File under: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Is there some kind of race to prove just how shallow the gene pool has become?
A place for weasels, waffles, pancakes, bunnies and monkeys, as well as the occasional engaging biped to verbally wander, ponder, work up a lather, blather, get in a dither and discover but then forget to write down the meaning of life on their way to have a smoke & make a joke. Drama prone, poo-flinging primates need not apply. Hall passes & haul passes freely granted. Passes at girls with glasses highly encouraged. 'Verbal warnings' & corporate nonsense strictly verboten.
Yesterday, Abby, in her merciful observation that none of us spend nearly enough time caught between navel gazing and staring at the monitor, posted a link to yet another quiz. (And to give proper credit, I believe that she found this through Mike. Thanks Mike!)
I readily admit to loving quizzes. Most of the people I know do. Sometimes they're pretty hokey and those I tend to avoid. I could not care less what celebrity I'm best matched with, for example. However, some I find pretty intruiging and not a little amusing.
The first go resulted in being categorized as a People's Advocate. This seemed pretty spot on, but I'm always a bit skeptical, and I've been breaking out of some old 'should' habits and working on drilling down or carving out an essential framework that reflects and supports my personal values, desires and goals in a truer manner. This process has led me to make some surprising (even to myself) choices. Moving to SF, for instance. So, I was interested in seeing the result when I answered from that mindset.
With that in mind, I went back and retook the quiz. I won't say that I was stunned at the results, but it prompted a long, "oh shit, BUSTED!" fit of laughter. My inner Frisbee is, apparently, an Anarchist.
You are a WECL--Wacky Emotional Constructive Leader. This makes you a People's Advocate.
You are passionate about your causes, with a good heart and good endeavors. Your personal fire is contagious, and others wish they could be as dedicated to their beliefs as you are.
Your dedication may cause you to miss the boat on life's more slight and trivial activities. You will feel no loss when skipping some inane mixer, but it can be frustrating to others to whom such things are important. While you find it difficult to see other points of view, it may be useful to act as if you do, and play along once in a while.
In any event, you have buckets of charisma and a natural skill for making people open up. Your greatest asset is an ability to make progress while keeping the peace.
Of the 83434 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 6.1 % are this type.
You are a WEDL--Wacky Emotional Destructive Leader. This makes you a Anarchist.
You don't give a damn. When push comes to shove, you just forget about it--it's just not worth the heartache. What this means for others is that dealing with you can be aggravating, because they find they can't get you motivated about things they care about. What this means for you is that you are happier, calmer, and saner then they are on their best days.
You are near-immune to criticism, and those who know you well acknowledge and respect that. You may come across as lazy, but the truth is that you find little to get worked up about. Regardless, you have slews of friends, because they are fascinated by your world view, jealous of your lifestyle, and drawn to the fact that you are hilarious to be around.
You are a pillar in a sea of hot-bloodedness. You have a sweet tooth.
Of the 83450 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 2.9 % are this type.
Last week, while mowing the lawn, I noticed that we had some strange and, to this city girl's eyes, highly inexplicably random mounds of dirt scattered throughout the yard. I immediately emailed my fiancé, F, to make sure he hadn't returned to his old habit of digging holes in his sleep (it's a bizarre family affliction that affects only the second oldest child of eight, if they are male. Strange luck...) He assured me his nocturnal wanderings had been put to rest (snicker) and said he had no ideas given my description. When he came home for lunch, he carefully evaluated the physical evidence and gravely stated his conclusion, which is to say that he dug a hole beside one of the mounds and said, "Yup. Gophers."
"GOPHERS?!" cried my inside voice, "I thought gophers lived in Idaho. On potato farms. This ain't Idaho and this ain't no potato farm. Looks like somebody got into the potato vodka and took a wrong turn at Nevada."
In order to fully appreciate the context of this scenario, you need to know that Molly, the dog, is obsessed with rats. Not simply chasing rats, but digging them out of their nests. And apparently gophers will do nicely, thank you very much. (A dog does need some variety from time to time; she patiently explained that to me the other day.)
So, we have the lawn, which I have just managed to coax back to life after having hacked it to bits mercilessly in May following several months of neglect; we have a drunken gopher who is not only going to have a mother of a hangover when all that vodka wears off (see, I *KNOW* he's drunk because he can't even burrow in a straight line), but who is going to be furious when he realizes that he's no longer in Idaho and these stringy things he's been gnawing on are not, in fact, potatoes; and last of all we have an indiscriminate, rat-chasing dog who climbs over me at 5:30 am in order to unceremoniously and firmly plant her rump on my head so as to comfortably observe the gopher at work while twitching, scratching and emitting strange gurgling sounds punctuated by Tourette-like strangled yelps.
