Clumsy

So, I had a clumsy week.

It started on Saturday, when I went to give blood at the Church Blood Drive (yay for blood...donations). After bruising up 2 arms, they informed me that my blood was not flowing well enough from one arm, and that they burst the vein in the other. I left looking like a heroin addict. Oh well, c'est la vie.

Monday I went to FHE (you eat dinner and hang out with other singles) and somebody decided that we should all play Red Rover. The first time somebody ran into me I felt like he broke my wrist. Sadder still, we lost. By the time I got home my wrist was still hurting--badly. I iced it really well, but the bruise was growing and I couldn't even touch the top of my right hand. I had to go to work the next day and type for 8 hours. After about 20 minutes I went next door to the Chiropractor's office and asked if they had any wrist braces in stock. When they asked what happened, I told them I sprained it playing Red Rover. After the look on their faces, I decided to tell everybody else that it happened "playing sports."


I spent the whole week typing because I was working on a very large, time sensitive project at work. I was so proud of myself because I was getting it done so fast and everyone was so amazed. Pride really must go before the fall, because on Thursday morning, just as I finished the 1st part (of a 3 part project) and was getting ready to send it off, I accidentally deleted it. There were 2 copies, I only thought I was deleting 1, yada yada. In fact, I was so confident that I didn't even mind when a warning bubble came up saying "Are you sure you want to delete? This action cannot be undone." I called my brother, frantic, to ask how to undo what I just did. All he could think of doing was to force a shutdown on the process, as that usually recovers whatever you've just done. That brought up about 1/5 of the information, but the rest (and my cross references) were gone. So I checked the online help and found out that if I hadn't shut the program, I would have been able to recover my missing information. Grrrr.....


Friday was a pretty annoying day, what with my redo project, getting up butt early to get lasered, and just feeling gross but I was actually looking forward to that night. I had a gold party to do, which means I take all my stuff and go into people's homes to buy their friend's stuff, more or less like a tupperware party. I always like doing an event for this client because a) she's great b) her friends are nice and c) she makes the most amazing food. I decided that I had to eat before I got there though, because every time I'm surrounded by these Miss America Businesswomen who "gorge themselves" on 2 whole bites of food!, whilst I'm starving, shoving in as much as I can before I have to get back to work. I promised myself that I would only eat the deserts, because nobody else touches them and she always has these tiny eclairs that I love. When I got there (post Wendy's drive thru) she had a full spread...excepting desert. So sad, especially since I ended up eating the entire bowl of artichoke dip by myself anyways. The whole night passed with more than half of her RSVP's cancelling. In fact, we made less than 1/37th than we did at the last Gold Party. It didn't bother me that much since I don't get commission, but the client was fuming. And apologizing until I was out of sight.


Now, I really had to pee by the end of the night, but 1) I didn't want to leave all my equipment just sitting around and 2) her bathroom looked too fancy to actually use. I figured it wouldn't be long before I was home anyway. The road just before the highway looked curiously packed but I got in line anyway, writing it off as Friday night congestion. It was actually cop congestion! I have no idea why they were controlling traffic but they kept the line for turning right onto the highway stopped for several, several long minutes.


Once I got on the highway though, everything clipped along at a nice pace. In fact, I was rolling along, singing a little when I approached an yellow light. It was only a few feet away and I, forgetting that all yellow lights are not as long as they are in Utah, kept going. I realized I had a problem when I didn't reach the intersection when I thought I should've. But, by then I was too late, and had already made my decision so I kept going. I noticed the light turning red about the time I hit the crosswalk bar, but again, I had thought that the light would've been longer. I was musing on how lucky I was that no cop was around when the lights started flashing.


