Genuinely Good People

That’s what I’m thankful for this year. Usually it doesn’t feel like I’m twelve hours from home, but the holidays make you feel every moment. A few weeks ago, I considered spending the holiday locked in a Doctor Who or Firefly marathon. But when there’s no way for you to get home in time, the people in your circles respond. I was invited to not one, but two, Thanksgiving dinners. I tried to narrow it back down to one, but no one would hear of it.

I intended to spend the morning in research, but instead got to hear from several good friends who are too far away for my liking. At 1, I headed to Brownsburg to eat with Nan and her family. She had a Chinese student and some friends from Malaysia in addition to her family, so I wasn’t the only interloper. Although, it didn’t feel like I was intruding. I didn’t even get put to work, which is how I usually earn my keep at family celebrations. We ate and ate and ate, like you do at Thanksgiving, and had good conversations. I even made friends with their cat and dog (a fur fix a long time coming). We sat around the table for three hours, with no pretense or pressure (except that of our bellies on our waistbands), and then we went our separate ways.

After a quick stop at my apartment, I was on my way from the Northeast corner of Indy to the Southwest corner to meet friends and siblings of friends. Let me tell you, it was my kind of party. Board games for hours. Bookshelf comparisons. It was fabulous.

This year, I am thankful that I have fallen in with genuinely good people. The were willing to open their homes to a girl they have only barely started to know. For that I am grateful, and I am hopeful that someday I’ll share my table with friends, new and old.

 

Bad things come in threes

At least they did yesterday. This is the last installment in the pre-Thanksgiving trifecta of trouble. Catch up on part I here and part II here.  After the morning’s project from Hell, I was primed and ready for an action movie—Boondock Saints II to be specific. My friend Robby and I had plans to set the matinee at the theater on the Southside. I got a wee bit lost on the way there, but made it in plenty of time. (The movie was brilliant, if you’re wondering; not as good as the first,  sequels never are but definitely worth watching.)

We’re walking out of the theater and I reach in my pocket for my keys. Not there. I check my coat pockets. No keys.

Robby and I go back in and search the theater seats. No keys. We check with the manager. No keys, but I leave my name and number. We go out to my car. I peer in the driver’s side window. Jackpot. Keys. Right smack dab in the middle of my front seat for every would-be car burglar to see.Fortunately, I have a spare car key. I keep it safe in my apartment. Unfortunately, my apartment keys are on the same key ring as my car key, locked in my car.

Thankfully, I hadn’t gone to see the movie alone. It’s raining of course, so we retreat to Robby’s car (which he almost misplaced in the giant parking lot), and look up my landlord’s number on his fancy phone (the new Droids are pretty cool by the way). I call the number and speak to the automated after-hours maintenance line, and we head north to my apartment. It’s seven miles from the theater to my apartment. A maintenance man calls me to inform me that lock-outs don’t come under his contract, but he’d be willing to meet me for $20 bucks if I can’t raise Sam, my building’s super. I ask if he has a number for Sam, but surprise, surprise, the number he had has been disconnected. I decide to take my chances and we make it to my apartment.

Luckily some neighbors I didn’t know let me in the building, and Sam was home. He let me in my apartment and I got my spare key, but I couldn’t lock my door because, my apartment keys were locked in my car. I knocked on the doors of all four neighbors I know to see if someone would watch my apartment, and not a single one of them was home! I took my chances, and ran back out to Robby. We took Meridian back down to the theater, where Maddie was still waiting in the theater parking lot in the now pouring rain. A few seconds later, the spare key and I were on our way back home.

I haven’t locked my keys in my car since the Spring of my Freshman year at FHSU. Things are a little different here. If not today (being a holiday and everything), tomorrow, I’ll be getting yet another key made for my car, which I will find a way to keep on my person at all times. Either that, or I’ll finally teach myself to pick locks

Happy Turkey-Day all!

 

Things Go Wrong…

Especially when Katie’s involved. You, my dear friends and readers, know me. You’ve been there for some of the milestones:

• The HPL main floor copier incident of 2008
• The HPL black and white printer bookmark incident just a few weeks later
• The reference section debacle that led to the HPL’s first workman’s comp claim
• The breaking of the southwest library door—on a Friday night at the HPL
• The breaking of the staff door on a Saturday at the HPL
• My gravity-defying power over water
• My inability to keep a water bottle in one piece (or at least uncrumpled)
• The plate glass display case breakage at the Ellis County Historical Society

There are more, I’m certain of it, not to mention my ability to destroy electronics within six months of owning them (add comments if you can remember them—I’m certain I did something destructive in England, but it was eclipsed by the Great Toe Smashing). I christened my new apartment with the Labor Day finger cutting and the resulting stitches, and now the PPI is beginning to see what I can do.

