Monthly Archive for November, 2006

a different kind of detective work

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on November 29, 2006
in Gumshoe and Life in the Cube
. 4 Comments

I don’t know if I have described exactly what I do at the temp job here, mainly because it’s kind of spotty and changes from day to day.  Right now, though, after having finished the project in which I was completely anal about other people’s penmanship (sigh. I know.), I am doing some work with our company’s property files–we own practically half of this town, I am finding out.  Some of the files go back decades, and I get so absorbed in the stories told by the various collected documents. 

I can’t tell you how many files I’ve read where families, often immigrant families, start their own businesses and fail within two years.  Two years is pretty long, for some of them.  The files always contain an ebulliently optimistic business plan promising to take advantage of Location! Location! Location! and Foot Traffic!  Letters dated only a few months later reveal that things aren’t going as well as planned, and they’re really sorry the rent is past due.  Will they renew the lease for another year?  Will they have to break the lease midway through when the business is forced to close?  It’s so common, and always so sad.  I always wonder; if I had only eaten lunch there more often. 

Then there are files that just raise more questions: mysterious fires, the paperwork for which is cross-filed in a now non-existent folder; a blank piece of notebook paper with four keys taped to it; a document that has been seventy percent blacked out with sharpie marker and that seems outwardly to have nothing to do with the file it lives in.  Sometimes I try to solve these mysteries, poking around in the archives looking for those cross-files or holding that blacked-out page up to the light to try to make sense of the ghostly words lurking under all that ink. 

The other day I read through an especially fascinating one:  a retiree in her nineties and her husband were living in a house we own and they had been for forty-some-odd years.  Their rent was ridiculously low based on an unofficial rent-control-type situation, and the house needed about $15,000.00 in repairs.  As you can guess, we were hard at work behind the scenes thinking of some way to kick Grandma and Grandpa out of their house, and not only that, but we were also discussing ways in which this might be done so that the city wasn’t clued in about it in time to try to have the house declared a historical site (a famous Zemblan had lived there years before).  I cast my memory about my mental map of the city, and remembered that the only thing on that block, these days, is a parking garage. It seems we succeeded.

I probably oughtn’t poke my nose in this sort of thing, and I’m sure I oughtn’t write about it, but hey; that’s just how I roll.  All those years of watching Alias have gone to my head.  Unlike Alias and unlike my usual detective work, unfortunately, this involves neither fantastic wigs nor whiskey.

ninety-nine problems, and this couch is one

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on November 27, 2006
in Academia, Cheese Sandwich and Depressertation
. 6 Comments

It has been cold lately–cold enough that the Zemblan weather authorities keep mentioning “flurries,” but I certainly haven’t seen any flurries. Not snow flurries, anyway. Maybe they meant some other kind? At any rate, flurries or no flurries, it is cold. The kind of cold that has me curled up on the couch under a blanket any chance I get. It’s awfully cozy over on this couch, since the heater blows right on my toes, and I have at least one furry bundle of house pet tucked into the corner of my elbows or knees at all times. Nature’s little hot water bottles, they are. The dog is especially cute, since he sneaks his way under the blanket, then sticks his nose out just enough to grab the blanket with his teeth and pull it all the way over him. Hee.

It’s entirely too pleasant, though. You see, I have a couch problem. Lately, it has been incredibly difficult to drag myself into even a semi-vertical position, no matter what pressing items I have to take care of. If left to my own devices, I would only leave the house to fetch food and maybe wine, or for contractually obligated work-type duties. I wouldn’t even pay the bills, return my library books, take out the trash, or do the laundry–and I have to say, “wouldn’t” is, in this sentence, a bit of a whitewash. I should probably just say “don’t.”

It’s not just the cold weather, either, although I find the eternal drear of the winters here certainly doesn’t help much. It’s just that I can’t imagine anything pleasanter than curling up under a blanket and reading or watching TV, all neatly tucked in, with few thoughts of Shit. As in My Shit: Shit That Needs to be Gotten Together. That sort of Shit stresses me out. Thoughts like how the hell am I supposed to graduate and find a job? or will I ever have enough money, ever? can’t really be gotten rid of, though. They shouldn’t be. I should be thinking about That Shit, and doing something about it. I realize I will never stop freaking out about it if I never take any action.

It’s just so cozy here, though.

I have been trying lately, trying not to be such a useless lump. I have been getting up earlier on off days (and going to bed earlier, thanks to occasional visits from the Lunesta fairy, which I assume is healthier than my old regimen of wine as a soporific, but less fun); I have been spending more time on campus. It’s fucking hard, though. I don’t know. In spite of all the trying, I came home today after class and took a two hour nap, all cozy and couchular. Then of course, I felt guilty about it, but instead of returning to school to work, I stayed at home reading the internet while watching soap operas and eating soup. Still cozy; still on the couch. Still with an aching sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, because lord knows, that was time I could have spent writing.

