Another Day in Paradise (Or a Study of the Effects of Tequila on the Human Mind)

System updates—we’ve all experienced the incredible euphoria of that announcement. You get the nicely worded email at work and you know your life will soon turn to crap. We got the emails on Friday. The updates were to take place over the weekend, which meant Monday would be a new adventure through the Nine Rings of Hell. Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Well, here in Illinois, it’s called the Seven Gates of Hell. Those gates can be found near Collinsville, Illinois, along Lebanon Road as you travel toward Troy. Legend has it there are many horrors facing the unwary traveler at the stroke of midnight. You can find out more about it here: http://nightfallunlimited.com/?p=6.

But I digress. This is not what I’m writing about, so back to the subject at hand.

Anyway, Monday rolled in with all the troubles we would normally expect . . . and a few we didn’t. By 5:00 P.M., I was ready to pull my hair out, but I shucked it off and clocked out. There’s a trick to shutting off the work day. It took me years to figure it out, but I’m usually successful at it now. Monday was behind me and life was good.

Until Tuesday.

I’m getting to hate Tuesdays almost as much as Mondays. Still, like everyone else, I slogged through slow systems, internet interruptions and a constant barrage of client issues—each worse than the last. Like Gloria Gaynor, I survived. (Oops, just showed my age.)

Then dawns Wednesday. On the scale of hated days, Wednesday usually ranks fairly low. We all hate the camel that demands you guess what day it is, but hump day signals the downhill slide to the weekend. Unless it was this day, this Wednesday.

Like a moment from my pre-teen life, I rolled over when the alarm went off and begged, “Mom, just five more minutes,” and went back to sleep. Yeah, brilliant move, that. I woke again fifteen minutes before clock-in time. Man, don’t you just hate it when that happens? It was a mad dash to the bathroom to splash water on my face and pass a brush over my teeth.

The kid pounded on the bathroom door, entreating entry. Tough. I was late. She had to grit her teeth and struggle through the minutes until I emerged and ran back to the bedroom to toss off the nightgown, make a stab at making my bed and throw on whatever mismatched clothes I could find on laundry day. (Okay, laundry day was Sunday and I didn’t get it done. Don’t judge.)

I took three minutes for eggs over easy and to set water on for tea, then it was a mad dash to the office.

Relax, people. The office is at the front of my house. I clocked in exactly on time . . . I think. It was kind of hard to tell since I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too busy trying to get the systems up and running.

I work with a VDI system. I’m told that means Virtual Desktop something-or-other. My dear friend, Joey Walnuts, says it means, “A totally #$%@ up day in techno hell,” but those are his words (and colorful symbols), not mine. All I know about it is it has no hard drive, you cannot save anything on it and if it doesn’t like something you do, it locks up and you have to start all over. I was on my third start-all-over when I started drinking tea like it was going out of style. I had to get awake, and quick.

My first phone call from a doctor’s office looking to get an issue fixed was answered with a rough voice and a sneeze. I apologized while my caller blessed me and I jumped into the work day. Then the #$%@ up (again, Joey’s words) VDI kicked me out. The poor caller had to wait ten minutes while I got the stupid thing up and running again. She helped with humorous comments about stunning technology and stellar savings on our valuable time.

We laughed through the call and on I moved to the second. That’s when the dog went off. There’s a new neighbor in the maple tree out front. He’s a squirrel we named Sly because he’s a tricky little fellow. Sly mocks Lucy the Bichon and Lucy is not one to take such an affront lying down. Sly has been known to climb onto the screen where the dog likes to nap and chatter derisively at her. This day was no exception, but I digress again.

The caller started laughing as I apologized for the loud and intemperate animal snapping, snarling and barking at the disrespectful little beast hanging from the screen. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand how one small ball of white fluff can make so much noise.

I made it through the call. The dog got through it unscathed even though I had threatened to cook her up on the barbeque grille out front. She just snorted at me, barked at the window one more time and went back to sleep.

The next call was even more fun when the internet went out and I lost the caller. I have a lump on my forehead where I pounded it on the desk in frustration. I knew when I saw the Mediacom truck drive by my office window it wasn’t going to be good. For the next forty-five minutes, the internet was up and down until I finally called the company and was told they were doing maintenance on the lines. Well, that’s great. I’ll just take a couple of hours without pay while you all have a good time. She apologized and said it wasn’t supposed to disrupt service. I told her to call her guys and get them to fix it immediately or I was going to walk over and find them. I made her understand this was not a scene she wanted her guys to experience. Five minutes later, it was up and running with no further interruptions.