Yesterday started off with a bang as many of you have read.  I had the foolish audacity to think that that would be the last of it. I mean it was the day before a holiday, what could go wrong? Never, ever, ever think those words.

I received an e-mail from work, informing me that the certificates I mailed to China a month ago never arrived, and I needed to do something about it. I trooped into the office and conferred with the person who put me on the project. (Note: when shipping things to China, just use FedEx. Had I known this, well, then we wouldn’t have a story, now would we?) She tries to get me to repeat the tracking process for the certificates that we did a week ago that was unproductive. Here is an approximation of our conversation:

Boss: Did you keep a copy?

Me: No. We were worried that we’d short them, remember? Maybe I have a black and white copy . (I troop out of the room to get me folder o’ papers—I don’t have an official desk, just an official folder; returning I produce a black and white copy and a certificate I had screwed up royally the last go round).

Boss  (taking hold of the certificate): If we could just clean this up… Get this seal off.

Me: But we can’t. It’s laser printed on there. (the printer had done something strange alignment-wise and had printed the SPEA seal so it overlapped a seal from a Chinese organization we didn’t have access to)  Maybe if scanned it, I could photoshop it.

Boss: The copier? It’s black and white.

Me: Do you know where there’s a color scanner on campus?

Boss: No. *beat* If we could just take this off of here, we could take it to Kinko’s and make copies. That would work.

Me: But we don’t have scanner.

Boss: Why do you need one?   (In response to my puzzled expression, she reaches into her drawer and pulls out a bottle of white out).

Me: But it’ll show up (the certificates are off-white).

Boss: Not if we’re going to copy it.  It’ll work.

Defeated, I take the white-out and the certificate back to my desk. I spend the next hour bent close to the document applying white out with an unbent paper clip in order to cover every last speck of red toner. By the time I take a break, the world is a bit wobblier than usual. The boss checks on my progress and leaves me with a credit card because she’s leaving for the day. I finish the cleanup, and run the certificate through the printer to get the SPEA seal where it needs to go. Once again, the printer freaks out and prints the seal in the wrong spot;  a new spot, but wrong all the same.

Doing my best to spout profanity, I go back up to the front desk to gripe. There, one of my cowokers says, “Why don’t you just photoshop it out. There’s a color scanner under that desk.” Why didn’t someone tell me this BEFORE I got high on white-out?!? (Not the most pleasant experience, fyi, don’t try it).

I spent the next two hours erasing the background of the document. It’s still not done, but dammit, it’s break! And I had other fish to fry.

Lock up your electronics Indianapolis, Katie’s here and the havoc’s beginning.

 

Who’s there? A tale of house invasion

This morning, as I was rolling around under the covers, rousing myself from the warm comforts of dreamland, I heard someone else breathing in my room. Realization dawning on my foggy cerebellum, I freeze slowly, trying not to give away that I am awake. From what I can tell, the invader is behind me, on the same side of the room as my door.

I’m running through my options in my brain: my cell phone was on my nightstand, on the opposite side of the bed, where he would definitely see if I grabbed it. It’s deathly quiet, and I keep listening for the breathing, so I know if he moves or not. He’s between me and the door. How did he get in here?

I hear the breathing again. There’s something off about that. My brain snaps back to contingency planning. I’ll have to fight. How big is he? I wish I had a mirror on this wall. There’s the breathing again. Why can’t I hear every breath?

I pause my planning and listen. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Breath. Deep and even. Deep and even? That doesn’t fit an invader; no one would break into my apartment and fall asleep on his feet, staring at my bed. Other apartments have more comfortable couches, I’ve seen them.

I listen. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Breath. Deep and even. This guy must have strange oxygen needs.

Then realization dawns.  My building is set up so that like rooms adjoin with like. My kitchen shares a wall with the kitchen next door, and my bedroom shares a wall with my neighbor’s bedroom. My neighbor snores were penetrating my thick walls! What an invasion! Maybe tonight I’ll take him some decongestant…

 

The Power of Poetry

My body still shakes and tingles, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. I just got home from a poetry slam at Earth House, and oh my god does the Indianapolis poetry scene have talent! I knew it was going to be good when Saint Peace started off the night, with a poem about Indiana corn and alcoholism. (Note: In Indiana, corn imagery is what sunflowers and tumbleweeds are to Kansas poems).  Before the show, they needed judges, so Saint Peace was going around the room, handing out dry erase boards. I was one of the chosen.