This man deserves his own paragraph. I have to say, I've been pulled over 3 times before--and once for nearly killing a motorcycle cop by forcing him into oncoming traffic--but never have I had an officer be as mean to me as this guy. He didn't get out of his car for a good 5 minutes. When he did, he moseyed up, and searched every inch of my car through the window with his flashlight. When he finally got around to talking to me I opened with an apology. I've learned that it usually works best to admit it upfront.
"License and registration." 
"I'm so sorry. The intersection looked much closer than it was, and I didn't think that the light would turn so quickly. Again, I'm really sorry." 
"You just blew through that red light. It was red way before you reached it! I was at that intersection! I was about to pull out!" 
[But you obviously hadn't made a move on it yet.]  "I am sorry. The light switched before I expected it to." 
"You blew through it! Blew through it." 
"Here's the license and...is this my registration?"


He walked, slightly faster, back to his car. I then endured 15-20 minutes of waiting for him to return. I'll admit, I knew that red lights were worse than speeding, but I didn't know how much worse. My mind was swirling with "What if I have to go to court?" and "How much of fine that I can't afford will it be?" Finally, FINALLY, he came back. 
First words: "Here's your ticket ma'am. You won't have to go to court." 
Whew! 
"You can pay it here, here or here..."
He tilted the paper toward me and I felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water on my head. $1,910. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. Before he had to pull a respirator and emotionlessly resuscitate me I realized that it actually said $191.00. Naturally, I started to blabber about how relieved I was and how I almost cried, when I saw him motion to his partner (who looked just like Buzz from Psych, minus the smile). 
"What's the scale for ma'am?!" 
"Oh, for work." 
"Yeah, what kind of work do you do, ma'am?!" 
"I buy gold and silver jewelry." 
Long look. 
"[Meekly] Do you want me to open the bag?" 
"Yeah, open the bag. Show us what's inside." 
His partner, by this time, was standing outside my passenger window with his flashlight. So I narrated as I pulled out the "gold" and "silver". I was trying to think of what else would help--like maybe my transaction forms, he declared "That's enough. How long have you lived here?" 
"Just a couple of months."
"[Looking almost disappointed] Well, still, you only have 60 days to get your registration changed over. You need to do that immediately.  And slow down. You were blowing by." 
"I was going 40." 
"Yeah, and it's a 35 zone. Slow down and get your registration changed!"


Driving home was awful. Maybe if I wasn't so chastised already for the whole law breaking thing, I would've found getting mistaken for a drug dealer much less traumatic. I knew it would be funny someday. I also knew that today was not that day. I realized how lucky I was not to have my car searched since I was carrying some types of self defense tools that would look bad for a suspected drug dealer, but that just made it worse. The only redeeming quality (and it was a huge one) was that my mother randomly sent me a card that day. It was beautiful and bright and I love motherly intuition. I also started to realize that the officer could have made a lot more trouble for me if he had wanted to. I'm grateful he let it slide at that.


I'll admit, it is funny now. It was not so funny when I started receiving what has become a constant strain of letters--"Dear Ticker Holder, The state wants YOU to become a safe driver. Go to traffic school!" or more plentifully "Dear Ms., So sorry to hear about your Failure to Stop At a Red Light traffic violation. My firm would be happy to..." I hate most how they spell it out like that. I already know what I did!


But all in all, it's really not so bad. And while this week has had its ups and downs, it's really much better. I doubt I'll ever stop being clumsy, but let's hope that it goes back to being limited to bumps and bruises.

Ma famille

I stinkin miss my family.

In fact, I'm missing everybody. I have had so many amazing friends, roommates, general acquaintances, and they're all awesome.

Focusing specifically on my family though, I went through old blogs and found pictures that just made me happy:

Given the sweater I'm wearing I'd say this is...old. Can't say how old though. Aren't we all great at smiling for the camera?

 

 The look of absolute glee on her face is what really does it for me.

 Sister snuggles!

 Our (combined) birthday party! I have to say, this is the first photo I found that I loved how I looked in it. Let's do that again! Seriously, though, I loved our combined party. We should do that again.

