Someone's Dogma Ran Over My Karma

My gawd! I don't think I've had this much of a run of bad luck in a really long time. And I have to stop and ask myself if there was anything I could have done to prevent this from happening. I must have pissed of the karmic gods because they are sticking it to me big time.

So, last Saturday, I was on my way to work. I've taken to the San Mateo Bridge for my commute because it's free-flowing and fast compared to the Bay Bridge and even the Dumbarton Bridge. On Saturday, however, it was neither quick nor free-flowing. I got within two miles of the toll plaza and then came to a halt. All four lanes were packed with people. I'm assuming this is a weekend deal because I don't drive it on the weekends very often, or at least not at 3 p.m. That took some time to get through, but there was enough eye candy in the adjoining lanes to keep me amused for the duration. Then I went to work, and then I went home.

I stopped for gas at about 10:30 p.m., and shortly after, I left the gas station. And shortly after that, my engine light came on. This always freaks me out. In my Rabbit and my first Golf, I only had little red light bulbs situated above icons to tell me if something's wrong. Now, I've got lighted icons as well as audible sounds and sometimes even a text display of errors to tell me that I'm headed for the auto shop. About seven months ago, give or take, my engine light came on for the first time. I took it in, and the shop told me that the coolant sensor was malfunctioning or something. It was a part that triggered the coolant system and prevented the car from overheating. Well. Since you put it that way, fix it at all costs. I've had enough of automobile cooling malfunctions to last a lifetime. And then the car ran beautifully. I love my car, I can't emphasize that enough. So this time, when the engine light came on, I was upset and wondering what else could it mean? And apparantly, there are 150 different things this light could represent. Yay.

To add insult to injury, my bank account seems to have sprung a leak because after I pay rent and all the necessities, I'm like...well...I've just never liked talking money on this thing. Even if I were keeping a written diary, I probably wouldn't talk about it. It just seems so...gauche, so, I don't know, tacky. I hate money. It's a necessary evil in the modern world. You can't live without it, and having it is just as much of a hassle. So let's just say that it's a double whammy for me at this point.

So, I knew that the car repair would be extensive and costly. I just figured as much. I mean, if a light turns on to tell you that something is wrong, that something is pretty important, and important things are expensive. So, I parked the car, which was running perfectly by the way, and decided to take public transportation to and from work until such time as I could afford the repairs. How could I prepare myself for the indignity of a breakdown? That lasted a day before I, myself, was breaking down and actually yelling at a bus driver.

I have never yelled at a bus driver, no matter how much I've dreamed of it. So rude. But then again, she almost didn't stop for me, it was raining, I was tired, and all I wanted to do was go to bed. By the time she dropped me off at the Union City BART station, I was calmed enough that I was able to apologize for my outburst and sincerely wish her a good evening. I know they put up with the shit all day long, so my yelling like a freak wasn't helping anything.

As an aside, this whole public transportation thing is a good thing for me, no matter how much I deride it. It's forcing me to get some exercise. I'm walking everywhere again, and that is so good. I walk at a brisk pace, and I've got my blessed iPod keeping me busy. So far, I've shuffled through 827 of 7432 songs. That's fun. I repeated "Jive Talking" by the BeeGees at least four times last night; it's such a great rhythm to walk to, especially if you want to strut, and by last night, I didn't give a shit what I looked like.

Tuesday evening, I had to stay late, ’til about 8:30 p.m. I missed the last bus across the bay, so I had to take Caltrain. The California Avenue Caltrain station is two miles from my office. the walk from the office to Caltrain is downhill, and it takes roughly a half an hour. I got to the train station at about 9 p.m., bought my ticket, and prayed for a cigarette. The train came by a half-hour later, and I got off at Millbrae to connect to BART. I got off at Daly City to connect to the Pittsburg/Bay Point train, which left the platform at 11 p.m. It dropped me off at Rockridge at just before midnight. I walked in the door of my apartment at 12:16 a.m. Can you feel the love here?

Then I got up at six o'clock the same morning to start the process all over again. As I was screaming in the shower, I decided that I could scrounge up the pennies it would take to pay for the repairs. I made a call to the auto shop to take it in this morning.

