Garage wars

2014.02 mirrorDear roommate,

in what world does it make sense that all of us have our cars parked outside overnight in 35-degree weather just because you had to park in the driveway in such a way that not only could no one park in the garage (which was empty overnight) but no one else could park in the drive way either?

And, of course, the spots to the left and the right of the house on this side of the street were taken with your “spare” truck and our other roommate’s car. I can’t park in front of a neighbor’s house because you have yelled at some, and threatened to poison the pets of others.

That is why I parked half on the driveway and half on the grass, ruining your lawn. Maybe next time you won’t be so selfish.

That is all.

Yours truly, Paloma.

Dispose of Used Frying Oil (video)

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All you need are four plastic bags and an extra pair of hands.

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I don’t have the right clothes for that!

2014.02 suitIs it reasonable to pass up a job opportunity because you don’t want to “dress up” on a regular basis?

I once had a job where I had to wear business gear every day. That means wearing women’s business suits, complete with the low heels and the buttoned up jackets. The job itself was not that bad, I never did enjoy the “costume” required for it.

In fact, I had several jobs like that — a few in corporate America, one in politics. I don’t want another one.

One of the things I like about the job I have now is the fact that I get to be comfortable, or as comfortable as someone in my job can be. But that’s honestly one of the very few things I like about it these days.

So, as I go to a job I like less every day, is it a reasonable response to automatically discard the mere idea of a job that might be better long-term just because I don’t want the inconvenience of dressing up?

I didn’t think so. I’m just not normal and that’s not news.

2014.02 dress-shop

The “C” Word

2014.02 heartMy mother finally said the word out loud. We’ve been skirting around it, as if by not saying it we could make it less real. We’ve been using other words, softer words, words that don’t sound so final and so harsh, but we both knew what we were thinking.

“Your grandmother’s cancer is spreading,” she said. “She’s in a lot of pain.”

So far what I know is that my grandmother is in the hospital, being “observed.” They don’t know how serious it is. They don’t know exactly what next steps are. They don’t know what the options are.

We do know she’s in pain. We do know that the growth is growing.

I’ve been nudging my mother, pushing her towards a trip to see her mother. It’s at tricky conversation. I can’t really push, or she’ll refuse to go because I tried to make her go. I can’t neglect to ask because then she’ll (later) say that I didn’t want her to go.

I don’t want her to wait too long.

In the meanwhile, I get these vague text messages from my mother with updates. And I call her for explanations which she gives, grudgingly. An hour later I get yet another text message. She’s giving me info one drop at a time.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t understand what my role is supposed to be in this.

And I am truly worried that, while I figure it out, I’m screwing things up.