The Cold War and the Peter Principle

I recently sent a compact disc to Russia. It was purchased/won in an Ebay auction I had posted. For some reason, I can't help but to speculate about the bidders in the auctions I post-- the basic demographic. Who has disposable income these days? What's their zip code? Does it look like they live in an apartment or are they possibly a home owner? No, I don't have too much time on my hands. My brain is just constantly folding over on itself like that.

Like when I see gum on the floor and I wonder, " What flavor is that? Did someone accidentally drop it? Or spit it out? What kind of person spits their gum out?" Or, "Hmmm, is that package is on the floor because the cardboard wasn't strong enough to support the product from the tiny hole used for hanging it on a peg? Or did someone try to aggressively put the package back? Carelessly?" And, "Why is this person walking so slowly in front of me? Are they lazy or do they have a physical handicap? Don't they hear me behind them? Can't they move over? Are they deaf?"

So, I am thinking about the amount of money this Russian guy paid for CD I almost gave away to the City Mission. And, wow, I think the Russian economy has been really out shining the US economy. And, what a bunch of crap we feed the rest of the world in our fight against communism or former embracers of communism, supporting the Grand Ol' Flag and Democracy... I mean capitalism. Since we watched the Wall fall, we get to watch our arch enemies do what we do better than we do. Or are they simply more corrupt and, therefore, more successful? Do they not care about the widening gaps between classes? No, because before the USSR only had two or three classes: government officials, individuals with ties to the government, and the rest of the stinking, starving masses. Only difference now is the stinking masses have heat for two more days a year and possibly a TV. And, you should realize I have no idea what the everyday citizen in Russia has or has not. I'm just creating wild generalizations like any good Liberty embracing American should do about something they are less than informed about. The point? The Russians with all their dollars wrapped up in their domestic investments, celebrating rising employment, and an overall surging economy must think it is absolutely hilarious what we've done to our own economy and are so glad they've maintained a healthy relationship with China (the lenders of the Great American Mortgage).

Sure, I took a month or so of Russian back in college. It is buried next to the German, Spanish, and French I do not use. And, yes, I was horrified when the manager at the bookstore where I used to work had no idea who Karl Marx was. And, yes, I am a big fan of the writer Nikolai Gogol. However, I do not consider myself a "commie" or a "red". I mean, hell! I am convinced I was a cowboy in one of my past lives since I love coffee and bacon for breakfast so much! But, I didn't mind seeing Putin with his shirt off. And, even though I'm no longer entertaining any idea of voting for the crazy heart attack on legs, McCain, I would love to have a wizened, savvy president with a menacing snarl like Putin.

Speaking of the economy, have you ever wondered where the chaos begins? Well, many of you living on the Great Lakes are very familiar with water spouts-- swirling with force, picking up water only to toss it about, and dancing across the surface with no real purpose except for trying to maintain its own existence. That, my fellow citizens, is management in corporate retail. I have had the pleasure of working for small business owners most of my life. That too has it's own fistfuls of razor wire. However, I recommend it over corporate retail. I think I might recommend panhandling over corporate retail at this point.

Corporate retail thrives on a few things like poor time management, wasted resources (staff), and high turn over. During a phone call with my Uncle David, my one-time atheist Godfather, I shared with him some of my recent revelations. One was this: if you stick it out long enough in corporate retail, you will move into a higher position by default whether or not you possess any skill sets appropriate for the job. He told me about the Peter Principle. Amazing. Just amazing. Conversely, I have also noticed you get "punished" with more responsibility than your pay reflects if you do these simple things: show up for work on time, do not call off or not show up without calling, and actually seek out the activity of working during your paid shift at work. I do these things. These are things I assumed were just what you do when you work. Not the case in corporate retail. The deltas don't think they are being compensated well enough, so the deltas do nothing. I always figured before you start your employ, you are told the responsibilities and the correlating wage. At that point, you make a decision. After that point, you perform the tasks outlined as your responsibilities and then get financially reimbursed for your time. If you choose (like myself) to do more because you can't sit around catching flies in your gaping maw, you do so under the advisement there may or may not be an further reward or recognition except your own pride and satisfaction. These views have repeatedly put me in the position of the hard-ass, exasperated freak in the workplace. But, I still can't convince myself I'm wrong.

