O Technology

The ol' WWW has been spotty at home.
Will post much more soonest.
xo
Scot

Staffing Issues

At this time of record unemployment, when so many (including us) are struggling with financial difficulties, I feel a little guilty for bringing this up. But I must. It's the help. Jeff and I have been having terrible problems with our servants.
Let's start with Sofia-Louise (So-Lo to her friends). She is our Belgian maid. When we hired her we thought the Belgians were as fussy as their neighbors, the Swiss. We were wrong. A typical day will start with me bringing her coffee. "Sofie? Time to get up sweetie."
"Why?"
"Time to clean!"
"Too early. Without sunlight, I won't see the dirt."
"Sofie, it's 10:30."
This gets her up. Mostly because that's when her favorite show is on. (An incomprehensible Euro Soap.)
When I suggest she vacuum, she shakes her head. Apparently American Electric outlets are just too different from what she's used to and she isn't sure of their safety.
Dusting? Why bother when it will just be dusty again tomorrow? If I tell her to make the beds she looks at me accusingly, "Make the beds? Are you expecting company?"
My favorite Sofie-ism relates to clutter, "Hey, it is not my fault that you guys have too much stuff."
Then there is Hans-Lars, our chauffeur. He has such a beautiful uniform. All braiding and brass. But there is no denying it: he looks very out of place behind the wheel of the '79 Plymouth Volare.
Jeff (who can get very BBC on us) insisted on a stable boy.
"Honey!" I protested in vain, "We don't have a stable!"
"Well, you know, he's more to keep Sofie company."
Our cook,Beverly, does make some fine food. Although, be careful, if she offers you a cup of tea: find an excuse to skee-daddle. Otherwise you'll be trapped for hours as she dabs away tears with the edge of her apron and tells you all about her troubles with her husband, Bert. Seems he's at the pub every night and have a roving eye. She keeps wanting me to hire him as either a groundskeeper or a gamekeeper, despite our short supply of ground and game.
Beverly is sometimes known as Hurricane Beverly for her ability to use every last bowl, spoon, pot and counter top when making anything. She could fix you toast and manage to dirty the garlic press and the bunt pan.
Does she clean these dishes?
"Oh no! I would be taking work from poor Sofie-Louise. I would be insulting her if I did the dishes."
And Sofie? "No. The kitchen is Beverly-land. Ever since the war we Belgians are very sensitive about invading someone else's territory."
What we really need is a dog nanny. And we will get one, a real Mary Poppins. Just as soon as I can hook up the nanny-cam. Hmm. Nanny Cam. Maybe there's a way to make the Nanny position pay for itself. I'll have to talk to my tech savvy friends. Nanny cam sounds dirty. People pay for dirty. Right?
If you'll excuse me, I have an onerous task ahead of me. I need to broach the subject of the bathroom with Sofie. Last time she bit me.
I know I should leave it to Mrs. Effington, our housekeeper. But the woman scares me. She spends so much time just staring at that portrait of Jeff's first husband.