Scoring ranked from 1 being “Oh my god, how in the hell did he get up here and say that, WTF was he thinking?” to 10 which to quote Saint Peace is like your “ears orgasming orchids” and “you could go deaf tommorrow and not mind.” I, being me, was the Simon Cowell of the bunch, giving the low scores to those who ran around in circles chasing their tales, like similes floating just out of reach.  There were some phenomenal talent though, phenomenal. What really brought the house down was the open mic after the competion. Writer’s Bloc is a powerhouse group of poets. While one of their members could be certifiable crazy, there’s a trio that does group poems like pros.  My mind is still so blown, I can’t bring the words to capture it. You have to be there to believe it.

Suffice it to say, I know where I’ll be Friday nights!

 

Inspirational People

The past few days I’ve managed to put myself in the proximity of great people. Turns out there’s plenty of opportunities in the big city.

First, last Thursday I had the chance to hear Howard W. Buffett speak about his work as a part of the Obama transition team in the development of the Office of Social Innovation. Basically this office, which is still in its early states, is designed to help nonprofits and social entreprenuers make a difference on a larger scale. The presentation wasn’t vetted by the White House PR crew, so I can’t go into many details-it was a DNT presentation: Do Not Tweet. When I heard who was speaking, I figured he’d be a middle-age, aloof philanthropist. When I actually saw him, I was surprised. In his mid-twenties, this Buffett was accessible and engaging, opening the floor to questions throughout the presentation. He took a few straw polls and was surprised to find that we understood what he was referring to. Aparently philanthropic innovations typically take more explaining to your average crowd.  Suffice it to say, the White House is doing some compelling work in social innovation, and it’s thrilling.

Saturday, I took a break from reading and went to the Central Library’s Fall Family Fest, because I’d heard that there would be poetry. I was almost late due to the  marathon runners on Meridian, but fortunately I made it in time to hear FightingWords, a spoken word troupe that combines their poetry with hip hop and social responsiblity. They’re definitely worth hearing, and I hope to see some more of their shows.

The keynote speaker was Chef Jeff Henderson, of Food Network fame. I wasn’t that interested at first, but I’m glad to have heard him speak. It turns out he was a drug dealer until the was caught and imprisoned. In prison, he learned to cook. He “did the time” instead of letting the time do him, and he learned a skill and gained a dream. Now he’s a celebrity chef, trying to get the word out and break the cycle of generational poverty. So many problems stem from the fact that a lot of kids don’t have strong role models to look up to or learn how life could be. Instead, all they see in the neighborhood are the gang bangers, the hustlers, the pimps, and the prostitutes. Chef Jeff left us with a sense of a hope and an unspoken call to action: Mentor a child, give them a new example, and dare them to dream big!

 

Hallo-Friday -or- How I picked up a hobbit at midnight on Mass Ave

And now, back to the regularly scheduled adventures:

In the spirit of Halloween, there’s a ton going on. Of course, being a Friday, I had to put in eight hours at the office, and I, being me, managed to jump up too quickly in the excitement of actually being asked to do something, that I caught my nice new pair of khakis on the desk drawer and ripped the left leg.  I muddled through and on my “lunch” break at 2, I decided to get out of the building and go ANYWHERE. So I walked downtown and found a Borders with a law office in the middle. Very cool. I almost bought a book, but managed to resist. It had been sprinkling as I walked away from the office, but once I stepped out of the bookstore, it was pouring! Thankfully, I had grabbed my umbrella from the car, so I walked back and got soaked. There was something so thrilling about walking in the rain, that it lifted my spirits for the rest of the day. I wasn’t quite to the Singing point, but it was close.

After I got off work, I went to three different stores downtown, looking for a funnel. I had made a batch of mulled cider in my crockpot but I had to transport it to the gathering of the SPEA gang  somehow. We were planning to watch holloween movies and carve pumpkings. But you know, you can’t find a cooking funnel when you need one. I ended up getting an oil funnel and ladeling the spiced cider back into its jug. It worked.

