Day 4
I drop Buffy at her fur-ever home.
And cry.
Category: First-World Problems
This would be the category in which I bitch about my ridiculously privileged life.
Eeyore
After the last StorySLAM I hosted, Jeff and I planned to get together and debrief, but we never got around to it. So a couple days ago, I sent him my thoughts, namely:
- Even though no host likes to do the “How’s everybody doing tonight?… I said, How’s everybody doing tonight?!” thing, and no audience member enjoys answering the former with a “Wooo” and the latter with a “Woooooooo!“, it serves a purpose. It raises the energy in the room. It gets people feeling. It opens the audience up to the possibility of enthusiasm. So it needs to be done. I needed to give the listeners the space to get excited, early. (They got there. It’s just took a minute.)
- The evening is about the storytellers. I was so nervous about getting my bits right that I forgot to highlight the people who had put their name in the hat. I would go up, do my piece, get the scores, and announce the next storyteller, which on paper is what I was supposed to do, but at the end of the evening, it felt disjointed, like two separate events, my part and their part. Jeff is very good about listening to a story and, for his next bit, riffing off it, whereas I sit in the front row looking at the storyteller and working up some serious butt-sweat. I can’t possibly pick anything up and run with it because the story is completely drowned out by the freight train that’s barreling through my head. Plus, even if I could quiet the locomotive, I have precisely zero improv chops. I cannot come up with stuff on the fly. The few lines I tried to do off the cuff that night, I flubbed. Thinking about improvising a whole three-minute segment—oh god, I just dry-heaved. So I need to either work on that or figure out another way to showcase the storytellers better.
When we spoke on the phone the next day, Jeff told me about an email he received when he sent out the promotion for the upcoming event. Apparently, a woman wrote something like, “We’re going to try this again. We’ve been there twice when the blond woman [I’m blond apparently?] has hosted, and she made it all about herself. We like it better when you’re hosting.”
Here’s what’s true:
- It was only my second time hosting.
- Hosting is hard.
- I worked my ass off to prepare.
- Lots of people told Jeff I did a great job.
- Lots of people told me I did a great job.
- One woman didn’t like what I did.
- Jeff said he disagreed with the woman, thinks I’m awesome, and wants me to host more shows.
- This woman and I are saying essentially the same thing, though my view of it is a little more forgiving and generous. (Hers: she made it all about her; mine: I was so goddamn nervous I couldn’t see straight.)
But, man, this kind of thing sends my day right into the shitter. Why does one random woman’s negative opinion trump all the positive?
Remember When I Built That Awesome Fire Pit?
Remember how I dug the hole really deep and put in layers of sand, gravel, and river stone for drainage? So that, when it rained, the thing wouldn’t fill with water?
It’s been kinda rainy here lately.
UPDATED: A Shady Mall Parable
[This morning, I started fretting that people would think I was being casually racist by using the term “ghetto”. To be clear, I was using “ghetto” to mean crappy and substandard, not to refer to anyone’s race. (There were actually no people of color involved in this story.) Even so, I’m editing the post just a bit.]
Eight days ago, I got an iPhone.
(I know I was talking about this months ago, but I’ve already told you I need to say I’m going to do something for a while before I actually do it.)
It’s a delight, as you might expect:
- I play Words with Friends;
- Yesterday, I documented a family birthday celebration with Instagram photos;
- I watched, from the ether, myself as a blue dot meandering around Orange County this afternoon;
- I’m reading my book club book anywhere I want because it’s ON MY PHONE;
- And when I don’t know a word in the book (Pulphead by John Jeremiah Sullivan—P.S. That’s how I want to write when I grow up.), I put my fanger on it, and the definition pops up.
WE LIVE IN THE FUTURE.
Anywhoodle, I wanted to research and order from the Internet (THE FUTURE) the perfect cover, which would both be protective and express the whimsy that is Amy Scott. But when I canceled my insurance three days after purchase because it had a stupidly large deductible of which I had not been informed—honestly, eleven bucks a month and then $169 for a replacement, no thank you—I got all panicky and bought safety ware at the shady phone cover kiosk (redundancy of that phrase noted) in the shady mall.
I pointed at the cases. “How much are the iPhone covers?” I asked.