Fortunately for me, Wednesday night I got to leave at 5:30 p.m. All of my work was done, and now it's in the hands of reviewers. I can't do anything until their comments come in. I still got home three hours later, but it was 8:30 p.m., and I could at least sit down and read my junk mail before I crashed. And lately, I've been crashing hard and fast. That's OK. I don't mind that.

I set the alarm for six again so I could get up early enough to get to the auto shop before they opened. But somehow my alarm didn't go off, and I didn't hit the snooze button...at least I don't think I did. Instead, I dreamed that I had been accepted back into the navy, at the rank of a third-class petty officer with an automatic promotion to a lieutenant commander upon completion of my A school. I had a great room in a fun, vivacious, social dormitory, and I was presented with some sort of commendation by none other than Captain Jean-Luc Picard. He handed me a plate which had my commendation in the form of a chocolate cake in the shape of a book. The book was covered in chocolate frosting, and it had pale green writing explaining what I did to deserve this. Can't remember what it was, though. I was so happy, all I could say was "merci" over and over again as he left the room. And then I woke up. Late. 6:51 a.m. late.

I got to the auto shop on Broadway at 7:30-ish, checked in my car, was quoted what I feared, and then hoofed it to the 19th Street BART station so I could try to get to work on time. Ha. There were two San Francisco trains in a row when I really needed a Fremont train. I figured that I wasn't going to make the last bus across the bay, so I opted for Caltrain down to Palo Alto. On the second BART train to San Francisco, standing among the other commuters, I raised my head, smiled, and said, "I did it for Johnny." No, really, I realized that so much of what I was going through was out of my control. Waking up late I can fix. My car, that's kinda half and half. I'm doing my best to keep the rest of it up, and what else can I do? So I surrendered myself to whatever is up there. And then I found a tiny bit of inspiration, which, upon further research, is going to save my big white ass. This time.

If anything, this whole experience has been anything but stable, and that's only part of what's throwing me out off kilter. Everything I do is part of a routine, scripted, analyzed, rehearsed...down to the minute practically, and since I'm relying on mass transit, which in the Bay Area sucks ass and is the least reliable form of anything, I'm having to go with the flow, and that scares me a little. I'm a control freak. Sue me.

So, by the time I got to Palo Alto this morning, it was after ten. It was a sunny morning, the air was cool, the sky was blue, and the sun was hot. Nice. And so I walked up Page Mill Road in a half an hour and was literally dripping with sweat all over by the time I reached my building. And then my security badge didn't work. It is usually clipped to my belt loop, and it got caught in my car seatbelt a long time ago. The card kinda bent a little, but the thing still opened the doors, so I didn't do anything about it. This morning, when the doors didn't open, I knew that the card had finally given up, but part of me was still thinking, holy shit, they finally fired me. Pessimist much? They gave me a new badge.

Verbose much?

It's now about five o'clock, and I haven't heard from the auto shop. I wonder what that means. Another day to sell a kidney. A long weekend for me, trekking to and from work to finalize this submission. Weight loss. Fresh air. Time to take pictures. I am not worried about it anymore. Things have developed that will insure security. And now it's time to go home.

Fuck Me Sideways

I just got a shot of cold piss to the heart. The auto shop called to let me know that there are $2500 worth of repairs needed on my four-year-old car. The airflow sensor is bad, it's a dealer part, and it costs roughly $500. And the catalytic converter is dead; without it, I won't pass a California smog test, and it costs $1900. Then add tax and labor, and you're giving me a heart attack. I'll fix the airflow sensor (or whatever it is), and at least turn the engine light off. Fortunately, from a certain point of view, the catalytic converter doesn't affect how the car works, just what comes out of it. I'm sorry California, but you're going to have to deal with higher emissions from me for a few months, at least until I can afford to fix the thing. I've got until June to get the smog check, so maybe if I just stop moving, eating, drinking, breathing, doing, I'll be able to save $2000 in less than three months. WTF, people. Or maybe I'll just chance it with Midas. OMG, Becky...

So, yesterday, I was trying to find the zen in this whole thing: I can only do so much and the rest is in the hands of a higher power. Well, part of "so much" that I'm going to do is quit this lousy job and do something within walking distance. OK, well, that's partly true. I'm so over this. So over this.