Lunch time.

I fixed a lovely meal of tomatoes with basil from the garden, pan-seared salmon with dill sauce and iced tea. It was a nice meal because I needed strength to get through the rest of the day.

I came back to work and the VDI was down again. Okay, so Joey was right. It truly was behaving like a #$%@ up tool. Fortunately, it only took a few minutes to get running again and I clocked in on time. After slogging through a few more calls with slow systems and a worsening attitude, I reached for chocolate to keep myself out of the liquor cabinet. I had dreams of a mojito or a shot of tequila with a nice wedge of lime. I abstained. Regretfully.

At break time, I got a bag of ice for the growing bump on my forehead and took a swing at Sly with a ball bat. Hey! It’s not your miserable day. It was mine. And don’t worry. The squirrel was much faster.

Back in the house, a large and fearsome wasp was making himself at home on my desk. I discovered this when I came back in after chasing the fluffy-tailed monster away from my house. Mr. Wasp was sitting on my headset. Without my headset, I cannot do my job. I work for a call center, for crying out loud. I have to take calls.

Ah, the bug zapper. Of course. After a quick run to the gazebo to get an apparatus that looks like a badminton racket—but is decidedly more deadly—I came back to fight the now-infamous Battle of the Headset. The wasp was the aggressor, I swear. I had no choice but to defend my home and my livelihood from the creature. After knocking over a vase of flowers, toppling a shelf of books, smacking a cup of tea all over the carpeting and destroying a desk lamp, the wasp was cornered in the window against the screen. I had him now.

This ingenious zapper is activated with the touch of a button. Aldis sells them for less than $2.00 and I bought several. They make a satisfying snap, crackle and hiss when you slap them against bugs. It smokes some, and it smells some, but it’s vindication against troublesome insects. The wasp was no exception. It smoked and smoldered and fell down dead in the windowsill. Yeah! That’s right. I won and the wasp died a horrible death. I have no remorse. I just wish I’d removed him from his final resting place and flushed him down the toilet. Ah, well. Live and learn.

Anyway, I was late. I had to get back to work. Lo and behold, the VDI was up and working—for the moment.

By 4:24 P.M., it was down again. Another call to the help desk and it wasn’t fixed. At 5:01 P.M. I ended my work day with a slam of my chair against the wall.

Enter tequila. As I contemplated the evening menu and the family arrived home, I pulled out a lovely bottle from my collection of fine tequilas. Just as I uncorked the bottle, I heard the worst screaming of any mother’s life. My child had gone outside to the gazebo, stepped on a wasp and remembered why I always tell her to wear her shoes. Too bad she didn’t actually put her shoes on before heading out.

Our home has become the center for vengeful wasps since the now-infamous Battle of the Headset. They’re all bent on retribution for the terrible crime of having slaughtered one of their own. They exacted that vengeance on my child. This shall not stand!

After some quick first aid and a hug to the shuddering, devastated child, I grabbed all the weapons I could find and went after the enemy. Now, those who know me know I don’t use pesticides, but we keep one single can of hornet killer around because I’m allergic. One sting and I’m ill. More than one and it can be deadly. I was on the warpath and anything flying was my enemy. I found the wasp that dared to touch my daughter and made it my first target. Vanquished, the terrible beast fell from the sky like so much spent ash. Then I went after its sisters and brothers.

That done, I tried to remember what I was doing before the terrible disruption of a screaming, damaged child. That’s when I saw the mess in my office. Broken lamp pieces still lay scattered about. Books were all a-tumble. I had managed to clean up the spilt tea, but the rest had to be set right. So, as I sat in my office chair, reorganizing the mess, I heard a horrified moan behind me.

“Mom, another wasp. It’s trying to kill me.”

Sure enough, when I turned it was to see my again-bare-footed daughter tiptoeing backwards away from an advancing winged dragon that limped across the floor. I glanced at the window sill. The little monster from earlier had not truly died. It was gone and set on attacking the princess. I grabbed the bug zapper, yelled at her to get back and brought the instrument of death down on the fiend once more. It sizzled. It snapped. It sparked—and it stung the zapper over and over. When it finally stopped moving, I scooped it up in a tissue and witnessed it trying to sting the paper. Straight to the toilet and a resounding flush later, I hoped it didn’t crawl back out and try to sting her on the butt at some point. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it aloud in front of the girl because now she’s afraid of the bathroom. Live and learn.

