Background Screaming

is a level of insanity.

HOW small is it?

J_____ and I just finished watching Jersey Girl and became somewhat transfixed on the main menu "root" screen. We stared at the rudimentary map of New Jersey, trying to name where we thought different parts of the state could be. It was a short-lived game because the only places we've ever heard of in New Jersey are Hoboken, Fort Lee, Red Bank, and Closter. We thought that maybe the places called Orange were on that map somewhere also, but everyone we know who lives in Directional Orange has a thick New York accent, so they might actually be upstate.

Once we found the four cities of New Jersey, I commented that New Jersey is so big.

Without missing a beat or a shrug, "Size of Israel."

Ha! I love how J_____ turned that one around.

Dear US Airways:

I recently had the misfortune of finding myself booked on US Airways Flight xxxx from New York to Raleigh. Original departure time was set for 7:25 p.m. on Thursday, February 14, 2008. Arrival at the airport, check-in, and security all went smoothly, and while the food court fare was edible, what was sorely lacking in quality was well made up for by the fact that we would be in Raleigh soon enough.

To our extreme disappointment, on arrival at the gate, we bore witness to the on-screen departure time literally changing before our eyes from 7:25 pm to 10:10 pm, and then 10:46 pm. No announcements had yet been made, so we—for some reason – assumed that the chatty ladies behind the desk at LaGuardia’s Gate 1 would provide us with an explanation for the delay.

“Maintenance,” followed by loud teeth sucking and zero eye contact was the retort from a US Airways employee I had clearly annoyed by daring to ask a question.

“What does that mean?” wondered the few people around us who also noticed the screen change.

“I dunno. Oil, something maybe like that,” posited the US Airways person.

“How can we be certain that if we wait here for 3 hours, a flight will actually arrive to take us to Raleigh?” The man behind us with a bushel of roses was obviously distraught.

The US Airways ambassador had had enough. “Well do you WANT it to be canceled?” she nastily asked no one in particular.

We were made to feel as if it is typical for people to spend over $700 on something—in this case a pair of plane tickets-- and then be treated as if we are low-lives who have asked for something for nothing. I have gotten better customer service in the Port Authority Bus Terminal at 3 am, and the cost of that ride was $69.

Hours later, we happened to notice that the departure time for our flight was now listed as 11:10 pm. 2 bathroom trips, a laptop movie, and a very expensive snack later, the time had inched up to 11:13. An unhelpful gate change announcement for no reason in particular seemed to yield the next addendum to departure time, 11:20 pm.

Despite my fiancé’s pleadings to not waste my time, I again attempted to obtain an—oh, I don’t know—an explanation? Empathy? God forbid an apology? Quickly, I realized, eye contact really is a premium commodity in US Airways Land and I would not be getting any that evening.

“Excuse me, “ as I approached Gate 7. “Is it normal for an airplane to be delayed for four hours without explanation?” I can’t say I was surprised by the response.

“That’s not my gate.” Actually, she said “Das nah my gay” and pointed to Gate 6, perhaps indicating that was where my answers lie. I turned to her esteemed colleague at Gate 6, but as I began the painful walk to even more frustration, that Gate 6 representative walked toward, and then past me, and furiously whispered in the ear of the Gate 7 lady.

Clearly, US Airways customer service is of another league, and my fiancé was correct. I should not have wasted my time.

The time on the board never inched past 11:20, but as we all still sat in our ripped, broken gate chairs at 11:25, I dared not ask again, lest I again incur the wrath of a cruel and indifferent US Airways representative.

We finally boarded, still sans explanation, at 11:35 and took off shortly thereafter. The welcome announcement on board unbelievably made no mention of the 4+ hour delay, almost as if we were perhaps even finding ourselves airborne ahead of a scheduled midnight departure.
On landing in Raleigh just over an hour later, the stewardess actually apologized! She said “We sincerely apologize for the delay.” I almost fainted.

