Ambiguity Inventory
Despite the streaming “relax … it’s good for you” radio and my (weak) attempts at measured breathing, I am freaking out, a vexing mix of rage, frustration, and uncertainty.
RAGE
1) A whole bunch of assorted work-related stuff has been on hold for ages. I am tracking down about $40,000 of receivables that I invoiced in NOVEMBER. Last week I resorted to physically planting myself in the office of the people who owe us money, because they have stopped returning my calls. Once I arrived at the Comptroller’s office, I was prepared to assess the vibes, and then rock my most charming and/or threatening demeanor, as appropriate. But it didn’t matter, because they were all “in a meeting”, so all I could do was write a long, pleading note explaining that I have not deposited my last paycheck because of the cash flow problems they have created. (This borders on truth.) A different office has been stringing me along for over six weeks without making/informing me of a Big Important Decision. I’ve been progressing along the spectrum of hopeful/anxious/resentful, and now I’m way over on the resentful side, slanting over towards rage.
FRUSTRATION
2) Remember how
every single day I think about how I need to transfer my car’s service contract/extended warranty from the former owner’s name to mine? And yet I’ve been unable to get to it for the LAST 13 MONTHS? Well, now the car needs major repairs, and apparently you’re supposed to do the transfer within 15 days of the sale. I have tracked down the former owner and she agreed to meet up and create the necessary paperwork and “updated” bill of sale, but she hasn’t committed to a meeting time, and I’m stressing out, because the transfer might take a few weeks and adorable car deserves prompt attention. And yes, I realize I have brought this on myself.
UNCERTAINTY
3) It looks like I am, in fact, going to attend cooking school in Oaxaca in March. And it’s going to be a mother-daughter trip, which delights me. I feel like it’s wrong to complain about any aspect of this. However, my mom has yet to respond to my scores of emails asking her for her flight preferences. So I can’t make reservations, and thus can’t settle into happy anticipation. Also: I’m unclear about how to handle the cost of this trip. It was established early on that at least part of it would be a birthday gift from my very generous parents. But there’s been no clarity on which part. My dad has offered to pay for the whole thing, but this makes me feel weird, since now, in addition to six nights in Oaxaca, we’re going to spend some time in Mexico City, and with all the flights it’s getting expensive. I feel compelled to make a contribution since the whole thing was my idea, but if my parents can afford all of it and they’re offering …
Posted by Dori at 11:25 AM
Customer Dissatisfaction
Material girl that I am, I stopped at Macy's yesterday after a volunteer training (which I'm mentioning because I
do possess some virtue, dammit). I am justifying my recent shopping binge because everything is so extraordinarily marked down. In fact, I got
this coat for "only" $200. I bought my last coat of this ilk in 1997 (and
finally retired it last spring), so I figure that I'm well within my lifetime black wool coat budget. Plus, this puppy is a cashmere blend.
Anyway. Winter shopping sucks, because one must lug around one's coat (a big puffy one), one's tote bag, and the purchases one has already made (in my case a pair of practical Naturalizer winter boots). And coat shopping sucks especially, because you can't stash your stuff in a fitting room while trying things on. Macy's does not allow this. When I asked the Lilian, the "customer service representative", if I could leave my possessions behind the register, she glared at me as if I had suggested storing septic waste. "If you're asking me to watch your belongings," she bitched, "then the answer is no."
OK then. I proceeded to try on coats while maneuvering around three other women "sharing" one reflective surface (no coats allowed in the fitting room, remember), my stuff, their stuff, and merchandise scattered throughout the sales floor. One woman removed a jacket's detachable hood. Lilian snarled: "I hope that if you take the time to remove the hood, you take the time to put it back on, because I have arthritic hands and can't be doing that." All of us exchanged appalled glances. Then one of them asked Lilian to put a coat on hold. Lilian gestured pointedly at the disorganized hold rack, and shrugged: "I can put it on hold, but there's no guarantee it will still be there tomorrow. There sure is a lot on hold already."