On the brighter side, I found out yesterday that Madonna will be at Coachella on 30 April. How much fun will that be? I mean, I keep thinking that this is some other Madonna, like the Material Girl wouldn't play a desert indie music fest...would she? I guess if she thought it was the next great thing and wanted to get in on it...even though it's been around for several years now. Whatever. Depeche Mode (which we'll see at Shoreline two nights before), Scissor Sisters, Lady Sovereign, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Sleater-Kinney, and what I've been waiting for, the Dears. Like, yay! I'm still waiting to hear about when the Cardigans are touring the US, and especially when Starsailor are coming over. Gawd I love them!

It's halfway through Friday; although that makes no difference to me because I'm working through the weekend. I know, boo hoo for me. That reminds me, I have to plan my travel service for Saturday and Sunday, as well as my food service. Out here on the edge of Foothill Boulevard, there is nothing to eat but grass, bugs, and the occasional mountain lion. Har har. We have squirrels, too, but they're too cute to eat.

Whatever.

The Friday Saturday Random Ten: The I’m‑Exhausted Edition

Fire up the iPod, set it to shuffle, and write down the first ten songs that play. No cheating. No skipping forward.

1. Muted—Olive
2. Do You Want to Dance?—Bette Midler
3. I Can Do It—Barbra Streisand
4. Angels with Dirty Faces—Sugababes
5. I'm No Angel—Dido
6. Knowing Me, Knowing You—ABBA
7. Jezebel—Sade
8. Live and Learn—The Cardigans
9. Can't Be Sure—The Sundays
10. He Ain't Heavy...He's My Brother—ONJ

So, according to schedule (finally), I got up at 5:30 a.m., got to BART by 6:16, got to CalTrain by 7:21, Palo Alto by 9:09, and work by 9:45. And now I'm too pooped to work. I'll stay here until 7:30 p.m., and then do it all again in reverse.

I'm only going to do what I can do today. I'm going to work hard, for sure, and I'm not coming in on Sunday. That's just masochistic. BART doesn't start running until eight o'clock on Sunday anyway, and I probably wouldn't get over here until closer to eleven or noon, and is it worth it? No.

I met SP, SLY, and CS in Berkeley last night. They saw The Squid and the Whale, and I met them for dinner afterwards. I had a great calzone, half of which is my lunch today, thereby negating the food planning I did earlier. Besides, by the time I walked to CalTrain this morning, because MUNI hadn't started running when I got to SFO, the Safeway on the corner wasn't open yet. It doesn't open until nine on Saturdays. Oh, touch them.

I stayed out way too late last night. I got home close to midnight, and I was just pooped. Fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. And then Roommate's phone dialed mine, which was right next to my bed, and woke me up. Twice. I had to yell at him to take the damn thing out of his pocket so he wouldn't inadvertently dial me. Duh.

I also decided that tomorrow afternoon, since I'm not working, I'm going to CS's house to visit with SP, SLY, and CS for a little Oscar get-together. That should be nice. I hope I can stay awake for it all.

Other than that, it's a gorgeous chilly late-winter day out there. It made walking thirty-seven miles all the more easier. At least it felt like thirty-seven.

I have got to empty out my bag! I have a Dee-Dog—which is, I think, what they call a large now—from Timbuk2, it's custom made, and I love it. I've had it for years, and it goes with me everywhere. But it's a little too big because even though I know better, I always fill it up with stuff I know I don't need, like condoms, two dozen pens, books I'm not going to read, mail I'm not going to read, etc., ad nauseum. And that fucker really does hurt after thirty-seven miles on foot. So I've promised myself that sometime today, I'm going to clean it out and get rid of everything nonessential to my journeys. It's not like I live out of the thing, and having it bulge the way it does only makes me look homeless as I schlepp through wherever I'm going.

OK, off to have fun with case report forms! Yay!

The Friday Random Ten: The Is-It-Still-Winter? Edition

Fire up the iPod, set it to shuffle, and write down the first ten songs that play. No cheating. No skipping forward.