I understand US Airways’ slogan is “Fly With Us.” Well, we certainly tried. The word “with” does generally connote togetherness, and not the presented image of bitter and angry airline employees. The message we took from this experience is more like “Fly From Us.”


Sincerely,

Joclyn and J_____

We got results! We were given $75 each toward future travel. Now convincing J_____ to let us fly out to California to meet and visit his other brother L__ is my next challenge. Perhaps I will write a letter.

I've said for years that OT will give me something to write about. Here goes. First in a series.

The crotchety woman down the hall worthy of detestation despite the generosity of her time screams out loud over the telephone at car service dispatchers. This was not part of the job description. She does raise my ire, but only if I think about it and certainly not for long. Even in the moment she suggested that I purchase hand sanitizer rather than dare wash my hands in the lounge from which she screams, it was all I could do to muster a reaction.
She screams from across the way, most of the day in my line of sight. The children appear to fear her and freeze up as she moves toward, albeit an aimless move. They do not know her name.
Jonathan rolls on the floor, and Justin kicks balls wildly. Allan improves his aim, and Christian remains unpredictable. My workspace is a tiny section of a stairwell, and despite this the crotchety woman decorates the windowsill with holiday figurines, the fragile collectibles designed for late-at-night home shoppers without Internet access, and also possibly for the desperately lonely.
I marvel daily. “Let’s not aim for the Burl Ives snowman,” or “that heart within arm’s reach certainly looks breakable.” “Is that kneeling leprechaun violating a church/state separation agreement?”
I did not need, but nevertheless learned from the brief clover lecture. The three leaf variety represents the Trinity, but four leaves as good luck was made up.
I anticipate friction.
“Now who’s in the bathroom?” I fart on purpose and slow down. She tries to bump into me on my way out, but I am 30 and nimble.
One morning, I greet her with such and she does not respond in kind. I silently laugh in her face.

I Guess They Just Closed to the Public

Tekserve just called to say that my computer is ready. I can pick it up tomorrow. (But physically, can I?)

Displaced

My MacBook is in the hands of Tekserve repairpeople. (Well, not at the moment. Today, being Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday observed, it is fairer to estimate that my MacBook is on a shelf at Tekserve.)

Tekserve, brought to the HBO subscribing world's attention during the episode of Sex in the City where Carrie's PowerBook died-- and was it subsequently resurrected, or did she end up purchasing a new one?-- is a pretty excellent establishment. I have no idea whether the Apple Store is closed today, but I think it is nicely socially aware of a store that would certainly generate decent revenue on a day which finds many folks such as myself home from work to remain closed, on this one of few federal holidays deemed optional.

(Granted, my working at a hospital days taught that all holidays are potential mandatory time-and-a-half assignments, and Veteran's Day was NOT one of them, for some reason, but I had never before heard of Veteran's Day being one of the optional federal holidays, nor have I since, but in general I think the one holiday where most people bask in the delight of suspended alternate side of the street parking regulations but still put out their trash, forgetting, is today.)

And of course, as I go on about how wonderful it is to recognize MLK by closing for business, I do wish that today counted as one of the 4 business days it will take to replace my hard drive with one that possesses function. I cannot wait much longer.

Some weeks ago, my MacBook stopped working well, and started acting like my first Internet-oriented computer had in 1997 whenever Windows 95 would misbehave. It froze unexpectedly; it would not boot up consistently, and, frankly, it surprised me. My previous Apple computer, an iBook, lasted 6 years and-- I promise-- froze up a grand total of 4 times. That computer still does live, actually, in the living room of a friend's mom so she too may enjoy the pleasures of email, albeit with a 7-year-old laptop monitor that has to be positioned just so else it go dark.