Throwing my hands in the air, I moved back to the tequila and fixing supper. I wanted to pour the wonderful elixir into a pretty glass, but . . . my daughter’s cell phone rang again.

 So, getting back to earlier in the day, one of the issues I had was the cell phone she left in my care. It rang several times an hour. All. Day. Long.

Okay, she’s a young, new teenager with a cell phone. But this isn’t one of those times. You see, someone has been systematically harassing my daughter. It’s not a bully or someone from her school. It’s not anyone from the community. It’s a spam caller of some sort. The number is (458)201-2338.

That’s right! I posted it.

It’s okay. This number is all over the internet with warnings about spammers or fishers trying to get personal information. The number called no less than sixteen times and I was no longer on the clock. They had called eight times on Monday and ten times on Tuesday. I intended to answer this time, as I had done on my lunch and break.

These people don’t even know who they’re calling. They ask for a name that doesn’t belong in this house. When you ask who’s calling, they start stuttering, acting as if they can no longer hear you and disconnect. Well, this time I wasn’t going to allow such. I answered the phone. The heavily-accented voice asked for “Mr. Dawn”.

The next sound he heard was a maniacal laughter. Then I launched into a tirade that had my injured child backing out of the room.

I yelled, "Don't you act like you can't hear me. I know English isn't your first language, but I know you can understand me. This is my child's phone. I've already reported you to law enforcement, several consumer fraud agencies and my attorney. You call again, it's grounds for prosecution. If that doesn't work, I'll come find you. Say I won't. I'll find you and we'll talk face to face. Am I making myself clear? I will travel to India, Indonesia or whatever exotic country you live in, but I swear I’ll find you. I will not stand for anyone—I mean, anyone—harassing my little girl. Do you understand me? Do you? Answer me!”

The voice on the other end had grown very small. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, pal. You terrorized my child. Do you know what that means here in the good ol’ states? We don’t stand for such cruelty, such unwarranted bullcrap.”

“I . . . hello?”

“Don’t you dare act like you can’t hear me. You hang up before I get all this off my chest and I’ll reach through this electronic cellular line and snatch you bald-headed. You called this number no less than fifteen times, today—sixteen, counting this one—and you have yet to give me any information about why you’re disturbing us. Why did you call?”

“Hello?”

“Find a teacher. Learn to speak my language if you want to get anywhere with my species. In the meantime, get bent.”

There was a resounding click. I managed to yell all of it at the poor man on no less than three breaths of air while the child was moaning and backing from the room and the husband was storming in to demand to know what was happening.

I was beyond angry. I was searching for a new victim—until I happened to touch something on the iPhone in my hand. There was the answer to the dilemma, staring me in the face. I had the option of blocking the number. What a dumbass! I hadn’t even considered the nifty little phone could do such a thing. I blocked the number and started to laugh at myself. All that drama and all we had to do was block the number.

Okay, so we live and learn. It was a funny thing. After yelling my heart out at the hapless call agent from the Philippines or Taiwan or wherever, I felt much better. It was most cathartic. All the stress of the day washed itself away on that poor man’s hide (or ears, as the case may be) and I was a new woman.

The tequila, now forgotten—and still un-savored—sat on the liquor cabinet with all its contents intact. Supper was prepared, my mood was lighter and my husband and child were cowering in fear. It’s the same effect tequila has on my brain, but I didn’t need it. It was a good day after all.

Of Dust Bunnies and Other Domestic Horrors.

The plight of a working mother with two jobs is made worse with a choice. The choice was, do I continue writing, or give it up to be a better housekeeper, a better mother, a better wife. I gave it up—for almost a week. I found out I’m a better wife and mother if I can exercise my craft. I write, therefore, I am.

But that says nothing for my housekeeping. With only so many hours in the day—and night—something gets left out. Let’s face it, would anyone rather do housework than anything else in the world, say, even a root canal?

Each week, I squeeze out an hour or two to run the sweeper, man a dust rag and toss a few things in the laundry (only what’s absolutely needed to dress myself or my child) and spend the rest of the time in pursuit of the creative. Everything changes. Some changes are good.

Recently my day job offered the opportunity to work from home. I thought it over for a long time. It’s a lot to consider. Do I wish to always be in my own home, to never leave during the daylight hours, to not have coworkers surrounding me and laughing? As it turned out, I decided I could live with it. It was the advent of winter that sealed the deal. The thought of my pretty red sporty car on the snow and ice was enough to scare my hair white.

