A Certain Point of View

Once upon a time there was an old museum that specialized in injun artifacts that was dying. The old museum was in an out of the way neighborhood and no one went to see the amazing collection. A new museum that specialized in all things cows and horses and boys decided to help it out, and 'merged' with the old museum, which is a euphemism for buying it. Many people in the neighborhood and in the museums were upset with the great change, as many people often do get upset with great change. Many thought the boys who were not boys but dealt with cows and horses were taking over the injuns, but this above scenario was better than having the collection sold off piece by piece, or used for uneducational profit by various injun casino groups (which nevertheless had a native stake in the materials). The big museum was gonna expand and make a bright new building for the old collection.

I'm not mentioning names here. Some things aren't even spelled right. Google frightens me and I don't want various people finding this entry.

The new museum hired my boss to assess the collection (which was in various states of disrepair, as there had been no money for staff to maintain it in years) (I remember they wanted volunteers like my professor in college to do it, and that was 10-15 years ago, and she burned out) and people like me to clean and conserve it. I was the third conservator on the project, as they burned through so many, it was a daunting task. (I had worked at Kinko's, and after that, nothing scared me.)

Certain kinds of collections get very buggy. I saw objects with feathers stuck in em where the fluffly part of the feather was gone and the only thing there was the tough-stick part of the feather. I would pick up objects and silverfish the size of my little finger would run away. (Ew!) And everything was dusty. And grimy. And packed so tightly together, you'd damage something just pulling something else out. And lots of things had been treated with heavy metals at the turn of the century, so you needed special stuff and training. That would be me.

I came on late in the project. There was David, Jennifer, Mason, Art, and James. And Lisa, my boss and project manager.

Lisa reminds me of the actress who played Aunt Hagatha on 'Bewitched." Seemingly a little flighty, she wrote a proposal and won the national search for conserving and moving this collection, and no dummy she.

David, I was surprised to learn was only turned 30, has lots of gray hair and reminds me of a rounder, softer Anthony LaPaglia (that intensity, that scary razor focus) from "Without a Trace." He' managed our data, figuring out ways to make the move easier, such as designing a barcoding system for the artifacts. When I talk to him about his slice of the project, he would lose me.

Jennifer, the registrar, was smart, direct, (she'd tell you if she was in a bad mood, for example) fun and pretty. If the Battle for Naboo really took place, she would be the one in one of the fighters, or at least the one shouting "Get to your ships!" Which is funny because she looks nothing like Natalie Portman. She has a cat named Indy, though.

Mason, Arturo and James were art handlers. Mason designed custom boxes that could be used to pack artifacts for travel and long term storage. Mason was talented in hiring bright people, so we had temps like Chad, Brett and Ryan. I tried to fill in for them once, and took an hour to do what took one of them 15 minutes to do. Lots of conservators look down at packers, but I trust and worship them. I haven't seen them lately, I miss them. And, boy, were they all awfully cute. Like the boy cast from "Lost," and "CSI", except Hurley.

They hired my classmate Maggie as Lead Conservator for the project. I can admit now tht this hurt my feelings, at one time, as they didn't let me even apply for the position. Seems that my grad school behavior follows me, after all. But I decided when my friend Alan died that it was a blessing in disguise, as my position allowed me to work with the interns and not have to go to meetings, and I was, after all, all I wanted to be, an Object Conservator. Maggie was one of my very favorite classmates, and if it had to be someone, I was very glad it was her, and Maggie really does kick my ass in terms of brilliance and experience. I tried to be helpful and welcoming when she came aboard, as the others were to me. She moved back to California for this job, leaving a fellowship and another job offer. We became close again. Poor Maggie, she only got to be here six weeks before we were all sacked.

So what happened was, the people who were upset about their 'hood museum getting all changed got up an attorney and decided to sue, so that the big museum could not move the collection or expand their new building. The boss at the big museum decided to batten down the hatches and use all available money to fight. Committed to not firing employees, he decided to cancel all projects. That would be independent contractors. That would be us.

I wonder what happens to all the grants with only our names on 'em. Guess they gotta give em back, because they can't spend it on any other project, or legal bills.

The director, in an effort to be sympathetic, at one point, asked "I know I'm old, I've made my money, I know where my dinner is coming from. What will you do?" Which really didn't come out as he probably intended, as I heard it as rather snot-nosed arrogant. And wanted to answer back "I'm going to fall back on my promising modeling career."