Rusty

I am so excited for Thursday night.
It's the first rehearsal for a reading of "My Dog Saw Me Naked" (March 9th, sponsored by Northwest Playwrights Alliance at Seattle Rep.)
I have to restrain myself from putting on a gingham frock and skipping about the room shrieking "Company's comin'! Company's comin'!"
An added bonus is that the rehearsal is here, which means our lazy maid will have to switch off those Belgian soap operas and actually clean the apartment.
I've been feeling a little cleaved lately. I'm becoming two people: the domestic guy and the man-about-town once or twice a month playwright. I miss being one person.
I was talking to a friend over the weekend who said she was going through the same thing. This weird divide between too many never-get-out-of-pajama days and absolutely in her element time at the theater.
It leaves me feeling not always so strong. And when I'm not feeling strong, I can get petty.
Yesterday, for example. Got an email about the reading basically say, "Hey, the reading isn't going to be in the Leo K (One of the Rep's smaller spaces)They're using the space during the day and aren't sure what shape it'll be in. The reading will be in the Leo K rehearsal room. Please tell audience to enter through the side door."
Nothing to get upset about. For goodness sake isn't a Rep priority. And for that matter, the reading isn't magically better for having been at the Rep. Listing it on my resume will never cause one of my scripts to float to the top of a pile. The Rep is being totally magnanimous about offering space. It's exactly the sort of thing big theaters should be doing. The room they provide will be perfectly fine for a reading. The Rep is a busy place.
But. But nobody likes being reminded how far down the list they are.
For just a moment the cranky, petulant eight year old in me (let's call him Rusty) came out in full force. He screwed up his freckly face and whined, "Like what? A broom closet?"
I sigh, "It won't be a broom closet. It might be smaller, but this particular script might actually benefit from a more intimate space. And come on, it's not like throngs of people come out on a Tuesday night to catch a play reading."
"Are there gonna be people coming through with bus tubs full of dishes? Dirty dishes?"
"Rusty, this is a theater, not a diner."
"Are we gonna have to be out by a certain time? Like, are they gonna flash the lights on us?"
"Rusty! It's not a long piece. We'll be out by nine."
Rusty can be hard to placate, at least with reason and common sense.
"Rus, buddy, how about we make it a game?"
"A game? What kinda game?"
"Let's say that the last time the NPA had a reading at the Rep, some of the people involved got drunk --"
"Like Uncle Freddy get's drunk?"
Uncle Freddy? "Uh, Sure Rusty, just like Uncle Freddy. And they did some damage."
"Like they trashed the place?"
"Yeah, like soccer hooligans. And the Rep banned future NPA readings. And what we're doing is snaking in. A guerrilla reading. Not Gorilla like the ape but --"
"I know what guerrilla means."
"Sorry. Most eight-year-olds don't."
"Heh heh. We'll show them! Top secret reading! Yeah!"
The irony of Rusty getting all upset is that he can't even go to the reading. He's eight and "My Dog Saw Me Naked" has a couple of very dirty sections.
Gotta go wake up the maid. Ciao.

Conversation with a ghost

Spring has come early to Seattle. Which means my annual two weeks of hay fever have come early. (I much prefer "hay fever" to "allergies.") So I have taken a Zyrtec, which promises to be "non-drowsy." *sigh* The first broken promise of Spring is so bitter sweet.
I guess I don't mind the wonky-ness. (In fact, in the 10th grade I briefly used antihistamines recreationaly.) Just don't expect much of me.
I'm spacing out, looking at the leafless horse chestnut trees that line our street. They look like heads of broccoli bisected. Broccoli makes me think of brains. Which reminds me of the last time I saw a human brain (it was at one of those traveling anatomy sideshows). The brain without a scull looks smaller than I imagined it would be. It --
"Hey! Mr. Science! Put a sock in it. You're giving me a headache. And if you're short a sock, it's your lucky day. And extra one turned up in the wash."
I've been joined by the ghostly figure of a middle aged woman. At first I think it's my friend Jennifer's Mom. Than I realize.
"Hey! You're Erma Bombeck!"
"Yeah."
"You're dead!"
"Tell me about it."
I was tempted to make a crack about Over the Counter Meds and how the label didn't include the warning: "May hallucinate deceased syndicated columnists>" But I remembered how Scrooge was mocked when he tried to blame Marley's visit on an undigested potato.
Pulling my self together, I smile. "You were a big part of my childhood."
"Please, stop."
"Twice a week you were the high point of the newspaper."
"Three times a week, but who's counting?"
"You were a big influence on me. The whole notion of finding humor in what could be a dull existence."
"Dull isn't the half of it."
"And the whole concept that problems could be laughed at."
"Could and should, sweetie."
"Sometimes I wished you were my mom."
"Trust me, that's a wish you're lucky never came true. I'll give you my kids' numbers. They'll set you straight."
"I'm kind of housebound myself at the moment."
She glances around the chaos of the apartment. "If I were you, I'd fire the maid."
"Believe me," II said, "The maid would love to quit."
I get a ghost of a smile. Literally.
"Mrs. Bombeck --"
"Please, Erma."
"Erma. How did you do it? You made it seem easy."
"Easy? Did you read my column?"
"Uh..."
"Wait, how old were you when you stopped reading?"
"Early teens?"
"Yup."
"Ok, Ok. I get it."
"Well," She sat down and leaned back, "To be fair, there were things that never made it into the newspaper. The speculation about what flavor of Tuna Helper would best hide the taste of poison. The time my hilarious husband couldn't find something right under his nose and I suggested we could put it in a place where he'd always know where it was. The time I was cleaning under the bed and decided to stay down there because the dust bunnies were better company than my family."
"Harsh."
"Yeah, pretty much anything I submitted that involved daytime drinking, self-mutilation or bouts of unexplained crying got spiked."
"But it's ok, right? There's a noble element to it all. Yeah?"
She picks up the bottle of Zyrtec, shakes it till it rattles."How many of these did you take?"
"Erma!"
"Oh, relax. I'm just fuckin' with you."
I am stunned at her use of the F word.
"Look," She says, "Ask yourself this: Why me? Why of all the billions of dead people, did you pick me to show up."
Huh.
"Oh, Jeez! Look at the time. Hey, I got a load of whites that are just hitting the spin cycle. I'm pretty sure that's where socks appear and disappear. Hey, that's my big advice for you, why I'm hear today -- don't start counting the socks on laundry day. Drive you nuts. And it doesn't fuckin' matter which way the toilet paper goes on."
And she's gone.
Two weeks. That's how long my hay fever usually lasts. I'm guessing tomorrow Ann Landers will show up suggesting counseling or a chat with my minister. Please don't let me laugh at her hair.