The four of us exchanged more horrified glances. I was so disgusted I wanted to leave, but I'd already invested all this time, and been insulted, and it would just be adding injury to leave without an extraordinarily marked down coat. Should I have spoken to a manager? I still could. But I feel bad. Arthritic Lilian might have a sucky life. It might suck to work at Macy's in the outerwear department during spring sales. She probably makes $7.50 an hour. Does it really matter in the scheme of things if she was rude to four customers? What benefit would I get for complaining, besides niggling guilt?
Posted by Dori at 11:05 AM
Material Girl?
I recently had an illuminating conversation with my friend A.P., with whom communication is sporadic but fantastic. Sometimes I think he understands me better than anyone in the world. We were talking about the demise of my “relationship” with Mr. O, and I related that I’d enjoyed the fine food, the iPod, and the apartment with the high-end bath products. Then I added, “I hope you don’t think I’m materialistic.”
And A.P. responded: “it’s not a question of whether you’re materialistic, but
to what degree you’re materialistic.” This gave me much pause. I talked about how I don’t have (or want) fancy clothes or a souped-up car, and I buy stuff on craigslist, and I treasure my Crate and Barrel table because it’s beautiful, not because of the name brand. (Plus I got it for secondhand for $100.) And A.P. pointed out that buying things at a discount is just another type of materialism, because it amounts to “buying” a bigger bank account. Either want to have the stuff, or you want to have the money.
I think of materialism in terms of making wealth
public. So, I would classify Mr. O as materialistic, because he covets Armani clothes and he has a new BMW and he goes to Vegas and hangs out in VIP lounges. And this is NOT my thing. If I had wealth, I would not want to show it off, and I would never, ever spend $60 on a T-shirt or enjoy “being seen” at an exclusive nightspot. BUT … the fact that I now have an iPod
does make me feel cool. I used to be ashamed on the bus with my stone-aged headset and discman. Now I feel pleased to be a card-carrying MP3 owner. If I wasn’t status-conscious, why would I care about this? And would I love my Crate and Barrel table quite as much if it came from Bob’s Discount Furniture?
I’m not sure if being materialistic is the same as enjoying expensive things, or enjoying other people’s awareness of one’s expensive things. When I disparaged Mr. O’s trip to the VIP lounge, my wise friend D.M. pointed out that if the event were a black-tie inaugural ball for democrats, I’d be all over it. What’s the difference, exactly?
Your ponderings are most welcomed.
Posted by Dori at 1:39 PM
La Cocina Bonita
So. I'm plotting some vacation. I have not been out of the U.S. in two years. I had lovely visits with lovely friends in California and Chicago, but those do not count as full-on vacations. In the absence of a love interest, or a friend with the desire and sufficient vacation days to accompany me, I may be striking it out on my own.
So I've been toying with the idea of a "culinary vacation", meaning cooking classes, beautiful scenery/accommodations, and food-oriented outings.
After several hours of online research, I learned that this type of vacation is most available in France and Italy, and that it typically costs well over $2,000 for six nights, not including airfare. Since I am not a rich person (nor am I dating or married to one), this is beyond my means.
However, a
Mexican culinary vacation is way more affordable, starting at around $1,200 (also not including airfare, but it's much cheaper to fly to Mexico than Europe). But here's the thing. I have very specific desires. I want to learn and practice skills, but
not under a tyrannical head chef in the tradition of Anthony Bourdain or Tom Colicchio (the mean bald judge from
Top Chef). I want structured activities, but I don't want to chase the umbrella of some overzealous tourguide and writhe in shame as fellow tourists photograph "the locals". And most importantly: I want the other participants to be cool.
Which basically means they should
not be: 22-year-old recent college grads with trust funds, crunch-fiends with agendas (maybe defending the rights of chevre-producing goats?), snobs who refer to cabernet as "cab", cutesy couples of pretty much any age or sexual orientation, or retired Hadassah ladies from Tacoma carping about their grandchildren and how the "local cuisine" interacts with their digestion. Also I do not want the other people to know one another already, because if I'm the only solo traveller I'll spend the whole time worrying about whether I'm trying too hard to be social, or not making enough of an effort.
