Category: Lancient History

Lancient History

Petty Theft

the outside lane

Growing up, there was a Mott’s 5 and Dime in the strip mall between my middle school and my house. Frequently, as we walked home, my friends and I would stop in and browse, usually buying a pot of Wet ‘n Wild lipgloss (my favorite was pina colada scented and smelled exactly like I thought summer should–reminded me of really tall, tan, blonde girls in white bikinis. apparently, that’s what I thought summer should look like. Alas.) or pencils, or something.

I had been visiting Mott’s for a couple of years, when one day, I had knelt down beside a flocked poster art kit to count the money in my bag, looking to see if I could afford it. To my surprise, it suddenly registered that the shouting adult (shouting, “Shoplifter!”) but ignored, was shouting at me. At me! Why? I was a stridently moral thirteen-year-old, and shoplifting would never have crossed my mind. No way. I still remembered the spanking I got when two older children talked me into stealing candy from a grocery store in Buford, South Carolina. Mom tells me I was about two. No way. I wasn’t about to repeat that scene! My butt was burning all day, plus Mom took away my favorite pajamas (froggies wearing pink bows.)

I was horrified. I explained what I was doing, righteous indignation rising up as I did. The adult did not apologize, but said, “Well, you shouldn’t look like you’re putting things in your bag.” He walked away and I stood there brimming with tears of angry embarrassment. I have never forgotten it.

This morning I went to Walgreens and as I was picking up the items I needed, I caught myself holding them far away from my chest, and started to laugh. That’s how I shop now. I hold any small items half an armslength away from my body, lest anyone think I am trying to pocket them. “See? I am holding this with the intention to purchase! I have no intention of stealing! See?”

It’s funny what sticks with you.

Lancient History

10

the outside lane

Ten years ago, just after I’d met the Lobster, before I met B, and well before Thor was a twinkle in anyone’s eye, in January, Renae and I took a Contiki tour of Europe. If you can drink like an Australian, or if you don’t mind people who do, this is the tour company for you. However, if you are a minister’s daughter/social worker and Marine’s daughter/current employee of a religious organization, whose drinking escapades are so far limited to each other’s company and a small mini-bar in a Shreveport hotel room, you might want to look for something a little less…sodden?

There is very little in my life that I would do over. I believe in looking forward, not back. But, this is one of those things. I would redo this trip in a heartbeat, given the chance. I would know where not to eat!

Renae and I had a fantastic time, no denying, and in celebration of the fun, I am reposting the original review [with edits for detail] I wrote of our trip, then only distributed to my coworkers and my friends at TTP. Now, anyone in the world who googles Contiki can read it. Ah, the internet.

Enjoy.

okay, here is the rundown of my trip. Wake up call was at 6:00 every morning, and usually we didn’t get back to our hotels before 11:00 at night.

day one: I lost half my travelers’ cheques in the airport–someone returned them to security, though, and I found them (yay God!). Had a lovely projectile vomiting incident on the plane and had to change clothes before going through customs [terrified small child who was watching me heave and blow the bottoms out of the paper barf bags]. We spent 3 hours getting from the airport to our hotel–all the locals were on their way to work, so the trains were too stuffed for us and our luggage to get on. We also wandered around outside in the freezing rain for a half hour looking for our hotel. Turns out that we were wandering around exactly IN FRONT of our hotel the whole time. It just didn’t have a sign on it. We ate lunch and took a double decker bus tour, on which I promptly fell asleep and snored through all the major attractions of London. I found Trafalgar Square particularly nice for sleeping. We had a nap back at the hotel before meeting up with the tour group for the first time, and then ate Greek food for dinner. Tour group was 51 people. 8 Americans, 4 Mexicans, 3 South Africans, and the rest Australians with serious drinking problems. Left there and took the tube all over London, snapping pictures like idiots, running all over the place. Loved it. Didn’t want to leave. Hair dryer blew up. One hair appliance down. One to go.

day two: We got on the bus and headed for Dover, then crossed the channel into Calais. I spent the entire ferry ride on the floor of the bathroom with my head IN the toilet. Miserable. Back on the bus for some more motion sickness, and then by late evening we were in Amsterdam. Renae and I split up from the group, who had mostly gone on a candlelight cruise of whatever river runs through Amsterdam, and we wandered all over the city for 3 hours. We avoided the drug houses and did our best to stay out of the red light district. Somehow we ended up in the WORST part of the city, but found our way out and went to a cafe where a geriatric group was assembled playing dice. Went back to the hotel and tried to sleep through the drunken Australians screaming in the hallway. Curling iron burned up…literally. Spent the rest of the trip washing hair and letting it air dry. In other words, I had 2 bad hair weeks, but still managed to survive!