I feel like I am living through the Fall of 1999 again, when I was applying to graduate school (which, incidentally costs approximately one arm and one leg) and flipping out about the GRE and not working on my senior thesis and being a mean, nasty, teary bitch to anyone unlucky enough to come into contact with me. One day that Fall, though, I finally got That Shit together, and sat in a bubbly bathtub with a bowl and a bottle of champagne, and I wrote the hell out of a damned thesis. Gonzo literary criticism.

I don’t think that approach will work this time, though: for one thing, I now favor stimulants over depressants, at least as far as writing is concerned. Not any particularly fun stimulants, though: just the garden variety coffee or Red Bull, which help me avoid the draw of the couch and Mrs Nappington, but, as one may imagine, are not exactly a panacea for the lurching dread that seems to be located in my ever more sensitive stomach. I need to find a way to relax about this so I can actually get it done. The stupid thing is, I already have the damned dissertation written in my head–a rather detailed map, in fact. It’s a matter of physically doing the thing.

This is entirely too dark, and I’m sure I will regret saying it all later. I shouldn’t bitch; I shouldn’t procrastinate. I am in a privileged position, what with the State of Zembla paying me to get a PhD and all. I just have the feeling that, as simple a matter as it seems to be, I can still manage to fuck it up, and that’s the sort of thought that sits dull and heavy on the chest, pinning a person down on the couch like a load of bricks, or at least a really heavy blanket.

UPDATE: I guess they were right about the flurries after all: there’s a thin blanket of snow on the ground, and the dog has already yellowed a little patch of it. I am so proud. I’m sure it’ll be gone by morning though, if the dull dripping I hear under the eaves is any indication.

i talk too much about how i hate talking too much

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on November 25, 2006
in Cheese Sandwich and Life in the Cube
. 9 Comments

My temp job is painfully easy, in the a-monkey-could-do-it sort of vein. Nevertheless, I often find it completely exhausting, and I think this is due to the fact that, at these sorts of jobs, I am always struggling to make small talk and seem pleasant around people with whom I have very little in common.

Our office is, in itself, quiet as a stone, but when people are in it, doing their work-like tasks, it fills up with all sorts of human noise. People are forever on the phone, making deals, having meetings, talking to their neighbors, hanging out at other people’s cubes, and just generally interacting in vocal ways. Not that this is anything unusual, but I mention it because, since the office itself is so quiet, we can hear literally everything everyone else says. I know about my neighbors’ health problems (urinary incontinence! sleep apnea!) because I’ve heard them on the phone with their doctors; I know whose wives and daughters are pregnant and when they’re due; I know who goes to church (hint: almost everyone) and who doesn’t (hint: me); and I know some really scandalous and verrrry interesting information about one lady’s daughter who is in violation of her parole and on the run from the law. But it’s all so wearying. I really don’t want to know these things.

This sort of enhanced transparency (if indeed “transparency” can be applied to the auditory field) makes me stress all the more about the random conversations I have with people. In all honesty (and this should come as no surprise), I’d rather just be left alone to work in peace. What winds up happening, though, is that people toss their little conversational gambits my way and I have to volley back something that’s sufficiently friendly but also fairly benign. It’s a damn minefield: if you wind up praising the homemade cookies someone brought in, you risk freaking out a volatile dieter who’ll wind up on some tear about how the cookies weren’t supposed to be put on the filing table because they were supposed to be in the kitchen because they are too tempting and good lord she shouldn’t have to face walking by them twenty times a day, does no one listen. On the other hand, you may wind up having some very nice conversations when some one asks you for the zillionth time what you study, and then when you say literature, they wind up quoting Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Isabelle Allende and talking about the emergence of Latin American fiction in the American mainstream. So it’s a crap shoot, I guess.

They’re all just so chatty; I’d probably love hanging around with them when I am tipsy and all yakety-yakety, but since they don’t stock the kitchen with booze, it seems unlikely that will ever happen. I do have very strong opinions about one office subject, though: pens. I like a 0.5 mm ball point, but here, as in many other areas, I am in the minority. Rather than try to persuade them to see the fine-tipped light, I suppose I will continue trying to get things done while attempting to feign interest in Local College Sports Rivalries.

This has all been a preamble to the discussion of work yesterday, which was awesome. There were only three of us there, so it was dead quiet, plus I got bonus points for coming in when I could have stayed home. We finished the huge, stressful floor-plan project ahead of schedule, which really relieved my immediate supervisor, who had been wringing her hands about it for weeks. Her boss had been putting the pressure on, too, so she was pretty ecstatic to see it finally wrapped up, and she took my supervisor and me out to lunch as a thank you. I was happy to be recognized, you’d better believe. Half the time I feel like I am toiling away while a good portion of the manager’s don’t know my name or what I am doing in their office. Honestly, I can’t blame them: it is just a temp job, after all, and it’s not like I am going to be there for very long. That all just makes it nicer, though, when someone’s happy about what I’ve done.