Big Christmases are awesome.

 Daddy with the grandbaby. Hopefully he'll still be willing to babysit by the time my kids come along.

 Artichoke Festival! Robb looking like the sane one in the bunch! I guess if you're not brought up on artichokes, you're probably less willing to try a cupcake made with them (though, in all fairness, he did try them, and I was nervous too).

 August 26, huge, huge day for our family. This August 26th was my graduation day, and Julie & Sarah's mission homecoming. It was a long 2 years with them away.

 Kairi looks like a singing skater dude and I love it.

 My mama's so sweet...how she has the energy to be this sweet with all of us, AND all the grandkids/pets, I may never know. Here's to a woman who considers it a pleasure to make other people happy.

 She looks like the embodiment of a snotty librarian :)

I remember this day so well! Bells decided that she was sick of wearing pants...and underpants. I finally convinced her that she had to wear either one or the other.

My grams is a beautiful lady, who has never gotten old inside, and who can still whoop me at arcade games. 

 Let's be honest, that's us on the inside.

 Sisterhood. The best thing you'll ever have.

Down Home Country

This Easter I was planning on spending all day in bed when I had a friend invite me to go home with her to South Carolina (don't worry, I've rescheduled the day in bed). And while at first I thought this was a bad idea because I'm not in college anymore, and it's always awkward at other people's families reunions, I decided to go because I was so lonely I was afraid that Nigel was going to start talking to me (and you'll be happy to know that while my sanity is still intact--for the time being--I've decided to embrace my spinsterhood and take awkward "family" photos of him and me and send them out as Christmas cards). And, as it turned out, it was just going to be my friend, her brother (who I know) and her parents.


It was on this trip that I realized that I am a city girl. 


I always thought of myself of at least small-town-scrappy, but let's just be honest and say it: I have no place living in the country. I always thought I knew country, mostly because I know so many people who believe that being "country" consists of nothing more than barbequing, listening to country music and lusting after cowboy butts. 


There really weren't even that many cows. There just wasn't much of anything else either. The town's name was Ninety Six (written out, no hyphen), and it had (yes I wiki'ed in the car) LESS THAN 2,000 people in it as of the last census. On the way there, Liz pointed out the main attractions: the Fuji factory and the Piggly Wiggly. I've heard of a Piggly Wiggly before, but there's something about hearing "I've got to run down to the Pig" that is just odd. I asked her what they used to do for fun in High School, expecting some tales of country shenanigans--cow tipping at the very least--and she said "either went to band practice or stayed home. What? There really wasn't anything else." The "What" was in response to my incredulous look.


Upon arrival I was given the grand tour, consisting mostly of a kitchen that rivals my house. The next morning, we planned to go to Star Fort (apparently a relic from Civil War days and something about a dirty double-crossing, honorless, no good Yankee) when we got the news. "The cicadas have come out for the first time in 13 years!" I didn't get it. Apparently, cicadas remain underground for a certain cycle of years, this swarm's being 13. They were swarming the side and back wall by the thousands. The lawn, they assured me, looked like it had been aerated from side to side. Then her brother added "Well, they do make pretty big holes coming up. After all, they really are just locusts."


We remained housebound for the rest of the trip.


We broke this only twice--once to go to church and once to see a new litter of puppies across the street. The puppies were 4 days old and adorable. The child who owned the dog explained in a very strong accent how the only way the mother would leave them was to go fishin' with him and "then that crazy dog, why she just jumped right in."


Church was an experience of its own. I was hoping that I would hear somebody "testify" with a really strong accent and I was not disappointed. As soon as the meeting ended the entire congregation came over to a) Greet Elizabeth, by name, and inquire into all details of her current life, most of which they already knew and b) Find out who I was (luckily her brother maintained the proper--ie, 3 feet--distance from me on the bench or I would have been accused of becoming a member of the family). It was after everybody started filing out for Sunday School that I realized why things looked so weird: Not a single person in the room had had recognizable plastic surgery. Sure, maybe a finger or tooth or two were replaced here and there (though not according to my observations, but I suppose anything's possible), but there were no tummy tucks, face lifts or botox in sight. I was so unnerved I had to sit down.