I have very similar views to nepotism in the bureaucratic arena. But, I don't wanna dig into the secretaries' pool today. There are also those steaming hot piles of EOE controversy in the white collar world. So, I will save the story about the woman (I make no reference to race, religion, age, or physical ability) who was completely inept at her middle management job. She couldn't perform any of the analysis work necessary. And, if she tried to perform the analysis work necessary when not surfing the web her entire shift, she would screw it up so completely and nearly cost the company millions, yes, MILLIONS of dollars. Well, her boss couldn't fire her in fear of legal battles up the whazoo. So, you know what the company recommended? A promotion! They moved her out of the department to a higher salary! Long story short, she was as equally inept at that job, too. She ended up where she started. And, I'm sure she is just biding her time there 'til she can suck the sauce off the juicy rib I call her pension plan. How do I know this? She was a co-worker of mine. A co-work who loved leaving me lists of things that didn't get done on her time, but needed to be competed on my time. But, I've let that all go now. Well, until I think about it again.

Halloween costume? Misogynist!

This year for Halloween, I will be dressed as a cook. I will be going to a Halloween party in the kitchen of Pie in the Sky cafe. Meaning: I'll be working. For a moment I got all jazzed up with the idea of the girls trucking around the neighborhood in their little red wagon. But, then Matt and I discussed the idea of losing a third of my student loan payment versus the girls having no idea what the hell is going on and being too little to eat any candy. So, again, I'll be working. No, I won't be dressed up, seeing I do not wish to catch a wig on fire while grilling up a tuna steak.

Sure, I used to love Halloween. The challenge of the costume! As Bonnie Parker or as stereotypical trailer trash or as a dead Laura Palmer or as an IRA catholic school girl or as Pris from Blade Runner or, my favorite, as The West Nile Virus.

Now, I am not sure what holiday I love. Actually, I think holidays are simply the tools of the labor unions anymore. Well, seeing my kids get excited about a room full of wrapping paper, gift bags, and empty boxes is heart-warming. However, having people in my home, even people I love, makes me edgy.

Thinking about the Catholic school girl costume I wore for twelve years of my life reminds me of one thing. Somewhere along the line, I think it was the four years at an all girls' Catholic high school, I became a misogynist. During those years, I had ONE close friend in that House of Mary. Robbe. And, we would spend time pretending to walk in slow motion down the hallways or quoting slapstick Westerns, "Don't put beans on table." Other than that, I didn't eat in the cafeteria. Well, I guess I had to at least once since I was caught setting a fire atop one of the tables while tryng to illustrate a point. Anyway, the point? I hated it! It seriously made me suicidal! But, then I discovered drugs and being alienated was more of a choice than an affliction.

I've always had this image of myself like a B-movie sci-fi creature. A pulsating brain with googly eyes. Just strolling around, taking it all in. Oh, the ugliness that lies in the hearts of teenage women! Watching girls beat each other with their shoes because one girl's guy gave his phone number to the other girl. But, we learn and grow, right? Nah, the majority of women are fundamentally catty, clique-y, self-hating, self-important, and vapid. And, these qualities do not mature of age. They are honed and used like knives.

I will, however, admit I do have some spectacular female friends. Most of which are also misogynists and act like they have bigger cajones than a sex-starved bull.

I overheard this the other day, "Did you see Sex in the City movie yet? I cried at the end!" That person deserves to be treated as an object. Yes, I've seen five minutes of one episode. And, I instantly hated every character.

I am starting to think similar things about vegetarians. But, I will hold off on any snap judgements. Right! No really, I do have some vegetarian friends. And, it is a let's agree to disagree situation, because I refuse to have scripted arguments about food.

As, I plated up a beautiful mound of grilled pork chops with a mustard-apricot glaze, a waitress said to me, "Those look delicious. But, now I know what they do to get the meat from that pig, I can't eat it."