Thus far I've found three options. The
first is the most affordable (a souvenir apron is included!). Basically you live with the instructor in her home, in a non-touristy area. There are only four participants and only 2.5 hours of class a day. The rest of the time you do whatever you want. This could be amazing, or it could feel like a prison sentence.
The
second option is more luxurious and more expensive and could attract snobbier people. There is a courtyard with a pool! It evokes
Melrose Place!And the
third sounds a little new-agey. It offers opportunities to celebrate the spring equinox and welcome the summer rain. I'm not sure I'm down.
So I turn to you. Have you done these or similar trips? Or know of anyone who has? Any and all advice welcome--I've posted on the craigslist message boards, but I got no useful information.
Posted by Dori at 8:38 PM
Some Reflections (Belatedly) Posted in Honor of Dr. Martin Luther King
Right after I finished college, I ran a program for “non-traditional” college students: 20 mothers of color, all in their 30s and 40s. They told me directly that they were not excited about a 22-year-old white girl in their midst. I agonized about this and read all about "Cultural Competency For Well-Meaning White People".
Part of my job entailed supervising Tyra, the group’s peer coordinator, who served as a paid liaison between the staff and the group members. Hoping to start off a solid collaboration, I planned our first meeting carefully, expecting to build on her ideas for the job and the future of the program.
But before I could broach those questions, she told me: “
I should have your job."
I had suspected this myself, and recognized a power dynamic rupturing our so-far polite dialogue.
“I’m sure with all your experience you’ll be a huge asset to the program, no matter what role you’re in,” I said, recognizing the falseness in my tone.
I asked her about her goals and visions, and she responded with stony silence. So I turned our attention to the work I’d prepared. I had a stack of about 20 files I’d inherited from my predecessor. I asked Tyra to go through them and identify which paperwork was missing, keeping the folders in alphabetical order. Tyra watched me impassively.
“OK?” I asked her, itching to get back to my desk, which was already in chaos. I was counting on her to get the paperwork sorted out while I worked on other things.
I waited. She didn’t move.
“Is there something else you were working on before?” I asked. “Was there something else you had planned to do today?”
“No,” she said, not hostile, just matter-of-fact.
I stood up, unsure what to do. “I’ll just leave you with these then,” I told her. “If you have any questions, I’ll be at my desk.”
Rattled, I asked my supervisor if there was something inappropriate or unreasonable about the task I had assigned. She assured me there was not. An hour later, I checked in on Tyra. Papers were strewn on the table, and the folders were now
unalphabetized.
Soon, I learned that her filing abilities were roughly as well developed as her writing, phone manner, and work ethic. I tried hard to forge a trusting and collegial relationship with her, and to build her skills, but she dismissed my friendly overtures, and was defensive and dismissive when I offered suggestions. It would have been difficult for any young, inexperienced manager to handle the supervision of someone so much older, but the added barriers of race and class loaded every aspect of our relationship. I felt guilty and racist when I felt disappointed by her lackluster performance and her (barely) veiled nastiness. I hated the hard, bright voice I used with her, and my gnawing mistrust of her motives.
When we got funding for a summer internship position, I asked the program director whether the job description should be circulated to the women in the program. I felt that it should; our goal was to offer professional and leadership development opportunities. But then we talked about how we needed someone with excellent writing and computer skills, and how awkward it would be if a candidate from the program was rejected in favor of a young white student from a fancier college. We discussed how poorly the roles of program participant and staff member had overlapped in Tyra’s case. Ultimately, the director decided not to invite program participants to apply.
"You don’t think any of us are qualified for the job,” Tyra said, when she found out.
It was horrible, but true. The women in the program who had office skills had jobs already. The ones who didn’t weren’t good candidates for this internship. I explained some of the reasoning behind the decision, and surprisingly, Tyra dropped the subject. I assumed the matter was closed, until a few days later, when I learned that she had circulated an inflammatory email with her spin on the situation.