day three: Went back into Amsterdam in the daylight. Visited the Anne Frank house, which was very moving for me personally, and bought wooden shoes and postcards. Got back on the bus and started off again. The bus driver got lost in Germany so we were nearly 2 hours late in getting to St. Goar, our next stop. It was a hideously charming little German town nestled between 4 mountains right on the Rhine River. I kept thinking about my old Gnome books and wondered if Trolls lived under the bridge. I didn’t see any. Tried to sleep through the drunken Australians who were banging on my door in the middle of the night because they couldn’t remember which rooms were theirs.

day four: Was forced to watch a demonstration of how beer steins were made. Escaped narrowly with sanity in tact. Was forced to look at many cuckoo clocks and hummel dolls. Managed not to cry. Boarded bus once more and headed for Munich, driving through the German Alps and seeing more castles than should be allowed. I now yawn at castles. Made a stop outside of Munich to visit the Dachau Concentration Camp. Spent an hour walking around there. Life changing experience really and I don’t want to negate it by writing about it here [in a joking manner.] Off to the hotel at Munich–bathroom had heated floor tiles! MMMMMM! Warm feet! Happy feet! There were 5 inches of snow on the ground by the time we got to the hotel. Off to the Haufbrauhaus where the Australians drank upwards 2 liters of beer each (some had 5). Back to hotel where I tried to sleep through drunken Australians screaming out the names of their various roommates, while trying to find their hotel rooms. [And banging on our door, yelling, “Jon/Mary/Pete! I know you’re in there! Lemme in!” as they shook the door knob and kicked at the facings, from about 2am onward, until they started passing out in heaps in the hallways.]

day five: Hated the Australians. Went into downtown Munich, saw the Haufkirche and the Glockenspiel. Big church with lots of freaky art and dead people in the first, and a big clock at the second. Had lovely coffee and Bavarian creme donut in a cafe. Got back on the bus. Hated the [loud, rude, foul smelling] Australians some more. Drove through Austrian Alps and tour manager forced us to listen to the entire soundrack of the Sound of Music as we drove [the entire time we were in Austria]. Hated him. Amused self by thinking of ways to kill him. Arrived at Innsbruck late afternoon and toured the city–well, the tourist part anyway. Bought souvenirs and ate pizza, then got back on the bus. Went to hotel, ate dinner, went directly to bed with a hacking cough and a high fever. Did not even hear the Australians, though Renae tells me they were louder than ever and tried to get into our room again.

day six: Hated the world. Hacking cough, fever, runny nose, and German food wreaking havoc on my system. Boarded the bus and drove through more alps to deboard at the ferry in Venice. Ferried into Venice without puking. Yay me! Strolled through the city of Venice for 5 hours, including a gondola ride which was fabby. Found many great costume, wig, and mask shops. Drooled. Window shopped Versace, Gucci, Prada, et al. Drooled more. Ate authentic Venetian food. Tried not to vomit. Strolled more. Had severe chills interspersed with cold sweats and dizzy spells. Chatted up by an Italian man who gave me roses. Nice. They like that hacking cough there. Just means the girl is too tired to fight. Toured St. Mark’s Basilica. Watched the lunar eclipse. Fell madly in love with Venice, wanted to stay there. Sent postcards and got yelled at by the post lady for being too slow. Went back to the hotel and tried to sleep through the Australians, who had discovered Chianti.

day seven: Spent the day on the bus driving to Rome. Saw the most beautiful countryside I’ve ever seen. Enjoyed it through a still fevered haze. Arrived in Rome late evening and took a brisk walking tour of the city that I thought might finally end my life. Wheezed, coughed, shivered, and sweated, but saw the Trevi Fountain, Pantheon, and several monuments. Ate some really gross ravioli and went to bed. Hated the Australians. Got up in the middle of the night, walked down the hall [in my tatty pajamas, glasses, crazy snow cap hair, and big old breathe-right-strip…sexy!] and begged the Australians to be quiet so I could sleep. Got laughed at by Australians, went back to bed defeated and cried a little. Finally fell asleep.

