

Once there, though, it was just school. Stressful, and an unusual program, yes, but ultimately, nothing anybody with a skullful of brain and some conservation experience and handskills couldn't handle. (Ah ha, the cachet is in the class size! I get it...) Get up, show up, do work, go home. Get up, show up, do work, go home. Unlike some others, I went to graduate school for me. I make no excuse for my graduate school performance. I made no heroic attempts at perfect grades, just reasonable ones, and even then I got read the riot act for being 1.3% off everybody else. (1.3%!) And as the time groaned by, I noticed my classmates behavior towards me changing. Usually, in any given class, I was The Smart One. In our class, I recognized my classmates' behavior towards me as the classic behavior taken towards The Class Flake / The Class Dolt. Being in a class of ten hysterical overachievers, actually, (4/ 10 arranged their clothes in chromatic order in the closet. 3/ 10 ate their KitKat bars layer by layer.) this may have been a sign of my remaining sanity. Yes, yes, I freely and grumpily admit I failed Orals and loudly and grouchily remind one and all that I only passed the second time not because I was better prepared but because I kept my stupid mouth shut. What did I learn? Not to spit into the wind.

All that blood, sweat and tears, for a piece of paper that they sent in an acidic cardboard envelope. Was it worth it? Only because time travel isn't possible and if I didn't have that piece of paper I would be unhappy and wondering for the rest of my life. 99% was dreck. About 1% of the lessons were really really useful, and totally new knowledge for me. Perhaps I was very lucky in my preprogram work, but then that would indicate that the schools obviate themselves in their very entry requirements. Certainly, in retrospect, 99% of the So-Called Important Stuff was Dreck. The GPA will certainly be forgotten. I believe I'll remember the decisions I made, and why I made them. I'll remember the lessons I was supposed to learn, and the lessons I actually learned and that some lessons I looked forward to were serious disappointments. I'll remember firmly that I learned a lot more when I was preprogram than I thought. And I'll remember the people, absolutely for sure.

It's a corollary, maybe. Life is short, and 99% of everything is dreck. So find the good 1% of everything, and hurry up about it. What are you reading this for?





Are you still here? Go away!