Category Archives: badness

badness, life

The childhood fear in my backyard

he knows me by sight, and hunts without rest

I’m mostly pleased with my imagination; its power to entertain me when I’m bored could power a small yacht.  Like most kids, I had the occasional super horrifying nightmare.  One has stuck with me, popping into my head occasionally for no good reason.

I’m running away, but have run straight into a very narrow, dark alley.  It’s perfectly clean.  This is one of my very few black and white dreams.  I back against the back wall of the alley, and squat down against the floor, attempting to become as small as possible.  I shut my mouth so they won’t see my teeth, and I want to shut my eyes, but that way I won’t be able to see them coming.  At the open end of the alley, the population walks by purposefully, going to work, going home, running errands.  They are all identical (see picture).  One of them stops and its head snaps toward me, and the panic sets in.  He’s the one who’s been looking for me.  He’s after me in a second and I have nowhere to run.  I start to get up from my crouch, my hands touch the walls behind me, searching for an escape.  I only have seconds, and I know I’m trapped.  I wake up before he can reach me, feeling like a cornered animal.

Today I took La Cienega home, and reached a revelation.  There was construction that forced three lanes down to one, allowing (forcing) me to appreciate the view, and there they were: pumpjacks (oil pumps).

I slow to a stop and gawk.  My mouth hangs open as I stare out the open window of my tiny, shiny car at one of the worst nightmares from my childhood.  My eyes drag across the landscape.  There were more of them, dozens, peppered across the small dry hills I’d driven past hundreds (thousands?) of times.  My dad used to take this exact route to drive my mom to LAX for business trips, and sometimes Sister and I came along for the ride.  What else do children do but stare out the window?  The memory comes back to me with enough force to stop my breath.  I force myself to exhale and examine the rest of them.

we'll be overrun by sunset

They ignore me like they always have (I hope), and keep hard at work, bowing and saying, “Yes, very nice to meet you, thank you very much, yes indeed.”  But for once my imagination is silent, and they say nothing at all.  They are no longer amusing.  I am frozen in my seat when the blue and yellow taxi that’s been tailgating me lets out an unhealthy blast from its horn.  I let off the brake slowly, watching the machines at work, waiting for them to spring to life and finally catch me.

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badness, life

Then I almost beheaded my boyfriend in my sleep

what was I stressing about back then...?

I used to talk in my sleep all the time.  As a kid, I would get up, walk into my parents room and stand over my mother, breathing and staring, eyes wide open, dead asleep.  I once woke her up with an insistent, “MOM. MOM. MOM.”  When she awoke, she said, “What is it?”  I said, “…HI.”  She was creeped out and asked my dad to put me back to bed.

More recently, when I was working at Real Estate job (for two years), I wasn’t happy.  It was a boring job with a bad boss.  I didn’t even have anyone to relate to; it was just me and him in this little real estate consultation company.  I was desperately needed, quietly loathed, totally trapped, and very alone.  This is around the time when Boyfriend and I got together.  He would regale me with tales of my night-talks on a semi-daily basis.

After two years, I realized how unhappy I was and decided to leave.  I finally quit Real Estate Job and started working at Office Job where my coworkers are kind, the work is manageable, and my boss appreciates me and gives me clear instructions when I make a mistake.  I stopped talking in my sleep literally overnight.  Boyfriend and I have come to the realization that I talk in my sleep when I’m stressed out.

When I got too hot, I have always stripped off my pj’s until a comfortable temperature is reached (this happened again just two nights ago).  But talking in my sleep is something that seems to happen only when my mind has been particularly stimulated by a book, or movie, some fascinating conversation, or (most likely) stress.  Last Thursday, Boyfriend and I had a fight about a camera, of all things.  He told me when we first started dating that he would love to do a photo shoot with me.  I thought, “Wow, my handsome, film industry boyfriend wants to use me as a model in a photo shoot.  And it would be so fun to see him in action and create something with him.”  That’ll be a fun couples activity, I thought.  Almost four years later, and we still haven’t done it, regardless of my sporadic hint-dropping and semi-serious nagging.

the culprit

Then he bought a camera, and as we were driving home, he said, “Wanna take some photos with me?”  I said, “Sure, come back in four years, I’ll be happy to.”  This launched a fight about how I thought we were going to create something together, not break in a new toy, that I thought he wanted to take my photo because he loved me and thought I was pretty, not because he needed a warm body in front of a lens.  I could not have been more wrong, apparently.  After some bickering, he said he proposed the original photo shoot because, “…y’know, I knew you’d be… around.”  I said, “So, because I’m convenient.”  He said, “Essentially, yes.  The photos are for me.”