During Sunday School, nobody could say Svetz, even after I spelled it for them, so they just started calling me Sister Lisa. That was when I met the woman I referred to on Facebook: Sister K. Sister K opened an animal rescue center and told the most appalling stories of abuse, neglect and plain torture. Apparently, (and according to her, so don't hate me Southerners) most of the South still doesn't realize that are consequences for their behavior, and she's spent a good amount of her time in court to make people pay for their crimes. The best, however, was when she told me that the biggest dog fighting ring in her area was trying to steal her dogs for bait. After a few foiled attempts, she tracked them down, moseyed on up with a 9 mil in her hands and a .45 in her belt and very calmly explained that if they ever went near one of her dogs again, she'd kill them. They protested "You can't kill us. You'll go to jail" to which she replied "Yeah. But you'll be dead." They've never bothered her since, apparently figuring (and correctly I'd bet) that she would have held to her word.


When we left that afternoon, after eating almost nothing for 3 days that came from a store--and I mean not even pre-ground flour--I permanently secured my place on the City Girl List by exclaiming (as we passed a pack of vultures) "They look just like they do on Snow White!" And honestly, that's alright with me. Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.

Top Ten Reason Why I Love My Job:

1) My boss/es are awesome. Seriously, if I ever need to negotiate anything, I'm just going to let them do it.

2) Some of my coworkers are canines.

3) The non-canine coworkers are not insane, rude, snotty or otherwise and can dance really well :)

4) I get to do my job in a place where 40  degrees is considered earth-shatteringly cold.

5) I get to tell people "Yeah, I smelted that."

6) I get to look at crazy/cool/gorgeous and/or historic tableware/jewelry.

7) I get to eat off of crazy, cool, gorgeous and extremely historic silverware, cause we haven't melted it yet. They have spoons like on Ever After.

8) I'm the only person not on Lent in the office, so I get to eat everything that someone gives us that has meat/milk/eggs in it.

9) I know what good jewelry is now.

10) I'm good at it--which is probably a first for me and a profession you can make money at.

Apparently

Apparently, my breasts know more about gold than I do. At least, I assume so, since my last customer spoke exclusively to them.

Not always right

Is it just me, or are people getting stupider and stupider these days?

I work at a precious metals refinery. Like it sounds, we buy precious metals. So yesterday I got a phone call from a customer who asked me what we would pay for a triple band ring. That being rather vague, I had to ask some follow up questions:

Me: "What karat of ring is it?"

Him: "It's, uh...I don't know what karat it is."

Me: "Okay, well we can't give you a quote without that information, but just as an estimate if it was 14 kt it would be--"

Him: "No, it's not 14 kt. How much for a triple band ring?"

Me: "Again, I can't give you a quote without knowing what type of metal it is, but if you brought it in, we'd be able to give you an accurate estimate."

Him: "Okay, thanks anyway."

Ten minutes later he calls back.

H: "How much for a .11 karat ring?"

M: "I'm afraid there's no such thing as .11 karat."

H: "But I need to know how much it would be."

M: "And I'm still going to need to know what gold karat it is."

H: "It's not gold."

M: "So it's...silver?"

H: "Yeeaaahhh."

M: "Okay, well, an average silver band would weigh about 5 grams, which would give you about $4.00."

H: "That doesn't sound right. It's not that small. It's point 11 karats."

M: "Wait, you mean weight? As in, .11 carats?"

H: "Yeah."

M: "Okay, well, give me a minute."

At this point I assume that he has a small jeweler's scale and has weighed it in diamond weights--carats--because he couldn't figure out how to change the scale to grams or pennyweights. Not being all that familiar with carats since we don't do gemstones, I Googled the conversion factor. I was sure that something had gone wrong, however, when I saw the results of my search.