“I just wanted the group to know about the opportunity,” she said when I confronted her.
“
Why?” I persisted. “What good outcome could possibly come out of that?”
I wanted her to admit that it wasn’t a good outcome she was after. But she assured me she had not, in fact, gone behind my back, that she only had the group’s best interest at heart. This was patently untrue, and we both knew it.
I wish I had a wiser conclusion on the whole relationship and what it taught me. But my learning is simple: investing angst and analysis in the interplay of race and class is vitally important. I truly believe this. And yet: sometimes no amount of effort will overcome fundamental mistrust.
Also: sometimes things just take care of themselves. After the internship debacle (which blew over amazingly quickly), funding for my position ran out, and I left the agency. And it turned out that Tyra’s peers weren’t very happy with her either. Despite the fact that they were all women of color, and that their relationship with Tyra
wasn't undermined by racial power dynamics, they ousted her and chose someone else to replace her.
Posted by Dori at 9:50 PM
Weekend Wrap Up
I keep trying to think of brilliant things to write about, that will inspire thought and comments from all of you. But as a result, I've been posting quite infrequently. Thus, I'll borrow a topic from
Hilary, who comes up with an intriguing Weekend Wrap Up
every week.
On Friday afternoon, I attended my beloved Step 'N Sculpt class at the gym. (And I'm very sad to report that said class is being discontinued despite the fact that it's been a mainstay of my workouts for the last seven years). Then I drove
back to the suburb where I work and met up with some volunteers to put up a promotional display at the local mall. The "exhibit" incorporates children's artwork and is supposed to inspire people to care about our cause and (maybe, but probably not) give us money. I must say it looked somewhat ghetto. But then again, this mall's logo is three Xs enclosed by a circle. Seriously. I think someone made the logo using Word Art back in the 1980s. So probably our thing looks appropriate.
On Saturday I checked out a very cool art exhibit of "
protest prints"--portraying dissent from the 1700s to now. The outing was spearheaded by my friend D., who also suggested that we eat at
B. Good, a fast-food joint which professes to be healthy and tasty. They deliver on both counts.
Then I did some hard-core shopping with my friend E., who is an awesome shopping companion. I got some fabulous and deeply discounted clothing, and
these shoes which were much less discounted but yet extremely fabulous.
Today I ate excellent Korean food, bonded with my friend A., and saw
History Boys, a peek into the world of aspiring Oxford students in a British high school. It was maybe 30 minutes too long, but I like the general premise that history boils down to "one bloody thing after another".
Have a good week, everyone.
Posted by Dori at 8:42 PM
Get Up, Stand Up
I really love my brother and I know he really loves me. That said, we have a very strange relationship. We live within walking distance of one another, but see each other only very occasionally. In our family, I've always been the serious, conscientious kid; and he’s always been the free spirit. He's a 27-year-old musician with a poorly paying day job. He is constantly broke, and my parents constantly bail him out financially, even though there is no earthly reason why he can’t make enough money to support himself.
My mom’s desire for us to be close is overwhelming. She constantly encourages us to hang out. When we do, she calls us individually afterwards for a debrief, and then circles back to tell me what a good time my brother had and how we should really get together more often. I love my brother, I really do, but our encounters basically consist of us eating, him talking, and me paying.
Always me paying.
Last night I invited him and his new girlfriend to a book reading. He called to tell me they were running late, and asked me to save seats. I put my scarf and coat over the two chairs next to me, and as the room filled up with Cambridge residents with frizzy gray hair and NPR tote bags, I felt increasingly self-conscious. About fourteen people asked me pointedly if anyone was sitting next to me. I tried to defend my turf, even when a couple showed up and suggested that we rearrange the row so that they could sit together. Thus, I ended up sitting behind a pillar, next to the nuzzling lovebirds, with two empty seats on the aisle side and herds of bespectacled Cambridigians glaring at me and sighing loudly as they sat on the floor and the steps. I felt deeply embarrassed, as if the whole crowd was mocking my conviction that my people would actually show up.