1. Sans toi—Isabelle Boulay
2. Come Here My Love—This Mortal Coil
3. Havana Daydreamin’—Jimmy Buffett
4. This Is the Last Day of Our Acquaintance—Sinéad O’Connor
5. My Favourite Game—The Cardigans
6. La seconde chance—Roch Voisine
7. Dear Catastrophe Waitress—Belle and Sebastian
8. Un million d'années—Niagara
9. Careless Whisper—Bananarama [sic]
10. Don't Leave the Light on, Baby—Belle and Sebastian

So, on Wednesday, I picked up my car from the shop. It's fine. And I'm through walking and riding to work, for now. I can see the merit of mass transit, but when I map it all out, it costs the same (or even a little more) than driving, and the time differential is greater than it should be. I think it would be OK a couple days a week, or even just a couple days a month to give my left leg a break from the clutch and to read some of the books that are collecting dust on my shelves. But otherwise, it really is easier to drive. This from a train-lover.

I've been reminded that the time for this job to be over is rapidly approaching. I have had three calls from two different recruiters about possible jobs in my field, two in the Bay Area, and one on the East Coast. I have a phone interview in about an hour. For anyone else, this might be good news, but for me, I couldn't care less. The more this submission drags on, the more I want to run screaming from this industry and never look back. It never fails to amaze me how someone cannot do their job and still become a manager. And then they have the gall to pass the buck to someone else. Passing the buck is nothing new; people do it all the time. But when the author of a report chimes in and basically says "I didn't check my figures before I wrote the document, let someone else cover for me," I get a little pissed off.

I started writing this to say that I was ambivalent about leaving this industry for where I'm going, especially with prospects for a new job, but between then and now, my mind is made up. Let them fend for themselves. Twenty days and counting.

I also had to shorten my trip to the desert at the end of the month. I was going to be there for eight nights, but unfortunately, I'll only be there for four. Four is plenty, I know from experience, but December's trip kinda spoiled me. I was there for seven nights, extended another night, and had a great time. I was alone for most of that time, too, and I had the run of the place. It was fucking cold, though, so no pool time, just the hot tub. It should be warmer come the end of the month. Let me go check. They say highs in the 80s, although right now, it's only in the 50s. Whatever. I am so there.

Let's see...working the weekend, got my car back, it could snow on Twin Peaks overnight. Never seen that before. Tick tock!

How Long Has This Been Going On?

OK, I have to get this out. I just got a text message from SP who said that we have tickets to the Rufus Wainwright show on June 14th! If you'll recall, Rufus is playing the entire Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall album, at Carnegie Hall, and we just about peed when we found that out. So, we worked a deal, bought the tickets, and we're going. I'm so excited, I can't stand myself. This will be my first trip to NYC, and we can probably only stay for a couple of days, maybe even two at most, but who cares? I can't wait. Every time I think about the Judy CDs, I start to shake just a little. I love those two CDs and can listen to them over and over again. And to think that this guy is going to recreate the whole concert just makes me pee. I'm gagging, Miss Thing! In fact, the response to this concert was so huge that he added another night. But we're going on Night 1.

OMG, Becky. I can't even stand it.

So, I'm at work again. Technically, I don't have to be here today, but my home life has hit such a low that I can't stand being there anymore. So I drive fifty miles away from the fucker just to have some peace and quiet at a place I'm at five days a week to begin with. Can we say dysfunctional and severely damaging?

OK, let's get this out. Call me a hypocrite, call me wishy-washy, whatever. I had a phone interview on Friday with another pharma in the Bay Area. Just that one half-an-hour made me realize what a gem of job I have here. I have so much autonomy with this position, I have a say in how things are done, and I make hella good money. The only problem I have is with the management. And I want to give this all up because of the management? Talk about cutting off the nose to spite the face. I mean, really. I get away with murder around here, and I still turn a good product. I'm not taking anything for granted, but I feel secure here. So why leave? Good question. And I took the last forty-eight hours and had to really justify leaving and pursuing something less secure, way more dangerous, and for hella bad money. And I decided that this current position is the best place for me right now. So I'm going to stick around. Whatever.

And I've also got the freedom to plan: trips, clothes, shoes, a new apartment, a new computer, concerts, et cetera, et cetera. I've got the freedom to really get out of debt and start saving for my future. I'm gonna be 35 in four months, here. I've got to think about retirement, you know.

I feel like I'm betraying myself. And yes, I have major issues. My soul is shriveling up as I type this. But I think I can handle that. I've got nude yoga.