So that kinda broke my heart.  We spent the rest of the day avoiding each other, driving to a movie, fighting in the car, fighting more after the movie on the drive home, then fighting more at home.  I cried a bunch.

That night I did more than talk in my sleep; I almost assaulted him.

Here’s the IM from the next day:

Boyfriend: hewo
Me: ohai
Boyfriend: do u remember what weird thing u did while u were dreaming?
Me: ?
I did a weird thing?
Boyfriend: very.
u grabbed my head
and u thought it was one of your obstacle course blocks [the items I use to build games for the kids at the dojo]
and u told your class to go put it away
Me: um wtf?
that’s fucking creepy
Boyfriend: yes!
and i woke up and said, whaaa
huh?
Me: i’m going to need a demonstration
tonight
Boyfriend: for sure i will
it was kinda scary
Me: then what happened?
Boyfriend: i was vaguely hoping u wouldn’t like rip my head off
i think u said “no more playing, time to put it away”
or something like that
Me: wow
that’s just… fucked up.
Boyfriend: and then u let my head go, thank god.
i would’ve been jolted awake if i wasn’t so tired
the creepiest part is that u sat up
and then grabbed my head
which i was semi-conscious of
Me: yikes
so… sorry?
Boyfriend: haha
i guess it’s ok?
Me: I haven’t done something dynamic like that in my sleep in a while.
Boyfriend: yeah
Me: I think our fight stressed me out.
Boyfriend: i assumed that’s what happened

I haven’t acted out in my sleep like this in months, so for me to treat Boyfriend’s head like it’s filled with plastic stuffing of some kind the night following a particularly painful fight (for which he is 100% to blame, btw) was just too perfect.  We almost never fight, so when we do it’s usually because he’s being a weirdo (according to him, a model has no interest in the photographs she helps to create), or we had a miscommunication (like confusing convenience with love).  I was super stressed about it because we fight so rarely, so naturally, my sleeping-self had something to say.

We get over our fights in record time, though.  We hate being mad at each other, it feels so unnatural.  We spend so much time in direct physical contact (holding hands, curling up next to each other on a couch, a long spontaneous hug) that it feels weird to be apart.  We have whole short conversations while holding each other.  He touches my hands, I scratch his head.  He squeezes my legs, I pet his stomach.  We live so harmoniously the vast majority of the time that when we fight I find it pretty distressing.

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badness, work

Haiku distraction: Crap noir edition

I made a more accurate poster for the play. you’re welcome.

I went to another student production from the theater department at the university where I work at Office Job.  Last year’s production was a total shit show.  This year was better, but not by much.

Today’s musical matinee show was the story of an author writing a screenplay, spliced in with the actual screenplay itself.  The screenplay takes place in Los Angeles cerca 1947, which means everyone chain-smokes and “needs a drink” all the time.  Needless to say, paying rapt attention was out of the question since I value my sanity more than my ability to give a coherent synopsis of some crap musical play.

But just like last year, it was a great source of angry haikus!

Oh my fucking god.
He’s gonna spend the whole play
looking at her “gams.”

The main character detective also annoyingly narrated the whole damn play in a poor imitation of Humphrey Bogart, and could not stop talking about some woman’s physical attributes.  Meanwhile, the audience consisted of mostly women and gay men, so who the hell is this guy appealing to?

Nothing like a missed
musical cue to kill a
shitty production.

The orchestra missed a cue!  They jumped into the middle of a scene and just started playing the next number.  Yikes.

Jesus Christ he can’t
stop talking about “figures”
or smoking to death. 

Apparently living in the 1940’s consisted of leering at women, doing anything for a dollar, and smoking like a chimney.

Here’s an idea:
Do something other than stand
still while you’re singing.

Each character gets their own chance to be more or less alone on stage and sing a little song to tell us their story.  One woman just sat and sang.  Then she stood and sang.  Then she moseyed on over to the edge of the stage and sang some more.  Fade to black.  She had the whole stage to herself, and couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger in the middle of a musical number.  I felt… disappointed, and… confused.

