your point?

(no subject)

So, here's the thing:

I got a new job. A job that I really, really want to take. A job that's not exactly my dream job, but could lead to it. I can start on March 18.

This job doesn't offer health benefits.

They start everyone part-time. I can live on part-time wages for a while easily, but I don't know about going without health benefits. I've even got a doctor's appointment on March 28. So do I work two jobs until I get full-time? Do I buy private insurance? Or do I work one part-time job and go without insurance?
your point?

(no subject)

I'm so glad alerted me to the existence of Connor Hawke, a comic book character who is supposed to be mixed race. His mom was half-black, half-Korean, and his dad is Green Lantern (white). So he looks like this:


Because fuck genetics, am I right? I find it great that the comic book writers or artists or whoever cared enough about "diversity" to include a multi-racial character but not enough to do research on what actual multi-racial people look like. Actually, from what I can tell, a lot of comic book artists were like "fuck it" and just drew him as that one white guy they always draw. I guess Connor Hawke should look more like Tiger Woods or something, even if he does dye his hair and his eyebrows.

I've always wondered if these kinds of misrepresentations in the media are just plain ignorance or if they represent some kind of white-person denial about how most Caucasian phenotypes are recessive?

How often do you find yourself in a situation where a hair eyepatch is the best solution?

I'm at work and my eye started to really hurt and when I investigated I found my contact lens is ripped. Just a little! It was irritating my eye, but I could still see. I tried really hard not to rub my eye anymore but a few hours later it totally ripped in half and then I was in trouble b/c I don't have any backups.

(Which is a story in itself. I asked my mom to get me my glasses prescription so I could buy some back-up eyeglasses [my last eye doctor was in Tennessee, where my mom lives, and I'm in Nevada] but she's too busy or something to get on it. And I don't carry my glasses or back-up contacts with me because they're expensive and also I don't want to leave them in the car accidentally. The heat will ruin them.)

So I'm fucked, as I explained to my supervisor. My vision without correction is like 20/600 or something. Also my contacts make me slightly farsighted I think, so I was farsighted in one eye, nearsighted in the other, and when things got within an arms-length of me, my eyes refused to focus at all. I suddenly knew how my friend Megatron feels, because that's her vision all the time and she doesn't like it when people get close to her. I also couldn't read.

Here's the thing: I love the way my brain works, but sometimes being given to flights of fancy is problem. Because I tend to overlook practical solutions. The only solution to my problem that came to mind was for me to put on an eyepatch. I called my BF to see if he could bring me my glasses or pick me up or something but he didn't answer and I assumed he was asleep given that it was 3:30 a.m.

I decided the best course of action was to just drive home. I didn't want to leave early because I don't think I'll get paid for that shift at all, but besides the fact that I wouldn't be able to focus on what my hands were doing, I would develop a major fucking eyestrain headache in a few hours. I combed my hair in front of my nearsighted eye. Laugh all you want, it worked. It's really weird driving with no depth perception though. Is that even legal? I have no idea. It helped that the roads were almost totally empty.

When I got home, I saw the light under my BF's bedroom door. I tapped on the door but I got no answer. I knocked, but nothing happened. I took my contact out, put on my glasses, opened his bedroom door. He was playing a video game on his computer, some kind of shoot-em-up game. I watched him for a few minutes - the back of his bald head, his helix piercing - and had a weird out-of-body moment where I wasn't even sure it was him. Even though it was obviously him.

I said, "Andrew." Boy, did he jump.
your point?


1. I am crazy and I don't know how crazy and I don't know if one can accurately estimate one's craziness if one is crazy because the crazy interferes with one's perceptions, you know?

And I've never really gotten an honest opinion about it from any of the health care professionals I went to - they're not supposed to tell you you're crazy anyway. I'm sorry, it bothers me, and I think I actually want to be crazy, which isn't so much genuinely mentally ill as just neurotic, but I'm babbling to avoid my second confession, which is

2. I wrecked my car, and I'm terrified to get it fixed again. Don't tell me that people who know nothing about cars go to body shops all the time because I know this. I just ... I can't handle these situations. It's all new and different and embarrassing.

