The Art of Lurk

The word “lurk” freaks me out. I am better at saying and writing it now than I used to be; a couple of years ago when I started adventuring in the blogosphere (another word I hate that I can now say without [much] vomiting or ironic eyebrow raising) and there were discussions everywhere about lurkers and de-lurkers and de-lurking day I was all fat-tongued and hateful about it. Now I have come to terms with the (bastardization of! our!) vocabulary and have been thinking about the lurk itself.

Schmutzie is encouraging a ‘net-wide de-lurk on Wednesday, October 3rd. Here, it’s a button. The Great Mofo Delurk 2007
Of course everyone out on the Internet that day commented on her post about the de-lurk day and I did too because I’m a joiner.

I wrote that I was guilty of lurking and of not responding to peoples’ comments on my own blog and I agreed with a previous poster that I was also guilty of making the comments I leave on other peoples’ blogs “all about me.” Just the phrase “all about me” seemed automatically like a bad thing, something to feel guilty about, but I was thinking about it later in the day and realized that I don’t expect the people who comment here (uh, like, you guys) to make it all about anyone other than them, so what I wrote was a lie.

A lie!

Responding to comments in my own blog and making comments “all about me” in other peoples’ blogs are related issues in my mind because The Blog, to me, has always been a form of communication much like conversation. I’ve always felt that I don’t belong in the comments section of my own blog because that’s where you guys are talking. You don’t interrupt my story, you let me talk till I’m done and then you talk. It’s nice.

On the other hand, I really enjoy the blogs where the writers comment back to their own commenters, because that makes the conversation longer than “The weather is wet.” “Yes, it is.” When it’s artfully done, the “reply to my commenters” groove is really engaging and wonderful. I’ve seen magical things at Arwen’s place, where her conversations with people go on for days and world issues get resolved. So I might give it a try and see what happens. Maybe it’ll make the bus come on time.

However, I really am not fussed about what my commenters talk about. It’s your comment, you can write what you want, as long as you are not trying to sell me something. In a real life conversation I would never expect my co-conversationalists to reflect me constantly. “Wow, what a great thing you just said. You’re smart. I like you. Say more things,” or “Dumb thing you said! Shut up! I hate you!” (Which is probably not what the commenter at Schmutzie’s meant. I know the kind of comment they’re talking about and when that person comments “I have a bellyache today!” on every single post, yes, that’s annoying. Still, I was enjoying the exercise so I kept writing this entry.) But I really don’t think that sharing a story about yourself in response to someone sharing a story about herself is somehow egocentric or awful.

But guys? I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for all the lovely words on my last post and you know, you don’t have to wait until I’m pregnant to de-lurk because though evidence may indicate otherwise, this is really not how I intend to spend more than the next year of my life. But if you want to keep lurking, that’s okay too. And I will never type the word “lurk” again because I have used it so many times now that I feel like I’m wearing a black trenchcoat, crouching in the bushes behind Brad Pitt’s house, waiting for a glimpse of his stubbly butt.

Is his butt stubbly? Why did I say that? Here, look at my kid.

Posted in bloggity! | 5 Comments

In Which the Cloak is Dropped And Secrets Revealed

I am standing in the bathroom at work, staring at myself. My hair is bound neatly by a clip, strands of grey peppering the dark brown. It’s clean today. My face looks somber, just a bit pink in the cheeks and with slightly purple shadows under the eyes. I am the only one who notices that I look different.

I am sick, sick, sick from the hormones, from this constant nausea – is it me or was I less sick-feeling the last time – from exhaustion, from hating my job and loving my kid and being completely flummoxed by the concept of having Another One in 8 months’ time.

On August 29 I took the pregnancy test into the bathroom thinking, “I am just fat and bloaty. Sure hate that. I must’ve eaten something a little ‘off’ and then I walked in the hot sun and didn’t drink enough water…” but before I could finish my list of reasons why I felt the way I felt, the list of reasons that did not under any circumstances include “because I”m pregnant” I looked at the stick, still doused in urine, barely enough time for the pee to seep in and already it was appearing. The second line.

Ha.

Ha ha.