At some point I started keeping track of the number of times the main character demanded that someone “level” with him.  Final count: 6, but I may have missed the first few.

My favorite quote: “They’re closer than Denmark, and a whole lot more rotten.”

Toot toot!  It’s the failtrain!  All aboooooooooooooard!

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badness, life, work

No warrior, no war

It’s about a half-mile walk from my office at Office Job to my car at a parking structure a couple of blocks away.  Typically when I walk through any parking lot, I make it a point to keep my eyes up, and stop fussing with my phone, or stick my head in my purse, or otherwise distract myself from… whatever.

paranoid parrot knows what I'm talking about

I’ve come to realize that “whatever” really means imminent attack by some asshole who wants to steal my car/accost me, etc.  I’ve never been attacked by a sober person, so this would be a new experience for me.  Still, I can feel myself tense up a little when I step off the elevator to the third floor of the parking structure.  I’ve finally given in to reading The Hunger Games on my Kindle, but as the doors open, my eyes slip up from the screen, and I step forward, full of caution and confidence, ready for some hidden enemy to pounce.

There have been men working to replace all the lights in the structure every day this week, and yesterday was no exception.  As I walked away from them toward my car, I thought about how I could probably read my book right now instead of keeping an eye out since there are people around.

My mind goes to work.  I calculate how many times I would have to scream for them to realize what they’re hearing, and how long it would take them to arrive to help me.  At least one of them is overweight; he would never arrive in time, and probably wouldn’t be able to do anything useful, so I subtract him from the equation.  Then I calculate how likely these men would be to help a woman being attacked by a man a) with bare fists b) with a knife c) with a gun.  Anything worse than a pocket knife would probably scare them off.  On the other side of the equal sign I’m left with one not-overweight maintenance worker who wouldn’t jump in front of a knife to help me, which means I shouldn’t depend on him at all.  I decide I can probably trust them to ward off any attacker with merely their presence.  “I’m probably safe,” I think as I slip my Kindle in my bag and pull out my keys without breaking stride or dropping my gaze.   My eyes pan across the floor between cars for shadows and feet, then back across the windshields to see if anyone is lying in wait.  I’ve given myself permission to relax,  but I can’t stop preparing for… whatever.

Whenever I teach a women’s self-defense class, I try to calm them down: I say something like, “I just want to point out, and I don’t mean to sound callous or hurt anyone’s feelings, but you are not a special snowflake.  You will probably never get attacked.  I hate to break it to you, but you’re just not that special.  Relax.  You’re here to learn something potentially useful, not to safeguard against the inevitable.”

Where did this hyper-cautious impulse come from?  Did my training make me crave an attack so I can test my skills?  I could’ve sworn I had grown out of that phase.  Or do I worry about an attack because I know all the ways a person can cause injury to another with their bare hands?  Did the two fights I’ve been in make me like this?  They turned out well, what am I worrying about?  I’m no warrior, and there is no war going on.  Why am I like this?  What am I doing?  It feels like such a huge waste of time to be this tense every day… then again, if the alternative is getting blindsided by some asshole in a ski mask, I’d rather miss twenty seconds of whatever novel I’m reading to make it to the car sans violent encounter.

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badness, school

Verizon, die in a fire

hey look, it's me

Like most people, any good experience I’ve had with customer service from a huge company like Verizon/ATT/DirecTV has been buried under the mountains of horseshit that make up the majority of my interactions with said behemoth hell-spawn companies.  This past week has consisted of the horseshit variety.

Our modem broke last Tuesday night, so Verizon supposedly sent us a new one, which we never got.  UPS “left it on the doorstep,”  apparently.  So they’re sending us a new one for free (after some negotiating), and it should be here by Friday.  That’ll be ten days without internet at home.  We can’t ask for a refund of the time we’ve gone without internet until we get internet back.  They don’t know what happened to the $80 credit I’m supposed to have already received due to being wrongly signed up for Starz and Games Unlimited.  They don’t know why I haven’t been charged for March’s service.  I have spent (cumulative, over the course of four calls) 106 minutes on the phone with Verizon to discover they are clueless about my account which they control, and inept at fixing the problems they create.  And I am fresh out of surprise.

