Odd Jobs

As I glanced a critical eye over the office bathroom, I realized that no one here knows I have a background in the janitorial arts.  And that got me thinking about all the other jobs that never made it to my resume.  Read more here.

Call me an Instigator

One of the ways I amuse myself on public transportation is by attempting to make small children laugh.  I test the waters with a quick smile and fleeting eye contact.  If the child seems receptive (and the mom doesn’t seem pre-disposed to irrational anger), I move into material.  My repertoire isn’t broad.  I start out with smiles of escalating size, move through variations on peek-a-boo, and wind up in a series of silly faces.  If all goes well, I can keep the average 2-year-old entertained for about two subway stops.

Last night there was an adorable little boy sitting across from me on the subway.  (My best guess is that he was 18-24 months old.)  He couldn’t stop laughing and smiling at me, even when I was just sitting there.  So of course I played along.  His mom got in on the action by holding her son’s hands over his eyes so he was playing peek-a-boo back.  Somewhere along the way he got a little too rambunctious.  I hadn’t noticed, but I know this to be the case because his mom started reprimanding him.  Apparently when the little boy got laughing, he was bumping into the man seated next to him.  Mom considered this extremely rude.  When the boy didn’t immediately stop, she pinched the back of his leg.  And big tears started rolling down his cheeks.

This is not the first time I found myself in this situation.  Last fall I witnessed a little girl on the bus get slapped by her mother after I got her too wound up.

So now I’m wondering if I’m to blame.  Neither of these children was behaving in a way that I thought required correction, let alone physical reprimand, so I’m not sure I could have predicted this outcome. 

Should I just go back to reading Scottish Life and pretending that I don’t see anyone?

Goodbye, Crazy

It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in a stand-alone house.  I’m somewhat used to sharing walls and hallways with strangers of all kinds.  There have been plenty of stories, though none of them seem particularly memorably right now.  But why do so many people play loud techno on Saturday mornings?

Anyway.  The people in the apartment next door don’t get along very well.  I base this judgment on the number of yelling matches I’ve overheard and the volume at which said matches occur.  About a week ago I woke up at 2am to horror-movie-worthy screams in the hallway.  There are door slams and fights that continue into chase scenes down the hall.

And then there’s the weed.  I’m about as laissez-faire as it gets: I couldn’t care less what anyone does in the privacy of their own home.  But when the elevators in my building open on my floor, I can tell by the smell whether my neighbors are entertaining.  Apparently, good hosts provide copious amounts of pot.  Apologies to all of the people who have left my home disappointed by my lack of hospitality.

As I left this morning, I almost tripped over the movers taking the neighbors' boxes out of the apartment.  I have no idea if they will be moving to one location together or going their separate ways.  All I know is that I breathed a great big sigh of relief.

Can’t say I’m gonna miss you.

A Dog’s Life

Walking down my block the other night, I couldn’t help but notice a golden retriever out for a stroll with his human friend.  He caught my attention because of how often he stopped to sniff things, and how long he attempted to linger when he did.  The person on the other end of the leash kept urging him forward, trying not to break her already slow stride.

I arrived home and collected my mail, and then, as I was waiting for the elevator, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “C’mon.  We’re home.”  I looked toward the door and saw that same golden retriever splayed on the sidewalk in front of the building, while the woman tried to talk him into standing up and coming inside.  I’m still wondering if he was lying down in protest, insisting on staying outside because it was such a nice night.  Or, had the day been so long that he simply couldn’t go any farther?  I know that feeling, but what I’ll never know is what that sweet doggy was thinking.

A Minor Moral Defeat

I’ve been doing my taxes by hand since—well, since I’ve had to file taxes.  Granted, in the beginning, it was easier.  Technically, EZ.  But I have taken a certain amount of misguided pride in this yearly ritual.  I grab my number two pencil and the instruction book from the IRS, and hang out with a bad movie on cable.  In recent years I’ve made a small concession to my own fallibility: I check my math with a little red calculator.

I’ve filed in as many as three states in a year, and each year there seems to be another form I need to fill out.  Friends and acquaintances seem shocked when I ignore their suggestions for tax software.  Come on.  I’m a math junky.  This isn’t even hard math.

Last night I breezed through my federal return.  Connecticut didn’t take me much longer.  I made it three quarters of the way through New York when I hit a wall. For three months last year I lived in New York and worked in Connecticut.  Both states expected me to pay taxes on this income.  In the New York instructions, I found a vague reference to credit for taxes paid to another state, but try as I might, I couldn’t find any information on how to actually claim it.  I searched and searched, but kept coming up empty.

And so for the first time ever (when it comes to taxes), I gave up.  I completed everything online in TurboTax.  And that silly little software that I’d avoided using for more than a decade increased my return.  Substantially.  I guess this is one more piece of evidence that I am in fact fallible.

The Bane of My Existence

That would be the backpack. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve employed this handy tool with some frequency at different points in my life. Distributing the load I’m carrying over two shoulders instead of one is better for my back, and assuages my fears of becoming lopsided from carrying everything on my right shoulder all the time. I also love that a backpack leaves my hands free to ward off predators . . . okay really I just want my hands free to gesticulate wildly.

As handy as a backpack can be, I’ve come to loathe them. Or at least the people who where them. Apparently, before one is allowed to purchase a backpack, they are given a spatial awareness test. If they pass, they are forbidden from completing the purchase. How is it possible that no one seems to realize that when they put something on their back (or over their shoulder) it actually protrudes? I dodge these hunchbacks on a daily basis. Usually I’m successful, but the closer they come, the more irritated I become.

So, here’s a little educational info for users of public transit:

• When you put a backpack on your back, it does not magically meld into your torso, allowing you to take up the exact same amount of space as you do naked
• When you put a large bag over your shoulder, it often extends out further than your body
• When you carry a large umbrella horizontally, you are effectively wielding a weapon

What are the odds of the millions of people who need this information actually receiving it and understanding that it applies to them?

That’s what I thought.

Perhaps I’ll invest in body armor.

No Need for Ruby Slippers

In my sophomore year of high school we studied Hemingway. For extra credit, Chelsea Thaxter (such a cool name that I didn’t forget it) gave a presentation on the Home / Not-Home concept. I don’t remember much about it, only that both Home and Not-Home had a distinct mood and feeling, and nothing to do with actual location. Read more here.