day eight: Got up and growled, snarled, and was generally nasty to Australians. Left hotel on foot at 9AM, walked all day long with a stop for lunch until 9PM. Only 2 of my toes bled, though. Saw ALL of Rome. Outstanding city and I want to go back. Toured the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica. Got ripped off at lunch and paid WAY more than we should have. Finally made it back to the hotel. Managed to ignore the Australians and get 3 hours of sleep. Cursed Russell Crowe, Heath Ledger, and all their countrymen. Repented and remembered to pray for them instead of being mad at them…forgot again by the time I woke up.

day nine: Got up and boarded the bus, driving all day until we arrived at Florence around 3PM. Made fun of the Australian that was so drunk he fell down in the bus toilet. Really enjoyed his pain. Toured Florence, including seeing the Academia and the David (hoo! everyone should see that). Had art overload, but loved it. Went to a leather working demonstration, had lunch in a fabby cafe, and otherwise loved Florence. Want to go back there and stay a week. Hacking cough settled into a rumbling cough, and fever broke. Went out to dinner with the group and ate very well, then went to a disco where I was chatted up by a man [there’s a whole story here about me being a “beautiful dangerous angel”, and Renae having dazzled our dinner waiter so much that he followed her to the club. I’m too old to retell it without sheepishly acknowledging that this was a tourist disco, and I’m sure these local boys used the same lines every night because it was like fishing in a barrel. Renae and I disappointed them sorely.] Renae and I rounded up as many of the falling down drunk Australians as we could, put them in cabs and helped them back to their hotel rooms. [Unwittingly, we set our drunk-girl-loving tour guide onto a very sodden 18 year old, stating our worry for her. He promised he would take care of her. Oh, he took care of her all right. I’m sure her mother would not thank us.]

day ten: Drove to Lucerne, Switzerland. Tied an Australian’s shoelaces together while he slept on the bus. Laughed wickedly when he got up and tried to walk. Waited for him to go back to sleep and talked someone else into doing the same thing. Laughed even harder when he got up and tried to walk again. Repented for that just now. Bought swiss army knives for friends. Wanted to go back to Italy. Purposefully tripped an Australian, who had been particularly nasty the night before just to watch him fall. Repented. Went back to hotel, ate dinner, had a bubble bath and made fun of the Swiss…that’s a long story in and of itself.

day eleven: Drove to Paris. Arrived in time to go up the Eiffel Tower. Had a picture made with one of the telescopes, refused to tell anyone why [will still deny, deny, deny.] Tripped the same Australian on purpose again. Didn’t repent that time. Drove through the city at night. Fell in love with Paris. Wanted to live there. Felt bad about tripping the Australian, repented. Went back to the hotel and fell asleep before I even got under the covers.

day twelve: Spent the entire day in Paris. Saw all the sights. Ate lunch with the locals in a very posh restaurant. Found out that I really *CAN* speak French fluently well enough to get around. Chatted with a local. Did the Louvre. Had massive artattack and had to be dragged from the museum under duress. Went to see Charlie’s Angels at a cinema on the Champs d’Elysees. Loved Paris. Loved it. Loved it. Had learned to ignore the Australians and got another good night’s sleep.

day thirteen: Drove back to London. Immediately ditched the tour group without so much as a goodbye to more than 5 of them. Went to hotel in a giddy stupor shouting (well, croaking with glee), “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!” Had Indian food for dinner, listened to BBC radio, fell asleep.

day fourteen: Got up at 4AM and went to airport to go home. Seriously considered kissing ground on landing. Decided against it. Kissed mother instead.

Lancient History

Haircut

the outside lane

You know how when you are growing out your hair, you are just loath to get it cut? Even a trim feels like a setback. But the split ends make the rest of your healthy hair look bad, and uncared for damage can ruin your locks right up to the top. Once you’ve trimmed it, it always looks loads better.

Sometimes you have to do this with relationships. Sometimes, you just have to say, “This part isn’t healthy, and it is causing damage to other parts of me.”

I had a longterm relationship (mainly based in nostalgia) that had frizzled down to a split end on Facebook. I didn’t want to let go of it. I loved the length of it. The length of it was all that was left, though. It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t doing me any good. It only made me wonder and feel a little sad. So, a couple of weeks ago I trimmed it.

I do miss the length, but I am feeling much lighter. (And just like a dead end, the bit trimmed never even noticed it at all. Ha!)