Imagine if I were already in school, and needed to “go to class” by logging onto the online classroom stuff.  What a hassle this would be.  I think it might actually make me mad.

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badness, goodness, life

Erin go braugh

i want to go to there

I’ve wanted to visit Ireland for about as long as I can remember.  The green hills, the pubs, the castles, the cold, I want to experience it all.  But it’s more than that.  I feel like if I went there, I wouldn’t want to leave.  It seems like the emerald isle could be the home I’ve never seen.  Ireland has been calling to me.

Diminutive Roommate and I were chatting at the breakfast table a few weeks ago about vacations, and how long it’s been since I took one (London with the family in May, 2009).  I said I would love to go to Ireland.  She said, “Let’s go!”  The show she’s on will be ending a bit before I start school, so I’m planning on leaving Karate Job a few weeks before classes start to take a trip with her.

It was a pretty flawless plan, but like most plans, it had, in fact, a flaw.  I IM’d Diminutive Roommate a week after our convo: “I’m getting excited about Ireland,” and got a response: I don’t think I can go with you.  Teacher Roommate had reminded Diminutive Roommate that she had promised to go with her to Ireland years ago.   My heart sank.  I wasn’t even angry, just horribly disappointed.  A couple of weeks passed while we ignored the topic, and I finally sat down while Boyfriend and Diminutive Roommate’s ex-boyfriend and a good friend of mine from college (let’s call him Boardgame Friend since he’s super into boardgames, and even taught a class on table-top gaming for actual credits at an actual school once) played a zombie game on the floor nearby.  I said, “Ok, what’s going on with Ireland?  Tell me what’s on your mind.”  Turns out she won’t be able to keep her promise to Teacher Roommate since her schedule will preclude her from traveling with her while TR is available to travel (August), while DR and I can travel in late May/early June.  This was all truth as of last week.

Yesterday afternoon I was chatting with Teacher Roommate about Diminutive Roommate’s schedule, and she said, “Sounds like they’re pushing the show back, too.”  I thought, No.  No way.  there’s no way Diminutive Roommate wouldn’t tell me that her schedule had changed, thus potentially changing my plans to travel abroad for the first time in three years.  Surely… surely she would tell me.

I texted her asking when her show would be done.  No answer.  When she got home, she broke the news that the show might be ending later than planned, but she wouldn’t know for another week.

Well.  Fine.

note to self: table flipping looks super gratifying. must try.

Now I’m placed in the position of deciding where I should really just consider where I want to travel alone.  Should I do another archaeology expedition instead?  I had such a blast in Belize, but I was surrounded by people my own age there, too.  Should I join a tour so I can experience the country in a group?  Wandering around alone definitely has its appeal, but it does sound a bit… lonely.  Sharing new experiences with someone you love is so fun.  Sure would be nice to have Diminutive Roommate there with me.

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badness, humor, work

Haiku distraction: Theater = masturbation

If I wasn’t able to write Bitter Haikus during boring meetings, I would go a little crazy.  Unleashing my intolerance for time-wasting, self-congratulating, fat-cat council meetings is all that keeps me from misbehaving just to see what would happen.

I had a 12-hour day at Office Job starting at 830am this week, and ending at a meeting where the dean of the school of theater spoke.  She brought an undergraduate student from her school with her.  They were just so pleased with their school and its purpose.

ah, theater. I have so much to learn from you.

The dean seems to say,
“Without theater, we would
all just die.” Huh. ‘Kay.

She started off her lecture by showing a video about what the school does, and how it’s just the best.  Naturally, every dean believes their school is the best, and that all students should take at least one of their school’s classes.  This got under my skin because theater is… how you say?… ridiculous.  I’ve seen one of their productions, and I was not impressed.  She and her student kept emphasizing how, in the theater school, students could “discover themselves,” as if the school of philosophy wouldn’t offer similar self-realization with the added benefit of a degree with some academic merit.  Poppycock!  Poppycock, I say!

“Being an actor
makes you a smarter person.”
Or… just go to class.

That is a direct quote from the theater student.  He said that researching how to play different roles gave him a wide range of knowledge about all kinds of people, as if he couldn’t get that exact education with greater accuracy and depth by taking any non-theater class.  He used playing a doctor as an example.  I scoffed aloud as I clamped down on the urge to throw my hand up and ask if he thought taking pre-med classes would have made him even “smarter” than his preparation for the role.  What a load.