We were the one thing the 'hood association and the big museum was ok about, that the collections were finally being cared for. Nobody wins but the silverfish. Buh-bye.

I got fired today. I got a pink slip. My walking papers. My last day of work is October 25. I'm an independent contractor, too, so no unemployment benefits.

Actually, the whole project was stopped on September 22. I'm not fired, my contract was cancelled, which is a different thing. My boss was let go. It's a long story.

I was an object conservator for six months. It was a really happy six months.

September has been a horrible month, with social engagements every weekend, my losing my earring, the briefcase incident, hurricanes Katrina and Rita. And there's a whole 'nother week left.

By now, if you're a fan, you've finished your Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. No one else wants to talk about this, but I have some theories and ideas and in two years I want to be able to say I told you so. So here goes.

I think R.A.B. is Regulus Black, Sirius's Brother; inOrder of the Phoenix, they were cleaning out a cabinetwhen they found a "locket no one could open" and thatmight well be the Horcrux? Maybe Kreacher has it. Maybe Mundungus Fletcher has it.

When they were cleaning out said cabinet, Siriussmashed an evil object with a book called "Nature'sNobility: A Wizarding Geneology" and I think that'swhere we'll find (probably Hermione) confirmation of R.A.B.

I made a list of Order of the Phoenix mentioned, living and dead, and Dumbledore has a brother, Aberforth! We haven't heard from him. And in Orderof the Phoenix, the barman at the Hogshead, where the D.A. meet for the first time, "looked familiar toHarry" but he couldn't place him. The barman also was the one who caught Snape eavesdropping on theProphecy. I think he's Aberforth! He was at the funeral at the end of book 7, even.

In no particular order, I have some random thoughts. I think there's something to be watched aboutNeville's Mimbulus Mimbletonia, or maybe his toad Neville. And I think there is something more to Godric Griffindor's sword, and the magic mirrors that Sirius gave Harry. And what's with Harry's mother, and with Harry's eyes, which are so like his mother's? There must be something to that, we've heard nothing about his mother. I also think Dobby the house elf is a very interesting character. At one point in Book 4, he says with great delight, Dumbledore pays him 10 galleons a week and weekends off, and "I don't even have to be respectful to him like traditional house elves; Dumbledore says I can call him a balmy old git if I wish, Harry Potter! ButI like Dumbledore and will keep his secrets and my silence." or something like that. I am interested in what Dobby knows. I also wonder why, in book 7, there are two mentions of tiaras - one in the Room of Requirement and another later for a wedding - making me wonder if the one hidden in the Room of Requirement is a Horcrux, or at the very least, a relic of "fair Ravenclaw" and therefore important to Voldemort.

I also think Harry has to die. All thru the books,Dumbledore says that death is not a big deal, it's the next adventure to the organized mind, and even offers to hide Malfoy "he can't kill you if you're already dead." I wonder (rereading the prophecy for grammar!) if Harry goes through The Veil and is reunited with his parents, if that means that Voldemort can't survive? They keep talking about Voldemort's worst weakness being that he's terribly afraid of death,when there are worse fates than death. (What is aworse fate than death?)

A victim of a dementor was once described as "worse than dead," which makes me wonder if Voldemort will not actually die, but just be attacked by dementors. And, never having been truly happy, I wonder if he can conjure a fully corporeal Patronus to protect himself? It's a thought.

Finally managed to capture the feral three and get them neutered. Barely made it - Queenie was already pregnant with another three. Kitty abortions are $65 in addition to the neutering itself, did you know that?

I'm pro-choice, which means for some, I'm pro-abortion. Call it what you will. But I felt a little funny knowing I killed three kittens. It really was better for Queenie's health, and we can't feed another three cats. I suppose I'm feeling funny because it's not like it was Queenie's choice, one way or the other. At least she's stopped giving me dirty looks for taking her and her boys to That Place and leaving her there for a day. She's become quite affectionate, I hope she forgets the experience and returns to normal.

Her two boys are still pretty wild, but they like to chase string that we drag on a pole. Sidious will run and run until he's panting, which always looks so funny when cats do it. They don't care what else is going on, even crashing into their poor mother while she eats, they want that string so badly. But they won't acknowledge that there is someone playing with them, and always approach with their tails lowered in caution. Sigh.

Whenever we're outside trying to socialize these two kittens, Wyatt sits at the window and cries like his heart is breaking (it is) and then he goes and pees on something. Sigh. We've tried extra attention, we've tried medication, we're currently trying neutralizers.

