God's Love: The Case for "Working" from Work

Photo from: http://foodiewanderings.blogspot.com/2010/09/coffee-art-or-heart.html

The unfortunate thing about the location of the office where I work is that it's not close to any good coffee shops. Since Jen and I only have one car, one of the things I spend a lot of time doing is driving around looking for places where I can work. I could just go home, but once you factor in drive time, I often lose an hour of potentially productive work time, so I'll often try to stay close to the office.
     Now, when I say I'm looking for places to "work," I mean I'm looking for places where I can read things that will make me feel smarter and write things that will make me seem dumber (like this sentence). Here's a bit of free advice for you. If you have dreams of one day being respected for doing something that is, in all reality, completely frivolous and technically unnecessary for human survival, you can practice that dream during your free time and call it "work." You don't even have to use air quotes when you talk about it. People will think you're hot shit. And if you're wondering where the reading part fits into the whole, "work" myth, then you've obviously never taken a writing class. Spending four years in college being told by professors that, in order to hone your craft, you not only have to write every day, but you also have to read every day is worth the price of admission, especially at today's historically low interest rates.
     It only took me two months of driving around for an hour at a time (that same hour I would have lost by just going home) before finally giving up and settling for places I know about that are nowhere near the office before I finally got wise and remembered that I carry the world around with me at all times. A phone is only as smart as the person whose pocket it lives in. I have three different apps that can figure out where my phone is (as in globally, not just in my pocket) and point me toward the closest coffee shops.
     When my phone told me that there is a place called Heavenly Cup right down the street from the office, I thought nothing of it. People call things "heavenly" all the time. It's secular euphemism at this point. "Please, try some of this corned beef sandwich; it's heavenly." "The full-release massage I got on vacation in Thailand was absolutely heavenly." You get what I'm saying.
     After I payed for my chai and grabbed a window seat from which to work, I opened up my laptop and looked for Heavenly Cup's wireless network. There were several password protected networks listed, but I was expecting to see something like, "Heavenly Cup (Free)." There was nothing like that in my list of available networks though. In fact, the only free and open network that was listed was one called "God's Love." I am, at times, not bright. My first thought, I swear to God, was, huh, is there a church around here or something? To say that I have an aversion to The Lord (do you capitalize "The" when referencing The Lord? I can never remember. Is it like The Godfather? The Sting? The Terminator?) would be going too far. I have an aversion to cancer, and carrots, and people with the nickname "Cooter," but it's not actually possible to have an aversion to something you don't believe in. The reality of the situation is that, unless I'm directly confronted with Him, I don't give Him much thought at all. Hence the fact that, despite the name of the wireless network I'd just connected to, despite the fact that every customer who walked into the coffee shop while I was there somehow managed to work talk of the previous Sunday's church service into their conversation, despite the name of the goddamn coffee shop, I didn't notice the fucking halo hovering over the "u" in "cup" until I'd been sitting there staring at the sign hanging below the register for an hour.
     It's cool. It's not like I stood up and left as soon as I realized that I was in Christ's Coffee House. The woman who owns the place was very friendly (that's how they get you), and the men who kept coming downstairs from the church offices upstairs (the talk of Sunday's service finally made sense when I noticed that all the customers coming from upstairs were wearing matching polo shirts complete with embroidered crosses) seemed to know everyone and even offered to help some guy with his algebra homework. From what I could tell, everyone who walked into the place knew everyone else who was there. Folks came in and left a couple minutes later with their preferred drinks without ever having to order. The proprietor would sit at a table with her regulars and chat with them between customers. That sort of atmosphere is nice. It's also the sort of thing that will put you out of business, which is what I assume is happening with this shop since every patron who crossed the Heavenly Cup threshold asked the owner, "Have you found a buyer yet?"
     "Maybe if I won the lottery, I could afford to take one of the offers I've gotten. Of course, if I won the lottery, I wouldn't have to sell it in the first place." At this point, I imagine someone suggested that she pray on the situation, but I was too busy packing up my shit to notice. It wasn't that I wanted to leave. It was a nice enough place to work. It wasn't dirtier than any other coffee shop; after all, I bet even the cleanliest baristas find spent coffee grounds in the strangest places after an 8 hour shift. Sure, it was small. There were only 4 small tables, but I had found a seat right away. Yeah, it seemed to be a heavenly, I mean heavily Christian establishment, but the owner was very friendly.  No, I had to leave because, in spite of its values driven charm, Heaven's Cup was missing one vital ingredient. Power outlets within reach of the tables. As a wireless network, God's Love is nearly as omniscient and omnipotent as its namesake. God's Love can give you the latest world news, resurrect our fallen heroes, and grant access to porn. What God's Love can't do is power my laptop for more than 90 minutes. Off to greener pastures I went.
     I still had more than an hour before I had to be at work. All out of ideas, I gave up and headed to the office to do a bit more "work" before work. It turns out that's where I'm most productive anyway.