I am aware that cars do not regenerate if you leave them in the garage long enough, unlike the shuttles on Voyager.

3. I just suck. I do. My way of dealing with things is horrible. I'm disorganized and dirty and gross and absent-minded and when I get stressed out I just withdraw into myself and blank out the world and forget things and I can't

4. Also, I think I may have to look for a second job. I don't think I'm gonna be laid off or fired, but they sometimes don't get me any hours, I'm not sure why ... but whatever. Anyway, I have extra time and I need the money, so ... a second job, maybe.

5. Also also when I'm stressed I tend to get blitzed on coffee which does violence to my digestive tract and makes me manic and does nothing to calm me down. I've had stomach cramps for like a week now and no, it doesn't make me feel better. If I keep this up I'll go into the phase where I stay up for days because sleep is for the weak and then crash because I am seriously stupid that way

6. Okay enough hyperventilating I'm gonna go buy some avocadoes and then find a body shop or something

(no subject)

Sometimes things happen to me that I wouldn't believe if I wasn't there. This morning I t-boned my car into a schoolbus because I didn't see it, and when I tried to stop my foot missed the brake. Which are both the lousiest, stupidest excuses I ever heard, and there's no way I'd ever buy that, but that's what freaking happened. The truth was, I was tired after working midnight to 8 a.m., though not the most tired I've been after work, so I thought I was okay. I must not have been, considering that I couldn't see a schoolbus. I was incoherent enough that the cop thought I was drunk. (I wasn't and I passed the sobriety tests.)

So, uh ... anyway. The schoolbus was empty. My car looks kind of smashed up, but it was bumper and what-not. The engine was okay. gilesleary was sweet and got out of bed to drive me home because I was shaking.

No more stuff. I'm taking a vacation from things. Bother me later.

Other's Day

I have a Mother's Day Story.

When we lived in Memphis the first time, we were Lutherans. There was a Lutheran church literally within biking distance of our neighborhood; however, they were the "happy-clappy" kind of church, which did not please my dad. He insisted on driving into the city to go to a church that did more traditional music. It's hard to explain how big a deal this was to my dad. Lutherans don't even have High Mass; I'm sure he's never been happy that he could find a church with precisely the right mix of conservative theology and traditional services that he really longed for. Catholicism with Protestant theology and Conservative politics, basically. Such a church doesn't exist in the South; we've looked.

But anyway, he spurned our next-door-neighbors in Christ and drove us to the inner city to suffer through church services. Being six or seven at the time, I reserved most of my thoughts at grumbling that we had to get up 45 minutes before the service to make it on time. He always made us go to early service, too.

My dad's a dick sometimes.

On the occasional Sunday, however, we did go to the nearby church, which I'll call Faith because that was its name. Faith was happy-clappy, vaguely liberal in its service, which meant it was pretty conservative in everything else, because that's the way it goes. (And vice-versa: conservative service, liberal theology.) Anyway, on Christmas and when we were especially tired, Dad would let us sleep in slightly later and haul us to Faith instead. And on one of those days, my older sister, who is a natural social butterfly, filled out an information card on us and checked the little box that said we desired a call from the pastor. And somehow, the pastor of Faith found out Dad's secret: he's a musician.

A pretty good one, too. He wanted to be a composer or a musician for real when he was a kid, but then his dreams got dashed because of another long story I don't want to go into here, but he's both deeply religious and deeply musical. He used to play piano at the church he grew up in, and he sang for years before he got self-conscious because someone told him his voice sucked and he believed them. People crushing my dad's dreams: his life story! Anyway, he was also into choral music a big way, and was currently a member of the really good choir in Memphis. So my dad, despite being an electrical engineer working for the phone company, was actually a fully-qualified music director with everything but the degree. In other words: cheap.

And they needed an organist.

And a choir director. Basically, they needed a music director, bad, but they didn't have the budget for one. So somehow - I still don't know how - the pastor got my dad to commit to being their organist and their choir director.

