formerly a fearless temp

Signs your hometown roots might go a little too deep: you find yourself chatting up an interesting guy, thinking, "hmm...he seems nice, and he's a Democrat...maybe..." only to realize later, after doing the mental gymnastics required to figure out why you and he are at the same victory celebration, that yes, he is your cousin. Distantly, but still. When in doubt, just say no to cousin lovin'. Words to live by, I think.

We were not celebrating the national results, of course, but the local ones, which put our candidate for City Court Judge on the bench. I shook hands with a bunch of politicians I'd known only by seeing their name in the papers before, and had lots of awkward mingling moments where I stood within spitting distance of people I recognized vaguely but could not place, because I have a horrible memory for faces and after all this time temping in my relatively small area there's a scary amount of people out there I should recognize but really can't.

Speaking of my flakiness: I dragged my ass twenty miles out past my house to meet with R. for our tutoring session, only to realize upon pulling up the library that it was closed. Closed! Super fab tutor that I am, I totally just assumed that the library closed every night at 7PM, as it had last Wednesday (the night of our first meeting), but I was completely wrong. It closes at 5PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which is aggressively annoying because those were the two nights I'd scheduled our regular tutoring sessions to be on.

I tried frantically to call R. and catch him before he got in the car, but no luck. I ended up sitting alone in the dark in my car on the side of the road, positive I was going to be sideswiped by one of the many trucks whizzing by at 50 mph (but should not have been worried – my electric blue station wagon, hidden as it might have been in the shadows on the side of the road, still was a smidge more visible and avoidable than the sprightly deer these drivers are trained to avoid).

Note: Watch my car get nailed next time.

R. was gracious and understanding and willing to reschedule for tonight, and after chatting a bit, we both got in our Ford vehicles and took off in opposite directions, he to the country, me to the city, where I sat in an office and annoyed random people in my hometown via phone in an attempt to get them to the polls.

I was just getting to the O section at a little after eight, less than an hour before the polls closed, when my father poked his head in and told me to come upstairs with him to make calls from the office he was using. I gathered up my list with its careful notes and my half-full bottle of Diet Pepsi, ready to continue the fight from a different vantage point, but when my father led the way into the hallway, he turned right instead of left.

"But the stairs are there," I said, pointing vaguely but still following him.

"Do you think it'd be less obvious if we took the stairs?" he asked.

"Less obvious?" I said, and watched him hit the down arrow on the elevator panel. "Wait, isn't the office –"

And just as he said, "We're bailing," I realized that was what he was doing, and stood there open-mouthed in shock.

Became more open-mouthed with shock when my father announced we were going to his Upstate Independent Filmmakers Meeting (one of my father's many random activities). We arrived just in time for the last film, which was a ten-minute commercial spot for the – and yes, this actually exists, and I would direct you to the website, but it appears to have suffered a catastrophic website failure. I can't tell you how hard it was not to laugh at the stock footage from the 1970s of people paddling across a lake, set to synthesizer music so cheesy I thought it wasn't used for anything but parodies anymore. I felt evil and awful and wrong, but then after the lights came up the guy who made it confessed that he hated the music too.

There followed a lengthy, excruciatingly boring discussion of cameras which I won't go into here because I will not spread my suffering. This is the same reason I won't say more about that thing that's about to happen at 1PM.

Watch this space: At some point this week, I may change my LJ name. I've been meaning to change it forever, but have been hampered by (a) laziness and (b) lack of creativity re: a new name. Still plagued by both, of course. But something about half of my LJ name being the same as the name as poor little Molly, off chasing baby bunnies in the great beyond, is finally getting to me, and so I Need A Change.

We'll see if I actually get my act together and do this, of course.

Last night I forgot to set my alarm, and so I woke up twenty minutes late this morning and had to skip showering. I feel gross, disgusting, and only half-awake because of this, which has made today particularly fun since everyone in the known world has decided to call this office. Often in a bad mood, with a crappy connection, and extremely long, complicated names.

While working these jobs, I often have these theories and epiphanies that are of no interest to anyone, and so, of course, I am going to share them in this space.

Temp Epiphany/Theory of the Day: It seems counterintuitive, but people who say, "How are you?" or "Who am I talking to?" when you answer the phone are far more likely to be demanding and difficult to handle than those who simply say, "[Random Attorney], please." It doesn't matter how pleasant their tone is when they ask, or if they seem interested in the answer. Just initiating conversation is the red flag.

Perhaps this is only a regional thing. I welcome input from any and all people who have worked the front lines of an office before.

I spent most of last night holed up in another lawyer's office downtown in my hometown, desperately calling people and trying to get them to go to the polls for the primary. My father's been involved in the local Democratic party forever, but last night was the first time I'd gone out to help, and it did feel good to be doing something. Also, I got a nifty Kerry/Edwards lawn sign! Go me!