I was quite a sight, I’m sure, carrying a pumpkin in a bag on one shoulder, my purse, a crockpot, a jug of cider, and my pumpkin carving tools down three flights of stairs, butI made it to my car and to Genevieve’s. She had gone all out with the decorating, and she had made a ton of food. Kayla, Angela, and Robby arrived shortly thereafter, and we watched It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and Wallace and Gromit:the Curse of the Were-Rabbit.  During Wallace and Grommit, the pumpkin carving commenced.

My pumpkin was locally grown, from this awesome little stand on 56th street that has local grown produce all year. Kayla wasn’t going to carve, but at the last minute she found a tiny pie pumpkin at the grocery store and brought. Angela and Robby had bought the mother of all pumpkins-a 35 pounder! Next to Kayla’s, it looked like a monster! Take a look at our handiwork:

Mine is the skull on the right.  It was fun, but I’m actually thinking about cooking my jack-o-lantern. Hate toI  waste a good pumpkin! We watched Shaun of the Dead and the part broke up, since Kayla’s small group met at 10 am this morning and Robby may or may not be driving to Pennsylvania as I type.

The IndyFringe Theater was hosting a midnight showing of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Musical, Once More With Feeling, so I header downtown. Everyone had scattered in different directions, but I didn’t care: I was wearing my “Joss Whedon is my Master Now T-shirt.” I went to the directions that Google had given me, only to find nothing but the Rathskeller (which is good because I’m going there tonight). I wasn’t the only one looking for the theater, there was a girl with a yellow umbrella, dressed as a hobbit in a traveling cloak. We stopped to ask the same people, and set out to find the theater. It was several blocks away, so we hopped in my car. We saw a huge crowd of people outside, so we hurried to get in line. It was 11:30 by that time and the show was to start at midnight. And no one was going in.

The IndyFringe was packed to the gills. We were turned away because there was no more standing room. Packed. The director did promise us tickets to another show, but there’s no telling when there will be another Buffy showing. It was such a let down. Maddie (that was the hobbit’s name) and I walked back to my car, dodging puddles, dejectedly. Then I said, “Hey, I own it. We could go back to my place and watch it.” So we did. We sang along and had a fabulous time. She is an IUPUI student to, and she gave me some fabulous reading suggestions.

That’s how I spent my Friday night in the city!

 

Growing Pains

The Universe demands you grow.

But, by God, its not easy. Right now I like my city, hate my job, am on even ground with my graduate program, and ultimately feel more uncomfortable than I have in years.  I keep trying to remind myself how out-of-place I felt in my freshman semester at FHSU and my year at TMP, but it’s not helping. I got spoiled with my second families in the English department and the library. And dammit I want that back.

I think a large part of my issue is my job. If I just knew what I was doing there, life would be easier. I sit and wait for projects, I sit and wait for the other girls to leave,  so I can sit and wait for the phone to ring. Guess what? It doesn’t. I pull out my homework, which the other girls do on a regular basis, I get told to find something to do. Guess what? Unless I start a per page inventory of the supplies in the copy room or the closet, no one has anything. I want to quit, but they pay me ridiculously well for a part-time work-study job. The other problem is that I don’t want to burn any bridges. The Institute is a part of my department and a lot of the staff are professors. Or know my professors.

I went to talk to my advisor yesterday. Unhelpful. And odd. I ask a question about the dual degree program and I get a “I can’t make that decision for you.” I don’t want you to. I want you to have an opinion, which I will consider and get back to you. Gerbera Daisies! I had volunteerism question which led to some interesting leads, which I had heard before. So now, I’m going to talk to another staff member today and see where I get with that.

There’s a job opening with the Indianapolis Marion County Public Library Foundation. Its part time, but with grad school I can’t do two jobs and the reading. I timed myself-to get through a chapter in my *most* favorite textbook it takes three hours. The smaller readings average about an hour. Given I have at least one 3-hour reading and three to four smaller ones for my Teusday class and anywhere from 1 to 6 hours of reading for my Monday class, there just isn’t the time. That doesn’t include the papers I’m not getting done at the moment. There’s also a full-time opening with Girl’s Inc that could be phenomenal. I just don’t know what to do.

Buckle down. Tackle the papers. Remove a pressure. Ask around in the community. There are things to do. I just want things to come easier.

The sun is out now, after a torrential rain. Its Wednesday so I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. Tonight I’m baking cookies and watching the World Series after class.

I’m growing, dammit.