My reply, "Do you know why God put pigs on the planet? (pause... waiting for a response... but getting none). "For me to eat."

The Aesthetics of Art (Patronage)

I was working at a tattoo shop in town and also doing some volunteer work setting up exhibits at the local museum. An exhibit of circus banners was scheduled to have a gala opening, with little freaky things thrown in like croutons. Like me, giving fake tattoos to the philanthropist around town. I drew up a sheet of pseudo-flash and grabbed some Sharpies (my passive aggressive way of wishing days of flesh scrubbing).

Me: What do you want me to draw on you?
Face lift: Barbed wire like Pamela Anderson.
Me: Are you sure? I have all these other ones. Some are even kind of historical!
Face lift: NO, barbed wire.
Boob job: Oh, look at that! I want that, too.
Me: The same exact thing?
Boobs: Yeah.
Spray tan: Ooooooh, wow! Me, too!
Me: The barbed wire??? Really???
Spray: Yeah, do it.
Me to my friend Gary after their departure: What the HELL was that! We're done with this. I have a prior engagement I forgot about. Can you f*cking believe that?
Gary: Yeah.
Me: I just know they're hoping their lying, cheating husbands will think it's hot. I hate myself.
Gary: HA! You should. You enabled that whole thing. You're an jerk.

Those are the types of people who are making our shared spaces more beautiful... eh.

I studied painting and illustration for two years in college before slightly waking up and finishing with a Liberal Arts degree with a minor in psychology and a minor in creative writing. I am now a stay-at-home mom, a freelance writer/illustrator, a retail jockey, and a cook. My husband has two degrees-- one in metalworking and another in art history. He works at a shop, manufacturing hand wood carving tools. I am pretty sure we both hate 'art'.

There! I said it again.

Newsflash! Don't ask me about my tattoos. Especially, don't touch them. Yes, there is a certain degree of art involved. But, the flattery of strangers is not necessary, said the spider to the fly. Get this straight! I've never been to Ozzyfest or whatever it is called. I don't like Tommy Lee and I don't like this new old wave of Hot Topics-goth-alterna-crap. I like Glitter Rock. I like Pink Floyd with Syd Barret. I like the Jam. I like Hank Williams, Buck Owens, Red Sovine, and Lee Hazelwood. I like bluegrass and classical, too. I don't read Rolling Stone. I read British MOJO. I don't like the dude that wrote Fight Club. I like Harry Crews. I like Mencken and Faulkner. I'd rather have lunch with Studs Terkel and Groucho Marx than that Chuck Whiny-ass rock & pop culture critic and Dane Cook. I watch Lawrence Welk every week and get excited when Joe Finney comes on. I haven't watched MTV since pre-1990's. I am an old lady stuck in a body 40years too young. The zeitgeist of today is a flaming bag of dog poop sitting on my doorstep. I think my tattoos are a barely acceptable form of self-mutilation. And, piercing is DISGUSTING! People leave your tongues, nipples, and penises alone! And, if you can't, please don't tell me about it just because I have a bunch of steak tattooed on my arm. When will they realize I think they are bigger freaks than their grandparents do! So, if you're wondering... which you probably aren't, I consider my practices more closely related to a religious zealot whipping himself into a frenzy than some kid with bad posture at some straight edge or Emo or this is when we sing really soft and this is when we yell and then this is the rap part and now we are singing really soft again only to get mad and yell and rap at the same time show.

"Ah, little lad, you're staring at my fingers. Would you like me to tell you the little story of right-hand/left-hand? The story of good and evil? H-A-T-E! It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low. L-O-V-E! You see these fingers, dear hearts? These fingers has veins that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand, friends, the hand of love. Now watch, and I'll show you the story of life. Those fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warring and a-tugging, one agin t'other. Now watch 'em! Old brother left hand, left hand he's a fighting, and it looks like love's a goner. But wait a minute! Hot dog, love's a winning! Yessirree! It's love that's won, and old left hand hate is down for the count!" --Rev. Harry Powell

On my way home from work tonight, I was waiting at a stoplight at the corner of 8th & Pittsburgh. It's a creeper light. It takes so long to turn. If no one is around, you creep. Well, I am singing at the top of my lungs. If my foot weren't on the break pedal, I'd be tapping it. What was I singing you ask? Bobby Vinton, of course. Then all of a sudden I hear some bass thumping next to me. My nails start to dig into the steering wheel. Then all of a sudden I realize I am seriously BLARING Bobby Vinton! Hah. Stick that in your blunt and smoke it, jerks!