Lancient History

You can take the woman out of her teens, but you can’t take the screaming teen out of the woman

the outside lane

Happy album release day, Duran Duran.

I grew up listening to Country & Western, almost exclusively. In our house, it was Willie, and Waylon, and Merle, Loretta, Dolly, and Patsy. Now and then I’d hear the Eagles or Elvis, but it was solid twang coming out of our stereos, with nary a hint of electric guitar. My mother loved disco, and she would play the Bee Gees and Barbra Streisand’s album of duets with Barry Gibb, but if I wanted to hear Chic or Elton John (and I did, oh, I did!), I had to wait until we went to the swimming pool and hope some teenager was already there with a loud transistor radio.

In sixth grade, a schoolmate came back from her winter break in London and brought a 12″ single by a band called Duran Duran. For whatever reason, our Spanish teacher let her play the album in class, and I was transfixed. Girls on Film. I was less impressed with the pictures of the band. Boys wearing makeup? Ew.

That attitude prevailed until the next summer, when Jamie and I reconnected at camp. She explained the beauty of the Taylor Taylor Taylor Rhodes LeBon quorum, and doled out Roger and Andy as my imaginary celebrity boyfriends. I balked. I didn’t want the short ones! I ended up with John and Andy, if I wanted him. Jamie got Simon, Nick, and Roger. A year later, I would try to pull the same stunt with Karen, for whose fandom I was responsible. She was my Duran Duran Padawan, and just as rebellious a one as I had been. She balked at Roger and Andy, too. I kept John, she got Nick, and we shared Simon back and forth.

Jamie actually owned pop music. I owned a Barbara Mandrell tape and got to play Blondie on the jukebox at the Waffle House. That was the closest to pop I had come. Jamie made me some tapes, and I cherished them like Gollum and the One Ring. (Then, a 7th grade science teacher –swearsies, the science teacher–convinced me that Duran Duran were devil worshippers and I would go to hell for listening to them, and I threw away my precious tape. A couple of weeks later, I decided I would risk hell and bought my very first cassette tape. 7 and the Ragged Tiger.)

The two of us spent our summer at Six Flags Over Texas, pumping quarters into the video machines to watch Rio and Hungry Like the Wolf, and buying trinkets to paint with, “Nick loves Jamie,” and “John loves Lane,” along with the biggest posters we could afford. Jamie made me a tiny photo album filled with pictures she had collected of John Taylor, and I carried it with me for good luck. We were silly, happy, baby-teens. We even figured out how we could tunnel under Reunion Arena to sneak in to see the band. All that was stopping us, in our thirteen-year-old glory, was not knowing how to get a bull dozer. (Wilier fans just hid under tableclothes on rolling tea trays. Wily, we were not.)

For Christmas that year, my mother bought me a casio mini keyboard, and I learned to play 7th Stranger. Badly. Repeatedly. I think my mother regretted that more than the Easy Bake Oven. She could fake eating the “cakes” I kept baking her until I ran out of cake mix (which she refused to replenish), but she couldn’t unhear me in my bedroom plinking away, slaving over the sheet music (I couldn’t read music then) and trying to hunt and peck my way into some semblence of melody. It was worse when I started trying to play Save a Prayer. I’m a vocalist, not an instrumentalist. That is well established. Like the fact that I am an eater, not a chef.

Aside from torturing my parents with my newfound musical tastes, and driving my father mad by wallpapering my bedroom in tear-outs from the magazines kept in business by my fandom, Duran Duran actually led me into some cultural awakenings.

I followed Simon LeBon’s lyrics into the school library, where I scandalized the librarian by checking out Candide and some dirty letters written by Voltaire–I wouldn’t have known they were dirty if she hadn’t told me. Kind of like when I read the Wife of Bath’s tale and just blinked and tilted my head a lot. Huh? Of course, reading Voltaire led me to Rousseau, and then I was off chasing after French Revolutionaries for five years. Interviews with Nick Rhodes sent me back to the library to check out Surrealism and sundry other art movements, and quite honestly, informed my whole outlook on modern art. John Taylor mentioned the books he was reading, so I read them. We have very different literary tastes, he and I. Roger never said anything, and Andy…well, Andy never said anything I thought worth following up on, so I can’t say that he was any influence at all. Also, Thunder stank.