The things you discover when you’re in your own home twenty-four hours a day are mind-boggling. One of those things is that the housekeeping gene in my family is dominant. I thought it had skipped my generation. I thought it might actually be a disease that only affects those in my family such as my grandmother and my mother. We suffered through a childhood of demands, such as, “Pick up your shoes,” “Clean your room,” “Your turn to do dishes,” and “Is this where you found it? Clean up this mess!”

I now hear those words flying from my own mouth. I swore it wouldn’t happen, but it’s happening. The twelve-year-old princess is finding out what it’s like to live with a stay-at-home mom. I don’t think she’s pleased. Those chores do pile up.

For the first few weeks at home I tried to turn a blind eye. Then it hit me all at once. I’ve lost control of my life. There are things in my house that I’m ashamed of, other things I cannot find, and still other things so disorganized I cannot figure them out.

Then the new year hit. The Christmas decorations were stored away for another year and the place looked like a warmed-over version of hell. Still, I tried to ignore it. Nagging feelings of total chaos danced in my head. It even got to the point where I could no longer write. It’s too much chaos!

Things had to change, so, New Year’s resolutions:

1.       Clean this Mother Hubbard (censored expletive) of a house.

2.       Be kinder to myself and others.

3.       Wrestle back control of my life.

It came to a head one day while working at my day-job. I work for a call center, answer questions for those who call in and ask. There is no room for errors. So, as I researched the needed information, I was brutally attacked. That’s right, attacked. A small horde of vicious dust bunnies took flight and went for my eyes. Thinking fast, I put my caller on hold and went on the defensive, swatting and swinging until the nasty creatures were subdued.

After the call, I took my break and went on the hunt for that horrifying, unnatural being known as the domestic dust bunny. It was the dog who had flushed them from their hiding places. The evidence was quite literally written on her poor face in the form of fuzzy gray balls of fluff. She looked confused, upset and not a little terrified. Something had to be done. The malicious creatures had taken on life and were stealing the dog’s food and socks from the laundry monster. Unbelievable.

I was on a mission. Over the next few days I tore into each room, tracking and hunting, evicting spiders along the way as I sought out self-animated and self-aware dust bunnies. It was in the man cave where I found the breeding ground. I was at war and the stakes were high. At one point I even thought about using my husband’s old shotgun. I won’t tell you what I did about the thought, but the husband was not amused. The most difficult part was patching the holes in the floor, walls and door.

They’re all gone now.

Still, there were my goals for this year. There are things that stand in the way of such lofty goals—things such as the laundry monster and the mail beast.

The laundry monster is pretty well self-explanatory. We’ve all experienced such creations of our own making. The pile grows higher and higher until an avalanche threatens to destroy lives. After getting the many missing socks from the now-vanquished dust bunnies, the pile grew higher. I started on it straight away.

What to do while waiting for the laundry was to tackle the mail beast. This creature is a bit more rare. We don’t throw out our junk mail. We don’t have a shredder, but we have a fireplace. One does not fire up the fireplace in the heat of the summer, so one stores the mail until such time as a fire is feasible.

By that time, feasibility of a fire was not an issue. The mail beast was. It was too large to tackle. It was spreading its piles across the counters, reproducing asexually and making a bid for world domination. Cooking meals was becoming risky.

You see, it wasn’t a matter of scooping it off the counter and making trips to the fireplace. The problem was it wasn’t all junk mail. There were needed documents in the beast, documents that weren’t a priority, but needed to be sorted from the belly of the beast and filed away. Daunting at best.

So, while the laundry was going, and the dust was settling, the mail had to be sorted. I was well through it all, had most of it sorted into piles according to subject or into the flames when I ran across something startling—a letter from one of my best friends. It was dated July, 2013.

Chaos ensued and won the day while I stopped to read the coveted, rare, hand-written, post-marked letter. When was the last time you got such a rare treat? I nearly did a jig of joy. (Okay, I did the dance since no one was looking.)

The mail beast was left in its sorted piles while I answered the letter with five rambling pages of hand-written silliness. It had to be answered immediately. It had waited for an answer for six months.

The letter is now in the mail and when I glanced over, I saw that the beast was once more trying to retake it’s former shape, although much reduced in size. Meh, I’ll worry about it tomorrow.