Being in a non-swing state is at the same time comforting and frustrating. I mean, on the one hand, it's frustrating not to be able to do stuff locally to guarantee Kerry the election. On the other hand, if I lived somewhere like Ohio or Florida I'd probably have a hard time being civil to people voting for Bush. Here, where Kerry is winning easily, when faced with a Bush supporter I can usually step back after a couple of minutes of friendly debate and say, "Well, everyone's entitled to an opinion." In Ohio or Florida it would probably be more like, "Well, everyone's entitled to an opinion, but yours is WRONG and TERRIBLE and, and, and, WRONG!"

And I don't really want to talk to my Nana like that.

Today my father stopped by and picked up my old cell phone because they are doing construction near his building and accidentally cut the phone line. He left several messages on my new cell phone that said stuff like:

Message One: I'm calling from the HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS because I have NO PHONE SERVICE AT THE OFFICE and I NEED A CELL PHONE and so I'm going to have to BORROW YOUR OLD ONE! Call me at home, honeybunch. I'll be there in a minute. Bye.

Message Two: I'm at the house trying to find your old phone and it's NOT HERE! Do you have TWO cell phones with you? TWO PHONES?

Okay, so it doesn't translate over the internet, but I swear, they were hi-larious. I was doubled over at my desk. Because I find humor in my father's ill fortune.

I did have both phones, of course, but for a good reason. I used my new cell phone to call people last night, and burned a lot of minutes, and so I wanted to use what few minutes are left on my old cell phone plan today. Occasionally there is logic in my world.

Hey, it's 5PM, which means it's time to motor and I have no time to edit, but spent so long on this thing that I'm posting it.

I haven't done laundry in an age, which makes the morning interesting. Today I was running around the house in a towel post-shower on a desperate underwear hunt (pair found at the bottom of the clean laundry basket next to the dryer, thank goodness) when I realized the answering machine was blinking. Played the message while looking for socks (wanted to wear sandals, since it is so nice out, but yesterday received an e-mail at work saying that bare legs aren't okay until after Memorial Day – am confused as to what that says about bare feet. If one is wearing pants, can one wear sandals without stockings? It seems such a pain to wear stockings with pants and, also, I just hate the look of stockings with sandals. Wonder if I can get past this), and found two messages from aunts C. and B. about grandfather. Aide very sick with stomach virus, desperately need someone to go over and give him breakfast, blah blah blah.

Parental units unavailable, Mom already left for work and Dad preparing for colonoscopy. He initiated the following conversation as I was getting ready to go over to grandfather's house to meet my aunt, after calling work to let them know I would be late.

"If I don't see you again," he said to me from the top of the stairs, "I just want you to know, you have been a perfect daughter."

"Thanks, Dad, that's sweet," I said. "But you're going to be fine!"

"And also, remind your mother that I want you to hand out ten dollars to everyone who comes to my wake and funeral."

"Will do," I said, and ran out the door.

Raced over to grandfather's house, where I was meeting Aunt B., who had, when I returned her call, revealed that she'd burst into tears in the middle of the office in front of people right before I called and thusly had to get out of there, but wanted company.

"I just got my period," she explained when she arrived at my grandfather's house.

"That'll do it," I said.

We walked into the house to find my grandfather already up and around, motoring from the bathroom to the kitchen, his two favorite haunts.

"Hello!" he said. "What a nice surprise."

"You're up," my aunt said. "How long have you been awake?"

"Hmm, let's see," he said, leaning on his walker, pretending to ponder. "I fed the chickens at 6:30, and then – come on, how the hell do I know when I got up?"

"Right," I said. "That's the right answer."

My aunt helped him get dressed ("I'm in my ballet outfit," he said of his undershirt and sweatpants.) and I made him his delicious breakfast of oatmeal and hot chocolate, which my aunt and I then watched him slowly make his way through over the next half hour. Topics of discussion during this period: Flowers outside, article in paper featuring acquaintance of grandfather, my job. It may not seem like much but since my grandfather's mental slate tends to clear out every ten minutes or so, each topic got covered two or three times in our time there.

Aunt and grandfather continued in their remarkable faith in my future. "You're such a great role model," my aunt said, suggesting I look into teaching possibilities at a local private school.

"Yes, definitely," I said, waving my hand in a majestic way. "I could show them how to become a directionless twenty-something living with her parents."

"Don't put yourself down," my aunt said, and I instantly felt bad.

"I was kidding," I said, "I'm fine."

And I am. It's a nice spring day, my grandfather was in good spirits and eating well; when I got to work today, an hour late, I found out the stuff I'd done for the event on Tuesday worked out great. Things feel possible, even if I am wearing unsightly white socks and clunky black shoes instead of cute sandals.

Since my mother has started going to the gym after work (unlike her lazy, slothful daughter), I'm usually the first one home most nights when I don't have to go out after work. So when I drove up tonight and saw the garage door wide open, I was surprised and wondered who beat me home.

And then I saw there were no cars in the garage or the driveway.

Now, any sane person would assume that the last person to leave the house (my notoriously forgetful father) had simply forgotten to close the door on his way to work this morning. I am not any sane person. I am, instead, a neurotic girl who spent too many hours of her formative years watching shows like Rescue 911 and America's Most Wanted (these were seriously my favorite shows between the ages of, like, seven and eleven. Until I discovered Quantum Leap, to put it in other terms). Naturally, the only conclusion I could draw was that crazy murderers were hiding in my house, waiting to pounce on me.