My brother and his girlfriend finally arrived. My brother asked an articulate question at the end of the reading. Then he bought the book--$24.99 in hardback.
At dinner, my brother whispered that he’d spent the last of his money on the book, so I’d have to cover the meal. When I picked up the check, he thanked me, magnanimously offering to let me borrow the book anytime I want. My mom called a few hours later and told me that my brother enjoyed the evening and his girlfriend liked me. I left it at that.
If I were a cooler and stronger person, I would have told him (nicely and constructively) that his behavior truly sucked. (If I was a meaner person, I would have refused to pay at all, and made him go to the ATM and incur an overdraft fee, or mooch off his girlfriend.) After all, by putting up this crap, I become a big-time enabler. But it was late and it was cold and I was tired and the last thing I felt like was a confrontation. I know the window for a shakedown is sliding closed, but I’m determined, so send some encouraging, hard-line vibes my way.
NOTE: Blogger is insisting that I migrate over to their new version. Because blogger feeds into my own domain which is set up somewhat mysteriously, this may create some technical difficulties over the next few days. But hopefully not.
Posted by Dori at 10:58 AM
Cold Front
Remember how I started learning
biofeedback, which is supposed to help me better respond to stress, and thus reduce the severity and frequency of my headaches?
Well, not that I’m complaining or criticizing (given my resolution and all), but I’ve never meshed with the practitioner, Cathy, whose “relaxing” voice (you know that voice … it’s the soothing, cooing intonation of yoga teachers and guided imagery-gurus) just puts me on edge. When I breathe well, (by which I mean deeply and at a slow, regular pace) she praises me and then instantly demans an explanation of what made
that particular interval successful. I am always stuck. I mean, I inhaled, exhaled. Then I inhaled again. What else do you want to know?
Anyway. One really illuminating biofeedback “take-away” (and God help me, I hate that expression) is that migraine sufferers often have wacky internal temperature controls. I am always freezing, and my hands are freakishly cold, and thus I typically sit with my hands clasped between my knees. Cathy’s office is quite chilly, so I always dress warmly and sit in the waiting room in my signature knee-clasping position. Then, when Cathy appears, she takes my hands and exclaims how warm they are and thus how relaxed I must be. I explain about the hands-between-knees thing. And she smiles knowingly. “You feel relaxed about being here. That’s really great.”
Knowing this, I deliberately left my hands out and about before my last session. I just held them in my lap like a normal person.
She invited me into the office and taped the thermometer sensor to my palm. Then she gasped. 70 degrees. She admitted that mine was the coldest temperature reading she’d come across in her
entire career. I finally felt affirmed.
Cathy insists that my crazy cranked-up nervous system can be calmed without drugs, through breathing and yoga. My friend E. is doing yoga as her New Year’s resolution, and so I thought I’d kickstart my own practice. After all, I did a whole semester in college (and I think I may have gotten an A), and I’ve taken a handful of classes at my gym over the last … OK … seven years.
My gym offers a restorative yoga class on Thursday nights, in which participants basically roll around (very slowly) amongst bolsters and blankets. It's dark and the instructors pad around in bare feet making soothing sounds and covering your eyes with towels. You’re supposed to face down if you have an anxious temperament and face up if you have a lethargic temperament.
I went last week and I hated it so much. I twisted into position and obsessed about whether I was facing the wrong way (I was, and the instructor tip-toed over and said very gently and soothingly that “most of the class is turned in the other direction” – which I had no way of knowing because there was
a towel covering my eyes). Then I obsessed about whether the instructors' footsteps all around me were heading my way and whether they were going to crush my glasses. I tried so hard to concentrate on my breath, but my attempts were completely and totally overpowered by my thoughts.
This is really not restorative or relaxing. Not at all. NOT AT ALL!I’m not giving up (quite yet), but it’s a very long (cold) road ahead.
Posted by Dori at 5:07 PM
I Have No Complaints (Thus Far)
New Year's resolutions have been reverborating throughout the blogosphere and beyond. I have resolved to obsess less, which I recognize is not a SMART goal (it is not really Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, or Tangible). I have also resolved to open an online ING savings account, because right now my "liquid assets" (ha) are all stashed in checking.