 
     
       
   
   
   
   
   
       

The Bitch Is Back

A lot has happened in the world since my last post.

With Glenn Beck as their fearless leader, thousands of lunatic, gun toting men and the women who love them held rallies is major cities all over the country. In the beginning they proudly proclaimed themselves to be Teabaggers until someone got wise to exactly what that means and they casually decided to start referring to themselves as Tea Party-ers. I assume they hoped that the rest of us wouldn't notice the switch. Sadly, since a clan of angry white men running around state capitals proudly telling the world just where they'd like to stick their balls is the greatest thing to happen to me since Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face, I promise never to forget.

According to this ABC Affiliate, 92 famous people died in 2009. Among them are Gordon's wife from Sesame Street (you know, the lady from 227--no, not Jackee, and not the lady from The Jeffersons. The other one), Brittany Murphy (who I saw swear to Ellen Degeneres that she was speaking in full sentences at 6-months-old), and University of Georgia's bulldog mascot. I know there were plenty of other famous people (and possibly animals) who died in 2009, but these folks at ABC have defined "famous" so loosely that I couldn't make it further than example 20 without falling asleep, so I can't list them all for you.

In October, the Dow closed above 10,000 for the first time since October 3rd, 2008 even though I'm told that Obama is running this country into complete financial ruin. Al Franken was finally sworn in as the freshman senator from Minnesota, health insurance reform passed, 25 coal minors died in West Virginia due to lax regulation, 11 oil drillers died off the coast of Louisiana due to lax regulation, an ecosystem was destroyed. I could go on. My point is--there's a lot of shit I could have written about in the last 15 months. Instead, I have sat on my ass feeling uninspired and sorry for myself.

Well, I'm back. No gimmicks, just getting back to basics and typing whatever pops into my head (that won't get me fired). This is my 60th post to DISCONNECT, but it won't be my last. There are fascinating topics on the horizon. Jen and I are driving on a cross country adventure next week; it's festival season here in Columbus, and that means lots of suburbanites to make fun of; the midterm elections are right around the corner; did I mention my brother-in-law is living with us; and, oh yeah, there are still a million gallons of oil spewing into the ocean every day. I want to talk about all of it.

In the meantime, I've started a new site where I'm uploading some posts from my old blogging days at myspace. Just a little something to remind myself of where I came from and what it felt like not to give a shit what human resources or anyone else thought about what I had to say. Unlike in banking, there are no confidentiality laws in cookie sales.

Now, like Tina Fey says, "Bitches get shit done." So let's get to work.

School Supplies, Similes, and Shame

I went to Staples yesterday because I had a 6 dollar coupon and 6 dollars can get you 25,000 staples. When you consider that just one staple can comfortably bind together 20 sheets of paper, that's 500,000 sheets or 100 reams of paper once carefree and loose now bound for eternity. What I'm saying is one 6 dollar coupon can save a lot of paper from isolation and loneliness.