Disk Utility claimed all systems were go, and Tekserve told me that my problems were software-related, and I was to reinstall the operating system, first backing up all of my files. I did as I was told, and yet the problems persisted, although on a smaller and slightly less annoying scale. (I actually did not immediately do as I was told. I could not find the discs that came with my computer, and so I purchased "Leopard," the latest version of OSX which, as far as I could tell, is exactly the same as the older version except with a touch of kitsch.) I backed up as much as I could onto an external hard drive. (Some files just wouldn't go over, for whatever reason.) I then installed the new OS, and began transferring files back. An empty computer does not seem very homey. I first moved all of my Word documents, and then tried to pull over my music files. That's when I knew things weren't OK. It just didn't seem right. Not every file transferred, and some arrived with garbled file names.

I waited until the system crashed to again reinstall Leopard, but I knew that this was the beginning of the end. Disk Utility still was of no assistance, and so when I did find my original system discs and reinstalled them OVER Leopard, I imagined that I would soon find myself again at Tekserve.

This time, Disk Utility was at least mildly utilitarian. It listed the name of my hard drive with red letters, a first. Clicking revealed "S.M.A.R.T. status = failing" or something like that. A helpful window also suggested that I replace my hard drive with one that works. Terrific!

I have a feeling that Disk Utility just didn't pick up on this failure the last few times. Thank goodness for the AppleCare warranty plan. New hard drive: priceless, er, free.

Until 4 business days or so from whenever, I am displaced.

I am using J_____'s Dell desktop, currently. Can you say "ucchy" and "Why are so many AOL things embedded into practically every application even though no AOL user has ever existed on this computer?" The fan whirs loudly; windows blend into one another; (You have to give it more time before you start clicking on things, explains J_____) and despite granting Gmail permission to "remember me" multiple times, it does not remember.

It is probably positive that I am not remembered. If I were, then perhaps my login information would be captured by "spyware" and published in some creepy usenet forum frequented by guys who don't get out much.

We are Doomed

Prediction: Obama becomes the democratic candidate in the next presidential election. Huckabee takes the republican ticket. The people living in the inside, non-coastal parts of our country that no one talks about turn out in droves to vote against the black guy and for the homophobe.

We are doomed.

4 more years! yeehaw.

Dishes

Tonight I did the dishes manually because I could not summon the energy to empty the dishwasher.

I never even had a dishwasher in my life before November of '06 when I purchased the now rented-out DC condo. Now my tenants have my dishwasher.

I did also-- twice now-- become accustomed to having a garbage disposal-- an InSinkErator to be exact while residing in the District of Columbia. I don't have one now, nor does anyone I know in NYC, because they used to be illegal here. I believe I read it had something to do with sewage regulations. They are no longer illegal, and someone missed their market by not going around door-to-door with garbage disposals for sale.

Dishwashers and garbage disposals are two appliances never thought of when never previously encountered.

Emptying my dishwasher in DC was not that bad. It is a scaled-down-in-size model for a scaled-down-in-size condo. The one in this apartment, while definitely circa 1987, is tremendous and almost all of our dishes fit into it.

It cleans the dishes, for some reason takes two hours, and requires a real time commitment to empty. It is a pain in the ass.

A Yid Who Wears Pants

I work as an occupational therapist for a contract agency in NYC. My week is split among three different assignmenst: two public elementary schools, and one pediatric therapy clinic in Borough Park, Brooklyn. (Although I do have disagreements with and several puzzlements over the arrangement and certain statements within the article to which I link, it might at least paint a picture in an unfamiliar head.)

The elementary schools are pretty much what one would expect. I work in the hallway, schlep my own supplies, and most of the parents do not know that I am working with their children. (I almost used industry lingo and said "servicing" but that sounds out of place and unlike what it really means when taken out of context.)

Borough Park is really something else. Most of the kids I treat speak Yiddish fluently and English as well, except they do it with a strong Eastern European accent and cadence, as evidenced by the following two examples.

Boy, 9, explains how he would like to employ my assistance in building a set of train tracks with Legos. (He had never before seen Legos, so he said.)

Me: How can I help?
Boy: (Holds up a Lego piece, and indicates instructively with the index finger on his other hand.) "You take such a piece..."