It's since occured to me that I could tack on a resolution to stop complaining/criticizing so much. Having just dated am optimist, I realize that it's possible to curb this behavior.
It's been two days, and I think I'm doing pretty well. A bunch of people owe me paperwork, which I requested by letter (twice, in September and November) and in bright, friendly "check-in" voicemails. Yesterday, I decided to follow up. You ask: did I whine about the intractability of these stragglers, when
21 people very easily submitted the
simple paperwork
on time? Did I bitch about how much energy I've wasted on this? Did I make sarcastic comments about the City officials who are supposed to help out but have been intermittently "working" what with their holidays, multi-week vacations, and maternity leave?
I wrote a firm yet scary letter. I called up the City and had an upbeat conversation with someone who promised to send the letter on frightening, official-looking stationery. And did I commiserate when he complained about bureaucratic obstacles? Did I make snide remarks after he told me about his clueless and spoiled--I mean cute and warmly cared for--child and recent holiday indulgence?
No, no, no. I did not. That would be
so 2006!
Posted by Dori at 4:29 PM
Ringing in Seven New Years
Rather than do a “2006 in review”, I’ve compiled, for your reading pleasure, a “The Past Seven New Year’s Eves in Review”, a la
TV Guide.
New Year's Eve, 2006:
The end of a non-relationship leaves Dori free to celebrate with friends, in an environment without kissing-at-midnight pressure. There is no mandate to party (verb). At an intimate gathering in Harvard Square, she consumes asparagus and halibut poached in parchment packets, followed by outrageous amounts of chocolate-covered strawberries and flambed bananas with coconut and rum. Almost all the guests have Ph.Ds, and they discuss parallels between the economic development of Chile and China, and it is informative (in a good way). Afterwards, Dori attends a mini soiree at which she lounges around happily, but refuses to dance. Despite her hatred of New Year’s, she enjoys the evening.
New Year's Eve, 2005:
In an effort to overcome her deeply rooted hatred of New Year's, Dori rounds up two of her loveliest friends (and their mates) to eat fancy food at a fancy restaurant. After they swear that there will be absolutely no kissing at midnight, she attends an après dinner game night.
Near Year's Eve, 2004:
The saddest New Year’s ever occurs when Dori visits her beloved friend R.B.S. in California, and one of R.B.S.’s friends perishes in a car accident.
New Year's Eve, 2003:
Dori spends the holiday with her parents. She goes to bed early and is disgruntled when they waken her at midnight for a celebratory toast, because New Year's sucks.
New Year's Eve, 2002:
Along with beloved friends R. and K., Dori attends a performance of the lovely Dar Williams, the lovely Catie Curtis, and the less-lovely Nields. The music quells her disgust with New Year’s.
New Year's Eve, 2001:
Dori is in love with A.P., and they celebrate New Year’s in her hometown, discovering that New Year’s blows to a lesser degree when one is in a relationship. After a fancy meal which includes crab cakes, she and A.P. attend (and dance at!) her brother’s band’s concert. There is (finally!) kissing at midnight. At around 4 a.m., Dori awakens with a severe all-body rash, which persists for days. She learns that she is violently allergic to shellfish.
New Year's Eve, 2000:
Dori is dating a guy whose hotness will remain unmatched for at least the next six years. Despite severe anxiety about meshing with the hot guy’s friends, and expectations that they party (verb), she actually has fun, especially when the friends do an a capella rendition of the song “Pink Corvette”. Kissing at midnight ensues, ameliorating general New Year’s suckage.
New Year’s Eve, 1999
Fireworks and sparklers light up the plaza of Girona, a medieval village outside of Barcelona. Dori and her quasi-love-interest eat a 7-course dinner while wearing a velvet evening gown and tux, respectively. As they ring in the next millennium (and hug at midnight), she tries, but finds there is no way to hate on the evening.
Posted by Dori at 2:25 PM