“Solid colors are $15.99, patterns are $17.99,” said the salesgirl. That seemed a little steep for a piece of plastic from China, but as I said, I was desperate. She pulled the one I wanted out of the display. “Do you want a screen protector?”
“Oh, that doesn’t come with it? How much is that?” I said.
“$9.99. It’ll keep your screen from getting scratched. I can put it on for you.”
Service. “OK,” I replied, “I guess I better get one of those too.”
I got distracted for a second by a pair of very unfortunate skinny jeans walking by, and when I looked back, she was cutting a piece of sticky plastic to fit on my phone. I was reconciling in my mind the fact that I just spent $10 on a sticker, when she snapped the cover on and said, “You need anything else? A car charger?”
“Oh. Hm. How much are those?”
“$21.99,” she said.
“No thanks.”
She shot back, “You can take it right now for $16.99.”
Two thoughts wormed their way through my brain at that point: (1) Goddammit, everything was negotiable—I was a sucker to take the first price, and (2) Seventeen bucks seemed pretty good for a car charger. (A quick check of the internet on MY PHONE would’ve told me otherwise, but I wasn’t remembering just then that I lived in THE FUTURE.)
“I’ll take it,” I told her.
She looked under the counter. They didn’t have any. She called the store, which was about 200 feet away (Do they really need a store and a kiosk in the same mall? Never enough shadiness for the shady mall, I guess.), and asked the manager if they had any in stock. They were out too. No big deal, she said. “You got a USB?” I offered that I did. She opened a package—that’s right, opened a package—that had two parts, a USB cable and the jack-thingy you stick into your car cigarette lighter. “The whole thing is $24.99, but I’ll give you this part for $12.99 and you use your own cable.” My eyes flicked over the “No Returns, Exchanges Only” sign, but I was in a buying haze, I couldn’t stop myself.
She rang me up and handed me my credit card receipt. I realized as I was walking out of the mall that I didn’t get an itemized receipt. Oh, well. Whatever.
I still had the box the phone came in, complete with USB cable, in my car, but I was out of the parking lot before I thought about trying the charger. I connected the two pieces and shoved the jack into my dashboard. On the end glowed a solid blue light, but nothing seemed to be happening. Maybe it takes a while, I thought. Nope. Over the next few car trips, the little green battery icon stayed determinedly at half mast.
So the next day I decided to return it. By then, I was no longer in Must Protect My Precious mode. I would return the charger and buy one from a legitimate business.
Different salesgirl. I gave her the story. She put the charger piece in a little something-or-other under the counter. “It works,” she said, pointing. Sure enough, the end of the jack glowed blue, but it was blinking.
“The light doesn’t do that in my car,” I said. “It’s solid. It doesn’t work. I’d like my money back.”
She gave me the whole No Returns rigamarole. I told her I wanted to speak with the manager. She sent me to the store 200 feet away.
I explained the situation to him. He told me his boss would deduct it from his paycheck if he gave me a refund. It was all I could do not to yell, “That’s a crock of shit!” I did say, “This is not a good business practice.” He responded he wasn’t the owner.
We went back and forth for a while. He encouraged me to get another case. I wanted to say, “What, so I can match my phone to my fucking manicure?” Finally, I said, “What can you do for me?”
He said they had the iPhone car chargers in stock now, he could exchange it. “How much did she charge you for this?” he said, holding up the defective jack.
I thought about the ten-dollar sticker. I thought about the trouble it was to go back to the mall. I thought about the wasted minutes debating business ethics with this schmo. And I thought about the $12.99 she charged me for the defective piece.
“$17.99,” I lied. What was he going to do? Nobody had given me an itemized receipt.
Holding up the new charger, he said, “This charger’s only $16.99. What if I give you this one and a dollar cash?”
“Fine,” I said, grabbed my stuff, and left.
So I got myself a five-dollar hardship discount on my crappy merchandise.
The lesson, children, is don’t buy shit from the kiosks in the shady mall.
Also, don’t bullshit a bullshitter; I can be shady too.
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 4
Day 1
Aside from seven poops of an undesirable viscosity, Buffy seems to suffer no ill effects from
She and I go to an adoption event in the afternoon. When my mom and I speak about it beforehand, she says, “Are you hoping she will get adopted or won’t get adopted?”