And the second example, which is really my first example, not only because it occurred earlier than the other one, but because it is the one I have been telling everyone about, involves an 11-year-old girl who was very hesitant to work with me. I completely understood. She had been coming to the clinic for years; the whole place had been recently remodeled; she was having trouble in school, and her former therapist didn't even work there anymore. I let her walk around and pick her own things to do. She sat down at the computer-- not as much of a novelty as I'd hoped, as she does have a computer at home just like ours, one that is not connected to the Internet. She then started to cry. Through her tears, I heard her complain that I'm "not even Jewish!"

A-ha! I had found an in.

"Wait a second. I AM TO Jewish. ("Am to as in are to and not as in too Jewish."

She stopped actively crying and eyed me suspiciously. I received elevator eyes. A moment or two of decreased oxygenation passed, and familiarity registered in her eyes. I made sense to her.

"Ahh." (Remember the accent and the cadence.) "My speech therapist last year too was a yid who wore pants."

We all have our categories, for sure.

One thing I did that I am not sure whether or not to have feelings about is that I lied to a different Chasidic girl and her sisters. They wanted to stay in OT beyond the end of their session, which was also the end of my work day. I explained that I would love to let them stay but I had to go home because I was starving and that dinner was waiting for me.

"Who made the dinner?"

which was, of course, immediately followed by

"Are you married or did your mother make the dinner?"

I glanced down at my engagement ring and felt that there was no acceptable answer. I could have just responded with "purple" at that point, because my lifestyle choices probably would have made just as much sense to them.

"Yes" indicating that I am, indeed, married, feeling that far more question-quashing to say than "No, I am not married, but I do live with my fiance, J_____, with whom I also share a bank account and, of course, a bed, and sometimes we even touch when I am menstruating."

I lied because if I hadn't, her mother would have called up the very next day, or even possibly that very evening to either:
A. Speak very quickly and loudly in Yiddish
B. Speak very quickly and loudly in English once she realized it was me
C. Pull her child from my caseload
or
D. Inform the community via outdated media of the clinic's propensity to hire people who
will corrupt said community

I don't like to lie. I compromised my ethics to shield those girls from what lies beyond their ethics. I definitely would have not lied to Chasidic adults over the same matter.

De-vu-ja

As I'd been saying, I was a bit under the weather all of last week with a cold, came home from a routine MD appointment, and pretty much started puking and fluing immediately on entering the apartment from the visit.

I use "fluing" because was under the impression that I had contracted influenza. I may have, but it was definitely the nastiest variety I've experienced. (And no, I did not get a flu shot this year, although I have done so every year since beginning a health profession. The move and new job got in the way of typical approaching winter schedules.)

On the evening of my puking and fluing, I found it difficult to breathe. My chest and lungs ached, worse on breathing, but also painful at rest. I'd not ever experienced this before, and I was also scarily unable to catch my breath, so J_____ and I went to the ED at Methodist in Park Slope.

I will never again visit an emergency room unless rushed there via ambulance due to something gushing or failing or imminently life-threatening. I was, at first, seen right away secondary to "chest pain." I was taken into a freezing room for an EKG and then, after verifying that I had insurance (which was difficult considering I just started my new job and hadn't received my card yet) was told to wait in the "green chair area" for a doctor. We required an escort to find said area, since no one with an ID badge knew what we were referring to, but once we found it (it was labeled "Asthma Center" or something like that) there we (well, I) sat for five hours. It was five hours of shivering and sweating and wanting to just be asleep, all with J_____ hovering over me since there was nowhere non-patients were allowed to sit. It was also five hours of nary an update, a query, a checking in on, nothing. There was no one to ask, and I was getting sicker, so we left. We were there for five hours, and no one from the green chair area had been seen except for one older gentleman who supposedly was done when we first arrived but just needed someone to take out his IV. I later found out that some people wait in that ER for 27 hours!

So we went home, and I started to get a little bit better. I wasn't getting better in the typical rhythm, however. I've had the flu before.

to be continued...