An Irishman by any other name still smells like a Mick

This weekend we went to the tail end of the Irish Fest. I'm mostly an Irish cake with delicious pipings of German and Scottish icing rosettes. So, when someone makes a comment that I am negative, alienating, and critical, I say its in my DNA. And, no matter how hard I try to gold leaf all the crap inside of me, it still smells like poop in the end.

Anyway, the fest was just coming to an end. We weren't able to buy any potato soup (mmm-mmm-mmm) or corned beef sandwiches. But, we were able to buy a bag of corned beef for Matt's meat fist lunches. I did drink a Guinness, and liken it more to a frothy coffee treat than a beer. I don't really buy into the kelly green shamrock bull crap. But, it was nice to be reminded of the Aran sweaters my great Aunt Mama Jim used to be able to pump out in a weekend. Instead of shopping, I had more fun watching all the aging Irish with hooked back and cataracted blue eyes shuffle around saying, "Huh??!?!" to everything. It's like a Christmas in the late seventies at my Aunt Betty's house. With close to twenty people crammed around the table.

All in all, a much better experience than German Fest. I told Matt, I think the Irish have a bad wrap. They like to have fun, but when you mess with their fun... Jesus Mary and Joseph up on the Cross, WATCH OUT! 'Cos, unfortunately, I think the Irish perceive most other people as screwing with their good time.

Ebay is making me go EBlind!

I always said I wouldn't be one of those people with piles. No, not hemorrhoids. What I'm referring to are stack of shit piled up everywhere all over the house. I know how it happens. It happens while you're paving the road to Hell with good intentions. I am sure someone somewhere will link it to an adult with ADD but my attention span has such a choke hold that it makes you wanna vomit from lack of air.

Okay, so these piles keep popping up all over the house. They are very neatly organized piles but still speed bumps to nuclear family living. In order to move piles from the basement upstairs or to simply create new piles, I have started listing the boxes of crap I have to sell on Ebay.

Some stuff would seem like things I'd own at one time or another. Various books, Western wear shirts, LPs or CDs, vintage Halloween costumes, etc. And, some stuff you'd never expect to find within a ten mile radius, like vocal selections from Broadway musicals (I can dig opera but hate musicals) or Avon perfume bottles (although showering daily is important to me, I do not wear make-up and infrequently sport scent). It's like this-- I find things and people give me things. If I was a fat old man with a foot long bead, red suspenders and a beat to shit pick-up truck, I would want to be a junk man. Selling other people's abandon possessions for my bread and butter.

Anyway, there are few things as monotonous as listing things on Ebay. Do not listen the the Grateful Dead's Blues for Allah while taking on this task. The MOJO free CD of Paul Weller's influences, yes. Greatest Hits of the Jam, yes. Brian Eno's 2005, Another Day on Earth, maybe... but, you'll find yourself thinking about Doctor Who episodes.

Das ist nicht ein Germanfest!

I forgot to mention German Fest this year was an abomination! We plan on NEVER returning to the Zem Zem Shriner grounds for such a farce. Okay, some things have changed in the past handful of years to finally pull all the straws from my fist. First, the Fest moved from a lush wooded park on the edge of town to a grass knoll usually reserved for additonal parking on the way to the Mall for cat shows and Shriner balls. Secondly, I gave birth to the two most beautiful children on the planet and have since changed my lifestyle a bit. Meaning, I don't like to go out and get blasted all day at Germanfest or anywhere. Thirdly, when a group of us took it upon ourselves to shield the other patrons from our fowl mouths and wrongly viewed as subversive lifestyles, we were told we couldn't sit outside of the ropes in the adjoining mini-pasture. Leave it to the Germans to get bossy about off-the-cuff-spur-of-the-moment rules.