Now I happen to be the kind of person who lives with the kind of person who thinks school supplies make perfect Christmas presents. She's also something of a softy, so I'm sure once I run my staples = cure for loneliness hypothesis by her, she'll be excited about receiving 3 pounds of them for Christmas. That or she'll exchange them for stationary. Either way it's fine because 1) I'm not really stupid enough to buy someone staples for Christmas and 2) this has nothing to to with my actual story. My point is, I wouldn't have been at Staples yesterday if not for the coupon. If not for the coupon, all of the more factual events of my story could have been avoided, and I wouldn't have had to belabor a too long, not funny enough fantasy about buying staples at Staples.

So I'm standing in line with my 3 pound bag of staples (obviously staples don't really come this way, but the image of someone standing in a checkout lane with a bag of 25,000 loose staples in a bag slung over her shoulder amuses me almost as much as the image of that same person trying to load those same individual staples, one-by-one, into a stapler, so I'm going with it) and I glance over my shoulder, and there she is.

The she in question is none other than the subject of my previous blog, But Would You Walk Across Hot Coals?  The woman who inspired me to write every day, no matter how frustrated I got. The woman who offered (without giving me the chance to ask) to write me a letter of recommendation for grad school admission. The woman who I lovingly (and, as far as I know, without her knowledge) refer to as Aunt Erin. This woman lit a fire in my belly that no amount of over-the-counter, prescription-strength acid reducer could relieve. I hadn't seen her since May when I accepted an award for an essay I wrote--you know, back when I still had promise. So what did I do the second I realized that Aunt Erin was standing seven feet behind me? Did I run out of line and jump into her outstretched arms, wrapping my legs around her waist like an excited 3-year-old? Did I tell her how much I enjoyed her last book (which I haven't read because I'm not reading anymore either)? Did I inquire into the health of her husband and her dogs? No. No I did not. I didn't even think to do those things. Instead I turned my back like a girl who's 20 years and forty added pounds out of high school when she doesn't want the homecoming queen to see her in the ice cream aisle. I think, if I don't make eye contact, she can't hold my not saying hello against me. For all she knows, I don't realize she's behind me.  I conduct my entire transaction with my back to my old mentor, knowing that, as she is next in line, she will see me and recognize me. I mumble and make my voice slightly lower than it typically is. I do everything short of putting on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses (which, had I had them handy, I wouldn't have hesitated to throw on for good measure).

I think the why of my behavior is pretty obvious. I haven't written anything in months. The only pieces I submit are essays that I wrote a year or more ago. The well is dry. Not that I've been trying. Maybe I don't want to work. Maybe if it doesn't all come to me in a flash, I'm not interested. Maybe I like having money to spend and the though of going to grad school and trying to live on $12,000 a year doesn't really sound appealing to me (even under the guise of chasing my dreams). Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that that's the case. Maybe Aunt Erin saw me too. Maybe she turned around and pretended to see something interesting in the opposite direction, something more interesting than the look of disappointment permanently plastered to my face.

    

Now for something a little bit different

I didn't blog the entire month of July. Obviously this is unacceptable. Suffice it to say there's been a lot going on. Some of it is not interesting enough talk about (I got a job as a personal banker). Some of it is quite interesting and quite none of your business. The other reason I haven't blogged has more to do with the fact that I am, apparently, emotionally and, therefore, creatively crippled. Yes, it is sad. At this time I'd like to give a shout out to my best friend, Tim. He's on my ass in the most loving way possible, and I appreciate it. "I don't care if it's one sentence, just write something." Well, I've stumbled upon a website that will allow me to do just that, so until I get my words back, check me out at www.twitter.com/carriekosicki

On this new site, I am limited to 140 characters. That includes spaces and punctuation. Even I can handle 140 characters a day, dead soul or no. See, I'm making vague references to Russian Literature--that's how broken my creative bone is right now. Anyway, just click the link. Add it to your bookmarks. Do whatever it is you actual bloggers do. See you there.