This, again, brings us back to the lawn. It now resembles a small minefield, riddled as it is with gophers hills and Molly holes. I should have never cut the grass.
On the practical side of things, we're trying to figure out how to deal with these alien beings. It turns out that EVERYone has a different solution. Most of which involve some form of violent death. This seemed reasonable for about five minutes.
The concept was put to the test when, one morning, I looked out and saw little gopher guy (gal?) pushing dirt up out of the hole, ran into the garage, grabbed a shovel, crept out to the hole and delivered several hard whacks to the hill.
In the midst of whacking, I heard a sharp crack and was struck, no wait, the gopher was struck...I'm so confused (understand, this was a traumatic moment for me). Sooo yeah, I realized that crack could have been little gopher guy's head. I could have KILLED him. I felt awful. I mean, I know I thought, "I'm going to keel that steenking gopher. I'll show heem!!" But I didn't mean KILL him. I only wanted him to go bother someone else. Even if only across the road. Just go! But the end result was me standing there on the front lawn at 8:30 in the morning, in my bathrobe, shovel raised up over my shoulder, emphatically apologizing to a mound of dirt while the rat obsessed mini pinscher mutt barked rabidly in the bedroom window.
Did I mention that the neighbors love us?
So…no, nothing much to report from here. Love to do dinner, but I've gotta run for now, Molly's barking at the woodpile now. Lord only knows what will emerge from THAT.
[I don't suppose that I need to point out that suburbia and I were not a good match.]
[More old, somewhat reworked]
The light had been wrong all day: somehow too bright for comfort and too dim for use. At once too much and not enough. I took longer than I should have leaving. As I put my coat on, someone asked if I needed my time card but seeing John waiting outside for me, I said no, I don’t have time. I’ll do it tomorrow. Like the light, I had been out of sorts, wrong, all day. Too present to be numb but too distant to do something about it: irritated and distracted by pettiness and frustration. Our buddy, Fred, was there and the three of us spilled onto the street, giddy from stress and exhaustion; eager to be done with that place. When we reached the car, Fred & I sat inside rubbing our hands and exhaling clouds of warm breath into the chilled air, as he scraped the thin film of ice from the windows. We had both wondered at the strange backsteps that I always seemed to take in our intimacy. Difficult he said of me, unreasonable he told me, impossible he called me. Why do you hate me so? he asked mockingly. Why won’t you let me love you? he asked later, seriously. I marveled silently at his careful attention to each window, laughing to myself that I wouldn’t need to see anything but him. He climbed into the car and began to drift us out of the parking space. The three of us chatted randomly about the night. Unable to answer, I’d changed the subject, refusing him that path. Denying entrance. Later, as the day took away more than I had to give, I looked up and, seeing him, felt the pettiness and the frustration slip away, replaced by a sudden, fierce and determined love. As we pulled out of the lot and onto the street, I was calculating the length of time before we dropped Fred off and were alone. My defenses down and the distractions gone, I couldn’t deny how much I loved him and I felt the furious ache to let him know. I laughed again, as the weight of the day fell away, I knew it was time to make a change. Time to undo all of my fearful doings and defensive postures. Raze my protective constructs. feeling free, Rounding the tired-of-fighting-myself corner of my soul, filled with the happy knowledge that Fred’s car was less than a hundred yards away. I knew an irrepressible urgency to show him. As soon as we were alone, I’d make him understand, I promised myself. I’d leave no room for doubt. I laughed still as I glanced out the windshield and saw not the street, but huge wheels sail past the nose of the car. God, I loved him so much. The laugh checked itself in my throat: they seemed so close. Too close. John Time watch slowed out! impossibly....
There was a crystal silence in that moment, distantly broken by the defrost fan. Slow motion sound engulfed by immense silence in that instant before large body connected with larger body and finally only the unnatural, sickening sound filling my bones as metal began to tear and assume unintended shape.
It was out my window I looked then, as my body was pressed against the door. Through the thin sheet of returning ice, I watched the black description of tire tread curl the glass into a white spiderweb and felt the metal wrap itself around me, leaving no room for doubt.