Holy shit, he just
almost cried.  Be a bigger
stereotype, kid.

Yep, he got choked up talking about how great the theater program is.  Then he made fun of himself for it, and called himself a stereotype.  And he was right.

Don’t let the timer
meant for members go off while
the dean speaks, genius.

The presidents of the council for which the meeting was held have decided to bribe the committees to keep their presentations short by timing them (somehow the presidents themselves escaped this indignity).  While the dean spoke, the timer went off, and continued beeping obnoxiously in the co-presidents bag right in front of the podium for a solid minute before they figured out what it was.

Don’t ask the actor
if he wants to talk.  He does.
He will.  Always.  Talk.

The dean finished answering questions, and she asked her student if had anything to add.  Sheesh.  What kind of question is that to ask an actor?  Of course he wants to add something!  “What’s that?  A microphone and a captive audience?  Why yes!  I do have something to add!”

The dean also said something that ruffled my feathers: “What we know about ancient civilizations, we know through their theater.”  Now, I double majored in Art History and Philosophy, so imagine how rewarding it feels to listen to someone at the university where I got my degrees tell me that I owe every piece of knowledge I learned at a non-theater school to the theater school.  What an ego.  And it’s weird because I like this woman.  She’s very grounded and smart, but apparently when she’s selling her school, she goes balls-to-the-wall crazy.

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badness, work

Too many bossy bosses

My boss at Office Job, who we’ll call Little Mole Boss for her previously explained propensity to close her eyes for long periods of time while talking, is, by and large, a good boss.  Most of the time she is considerate of others, generous with her time, and a hard worker.  She takes time every morning when she comes in to say hello to everyone, ask us how our weekends were, etc.  If someone calls in sick, she seems genuinely concerned, and never complains about their absence.  Overall, an excellent boss who makes my experience at work pretty stress-free, especially compared to other bosses I’ve had.

I’ve noticed, however, that she feels free to interrupt us, her subordinates, while we speak, even if one of us is answering a question she asked.  One of my bosses at Karate Job (we’ll call him Frantic Boss) has a similar problem: He’s so high-energy that when the person he’s talking to finds a spot during his frantic monologue to put her two cents in, he won’t look her in the face while she talks, and once she’s finished talking, he’ll say something like, “That’s an excellent point.  So what I was saying was…”  It’s like he’s just waiting for his turn to talk instead of listening.  He interrupts people mid-sentence with phrases like, “I totally understand where you’re coming from,” as if his commiseration is enough reason to stop talking.  I’ve seen him do this to several people including his boss, the owner of the karate school.

I really dislike when people interrupt each other.  Interrupting someone is a socially semi-acceptable way to say, “Stop talking.  Whatever you’re about to say, it’s not as interesting/important/pertinent as when I’m about to say, so just save yourself the trouble and shut up.”
Or, somewhat more absurdly, “I feel clairvoyant around you.  Your predictability so bores me that I can’t help but attempt to force you to shush by verbally bulldozing you.”

It’s so rude!  People who do this drive me nuts.  Since I’ve noticed this in my bosses, I’ve been keeping an eye on myself, and I realize I do this sometimes at home while chatting with the roomies.  If we’re talking about something funny or whatever, the conversation goes more quickly and talking over each other is only slightly more acceptable.  Still, I’m going to be more vigilant about this.  I like hearing them talk, they’re fun and smart.

So now I get to hop up on my high horse and point out how I think my bosses could improve:

1. Be willing to conduct an uncomfortable/negative discussion in a professional manner.
Karate bosses are actually really good at this, which is great.  Little Mole Boss cannot do this at all.  She got so uncomfortable once when we were talking about some nasty emails flying around within an organization we assist in running, that she put her head down on the table we were sitting at, and left it there for a solid minute or so while my two coworkers attempted to sound comforting while hiding the amusement in their voices.  She just wanted to disappear, which made me want to disappear.  Not a good leadership technique.