“Both,” I tell her.
Normally, these shindigs are held in front of pet supply stores to capitalize on foot traffic, but today’s is at a kennel/pet resort. The people who stop by are definitely interested in getting a dog, but those people are very few. Like, four. For now, Buffy doesn’t get adopted. I’m OK with that.
Day 2
Buffy keeps vaulting the fence to go after that meddlesome mini-poodle. This last time, she doesn’t come directly back when I call her. I fuss for a minute, and she comes back. I don’t like the direction this is going.
Day 3
Lots of wrestling. Redford is always the Monkey in the Middle.
Because of her safe-breaking skills, I take up locking Buffy in her kennel and then closing the spare bedroom door when I leave the house.
Day 4
I forget part 2 of the process in the morning. Guess who spends the whole day with full run of the house and greets me at the door when I get home from work.
Later, I peer at my bedspread, right up by all the decorative kindling pillows. None of my dogs have ever been allowed in my bed, including Buffy. Apparently, when the cat’s away, the foster dog will make herself very comfy, or so says the oval indentation filled with grey fur I find there.
While on the phone with my sister, I flop into the green chair with the mismatched pillow. Buffy stands between my feet for a moment, facing me, then reaches up with her front legs* and wraps them around my waist. After I hang up, we just stay there, hugging each other, for another ten minutes.
*When I explained Violet’s injury to the vet the first time, I said the left leg. She said, “Left hind leg?” I thought, “Of course. I said her leg, not her arm.” I always want to call my dogs’ front legs their arms.
Day 5
I latch the side door of the crate from which Buffy keeps escaping and shove the crate between the sofa and the closet door.
The daily grammar warm-up I give my Honors classes happens to be about dogs, and I find myself telling the students all the Buffy stories. Talk about student engagement. I let them know she’s up for adoption. Several kids express interest, and I tell them to get a note from their parents if they want to meet her. At the end of fourth period, one of my students says, “Ms. Scott, what if two kids brought in notes from their parents at the same time? Who would get her?” I let her know that the foster organization makes the adoption decisions. (The next day, she tells me her parents said no.)
Back at the homestead, while I’m effusing about what a good dog Buffy is to my sixth graders,
At least she’s closed in the bedroom.
I ask Facebook how I determine if my dog is a superhero. One friend suggests taking off her glasses. Another asks if she disappears inexplicably when there’s trouble only to reappear when the situation has been handled. A third said, “Cape. Duh.” Alas, none of these things helps, but she does eat glass, leap high fences in a single bound, and escape from impossible traps. She’s not quite faster than a speeding bullet, but close, especially when she takes off after the mini-poodle.
Day 6
I put her in
which is larger but has locking latches. While I’m at work,
Also, I DID NOT RAISE THAT BLIND. I mean, it’s the kind you can push up on and it’ll stay, but still. Still.
I realize, if I made a movie, I could title it The Crate Escape. Har har.
Day 7
On the neighborhood loop, a dude shouts, “Hey, you wanna breed the little one?”
I reply, “I don’t believe in breeding dogs.”
He says, “I believe in making money,” and gives his buddy a high-five.
I want to scream, “YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.”
The mini-poodle follows us the whole way.
Protected: I’ve Got It Bad
On My Honor, I Will Try
For some godforsaken reason, I ordered seven boxes of Girl Scout cookies this year. And that simple act blew New Year’s Resolution #5 all to shit. What is it about those damn things? I know people say, “It’s ’cause they’re only available once a year.”
Bullshit.
The kinds I like are
Well, guess what the Keebler elves make and provide to my local Kroger year-round?
And guess how much they taste like their Girl Scouty counterparts?
Exactly. They taste exactly like Girl Scout cookies.
So why was I eating five Caramel Delites every afternoon on the way to the gym? And then a half-sleeve of Thin Mints after. Seriously, like I couldn’t have them any day of the damn year.
I don’t know, but I took every last cookie to school yesterday and gave them away to my students. I feel so much better.
The Foster Chronicles: Buffy, Week 2
Day 1
My friend invites me on a road-trip to Atlanta. I must find weekend lodging for three dogs. I email three friends, asking them to take one dog each. Two accept; one is out of the country and offline.
