morbidly stupid.

I mean it literally. These flies in my office - I don't know how they keep getting in here. I close my peanut butter jar, tighten the lid on the honey, and wrap up the bread. The flies, they sit at the window (pause, another kill). We learn as children, that generally, killing a fly takes patience, concentration, silence, and a steady hand. You get one shot at it. If you miss, resign yourself to be annoyed by the buzzing for another five minutes as the fly circles the ceiling and rests itself on the underside of an inconspicuous houseplant (we have plants?).
These flies are different. They are morbidly stupid. They sit on the window sill, lazily. I hear it behind me, roll up an old calendar of New Mexico's noxious weeds, and start jabbing. I've found that if I just tap or poke near the fly, it will move so that I can more easily smash it. Usually, in my coffee-jittered state, I miss the first time. No matter, the fly hovers, then settles immediately back in the same place. I lightly whack again (it doesn't take much for these, and I don't want to mess my window). Miss. Hover. Land. whack. Success. Add it to the pile by the baseboard, I'll vacuum on Friday.
Though these flies make easy work for me, I do sometimes ponder why they became so morbidly stupid. I used to think the cold glass induced lethargy, but the flies are just as morbidly stupid in the summer. I instead choose to believe they're incessantly inbreeding; that my office house is the creator of some mutated morbidly stupid fly species. While eerie, it's better than the alternatives - toxic paint or carbon monoxide causing brain damage in the pinpoint of a fly brain. Here's to hoping my gray matter stays sharp. cheers, whack.

As Above...

so compulsive procrastination. general lingering, bracingly patient, agitated anxiety. good. now that i've adequately defined myself i'll get back to work.

These Days

In these days of economic hardship, these days when I get numerous emails about the financial restructuring of my alma mater, and these days where Wal-Mart employees are trampled for opening the door on black Friday, I am flabbergasted (nearly) by the newest convenience in my office: motion sensor paper towel dispensers.
I'll put this in context. My office is in an old house. All the bathrooms are like the 1/2 bathroom in your grandma's four square; toilet, sink, soap, 12-sq. feet, oh, and a motion sensored paper towel dispenser. If you're not careful walking into the bathroom on the first floor, you will smack your face into the monstrosity protruding from the wall. On the second floor it blocks most of the mirror. In both it is impossible to enter or leave the room without triggering the LED light and hearing the screech of dispension. It seems to be saying, "I see you! Hope you washed your hands!"
My office mates consist of an elderly man on the second floor and a middle-aged woman on the first floor; I don't know either of their names. I'm confident they are hand washers from the casual interactions we've had, but probably dry up on their wool pants or the stack of paper towels that was sufficient in years past.
Lastly, these motion sensing paper towel dispensers cost between $65 and $75. Sure, $200 doesn't cover a whole lot in the world of higher education, but it would buy a few books for the library, supplies for the science labs, and a whole bunch of CFLs. If I had my way, we wouldn't even have the paper towels. Then we'd really save. But that's why I'm still sequestered on the third floor of an office building with three people and a squirrel named Arthur (who doesn't wash his hands, anyway).

rain

After a few days of drizzle in Seattle, I'm craving the cozy lull of a steady rain. Sunshine is always welcome, but on these fall days, when the air is so dry your nose bleeds, a brief shower would make the bright sky a bit more bearable for those of us who like to stay bleary eyed for a few minutes following an afternoon nap.

The best recorded rain I have ever found. Deconstructed and full of life. NYT

What is a body shop?