I made friends who were also Duran Duran fans. Some were shocking in their balls out stalking-fanatacism, others practiced my milder forms of worship. In any case, just about every one of those friendships led to something else interesting.

Twenty years ago, you’d have found me at Sound Warehouse today, hoping to be the first to get the new album out of the cellophane, bouncing around with other Duranies. Since it is the age of the internet now, I’ve been hearing the first single for a couple of weeks and heard the whole album last week. Instead of meeting up with friends at the record store, I’m watching Facebook explode with the enthusiasm of my wasted youth.

Anyway, cheers to Duran Duran. I don’t care what anyone says, Wild Boys never lose it.

Lancient History

Superiors

the outside lane

Since graduating college, I have worked for eight companies for six months or more. I was recruited back to three different companies, twice each. I was promoted at every one of those companies. I have also had three full-time positions that lasted only, or fewer than three months. I have had a lot of bosses.

With the exception of three (two managers and one indirect manager), I can honestly say that no matter how strange some of them were (the one who always wanted to show me her new underwear–while she was wearing them, the one who wanted me to find his wife a gynecologist, the one who was just blindingly stupid) I generally worked for decent-to-very-good people. So, if you happen to be reading this, unless you are one of the bosses who a) threw a book at my head b) suggested to me that I was “spiritually retarded” and told me that if I prayed more, God would point out other people’s errors to me so that I could correct them ahead of time (yes, really), or c) physically assaulted me with your crotch, I would probably buy you a cup of coffee.

If you are Charlcye or Melissa, I would definitely buy you coffee, and would insist on getting you a brownie to go with it–because you two are my favorite bosses of all time.

Which reminds me that I had one other boss whose presence I DNW at my coffee table, and that was a woman who displaced one of my favorite bosses of all time, and who had beast feet.

I have another new job. My ninth company since graduating college. This time, I am working for a dear, dear family friend, who is such a family friend, she is really family. The best part of the job (so far) has been the no-personal-learning-curve part. It was a surprising relief to walk into the office on the first day and realize I didn’t have to act a certain way. I could be my absolute self. No working out whether or not my sense of humor would be appreciated. No worrying about whether or not my look was going to be satisfactory. No wondering if my boss would like me. (I’m still in those throes with my suite-mates, but there is a big difference between worrying about a suite-mate liking you, and worrying about whether or not the boss is going to like you.)

I feel…good. Totally good.

I am generally over-cautiously optimistic, and am always waiting for the hammer to fall, the other shoe to drop, the bottom to fall out. I wait for the worst with a positive attitude, knowing I’ll survive and get on with life, but I am always a little afraid that as soon as someone gets to know me too well, they will gag on my me-ness and start gathering the villagers to burn the monster (or tell me I am spiritually retarded and obviously oppressed by a demonic spirit of rebellion, and not a good example of godlike nature. Or tell me that, like David’s brothers, I look perfect and am everything everyone could want in a leader, but that there must be something wrong on the inside, prompting my internal iPod to skip to Goody Two Shoes. Subtle innuendo follows and all that. Not that I let my last year at The Ministry That Shall Not Be Named affect my self-esteem at all. Vipers.)

That was a long sentence, so I’m starting a new paragraph.

I loved my last job. I loved my coworkers. I enjoyed the work. I enjoyed most of my clients. I loved the location, the building, the fact that I could get my favorite coffee across the street…I loved my boss. I even really liked my boss’s boss. If they could have paid me more, and promised me that the in-tact team would never change (and that I would never be robbed at gunpoint) I would have happily stayed in my chair until retirement. And if my current boss hadn’t opened up my current position, I would still be there. It took something really special for me to feel okay about leaving.

The short-term position I had before taking my Bank Job really stripped a lot out of me. The job prior, from which I had been laid off, had worn me down to nearly nothing. I had very little confidence left when that manager was finished with me–and don’t even get me started on what being laid off and having to take unemployment did for my self-esteem. Dang. I needed someone like Melissa, in a position where I could have little victories every day, to rebuild my professional health.

I am happy to say that I am really happy. And I hope I don’t have to change jobs again for a very, very, very long time.

And I want to shout out to Charlcye and Melissa because what they did as managers was inspire me to work smarter, actively appreciate me and recognize my contribution, and make me feel like I could be my best. Aside from them being really good people, they were/are really good leaders. I was fortunate to learn from them.

P.S. I’m back. 😉