Sure, I bought the generic pregnancy test whenever it was I bought it, I guess it would be 2005, the last time being pregnant was a concern for me, so I didn’t have the little handy guide they print on the box, ie: “One line: not pregnant, Two lines: pregnant.” So maybe the test was the opposite of what I thought? Maybe it was expired, yes, expired!

I wracked the Internet for sample boxes of pregnancy tests but eventually gave up and went to the drugstore to look at one on the shelf. I guess people steal them? Because there weren’t any on the shelf. I went to a different drug store and they didn’t have the brand I’d bought (all the brands are different, right? two lines on one brand might be the equivalent of one line on another brand?) so I just bought a new test and came home.

Handily I had to pee again (this because I had had a lot of water in the past hour, not possibly because I was pregnant) so did and once again, the most positive pregnancy test I have ever seen, even in my days of peeing on the free sticks at my volunteer job when I already knew I was pregnant, just to make sure I still WAS pregnant (yes, first trimester paranoia knows no bounds) this pee shot up the stick, the line lighting up like neon, like a thermometer in the mouth of a very sick person, like the donate-a-meter at the pledge drive after the cutest kid with leukemia comes out on stage, like google loads, like lightning, that fast.

Well then.

To the calendar. 6 weeks along? Is that possible? No, it’s impossible. Check the stick again; it is practically blinking at me. OK.

Not OK!

OK.

Where will it sleep? Will I keep working? How did this happen? Why do I have to find out on the first day of my vacation? How much wine did I have yesterday? How will I tell Saint Aardvark? And my boss?

Ha.

I hate my job; I hate it so much I got pregnant again to get out of doing it.

Back in the bathroom. My face reflects calm, shock, peace. I put my hand on my belly, swelled, yes, how could I have not seen this. Rub gently. “Hi,” I say.

I wrote this on September 10th and decided today was the day to publish it. It has been 4 weeks to the day since I discovered the new inhabitant of my body. With continued good fortune, this inhabitant will become a sibling for Trombone in April of 2008.

Posted in babby | 25 Comments

Second Verse, Same as the First

There aren’t very many things that make me so angry I want to yell and pound walls. Consequently, I don’t often get that angry. Probably there are more things out there that I could get angry at, really angry; not “I’m blogging about Tyra today” angry. Probably I have anger expression issues – I definitely have a dislike of conflict that causes me to avoid it at all costs.

Sarah theorized once that the reason I eat so many chips is because the crunch is a physical release of the tension I’m holding. I think she might be right.

So when I do find my blood boiling and my eyes steaming, I am surprised by my own behavior and don’t know quite what to do with myself. Usually I end up swearing a lot and yelling and then apologizing to the person I’m venting to and then drinking.

The other day, Thursday, was one of those days at work. Now, contrary to what you might read here, I don’t work with more idiots than is available to anyone in the general population. I work with a nice selection of people. Some of them are smarter than others; very few of them are actually offensive to me on a daily basis. One of them is actually someone I would want to hang out with outside of work and order t-shirts from Threadless with. Not bad, really, for a random accumulation of people in an artificial environment.

I also don’t actually hate the world. I exaggerate for effect. I know. I KNOW you’re shocked.

So Thursday’s suckitude and my subsequent tantrum was not the fault of my co-workers. It was not the fault of Translink, for once. It was not even the fault of the universe. What made me lose my shit so bad I said really nasty words to (not AT) a very non-sweary-type co-worker (who is, let me reiterate, not an idiot) was my perception of a lack of respect.

When I analyze situations that bother me, I always scratch the surface and there is respect, sitting there, being my Thing. Lack of respect. It makes me insane. It’s my Big Red Button. If you are disrespectful, seriously disrespectful, I don’t mean commenting that the woman walking down the street 2 blocks away has ugly shoes, I will start sweating and want to punch you.

I won’t punch you because I’m not like that. I will punch the wall and eat chips. But whatever.

And the lack of respect in my workplace (about which I will not be specific) is entrenched. It’s permanent. What is worse, though only nominally so, is that the system disguises its disrespect as respect but it’s actually hierarchy, which is, to my mind, a complete absence of respect. That is what makes it unworkable, for me, and most of the time it isn’t an issue but when it is an issue, it is so galling, so very IN MY FACE that I suddenly question my very existence, my service to the organization, my taking of their hush money and hush benefits.