And so I called my father on his private line at work.

Dad: (Annoyed, his general state at work) Yello!

Me: Dad? It's Jess. (I still signify it's me instead of Jimmy even though we stopped sounding alike oh, ten or twelve years ago.)

Dad: What, Jess.

Me: Did you shut the garage door when you left?

Dad: What?

Me: Did you shut the garage door when you left? Because it's open now and I don't know if I should go in, and I wouldn't worry except for the whole garage robbers incident and --

Cell Phone: BEEP. (Digital Display: Signal Faded, Call Lost)

Exactly how all horror movies start! The truth is, a quirk of my cell phone plan is how I get no reception at my house. It's very annoying.

Naturally I called back several times, only to get cut off every time, until I got SO FRUSTRATED that I decided to go into the house to use the land line. Yes! My cell phone related frustration was greater than my fear! It's good to know something trumps that, but still, once I got into the house and onto the phone, part of me was all, "Okay, so how was this a good plan?"

I called my father again.

Dad: Yes Jess.

Me: I'm in the house.

Dad: You're in the house?

Me: Yes, I'm in the house. Should I not have come in? I probably shouldn't have come in. Why did I come in?

Dad: Well, you're in there now.

Me: Right.

Dad: [Silence.]

Me: So, uh, what should I do?

So we did a walk through of the house, found no insane robbers, and then my father, who had to go to a meeting after work and wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, told me I should either call the police (!!) or go visit my aunt who lives five minutes away if I was nervous. These were good plans, and I totally would have taken one of them, except -- well, except I really had to pee. See, when I get nervous? I have to pee. It's an awful thing. And the thing was -- if you're going to use the bathroom in a creepy place, you've kind of committed to that creepy place. It seems strange to bust out of someplace like a bat out of hell and stop in the loo on the way.

Naturally, it is far more normal to hang up with your father, stand by the bathroom, and say, in the most booming of voices your shaky nerves can muster, "Okay! So if there are any burglars in here or anything, I'm going to go --well, I'm going to go into this room here, and, well, I will stay there at LEAST a few minutes, and if you want to get out, you can go! And get away! I won't look! I won't have seen you! And, you know, I have a phone -- no, TWO phones in here -- so don't think of trying something. Okay? Okay. And my father is going to be home VERY SOON! Okay."

And then I went into the bathroom, took care of business, and promptly realized that I didn't want to leave. Because what if there was a scary burglar out there? I had no weapons except my cordless phone and, well, a bottle of Proactive Toner! Which I tried out a couple of times and provided enough squirty action to operate as makeshift Mace.

I called for backup in the form of my bud Anna, over the phone who, after knowing me for so long, didn't miss a beat and when I called and said, "So I'm in the bathroom now, and I'm afraid there's someone out there, and logically I *know* there's not, but I'm worried, and I've got some Toner here in my hand but if you could just stay on the phone with me while I go out there, that would be great," she said, "No problem."

Needless to say, there were no scary burglars in the hall. Instead, there was just Molly, flopped over on her back with her paws in the air in Designated Cute Kitty Pose #13, designed to get some attention and/or milk.

I explained the whole situation to Anna on my way downstairs, including the one thing in the house that seemed odd -- the jar of peanut butter in the middle of the kitchen floor.

"Do you think there are burglars who just come in and misplace household items?" Anna considered.

"It would explain a lot," I said.

We both decided it was definitely just my Dad being forgetful, which makes sense since he's the guy who's gone through two teakettles just this year, I think, by forgetting to turn off the burner on his way out in the morning, so that I return home to them sitting blackened on the stove. We're just lucky there hasn't been a three-alarm blaze. He's always running late and in a rush in the mornings.

Anna had to go because she had to call her Dreamy German Boyfriend, and so I called the next person on my list of People I Like To Annoy When I'm Being Crazy: Annie. Annie gave me some great advice.

"I think you should turn on the TV," she said. "That would make me feel better. Because even though it would totally drown out the sound of any approaching bad guys were there any actual bad guys, putting you in greater danger, I'd rather have the distraction and not know until the last minute."

"Good thinking," I said, and went into the living room and put on my Firefly DVDs.

Annie had to go eat dinner, and just when I was going to hit the next peron on my People I Like To Annoy When I'm Being Crazy list, Joanna, the phone rang and it was Anna calling back to check on my status. We chatted for a bit and were just discussing the merits of popcorn when lo! My wayward father returned, all apologetic for the whole situation, saying it was just his forgetfulness again.

"We should develop a system," I said.

Anna suggested a list by the door and I was about to pass that along when my father said, "I already have a system for the water."

"The water?"

"The teakettle. To remember to shut it off. I use the peanut butter."

"The peanut butter?" I was already laughing at this point.

"Yeah, I put it in the middle of the floor, and then when I'm on my way out, I see it, and remember to check the stove."

And so the Mystery of the Wayward Peanut Butter was solved, there were no scary burglars, and we all lived happily ever after.