Doc, Jessie, LBK and Odo are perfectly chipper. Doc thought the whole bomb-scare thing last week, with the helicopters flying overhead, and all the people and noise, was really cool.

Someone is booby-trapping pens and leaving them around Rosemead High so that when you pick up a pen you find on the ground and open it, it detonates. It has happened twice, putting two people into the hospital.

It IS official. There is a bomb nut in Rosemead.

I'm convinced he left the briefcase in my wash, too.

I live right next to a flood control channel. Basically, it's a big cement canyon, and a bridge over it. The bridge is my street. There's a gas main next to the bridge too, a big 30" pipe that's covered in barbed wire that traverses the cement canyon, 20 feet up in the air, and ten feet off the bridge. The main goes under my driveway and then God-knows-where. Most of the time, this whole configuration is a non issue.

Sometimes, a possum will use the gas main as a bridge and come into our yard and eat the cat food and argue with the outside cats Todd insists on feeding.

Once in a while, some kid decides to throw glass in the wash to hear it break and echo. Or there's graffiti on the bridge and we call the city hotline to have it painted. Or a kitten gets stuck in the wash and Todd has to rescue it. Once, there was a homeless guy walking around in the wash, and we called police to have him rescued, as there was no way for him to get out and it might rain soon.

Last Tuesday, Todd hopped out of bed to see his feral kittens (he does this every morning) and look at the pretty green water (ew) that was flowing through the wash. If you close your eyes, you can pretend the gurgling is a brook. And that was when Todd noticed the briefcase sitting on the gas main. The one that's 20 feet high and ten feet away from aaannything humanly level to stand on. So Todd called Rosemead Sheriff's department. "I'm sure it's a practical joke, I'm sure it's nothing," he prefaced it, "but there's a briefcase..." Whoosh - there were four black-and-whites before I left for work. Todd made me leave for work - I wanted to stay home, evacuate the cats, protect my home! - but Todd knows how to tease me into going to work. By the time I got to work, the incident was on KNX news radio. I called home, and Todd was interrupted by officers telling him to 'voluntarily evacuate' the area because of the suspicious package. Todd thought this was great fun. I was distressed and wanted to come home. I wanted to watch everything first hand, die with my cats if necessary. Who says Katrina refugees were crazy to stay? My first instinct was to stay home. (Try Googling 'Rosemead briefcase' for some random news articles)

The nearby elementary school was put into lockdown. The gas company, the FBI, the sheriff's department, the bomb squad, and 12 black-and-whites clogged my little street, along with NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX, UPN, local 9 news, and Telemundo. Todd went to his parents' house to channel surf the coverage. I stayed at work and twitched a lot. Todd was amused to be referred to as the "anonymous sharp-eyed Rosemead resident." I was pleased the house didn't blow up. I think I've been through too many scary things to be able to have a sense of humor about these things.

Long blog short, the whole thing was over by 2:30pm. It was an empty briefcase, placed by either a lucky throw or a feat of engineering.

This September, I've had two weddings, a funeral, a baby shower, a polital action committee dinner party, and I lost my favorite earring. And this.

I always wear the same earrings. A pair of quarter karat diamond earrings. (I've turned into my mother - she never changes her personal appearance, and now I notice I rarely change my jewelry or accessories) I lost one of them on Friday, and I'm distraught. I took the other one out and now my ears feel funny.

It was actually cubic zirconia, I admit it. Except when my Dad bought it at May Company department store for my middle school graduation, (he doesn't speak a lot of English, but he figured a good department store wouldn't sell paste) he thought they were diamonds (CZ was novel then, and expensive), and so, to me, they were diamonds.

Having nice things is a drag. I've discovered, knowing a lot of rich people, that rich people don't get as bent as normal people about having them/losing them and I think that's what makes them rich. I don't think I will ever be rich, and even if I had a lot of money,I don't think I would ever feel rich enough not to get bent about it. So it's really best not to have nice things, period.

Still, I miss my earring. Another pair of earrings (and I do own a mess of them) just wouldn't be the same.

I can understand Katrina victims just a little bit better now. If I'm sad about an earring I've had for 22 years, and continuously worn for about 16, I can understand their grief by about 1/thousandth, maybe. Maybe.

I went to a wedding reception on what is arguably the strangest American day of the year. It's so nice to have something to remember about September 11 besides September 11. Congrats, Mun-Mun!