This had immediate consequences for the rest of us. For one thing, we (the children) had to join the children's choir, where we made up most of the chorus anyway. We didn't have anyone to babysit us on Wednesday night during choir rehearsals, anyway, so we might as well. After children's choir, we would retreat to the nursery where a bored teenager would watch a video while we tore the place apart. This is where I saw Star Wars for the first time.

And on Sundays, we went to Faith.

I was actually pretty happy about it, though I agreed with Dad about what kind of music was preferable. In general, the happy-clappy contemporary music offended me, because it made demands on the congregation to emote. I hated that.

But it had a great advantage over the other church, aside from its proximity. Public school kids never wanted to socialize with homeschoolers; they always stuck to kids who went to their schools. There weren't any other homeschoolers at the other church. But the Devans, another homeschool family, also went to the nearby church at least some of the time, and they would play with us. They were a lot like us, actually: mostly girls, around our ages, one mischievous boy who got into trouble with Suki. We were quite close to them. It was nice going to Sunday school with at least a couple kids who would talk to you.

Then they stopped going. Because this church - Faith - was an ugly mess of local politics. A power struggle between the pastor and some of the powerful moms in the church. LCMS doesn't ordain women - I think I mentioned that? - so women would become unofficial leaders in the church, secretaries, youth directors, choir leaders. I think not allowing women to officially be leaders creates this kind of atmosphere of backstabbing and hatred, where women are forced to try to work behind the scenes to get their way and the ordained pastors/deacons resent them for it. But whatever.

It was pretty toxic, man. And Dad reacted to all of this by refusing to switch his church memberships. He stayed with the other church, even though he could rarely attend. He put his tithe into a little envelope and put it in the mailbox every other week, probably while yelling "I CAN'T BE TAMED!" It was his not-so-subtle dig at the local pastor (though we did have like two babies baptized there, which you'd think would be more important. Whatev.).

And then Mother's Day rolled around.

That fellowship time, the pastor brought out a few bouquets and announced he would give them to the superlative moms of the congregation. He started to name categories - mom with the youngest child, mom with the oldest - and after about three bouquets, we all started holding our breath with embarrassment. Because Mom had more children than anybody else in the congregation. It wasn't a secret. Anybody who could count already knew this. And if you give out a bouquet for Most Grandchildren, you knew it was coming, it was the most obvious category anyway.

Soon the pastor lifted the last bouquet, and said ... "Last but not least ..." (We squirmed in our seats) "... the most teenagers!" Everyone else laughed, while we sat confused. Whatever your definition of teenager was, we knew we didn't qualify; our oldest was under thirteen. We'd been snubbed. Our mom had been snubbed.

Dad was livid on the drive home. "He didn't want to give a bouquet to someone who's not a member," he fumed. "Why don't you just become members here?" I asked. He told me to be quiet. I was always full of questions that weren't easy to answer.

Edit: PLOT TWIST! So my mom says that the reason we started going to the nearby church was because she got tired of driving to the far-away church. So my dad's refusal to become a member was like a passive-aggressive swipe at her or something? This is confuseling.
made of awesome

Easter Baskets

So what does a typical Easter basket contain? For some reason that was one tradition we never really did at my house, and my only exposure to the candy- and fake grass- filled treats is from the comics on Easter Sunday. (Every year, Bill Amend did a joke strip about Paige sucking down her chocolate Easter bunny.)

We celebrated Easter with dyeing eggs, and hunting them, and Osterlam feasts, and many, many services (I went to four services for like 6 Easters in a row, including sunrise services), but not Easter baskets. This is part of the reason I've never had Peeps. gilesleary tells me they're gross, though. Anyway, this year I'm gonna make myself one, because I apparently missed my childhood the first time around.

In which I am mistaken for a hooker

The state of Nevada requires that people who work food handling jobs get vaccinated for Hep A and watch a video about food safety, which I did today, and got a massive headache because it was fuzzy and out of focus. I just took two ibuprofen but I still feel like I'm gonna hurl. HOW is this HEALTHY, Nevada? How?