Day 2
I go on a 4-mile walk with my sister, Wa, and her two older children (7 and 9). Though my foster is a little timid, all-sized humans think Buffy’s adorable. We coach Little Dude to use a quieter, lower voice and not make sudden movements. We have only moderate success.
The subject is brought up, not by me, of their adopting her. I do nothing to discourage this discussion. I suggest that, as my sister is a runner, a pit bull might be a more effective deterrent to a would-be assailant than a can of pepper spray. And more fun to cuddle with at night.
Day 3
In the medium-dark of the house, I mistake Violet, who is sitting on the living room floor, for Buffy, who I believe to be peeing on the living room floor, and terrify them both nearly to incontinence by clapping and “Ep”-ing.
Day 4
I remember that both Violet and Redford learned to ask to go outside by ringing a bell hanging from the doorknob. I rig up a cat toy bell-ball with a hair ribbon to the back door. I ring it each time we go out.
Still unable to get ahold of my third friend, I email my sister, a currently catless cat person:
I know you’re tremendously busy right now, and even if you weren’t, know that it’s absolutely, positively OK for you to say no to this. I’ve found slumber parties for Redford and Violet for this weekend, as I’m hoping to head to Hotlanta. However, I was hoping Erika could keep Buffy, but Erika’s in the Carribean, and I’m not sure when she’s coming back.
Buffy can absolutely go to the kennel—no worries—if you don’t have the time/space/energy to keep her.
Also, in no way is this a ploy to make you see how adorable and sweet she is so you’ll keep her, unless you fall in love with and adopt her, at which time I will say I planned it all along.
Love you!
ame
Wa agrees. Yay!
Day 5
Buffy pees on the floor first thing in the morning. I stop her mid-stream, ring the bell, and take her outside.
Day 6
During the dog-sitting tutorial for my small relatives, we throw a tennis ball around my sister’s yard. Buffy races after it, sprints back, drops it at our feet. We throw it again; she delivers it again. Repeat 50 times. Unlike her foster brother and sister, who know only to race after it (unless it stops before they get to it, at which point they meander in another direction because what’s the fun of chasing something if it’s not moving?), Buffy plays real-live Fetch.
Day 7
I distribute pit bulls all over Durham. At the last deposit point, whilst I’m telling my friend, “Redford gets confused by carpet. Sometimes he p—“, he pees on her carpet.
I head to Atlanta with my girlfriends, and commence fretting.
A Clean & Jerk Parable
One of my bits when I hosted the Monti StorySLAM on Tuesday (oh yeah, I hosted the Monti StorySLAM again last week) was that Coach Dave kept harassing me about signing up for an Olympic weightlifting meet, and you could all go ahead and wipe that skeptical look off your faces because that didn’t mean this fatty would be trying out for the Olympics. It simply meant a competition of three attempts each at the two Olympic lifts: snatch and clean & jerk.
I hemmed and hawed and made excuses about not having lifting shoes. Then my birthday rolled around, and my family got me
So then I dug my newly-clad heels in about the world’s least flattering garment, the singlet. (Just google ‘singlet’; focus on the athletic ones, not the sparkly ones you see at Pride parades.) Well, then this gym in Cary scheduled a “developmental meet”, which means yes on shoes, not necessarily on singlet.
I still hesitated, but Coach Dave, he’s a wily bastard, and he knows me. He said, “It’ll give you something to blog about.”
I guess some people, when they sign up for a competition, follow some sort of plan to prepare. I went strict on the Pretend It’s Not Happening program. Coach Dave watched some lifts, Coach Phil at CrossFit RTP helped me work on my snatch for an hour and a half [insert punch line] last week, and my buddy Liz gave me some pointers and wrote me out an extensive list of tips on yellow legal paper. Other than that, I just kept CrossFittin’ and whistlin’.
Meanwhile, my support team was rallying. My dad was thinking about driving down the mountain for the meet. My friends were conspiring about a banner. My sister was going to bring her kids. But on Thursday, when I realized I was starting to hyperventilate a little bit about the whole situation, I sent out the following email:
So, with going to Boone last weekend, the stray pit being put to sleep, the StorySLAM, and getting a foster dog, it’s just all too much. I’m still going to go and participate in the meet this weekend, but I’ve decided that no fucks shall be given by me that day. Therefore, I would not mind if you saved—nay, I would encourage you to save—your fucks for giving to some other event which might require given-fucks.