2. Listen to your subordinates.
Naturally, there is an implied “without interrupting” at the end of that sentence, but I’ve already gone over that.  Really, the point is that my karate bosses do not take criticism or suggestions from their subordinates well at all.  In fact, our opinions get out-right ignored, even though our bosses spend almost no time talking to our clients and students.  They sit in their ivory tower and make sweeping changes to the curriculum and policies on a monthly basis, regardless of what their subordinates say.  It’s a shame because we would be an excellent resource for them, and because it demoralizes us.

3. Acknowledge your short-comings.  Learn to depend upon your subordinates for their strengths.
This must be a tough one.  As a boss, I would imagine I would feel like I was the best at most things.  How else would I have gotten where I was?  Little Mole Boss is technologically somewhat inept, considering that she’s in her 70’s, and her generation lacks the constant exposure to computers, etc.  So when the prospect of online interaction with our clientele came up, she was against it.  When I suggested an iPhone app for a huge event we host with several thousand people, she shot it down.  When it was time to send out holiday cards, she asked me to find something affordable and religiously neutral.  When I sent her a dozen cards with price points, she responded with one card twice as expensive, and ignored my suggestions to use something more cost-effective, thereby rendering my efforts pointless.

Being a boss can’t be easy, I understand that.  I’m not sure what kind of boss I’d be.  It sounds lonely.

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badness, nerd

Fewer mistakes, less embarrassment

i'm so disappointed

I’m a bit of a grammar snob, so when people make  mistakes like using “less” instead of “fewer,” I always notice, and it always bothers me.  It makes the person sound lazy or ignorant (or stupid), especially when (if I feel comfortable correcting them) they can’t tell why they’re wrong, even when I point it out.

I was shocked to discover my mom was, until recently, one of these people.  She majored in English, and I had to explain to her when it was appropriate to use “less” or “fewer.”  I figured, maybe this is a more wide-spread problem than I thought, perhaps because when you say you want more of something there’s just one way to say it: MORE, but when you want not-more, you have to think.  So let’s break it down:

Fewer is used when talking about individual items (cans of soda, grains of sand, etc.).  The easy way to remember this is to see if you can apply numbers to it: five cans of soda, six grains of sand.

Less is used when talking about amounts (water, sand, etc.).  Numbers cannot be applied to these.  Would it make sense to say, “I want six sands, please.”  No, no.

Observe:

Few = individual items
“I want a can of soda.”
“Just one?  How about six cans?”
“No, I want fewer than that.  Just one, in fact.”

Less = amounts
“How much soda do you want?”
“Just a bit.  Less than I had last time.”

Think of it this way: If a waiter asks, “How many waters do you guys want?” he’s really saying, “How many cups of water do you guys want.”  He’s just being a lazy idiot.  The answer is always “fewer,” because he’s talking about something you can count.

Something like a liquid can’t be divided and counted without changing it somehow (like pouring it into cups or freezing it into cubes); that’s a sure sign that you’re dealing with an amount, and you should use “less” when talking about diminishing it.  Individual items (like ice cubes, sugar cubes, grains of sand, etc.) should be diminished using “fewer.”

Quiz time!  Which is correct?

a) I would like less coffee.
b) I would like fewer coffees.
c) I would like less coffees.
d) I would like fewer coffee.

If you said A and B, you’re correct!  If you said anything else, reread this post until you get it, or message me and I’ll help you understand how this works.  It’s a simple way to get a handle on a part of the English language every native speaker should have mastered by adulthood.  Alas…

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badness, martial arts

Cold comfort

The western world seems to be generally unaware of the “comfort women” of World War II, Korean women forced into sexual slavery for Japanese forces.  I didn’t learn about it until I started training in Korean forms of martial arts.  My instructors were from South Korea, and for a while they wouldn’t admit Japanese students to our school.  One of them explained that his grandmother had been a “comfort woman,” and that many Koreans still harbored anger against the Japanese.  Though many formal apologies have been formally issued by Japanese administrations, the compensation paid to Korea by the Japanese in the 60’s–meant for the Korean people–was instead directed to other people (which is pretty messed up).  As a result, Koreans are still up in arms about the issue.

A bronze statue of a young Korean woman was erected in South Korea recently.  She sits facing the Japanese Embassy with an empty seat next to her for others to join her vigil.  This is a pretty serious issue over there, and has pissed off plenty of Japanese people who believe the issue closed (or at the very least dealt with through the proper channels).

I can’t believe I still haven’t visited Korea or Japan.  Gotta fix that.

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