 

The (Mis)Adventures of Screaming Mimi and the Spot Stealer

The Indy locals freak out when they hear my address, as I’m sure I’ve told you before. I have had no problems until Friday morning, and honestly it was more of an annoyance than anything.  At 4:30, I sat straight up in bed, having heard a woman shouting at the top of her lungs.  I froze in bed for a moment, certain it was my next door neighbors having a fight. Instantly alert, I started listening for any signs that I needed to call the cops.  ”I hate you. Do you know how much I hate you. Jacob I F***in’ hate you!”

Now, none of my male neighbors are named Jacob. I don’t know about the folks who live directly below me, but the sound was too clear to be from that apartment. I’ve heard their TV a few times, but that’s about it.  The tirade continued.

“You know how I get when I drink. You know I’m a f****in’ alchoholic. You never should have let me drink.” The girl continued. Although I’m concerned at this point, I’m inclined to agree. No one should be this loud at 4:30 in the morning. I stumble out of bed to figure out where the racket is coming from and to make sure no one is getting beaten to a pulp. I start toward my door when I hear a muffled male voice, presumably Jacob,  but not coming from the hallway. It was coming from the parking lot. It was a nice night, so I left my kitchen window open to air out the curry smells.  That was a mistake. Although shutting the window didn’t muffle the sound of my neighbor, Screaming Mimi.

It was pouring rain and I could see this crazy white chick standing out in the downpour in nothing but a tank top and pajama pants. She was on the Biltmore side of the fence, and Jacob was inside on the parking lot side. I applauded him for the smart move. A fence is a nice thing to have between you and a crazy drunk girl. Screaming Mimi repeated how she was a “f***in’ alcholic” and something about alcohol making her a whore, and “please just let me back into my f***in’ apartment.” Yes Jacob, please let her back into her apartment, and leave, so we can get back to sleep.

He didn’t. Instead he walks over to a car that I have been watching for two weeks, because this car is never parked in the same spot, the telltale sign of a spot stealer, a practice I have NO tolerance for. If you’re stealing spots now, you’re going to be the one to take the spot that I carefully extricate from the snow. Uncool. And I will have your ass towed.

Screaming Mimi continues to whine and snivel the same tune, until she scales the parking lot fence, in bare feet. I know it can be done, but seriously, come on. She goes over an hops into the Spot Stealer’s car, which effectively muffles the sound. By now it’s 5:15 am and I have to get up at 6 am anyway, so I do my dishes. And then I hear a door slam and ” I f***in’ hate you. You don’t know how much I hate you right now.” Screaming Mimi, I speak for the residents of the Stanton when I say, YOU don’t know how much we hate YOU right now. Apparently Jacob the Spot Stealer gave Mimi her key back and she proceded to wrestle with the gate. Being drunk really makes those key things hard to handle. A few more expletives and she was back inside.  Spot Stealer took off, and there was peace in the neighborhood once more.

Let this be a lesson: Don’t give the Screaming Mimi’s of the world firewater. It addles the brains and disturbs the peace. And don’t steal people’s parking spots, it’s just NOT COOL.

 

Storytelling: an art lost and regained

When I moved to Indy, I lost my ability to tell a story. With the onset of new people, new situtations, new places, I retreated, becoming that shy, quiet girl who used to sit in the first row nearest the door in Mrs. Steckline’s AP English class. It takes confidence to tell a story, get the emphasis right, draw out the dramatic tension, go for the funny line. I started to stutter; I haven’t stuttered for years.

Moving took every drop of daring. A new field of study drew my efforts away from my writing, although I started to relate my adventures for you all. There were (are) so many things to see and do. But you don’t have to have adventures to tell a story. Every one of us has so many crazy things that have happened in our past, that there are a ton of stories to tell.

Lately, pulling out memories has been like reaching into a dark, murky abyss. When I first left the farm, my memories were dropped behind heavy hanging curtains. I began a new life. But you can’t deny your past. I remember more now than I did then, but there are thousands of moments just out of reach, stories I can’t tell, many of which I know I don’t want to remember.

Yesterday, lines of poetry started dropping out of my mind onto index cards. Lines begging for their own creation. As I waited for my furniture, I cracked open a notebook I started a long time ago. It’s a guided notebook following the instructions of a wonderful book called ” The Book of Self Acquaintance.” Short prompts take me back to my earliest memories, earliest friends, earliest identities,and slowly I remember the bits and peices, interespersing stories with facts. I filled in a few more pages, did my homework, and went to a fabulous movie that reminded me that my silence is a gag from a past life that I should no longer conform to.

Tonight, I told a story, to a live audience, and I got it right.