Um, about that perspective thing

I wrote a couple days ago about keeping perspective. That we have glamorous and not so glamorous periods in our lives. And when you find yourself in the midst of not especially stellar days, take heart, the wheel will turn.
But, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't mention the flip side of perspective, and what happens when you pull the camera back even further.
This is how my silly ol' brain runs on that:
Certainly climate change is a reality (regardless of the idiots who mistake local anomalous weather for climate. Climate change has always been a reality. (We really aren't that far past the last ice age.) Now, I do believe in being green and all, and doing what we can for endangered species(although we are actually already about six thousand years into a great extinction phase.)
I don't think humans will go extinct soon (eventually, sure. Soon? How soon is soon?) But with seven billion people on Earth, I just don't think we can maintain that number. I think we'll have a population collapse within the next hundred years (my definition: at least a billion deaths within ten years.) Probably linked to a disruption in the food or water supply, with some added political chaos. It's a problem that we may be able to alleviate, but not solve. (Unless of course, an asteroid takes us all out sooner.)
Why all this catastrophic thinking? Well, Jeff just found out he's got a pretty good FICO score. And I was gripped with the vision of us getting a house just in time for the start of the apocalypse. Nothing does a number on property values like the end of the world.

Flashlights required

Just a quick mini post.
Have I mentioned that the streetlights on our block (and only on our block) have been our for several days now? I sent a message to the city to no avail.
Part of my mind is reaching toward the metaphorical on this: stumbling through the uncertain darkness...searching blindly...something-something enlightenment. Nothing especially original.
The more literal part of my brain is like, "I'll bet it's the Rape Van Crew. They found a way to knock out the streetlights. Easier to get away with whatever it is they do when no one can see!"

I'll keep you posted.