Yes, I get very over-dramatic, too.

It’s OK when I’m just going in, doing a boring job, going home. I mean, it’s OK. It’s not scintillating. But I work with a nice little group of peers and we are very kind and respectful to one another. Even my boss, who is a biggish fish, is one of the most respectful people I know. But once we involve his boss and her boss and her boss above them. Suddenly I am basically slaving for people who believe that their power absolves them of treating the people around them like other human beings. How can I be a part of that? I do not believe that anyone, regardless of power, salary or influence, is above another human being. And my organization, through its handbooks and mandatory training and employee charters, would have me believe that it supports the same view, that no one in our organization is so above anyone else that he is exempt from the requirement to respect those below him as well as he respects (or pretends to) those above him.

So I photocopy the handbooks and I attend the training and I sit quietly through meetings where the charter is read aloud and all are to agree with it and I know that come another day like Thursday, the king speaks and his minions respond and no amount of money and benefits in the world is worth feeling like the minion of some guy who is delusional with self-importance.

Feeling like that makes me want to get off the bus on my way home and sit with the down and out folks in Pigeon Park and listen to them talk about their life stories. It makes me want to write letters to the editor. It makes me want to come home and model respectful behavior for my kid so that he has a better chance of not being that disrespectful when – and as – he grows up.

I read a letter to the editor, I think it was at Salon, in response to a story about female genital mutilation and the story was just a report, not a call to action or anything. The letter writer said, “Do you feel like an activist now that you’ve blogged about it?” and whoever said sarcasm doesn’t transmit well in the Internet didn’t read this sentence. I would not call myself an activist but I play one in my own head and until I figure out what to do with myself in the real world, that will have to be enough.

Posted in more about me!, people | 3 Comments

Conversations

First leg of journey: bus travel

Dude at the bus stop: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure
Dude: Do you pay with coins for your busfare?
Me: No, I have a bus pass.
Dude: OK.
Dude (unfolding piece of paper from his pocket): There’s a place on Alexander where I can get a meal for a toonie
Me: I’m sorry, I have no money on me at all
Dude: Sure
Dude: I was supposed to meet a millionaire down here, see…
Me: Right
Dude: …And he never showed
Me: Enh – millionaires are assholes
Dude: Not all of them
Me: I guess not
Dude: When I’m a millionaire, I won’t be an asshole. Because I know what it’s like to have nothing.
Me: True
Dude: You have to appreciate what you have.
Me: Absolutely
Dude: Have a good day
Me: You too.

Second leg of journey: car travel

Trombone: MAMA
Me: Trom-bone
Trombone: Ma-MA
Me: Trom-BONE
Trombone: MA
Me: TROM
Trombone: MUH
Me: TRUH
Trombone: MAMAMAMA!
Me: TROMBONETROMBONETROMBONE!
Trombone: Dadoo.

Still on second leg. Almost home

Trombone (translated from the original Whine): Why aren’t we home yet? You said we were almost home! I want to go home! I want to walk! I want to play! I want to eat!
Me(Gritting teeth; very hungry): We’re almost there
Trombone: YOU SAID THAT TEN MINUTES AGO!
Me: Well, then that asshat cut me off and I had to sit through 2 more lights so it’s not really my fault is it
Trombone: Don’t care don’t care don’t care why can’t I get my shoe off I WANT MY SHOE OFF
Me: OK. Here. I took your shoe off.
Trombone: NOW I STILL HAVE ONE SHOE ON!
Me: Oh for –
Trombone: I HATE SHOES!
Me: You take that back or you’re walking home.