And, finally, I almost got in a fist fight this year. We pulled up in the Grand Marquis about 5pm on Sunday, the final day of the Fest. We were looking forward to some tunes from the Mad Bavarian and some spatzle. After tugging the girls' wagon through the main tent toward the teeny tiny exit heading towards the petting zoo, I encountered a jackass.

He stood in the doorway, "Blah, blah, blah! Ha! HA! I'm the boss. And, my wife thinks I'm hilarious. And, I should just stand here and talk really loud and ignore the world around me 'cos I am such a dude."

I let that go on for about two minutes, because I've heard it said patience is a virtue and virtue is a grace and they all go together to make a pretty face. And, god knows, the most important thing to me is being pretty. I, finally, piped up with an, "Excuse us, please." Nothing. No repsonse. No acknowledgment.

"Did I mention my fat, sweaty ass is FUN-NEEEEE?!?!? Did I tell you my wife who looks completely beaten down and drained of all life thinks I'm the MAN?"

Again, a little louder this time, I said, "Excuse me."

Well, don'tchya know! I guess thems is fightin' words. The jerk turns to me with my wagonful of little girls by my side and says, "Ohhhhhh, well. Sorrrrrrr-reeee, sweetie! Let me just get right out of your way, honey! There you go swwwwww-eeeeee-teeee."

By the last remark, I had walked past. Before I knew what I was saying, I turned on my heels, walked toward the gentleman, and inquired, "Excuse me, sweetie?" And, after only hiccup of silence from him, "Yeah."

Matt later told me he was five seconds away from clocking the Teva wearing son-of-a-gun in the chops. That's assuming he had chops. Which means I was less than a minute from punching him in his knotty red face, because Matt is far more patient than me. Nice. Really nice. Picking a fight with a nice lady in her Eich bin ein Berliner t-shirt, in front of her toddler twins on a sunny Sunday afternoon at a family festival all because you can hold your booze.

After that feather ruffling, we went to see the chickens, pigs, goats, geese, ponies, llamas, etc. at the petting zoo. Of course, I wasn't too thrilled about the girls petting any of these animals since hoof and mouth disease can be transmitted from herd to human. Who knows what conditions these four-legging petting slaves have to tolerate at "home"! And, although my bacon loving self is far from being a PETA member, twelve animals locked in a pen the size of an electric oven didn't sit well. Also, I was aching to see if someone could douse the panting calf with a bucket of water.

Next, we moved on to the inflatable jumpie castle. While watching our friends' son jump around, I had a vision of tiny soldiers crawling and limping out in cast and on crutch. I saw black eyes and swollen lips. What happens when you take a physique with a feather light torso, noodly limbs, and a head constituting seventy-five percent of all body mass and let it hapzardly fling around with about twenty-five other similar physiques in an inflated netted room? Mayhem. No, I don't think my daughters should be wrapped in bubble wrap. But, c'mon. Then, suddenly, the castle started to deflate with about fifteen children trapped in its bowels. It's like it read my mind. We moved on.

Only two things left, spatzle and the Mad Bavarian. I bought an ox roast sandwich and a plate of the worst looking spatzle ever. Disappointment. The girls wanted nothing to do with the saurkraut and sugar sweetened noodles. The ox roast? A bite.

Okay-okay, the Mad Bavarian. Well, the speakers were so loud that standing on the wooden dance floor may have caused twitching and bleeding from the ears. No place for tender still forming neuro-pathways. At this point I did see an old friend, Mr. Shadle. He had his lederhosen on, of course. And, had danced the afternoon away. His tiny little self was all sweaty, but I kissed his cheek anyway.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Matt and I spit out as a chorus.

It isn't that I don't enjoy myself anywhere. It's just that people go places, and those are usually the places I like to avoid. So, maybe next year, we'll just have a little German Fest in our backyard. Like the MDA backyard carnivals I remember seeing in my youth. So, I won't burn my JFK quote in iron-on silver disco letters shirt yet. YET!