Perspective

A rut. A little bit of a rut. That's all it is. Of course, I've blown it all out of proportion. I have become the Prisoner of Zenda. Is that the same thing as the Man in the Iron Mask? No, no. They're separate people, I'm sure. Hmm, but is one of them the Count of Monte Cristo? And why is a Monte Cristo sandwich called a Monte Cristo sandwich? Who wants a sandwich with so much baggage? Wow,Scot, so somebody who is wrongly imprisoned for years in a dungeon merely has "baggage?" Wait..."wrongly imprisoned in a dungeon"... I think if it's a dungeon, the "wrongly" is kind of implied.
Arggh! This is what it's like in my head when I'm in a rut. Hamster wheels! Dozens of hamster wheels.
But, my point today (And I don't really have one, but let's pretend) is to bring up Perspective.
There was a study I read about where they phoned up people across the country, some experiencing nice weather and some dreary weather. And they asked these folks "Are you satisfied with your life." NOT "how are you doing today." Well, of course (or else I probably wouldn't have remembered the study) the people with miserable weather tended to say they weren't so very satisfied with their lives, their whole lives. And the good weather subjects said their lives were pretty good.
I know things will change, it just doesn't always feel that way.
And, oh, how I wish I were one of those people who stood at the prow of their ships and boldly carved out their lives! But I'm not.
(If fact, given my vast reservoir of insecurity, my inherent crippling shyness and my general fear of the future, it's kind of amazing I've made it this far.)
But, we're not dwelling on that today, instead we are focusing on...on..on what? Ah, yes, we're remembering how I've gotten out of ruts in the past. My technique (and this is going to drive you bold carving prow standing folks crazy) is -- oh, before I tell you, I want to explain about the Roman goddess of good fortune whose name escapes me, so we'll call her Mandy. They -- the Romans-- say that when Mandy comes running by, grab her by the forelocks, because she's bald from behind.
And that's what I've done in the past. Seized opportunity for change, grabbing it with both hands.
I envy those people who don't wait. Those who "Make their own opportunity."
But I y'am what I y'am.

Too Much of a Good Thing

I love spending time alone. I crave it. I get cranky if I don’t get it.

But being stuck here at home (and I promise that in the not so distant future I will elaborate on why this is the situation) is pushing the limits. Even my limits. It can make you wiggy. Yes, you heard me, wiggy.

Social contact keeps us sane. You have to modify your behavior when you’re with others, keep on top of things. Think of all the little activities you do when nobody’s watching: the weird food eaten, the little things you hum, the strange private rituals and superstitions. And when you find yourself with oceans of solitude, well, the peculiar little gnome inside can get a little bold. I’ll get back to him in a sec.

The other thing about self imposed home detention is that your world can shrink a bit. The walls close in and you gain a new appreciation for “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Little domestic annoyances become signs of the apocalypse. A stopped up drain becomes an epic tragic opera. Fixing dinner transforms into an onerous, Sisyphean burden. Do you remember in the film “Safe” when Julianna Moore’s character discovers that the decorators have gotten the color wrong. And she stands there in her living room saying “No. This isn’t right. It’s just not right.” And she’s devastated and panicked? I have those days I know that panic.

On the upside, I feel like I’m part of a long literary tradition. Thematically linked to enforced domestication. “Taming of the Shrew,” “Hedda Gabbler,” Erma Bombeck. Oh, and that one from the ‘70’s about valium addiction: “I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can.” Not that I have succumbed to drugs (Although there are days when that Nyquil bottle looks pretty inviting.)

That little gnome I spoke of – let’s call him Schlagghammer – he loves to encourage me to free associate, knowing that it’s a sure path to madness. And he loves looking backward, raking over the coals of the past. The first time I experienced periods of solitude was when I would stay home sick from school. I loooooved staying home sick. Growing up in a family of five kids, being home by myself all day was a luxury. And I savored it. The house was a completely different building when it was filled with silence. I could hear my thoughts. I was untroubled by interruption. My true self could emerge. And then I could turn on the television.

You know what fascinated me most was “The Price is Right.” Furniture sets, washer/dryers, his & her watches (well, his & her anything really), and of course A New Car! Oh, those fabulous show cases! (And how exciting it was when someone won both of them by coming in within less than $100 and not going over!) Those assholes in Contestants’ Row who bid “one dollar!” Or, one dollar more than the last bid.

But let us not forget: The man himself, Mr. Bob Barker. I used to think he had the best job in the world. But now I wonder if maybe he didn’t have a late in life crisis. Like he’d wake up at 3 a.m. muttering “All I did with my life was hand out crap. Carp never brought anyone real happiness.”