Seriously, though: the highlight of yesterday had to be the absence of the existentially crushing stream of mindless chatter. One whole entire day where I wasn’t silently screaming to myself for them to shutthefuckup already–oh the sweet, sweet relief.

i am thankful for the wine i later will be drinking

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on November 22, 2006
in Food and Drink, Paedagogy and Travel
. 1 Comment

I suppose the holidays are officially upon us.  I won’t be traveling anywhere for Thanksgiving, since my family lives on the opposite side of the country and I am not so rich that I can afford to fly there for just a weekend.  (A little side note about  airplane prices:  I am cursed with the small-town ticket price times two:  I live in a smallish town and my parents live in another small town, which makes the whole thing doubly inconvenient. It means I always have to take three flights to get there: Zembla to a hub airport like Las Vegas, Las Vegas to another hub airport like Charlotte or Atlanta, and then to my hometown.  The entire process, from doorstep to doorstep, takes about twelve hours and costs approximately forty-seven million dollars. If I ever in my life have a direct flight anywhere I think I will be too happy to control myself.)  What this means is that the last time I have had Thanksgiving with anyone who is actually related to me was in 1998.  Wow.  That was, like, totally a long time ago. 

In the intervening years I have eaten Thanksgiving dinner with boyfriends and their families (which is like auditioning to be a new family member, all "See I am nice and funny and polite and helpful and I don’t drink too much wine, see? Good childbearing hips!"); I have gone home with friends and visited their families (almost just as awkward–I just don’t like other people’s families, I guess); I have pretended to be an adult by fixing dinner with friends; and I’ve gone out to restaurants, where I specifically did not order turkey.  I’ve also had a couple of Thanksgivings that I largely ignored, which is what I’ll be doing this year, too.  I do have the day off from the temp job, but I have to go in and work on Friday, so it won’t really be any different from any other week.   

What will I do with that day off, you may be wondering?  Actually you’re probably not wondering at all.  You probably wish I would stop blathering about my life and post more terrible student emails, don’t you?  Or puppy pictures?  Don’t worry, neither option is in short supply, and I’m sure we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled sessions of bitching about clueless chowderhead students and talking about how adorable my dog is, even when he is chewing on my favorite brown boots.  But back to me and my plans!  I intend to spend most of the day engaged in my all-time number-one favorite activity:  grading papers.  Just like the pilgrims did,  when they weren’t busy holding up the breeches of patriarchy, that is.  Perhaps, to heighten the holiday mood, I will decorate my office with artfully placed gourds and a cornucopia stuffed with red ballpoint pens.  Oh, horn of plenty, will you ever contain enough pens to correct all my students’ errors?

I’ll bet you are jealous!  But wait, because that’s not all:  I think I am going to cook a nice dinner when all the grading is done.  Sarcasm aside, I  am quite excited about this, since lately I have been either too tired, busy, or just plain lazy to do any cooking.  It’s been a lot of chips and salsa around here.  The other day I ate six mini-quiches for dinner.  Blech.  Anyway, I bought some actual food that actually has to be prepared, not merely thawed and/or heated–I feel like a veritable gourmande!    What are your plans, people of the internet?

maybe i just need to revise my personal code of etiquette

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on November 20, 2006
in Paedagogy
. 6 Comments

You’ll all be shocked to know that my students have yet again done something completely uncouth.  Like to hear about it?  Here it goes:

They had papers due today, and were taught how to do the proper formatting for the paper, i.e., how to cite sources, where to put page numbers, headers, bibliographies, etc.  So when one of my students came up to my desk with a handful of loose papers and asked me for my stapler, and I replied that I didn’t have one and that it would be all right if he had his name on every page, and he said that he didn’t and should he hand-write his name on all of the pages, I seriously had to rein in my impulse to punch him.  For one thing, I am teaching a class, not running a damned office supply store.  Of course I do not have a fucking stapler for them to use any more than I have extra notebooks, pens, white-out, highlighters, paper clips, or laptop computers. For another thing, he was clearly, according to the formatting guidelines we had thoroughly discussed, supposed to have a header with his name at the top of every page.  This is not something special that only I do on some capricious whim.  It is standard, and pretty much every other essay they have to write throughout all four years of college will require the same thing.  You can imagine my ire when, four seconds later, another student came up to the desk all, "oooh, where’s your stapler?" Bah!

And then, AND THEN.  Maybe it’s just me, but I would think that a sense of basic etiquette would be all students need in order to know that it is not appropriate to come to class 30 minutes late, walk into the darkened room where their classmates are staring transfixed at a movie screen, nearly silent but for the quiet film score and the delicate hum of breathing, and then stomp their way through the room, scraping chairs across the floor, rustling and unzipping and ripping open all of the apparently innumerable Velcro closures they seem to have about their bodies, and fall, whump!, into their chairs with a loud sigh.  Is it just me?  Because I certainly seem to be outnumbered.