When I was 10 this was an acceptable question, but I never asked. These sorts of unanswered questions generally lead to embarrassment sooner or later, or today.
After the hulabaloo of actually changing the tire (props to Em H for battling the headache and enduring my over-zealousness) the doughnut is flat. The flat doughnut is driven at 10 mph to 7-11 (props again to Em H for flipping off those who honked at us, even if it was dark). The doughnut is filled, and all the others. I don't lose any small tire tube caps; success.
"Let's just drop it at the shop," I say as if I know what I'm doing. Em H follows me, we drop the car in the dark, I call and leave a message.
"Hi, my name is ****Paraproject****, I left my car in your lot. It has the doughnut on, need the tire changed, I'll be by in the morning."
Morning: Cold, snowy, I arrive at the shop. Walk in the door expecting to see Click and Clack from car talk, and I'm not far off. Unfortunately, as I struggle to release my key from its ring, Don informs me (me, awkward and confused enough in the closet sized office) that they don't do tires.
"Oh, where..."
"Discount Tire. Take a right on 8th Street. We're a body shop" He says. (Does this happen often?)
"Yeah, this is my first flat... Do you do windshields?" Yes, that's broken as well.
"No, but I'll tell you who's the best. Precise Glass." He writes the name and number in all caps on a hot pink post-it. I laugh.
"Great, great." It clearly says Don's Auto Body outside, I guess that means something other than, "we fix cars." "Ok," I say as I take the post-it, smile awkwardly, and let out a self-depricating sigh. "I guess I'll be back when I need... something else! Haha!" Inside voice, I remind myself, and hustle back out into the cold to the tire shop, which is different than the windshield shop. I also saw a brake shop. Easy. Now to understand the Grease Monkey...

joni

For the courageous, the hopeful, the beautiful, and the circle game. Happy Birthday, Joni Mitchell.

Canvass

This is a message for everyone who opened a door to see a canvasser this year.

Canvassing is tough. The day is long, and mostly filled with the disappointed repetition of checking the "not home" box. It takes focus to remember to stay off the grass and look both ways; focus that is usually used up checking inside fences for warned of dogs and figuring out how to work the gate. Does the doorbell work? Is that cat judging me? Michael Perez answers. Perez? He looks Swedish. Am I at the right house?
"Hi, my name is Liz; I'm from the Obama campaign. Are you (check clipboard furiously) Michael?"
"No."
"Oh, is Michael here?"
"Who?"
"Michael?"
"Michael doesn't live here anymore."
"Oh." Pause to wonder why Michael moved out, or if he is still living, or in prison. "Do you know if he's planning on voting this year?"
"I don't know."
"Oh. Are you planning on voting?" Have I ever been good at small talk? No.
"Yes." Sly smile. I think about how many similar, unfriendly smiles I've seen today.
"Do you mind, can I, have you decided, who are you planning on supporting?"
"Who do you think?" People love this game.
"I don't know." Nervously, "McCain?" By this time I should have started guessing something to lighten the mood, like George Bush or Osama bin Ladin.
"You got it."
"Any way I can change your mind?"
"Nope."
"Ok, thanks." Spineless.

Not bad, but not ideal. Next house. My tongue is warmed up, here we go.

I can smell cigarettes off the plywood of the door. Deer in the headlights sets in as I suddenly see the black helmet hair and eye liner before me.
"Hi, are you Pamela?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Liz from the Obama campaign. Are you planning on supporting Senator Obama this year?"
"Obama is the fucking anti-Christ." She takes a step forward (deer in the headlights) turns back, and the door slams.
"Thanks." God, are you there? It's me, Bambi.

Shuffle down to 4545. Shell-shocked, a battle weary soldier. Push the doorbell, sunglasses off, smile on, somehow. Hmmm... there's a lot of trash in this yard. Face, long hair, nose, your teeth are really far apart.
"Hi, are you Barbara?"
"Yes!"
"I'm Liz from the Obama campaign. Are you planning to vote this year?" I think that linoleum is 40 years old.
"Already have!"
"Great!" Mind if I ask who you supported?"
"Obama, of course!"
"Oh, fantastic! Thanks!" Run before anything changes.

Oops, I haven't written anything down in three houses. Where am I? How do these numbers work? Am I stupid? I'm canvassing, yes. I've only eaten as many M&Ms as could fit in my pocket, but my exhaustion is only equalled by those middle school sleepovers where the only food you ate was Tony's pizza, pixi stix, and Mountain Dew. I can finish this. Then there's water in the car, I say to the yard full of miniature long-haired chihuahas yipping as I soilder on.

The take-home: be nice to your neighborhood canvassers. They are probably very nice, intelligent people who simply feel a little awkward about catching you watching Wheel of Fortune in an oversized t-shirst and rubber gloves. We're just doing what we can. Because we can. Yes we can.
"