…meanwhile, inside my head…

Me: I hate my job.
Me: But you need the money.
Me: I could live on less money. Look how much money I have compared to the dude at the bus stop.
Me: Pshaw
Me: Look at it this way. If I stay home with Trombone, I will be able to make sure he is not an idiot.
Me: What do you mean?
Me: Think about Boss of a Boss of a Boss of a Boss. He is an idiot. As are all the bosses in between.
Me: Certainly.
Me: If I keep going to work, not only am I unhappy, but I am just enabling more idiots. If I stay home, I am influencing the mind of a future non-idiot.
Me: That makes sense.
Me: Sure it does.
Me: Hmm.
Me: Mostly because I hate my job.
Me: You can do whatever you want.
Me: Thanks.
Me: You’re welcome. Maybe you should take up kickboxing.
Me: Yeah?
Me: Relieve some of that tension.
Me: I don’t have time to take up kickboxing.
Me: You’d make time if it was important.
Me: Okay, you shut up now.
Me: ‘kay.

Posted in idiots, outside, trombone | 4 Comments

So There, You Stupid Stupidhead

Just over a week ago, Saint Aardvark and I went to the CBC Studio One Book Club to hear William Gibson read from his new novel Spook Country.

I drove the car to work that morning after dropping Trombone at daycare. It was as horrible as I imagined driving from New Westminster to downtown Vancouver in rush-hour traffic would be, so by the time I was within spitting distance of my workplace I pulled into the first parking lot on the right and spent $16 on parking, when the lot across the street is only $8. At 6 pm, the lot charges you more money so SA and I met up after work, moved the car to another lot (took 20 minutes to drive across downtown Vancouver at 4:30 pm!) and had a so-so dinner at the pub next to the library that used to be good and now is just HOT WAITRESS! WOW! HOT!

We got to the CBC building, found seats and discussed acoustics and I bought a roll of Butter Rum Lifesavers from the vending machine in the break room down the hall. I think they had been in that machine since before I was born. It took me a good five minutes to unwrap the wax paper. I imagine that vending machine is on the “New Employee Orientation” tour of the CBC building. “Don’t eat the food from this machine; everyone will know you’re a newbie.” Then William Gibson showed up and he read and it was dreamy. I am not a William Gibson fan, per se; I liked Pattern Recognition and I am now reading Spook Country and enjoying it as well but I come to his work like I came to that of Modest Mouse – as one who appreciates the artist in question taking babysteps into mainstream and out of niche world. (I need everything pre-digested, yessir that’s me.) Not that science fiction isn’t part of mainstream literature but.

Anyway, he’s a very tall writer and I find very tall writers fascinating. Oh, short ones too, all right. You caught me. I love writers, all of them, all of you.

It was time to go and we followed a crowd out of the Studio One Rehearsal Hall and into the hallway of the basement of the CBC. Then we followed the crowd up three flights of stairs and down another hallway and up another flight of stairs before someone at the front of the crowd said, “Hey, these people don’t actually know where they’re going,” at which point the suckers at the back of the crowd hopped in the nearest elevator, argued about which level was street (B! no, M! no, L!) and then we finally got out.

When we got back to the parking lot, I immediately noticed that someone had crashed into the back of our car. The taillight was smashed on the left and there was a crack in the body. (chassis! ha!) As SA retrieved a piece of notepaper from the windshield, a security guard came running over, waving his hands in the air, yelling, “It was only a minor collision! It was another customer!” When he reached us and had caught his breath, he explained that some guy had hit our car backing out of his parking spot. Guy gave his information to the security guard who was standing by. It was only a minor collision, you see, he explained.

We assured the security guy we would not sue him and drove home. A couple of days later, SA called the dude on the notepaper. After a week of trying we still had not spoken with him – just his roommate – to get the required information to file a proper insurance claim so Saturday I filed it as a hit and run.

I just don’t get why you would leave your information with no intention of answering your phone. If you’re going to lie about it, just leave a fake number in the first place. Ass. Now I’m filing a hit and run claim with your license plate number so you’re going to be in trouble. Ass.

Meanwhile my left turn signal, instead of its staid, moderate “tick-tick-tick-tick” now says “tickticktickticktickticktick!!!!!!!” (which I vocalize as: “I’M TURNING LEFTTURNINGLEFTTURNINGLEFT!” because it amuses me.)

In other news, Trombone can move his head from side to side, like he is (A Small Pigeon) Walking Like an Egyptian. 14 month old babies are so amusing. Babies should totally be born at 14 months, except for the vaginal canal part.

Happy monday!

Posted in books, idiots, outside | 7 Comments