Now days I never watch TV during the day. TV during the day makes me sad. Daytime Television is a mediocre comic in the corner of a busy bar trying to get people’s attention, tapping the mic, asking no one in particular, “is this thing on?”

But I am curious about shows I used to enjoy as a kid. Take Mr. Rodgers. Loved that show. Not the boring part with the sweaters and the fish tank and that odd delivery man. I loved it when the little trolley showed up to take us away from the mundane drudgery of the real world to the bright, shiny (but still black & white on our TV) Neighborhood of Make Believe. (Someday soon I’ll tell you all about how life wouldn’t be worth living without talking animals.) But I fear a return to the NOMB would be colored by my current socialist leanings. I mean come on, it’s ruled by a king. A freaking king for gods sakes!!

Yeah, benevolent. They all start out benevolent.

I think the revolution’s chief instigator would be Lady Elaine Fairchilde. She’d stand on top of her Museum-Go-Round delivering speeches about the inevitable march of history! She’d give up the title “lady” and insist on being called Citizen Elaine Fairchilde. Both X the Owl and Daniel Striped Tiger are dumb enough to fall for her utopian promises.

The castle would be stormed. Kind Friday XIII would be hung from the tree. X’s Tree. (I’m skipping over the farce of Friday’s trial. The parade of false witnesses, trust me, no one can lie like a puppet.) Queen Sarah Saturday would have her head shaved and be forced to work in the factory. There’s a factory, right? A pencil factory run by a little rodenty guy…Corky? Am I remembering correctly? Anyway, don’t ask about Prince Tuesday. Too sad, too soon.

At first everything’s great. X and Henrietta Pussycat don’t have to hide their forbidden love. In the spirit of equality (meow meow – quality) inter species marriage is legalized. It gets ugly quick. The Platypus family watches as their bagpipes are tossed onto a bonfire. And then they are boarded onto the little red trolley and off they go to the Gulag of Make Believe.

Arrgh! See what I mean about free association?! Damn you Schlagghammer!

OK, deep breathes. A little perspective. Those are the things I cling to. My current situation won’t last forever. Nothing does.

The Eyes and Ears of the Neighborhood

My special assignment for today was to keep an eye on the Rape Van. I've had to channel my inner Mrs. Kravitz.
The Rape Van is one of two vehicles owned by Creepy Old Guy. The other is a truck that he seems to live out of. Which I guess make the Rape Van (you know what I mean: white, non-descript, no windows on the side) his office. Creepy Old Guy has a friend: Aging 80's Hustler: skinny, dyed black hair, somewhere in his thirties, always has on sunglasses, wears a studded belt. A lot of thought and crystal meth went into this look.
I'm specifically trying to figure out if this unholy duo has moved in downstairs or are just good friends with the lads who live under us.
My husband and I rent the top half of a duplex in what was until two weeks ago a very nice neighborhood. Our downstairs neighbor is the son of the owners (the owners are a group of siblings, so he's the son of one, nephew to the rest). We'll call him X. Oh, and X lives down there with his boyfriend. (But please, keep that under your hats!)
I don't want to tattle on anyone. And I don't know if it would do any good. When we've hinted in the past that X is not the best person to live over, we haven't exactly gotten a rousing response. More of the glazed look of denial. I guess nobody wants to think of their little boy (now pushing 40) as being a mess. A big mess. A mess you don't mind foisting on your real tenants.
I mean, it can't be much of a surprise to them. A couple years back X called the cops on his Dad who'd dropped by. (Oh, and let me tell you, my husband was mortified at the five cop cars that pulled up out front! "Everyone's gonna think it's us!")
I'm torn between (rapidly dwindling) sympathy for somebody down on his luck and being seriously creeped out by Creepy Old Guy. (And not thrilled about the possibility of paying for the water that showers him.)
Oh, hey...Let me introduce myself. My name is Scot and I'm the Existential Househusband. Somehow, a combination of the weak economy, an indulgent spouse and some odd life choices (choices that range from the misguieded to the ill-advised to the downright self-destructive) have me staying home these days acting out some strange parody of American domestic life.
Welcome.