Number One Reason I Suck at Life

Dear Carrie,

Please stop assuming that no one knows what you're talking about. You are not the queen of trivia and pop culture. Billy Joel, for example, is one of the most popular singer/songwriters of our time, so please do not talk to me like I'm three and spoon feed me thinly veiled references to his songs. I have his Greatest Hits CD too. Also, who hasn't watched, Scooby-Doo? I know who Hanna-Barbera are, and I know what cartoons they were responsible for. What's that, you say? The Flintstones was inspired by The Honeymooners? Gee, I had no idea, because I've spent my life under a rock.

In the future, if I don't understand some not-so-clever little pop culture reference in one of your stupid blogs, I'll ask. Stop treating me like I'm a moron. It's insulting, and it makes you look stupid.

Thanks,

Your Jiminy Cricket-Like Alter-Ego

Franz Liszt and Other Reasons to be Scared Shitless

I've been trying (and failing) to write an essay about my relationship with my father. The problem I'm finding is, I don't remember much about living with the man. So, for the last couple days, I've done nothing but think about a way into this essay. How does one deal with a relationship that one does not remember? The conclusion I'm starting to come to is, find examples of the parts of my childhood that I do remember that were directly or indirectly influenced by the parts that I don't. It came to me while watching a program about the "thrill rides" at Disney World. When I see anything about Disney World, I automatically think of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. When I think of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, I automatically think about what a huge pussy I am. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride scares the shit out of me. I don't even remember the whole post traumatic stress inducing experience. I only remember a shadowy room with weird looking sculptures and being terrified to the point of tears, praying that it would all end soon. I've had similar experiences with other child-friendly amusement park rides, which brings me back to my father.

I grew up in Dayton, OH. Forty miles south of my hometown there lives an amusement park called, King's Island. Once a year, my family would enjoy a Saturday of fun at the park. Things at King's Island have changed a lot over the last fifteen years or so, but when I was a wee thing, there was a section of King's Island designed especially for kids. This section was called, Hanna -Barbera Land. Hanna-Barbera Land was fucking sweet. All the rides were based on cartoons produced by, who else, Hanna-Barbera. For the under forty crowd, these cartoons include, Yogi Bear, The Jetsons, Huckleberry Hound, the Fintstones, Scooby-doo, and the Smurfs, just to name a few.

It didn't matter what time of day you showed up. The longest line in Hanna-Barbera Land was always for the Smurfs ride. The Smurfs ride was like an acid trip for the 2-12 set. Folks would stand in line for what felt like hours so that they could eventually climb into a taffy colored boat and wind their way through the Smurf's Village. The color's were bright. The anamatronic Smurf's were life-size. The cheery little theme song echoed at a deafening volume off of every lacquered surface. Most importantly, the air conditioning was cranked to the max. For one reason and one reason alone, I wanted nothing to do with it. GARGAMEL.

For the first half of the Smurf's ride, everything is sunshine and daisies. Who doesn't love little blue midgets living in mushroom houses? Well about halfway through the ride, the first movement of Liszt's "Piano Concerto 1 in E flat" starts to mix in with the "laa laa la la la laaas" and this sinking feeling that shit is about to go down starts creeping into your consciousness. As you round a corner, you see him. Twelve feet tall and cackling in a dark room next to a giant boiling cauldron, Gargamel stands with his branchlike arms lifted over his head, fingers spread as if he's either going to reach down and snatch you or break into the world's bitchinest air piano solo. My money was always on the former. Petrified. I was petrified. As in too scared to move. Too scared to breathe.

Every couple years I would convince one of my parents to take me on the Smurf ride again. I would explain how I knew what was going to happen and that I was older and surely not as much of a wuss. The result was always the same no matter how old I was, and until a few years ago, I couldn't understand why. Is it weird that I think Gargamel looks just like my dad? The giant hooked shnaz. The dark hair. The bald spot. The satanic, I-am-fucking-crazy-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it, look in his eyes. It all makes sense. I know at the end of every episode, the Smurfs got the best of Gargamel, but they didn't have to live with him, and there were dozens of them and only one of me and I wish that ride was still around so I could give it one last shot.