I adore you all,
ame
And that worked. I did not give a fuck. Until Saturday when I walked into the place. It was so quiet in there, and there were people in chairs watching, and the women in the first session (tall, skinny ones; itty-bitty ones; really fit ones) were putting up some big numbers on the board. Like, way more than I could. I mean, I knew calling what I was doing “competing” was fallacious, but I didn’t want to look like a charity case.
At that point, I got all weepy, and poor Coach Phil had to shush me and tell me it was gonna be OK.
The situation was bad. Earlier in the week, I would’ve been satisfied to hit a Personal Record at the meet. Now I had a new goal: not to shit myself on the platform.
I weighed in, 77.2 kg (170 lbs), and rolled around on a foam roll for a while. Coach Phil helped me warm up. My cheering squad did not heed my emailed advice.
Snatches first. There was one woman in my session whose three lifts were all smaller than my opener, so she went. Then I was up. I hit my opener at 33 kg (72.6 lbs) and my second lift at 36 kg (79.2), but I missed my third. I can’t even remember what it was…37? I got it overhead but crumpled underneath.
Several more women (all of them at least 20 pounds lighter than me) went, lifting enormous amounts of weight over their heads.
After that came the clean & jerk. I hit them all: 42 kg (92.4 lbs), 46 kg (101.2 lbs), and 49 kg (107.8 lbs). (Phil had wanted me to do 51 kg (112.2 lbs) because it would’ve been slightly above my PR, and I should’ve listened to him. Those clean & jerks didn’t feel very hard.) Most importantly, I did not shit myself.
Again, the real weightlifters came next and lifted some real weight.
The organizers totaled everything and called up the winners by weight class. As I was the only competitor in the Over 75 kg group,
The lesson, children, is this: Sometimes it pays to be the fatty.
[Ed. note: I feel a follow-up post bubbling in my Broca’s area. But for now, to bed!, for I rise before daybreak.]
I’ll Take My Victories Where I Can Get ‘Em
This reduced-sugar resolution is difficult. I mean, I’m doing it. Not exactly on the schedule I set out, but still going whole days (often two, occaionally three) without dessert. However, I think about it a lot, and sometimes the only thing keeping me off the English toffee is
Nom nom nom.
I know I should cut the sugar out completely. People say that the cravings would go away. But I just can’t right now. I’m 100% positive I would end up bingeing if I tried to go more than two days. Even one time last week, I was trying to avoid a sweet item, and I ended up eating everything around it. And then it.
But sugar is a poison, and I don’t want to be toxic. Sugar is a drug, and I don’t want to be an addict. That’s why I’m doing this.
Funny thing is (not funny-ha-ha, but funny-makes-me-throw-temper-tantrums-in-my-head), people assume I’m doing it for weight loss. Realized this a couple weeks ago when I talked with another woman about eating two Hershey’s kisses and really savoring them, rather than doing the Lucy in the Chocolate Factory routine I usually do.
Other woman: Well, you’re not worried about the sugar, you’re worried about the calories, and that was only thirty calories, so that’s great.
Me: …No, I’m not worried about the calories. I’m trying to cut down on sugar for its own sake.
‘Cause I don’t do shit to lose weight anymore. I don’t believe I’ll ever be thinner than I am. I’m—what’s the word?—resigned.
Not that I don’t want to be not-fat. I do want to be not-fat. I just have no confidence that I can do—or, I guess, that I can cultivate the willingness to do—what’s required to be not-fat.
Of course, four people in the last few weeks told me how much weight I’ve lost or said I looked skinny. I told them it was because I was wearing a tighter shirt than normal so I was sucking in my gut. Which was true.
Naturally, I haven’t lost weight. I weigh five pounds more than I did when I started CrossFit*. OK, whatever, muscle mass, distribution, toning, blah blah blahdi-fucking-blah. I’m sick of thinking about it.
Point is, I’ve made my bed every day of 2012. That counts for something, right?
*Update: I guess not. When I weighed in at the meet on Saturday, I weighed 170, which is approximately five pounds less than a year and a half ago.