M: "Uh, sir, .11 carats turns out to be less than a thousandth of a gram."

H: "Okay."

M: "You can't have a ring that weighs less than a thousandth of a gram. It's physically impossible."

H: "That's what he said."

M: "That would mean your ring weighed less than 1/2,000th of a penny."

H: "I called the jeweler I bought it from and that's what he said."

M: "Oh, the stone in your ring weighs .11 carats! Unfortunately, we don't buy stones of any type, we'd only be able to buy the metal, and I'd need a weight on that to give you an accurate quote."

H: "It's point 11 carats!"

M: "Again, that is for your stone. We cannot buy the stone from you. The metal itself has an entirely different weight. Did the jeweler tell you a weight for the metal?"

H: [getting really angry] "No. Look, don't you have any point 11 carat rings around the shop that you could weigh up for me to see how much it would be?"

I had absolutely no words for this. Apparently this man believes that every ring in the world with a certain stone size has the same weight. And even if that were true, and assuming that we carried anything (being a refinery jewelry doesn't last long around here) why would we carry such a crappy ring? At this point, I decided to stop arguing with him.

M: "No. We don't. You'll just have to come in to get a quote on it."

H: "Fine. Goodbye."

20 minutes later, I'm working on another order, so my boss answers the phone. A few minutes later I hear my boss say "Sir, .11 is not a karat."

House Living

I don't believe in reincarnation, but if I had been reincarnated, I could tell you this much about my former self: She had a staff! And no, not a "the staff of Ra" type staff, but a "tell Cook we'll be dining out tonight" type of staff.  A hairdresser, personal shopper, maid, cook, gardener and possibly driver. This became all too clear to me this weekend. I finally cleaned the whole house at once for the first time and all I could think was "Couldn't we send somebody?" Life is too ridiculously busy when you've got to do everything for yourself. So I've decided I need to get a staff. But how? I'm concavely broke, and live in a  place that wouldn't fit all these people anyway. To go for the real deal I'd either need to (a) Marry rich or (b) invent/steal something. Therefore in the foreseeable future, looks like I'm going to have to settle for the lite version. How do you even advertise for that? "Single woman seeks maid, must have excellent hair care experience, as woman is inept and will leave it looking like it does upon waking. Light cooking included."And when I say "light" I mean the Hungry Girl Cookbook "400 calories or less". I'm thinking my best bet is an immigrant who wants to be legal, and who will take a lower salary in return for sponsorship. And non-abusive management, but I think that's a given. Honestly, hats off to single mothers right now. I'm having a hard time doing all this with just me, but those of you with kids, all we can say is "Wow".

Maybe I wouldn't be feeling the pressure quite as badly if I didn't have to go to a laundromat. I haven't done that since college, and I remember it being a lot easier than it is. A lot cheaper, too. It cost at least $10 a trip to do my laundry, and that's with leaving my clothes damp. And it takes hours. And a bunch of trips back and forth since I broke the handle on my laundry basket by trying to do it all in one. I don't think I properly appreciated the beauty of sitting around the house playing video games while waiting for the laundry to finish. Or going someplace while it was running. Or not loosing socks in between the car and the building. It would also help if my cat didn't feel the need to christen newly cleaned blankets by vomiting on them.

Having a townhouse is a little daunting to me. Before, I always just had to decorate my room, because I didn't have a living room, or the one time I did, my roommate did all of that. And the kitchen too, come to think of it. Besides, decorating can get really expensive. When it comes to decorating I've always been comfort above decor, so it's probably not going to look really great no matter what I do with the walls, but the plain white look is starting to wear on me. For now, I finally unpacked the last suitcase (that had been sitting in the living room with all my books in it) so we're going to call it good.

Well, happy days until I actually write again.