I learned many important facts about food safety, like "Do not get snot all in the food," and the hand washing procedures that nobody has ever followed in any of the food-related places I've worked ever. Nobody - but me. I'm sure my coworkers think I have OCD or something (or I use handwashing as a way to avoid working). Whenever I eat out, I assume that all the food is contaminated with fecal bacteria and what-not. Whatever, I have an immune system for a reason.

So my roomie says that the dodgy casino that I work at is a hotspot for hookers, that the guy who asked for my number may have thought I was a pro, and that when he told someone at work where I got a job, she replied "She isn't just standing outside, is she?" I find all this hilarious. I think of work as a place where I get free pie at lunch, and where they won't give me a baseball cap like everybody else has and make me wear a stupid paper one what the hell, but apparently it's HOOKER MECCA. Or relatively more hookerlicious than other places.

You'd have to be brain dead to mistake me for a hooker, though.

I don't know why people (NOT my roomie though) won't stop giving me shit about my job. Yeah, I'm a dishwasher, but it's better than being unemployed and I'm not doing anything ethically dubious or harmful. The hours are difficult and the work is kind of hard and I always get soaking wet and my skin is developing some kind of rash in reaction to the dishwater, but I'm making more money than I ever have before, I've never worked with happier or friendlier people, I'm learning a lot of Spanish, and this is much, much better than being unemployed. So fuck that.

Sorry? I can't understand what you're saying

I can't hear shit. It's really getting aggravating. I don't know whether I can't hear anything or whether I just can't understand, but either way I'm that person going "Huh? HUH?"

So apparently, the noise threshold of where I work is above 85 dB SPL, which means that OSHA requires us to get yearly hearing tests and we're supposed to wear hearing protection. I just got my hearing checked so I know I'm not losing too much hearing, but the results were weird. I did better on the high frequencies than the mid-range frequencies, the ones that people talk at (people with deeper voices anyway, like men). And at one particular high frequency, I did perfect in one ear and borderline mild loss in the other ear, which the guy said shouldn't even be possible. My ears, they are impossible!

So I know my hearing is "normal," but I still can't hear shit, and I can't comprehend anything.

This guy stops by where I'm working, sticks his head in and says "Party!" And I'm like "What?" And he says "Party!" again. And I'm thinking, but ... it's 6 a.m. It's a little early to be partying. It is Friday, though. And I play it say and go "Huh?" again and he says "Party!" again only this time, even though I still hear him say it, after he says it the syllables resolve differently in my mind and I realize he was actually saying "Mornin'!"

And no, he didn't have some strange accent that makes party sound like morning. I just can't hear people in noisy places. Someone will come up to me and I'll hear them say "Execute grey elephants in Nova Scotia," and I'll have to make a choice - go "Huh?" and make them repeat "Execute grey elephants in Nova Scotia!" or I just sort of smile and nod and hope that it isn't important.

It would help if people wouldn't say random things to me. One cook stopped by my dishwashing station, shook my hand and said hi, and then after a few minutes came back, gave me a pot to wash and said "You are a cutie!" Of course, I had him repeat that, because ... like, what? And as soon as I understood, I dissolved into embarrassed giggles and blushed. Because, sadly, it's true. I am a cutie.

What's with the drive-by flirting anyway? I was leaving work and some guy sitting on the bench was like "Watchoo name? Watchoo number?" Dude, I don't even - I've never seen you before in my life and my hair is greasy and I was washing dishes for the past 8 hours and I'm sure I smell like dishwater and I'm wearing blue jeans that don't fit and you're hitting on me? Does this approach actually work? Does it? Maybe I should have given him my number just to see what would have happened. But I couldn't quite hear what he was saying and I was embarrassed and I kind of walked away waving my hands like "I can't even ..."

I should probably wear the ear plugs at work like OSHA requires, but they're too big and they poke in my ear canal and hurt me. I don't think it's health to shove things against my ear drum, so screw that. I guess I'll have to either buy my own or take it up with management (bleh). Besides, no one else wears them and I feel stupid doing so.