Goin' Out In Style

I'm taking a fiction writing class, and though I love the class, it's making me want to scream. It's not that I can't tell a good story. It's not that I can't bullshit on just about anything and make people believe that I know what I'm talking about. It's just that I have to have some prompting. There's no fictional nugget dying to get out of my head right now. I suppose I could tell myself, I'm going to write a story about a boy who falls in love with his imaginary friend then gets institutionalized when his mom walks in on him and this imaginary friend in the throws of passion, because to her, it just looks like little Billy is humping the air. I could do that, but I'm not compelled to do that. I did have this one sentence that popped into my head as I was trying and failing to fall asleep last night. The sentence was, "dead is a strange way to describe your best friend." It's not brilliant. It's probably not even good, but I got to thinking about a character dealing with the sudden death of his best friend, and what that would be like. So, I'm sitting down to start writing, at this point any words on the page would feel like a victory, and I go to describe the casket only to realize that I have no idea what caskets are made of. I do the old blackle.com search for caskets, and stumble upon the most wonderful shit I have ever seen. If you'd like to check it out for yourself, here's the link http://www.casketstore.net/Special_Caskets.htm . You know how sometimes you'll be driving down the highway, and you'll come up to a van, and the whole rear windshield is some graphic of the Crucifixion? Or the American flag being raised at Iwo Jima? Or Sponge Bob? Well, that seems to be what they've done with these caskets. Friends, for the low, low price of $2863, you too can be buried in a steel box with the Last Supper Photoshopped onto it. Or a beautiful mountain scene. These, though novel, are not my favorites. My favorites are, "The Last Hole," complete with life-sized golf clubs and the 18th pin in the distance, this is the best way I can think of to honor a golfer; "The Race is Over," in this casket we have a side view of stock cars racing through the checkered flag; then there's my personal favorite, "Return to Sender," this classy casket is made to look like an ordinary package, wrapped in brown paper and held together with string, the words, "return to sender," printed in giant red ink across the lid.

Before I saw this website, I was emphatic about wanting to be cremated. Now I'm not so sure. Perhaps it would be better to go for one of these flashy custom jobs. If anyone asks, I'll take the one with the Simpsons couch, with a picture of me sitting right next to Homer. "Doh!"

Plugging Away

I told myself I was going to sit down and write here everyday. Now I'm sitting here a couple drinks in resenting this whole process. It's not like the words aren't constantly streaming through my skillet. It's just that when I try to get them out, it all sounds like shite. So here I am, holding up my end of the bargain with myself. Who's holding up the other end, you might ask. Well, that's me too. No one to blame but myself, really. People ask me why I write, and I say something rehearsed like, "because I don't know how not to." Well, that's not entirely untrue. When an idea pops into my head, it has to come out. Problem is the days, weeks, months between worthwhile ideas. When it comes, it's normally in the form or a perfect sentence. I rarely change first sentences. Seriously, they stay exactly like they first appear in my head. Almost as if Little Baby Jesus Himself has crept into my consciousness and hand delivered them. That's a strange thing for an atheist to say, don't you think. Even when the words come, it's an excruciating process. Sitting and toiling over every word. Is there a synonym for drunk that doesn't sound like I got it from a thesaurus, for example. No one wants his/her writing to sound contrived. It should flow. It should be conversational. People who know you should hear your voice in their head, narrating along as they read. Better yet, they should have you over for dinner so that you can read it to them. I'm tired of Ramen Noodles.

I just read this piece in The New Yorker about Raymond Carver and his rather tumultuous relationship with his editor. I found myself reading Carver's letters to Lish (said editor) and thinking, I don't care how long this guy has been sober. He's either on a bender or he's fucking nuts. His letter insisting that Lish stop the publication of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, a collection that I've never read, sounds panicked and desperate and slightly psychotic. The way a person might sound when they're pleading with a person standing on the edge of a bridge, moments from jumping off, begging him to reconsider. It's pathetic in a way that I can relate to.

Drivel.