Scooter of Doom

Thursday morning September 18, just before 9:00 - Bethany Blvd at HW 26 - Climate: moist and cool - Pavement: concrete composite

Thanks to a tall, blonde, Ed Bagely Jr.-looking asshole in a white Ford pickup I have to attempt an emergency stop on the scooter. Needless to say, the wheelbarrow-like tires are not up to the job and they skid horribly out of control. The tiny bike falters and flails and pitches me forward and I can't help but apply more brake and lock up the front tire completely, resulting in a high-side accident.

As I cart wheeled off the bike my right thigh clipped the left mirror, ripping it from its mount and leaving a nasty bruise that I would discover later. I'm not sure where I hit next because I was mostly concerned about my face rapidly approaching the pavement. Fortunately the cheap 3-snap shield and THH scooter helmet did their jobs and my face is still in-tact, but somewhere in there my right hand and left knee met the ground. As I lay there for a moment, taking stock and making sure I can still move my hands and feet, the driver of the Ford got out and asked if I was OK. I said I thought I was and another guy asked if I could move.

When I reached out for a hand up the other guy (he had been driving the car behind me) helped me out while the Ford driver stood dumbly by. He again asked if I was OK - mind you, less than a minute ago I was upright and on my way to work - and I may have nodded. He then got back into his truck and drove away. The other driver helped me to the sidewalk and then pushed the scooter to the side of the road. He directed traffic around us while I caught my breath and slowly started removing gear.

First came the helmet - fresh air never tasted so good - and I was happy to see that there was only a minor scratch on the shield and no contact points on the helmet itself. Once I could breathe again I started flexing my legs and decided they were sore and wobbly, but unbroken. Then I started pulling off my gloves - the right one resisted, but finally relinquished its swollen prize. I looked at my hand and couldn't quite comprehend what I was seeing. It appeared my thumb was on backwards. I looked at the good Samaritan who was kindly still hanging about making sure no one ran over me, and said, "I think that is going to require medical attention." He gulped, agreed with my assessment, and called 911.

This nice guy, who's name I didn't get, waited for the ambulance to arrive before he continued on with his day. Whoever he is he has my eternal gratitude. I would have felt so lost if he'd abandoned me on the sidewalk in favor of getting to work on time.

Turns out the thumb was really REALLY dislocated and they had to knock me out in order to fix it. I'm encased in a cast from the tip of my thumb to my elbow for the next couple weeks, and with any luck I won't have to have surgery; but I am seeing a hand specialist later this week.

"I did not eat that cookie"

When I moved to Portland I was an athlete. Not in that feel-good "everyone is an athlete" sense, but the much more traditional definition. I had a very physically demanding job and in my off hours I hiked and biked and rode horses and took care of my property and animals. In the winters I snowboarded and shoveled snow and ran up hills dragging large inner tubes behind me. In the summers I swam and water-skied and taught sculling through the parks and rec department. I never once thought about what shape I was in. I did, however, think about how intellectually bored I was with both my job and my life so I gave up some of those activities to teach myself HTML and Flash and eventually landed a job at a great company.

Over the years I would periodically realize that I was more and more out of shape. I would make half-hearted attempts to remedy the situation, but I would eventually wind up making excuses. I didn't have time to work out all the time. I was totally still cute and there's no way that a size 10 is fat. I was getting older. The plethora of previous injuries haunted me. I was totally still cute and there's no way that a size 12 is fat. But all those really mean is that it wasn't a priority to me. Plus, I wasn't too horribly out of shape; that is at least until I quit smoking.

The Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend 2007 I smoked my last cigarette. I had smoked roughly a pack a day since somewhere around my 17th birthday and I was tired of being controlled by it, of practically everything in my life revolving around my smoking schedule. So with the help of Chantix I woke up that Sunday morning, lit a cigarette, and was immediately disgusted with myself. I snubbed it out and never looked back.

I didn't count on all the stresses that would pile up on me in the following nine months. I lost my last living grandparent to old age; I lost my favorite aunt to pancreatic cancer; I distanced myself from my long-time best friend because our relationship had become rather toxic; I changed jobs - twice - (and bosses three times) due to my company reorganizing; I lost the freedom to work in the way that works best for me; my new "mentor" talked to me like I was an idiot and made me cry on a daily basis; it seemed that most of my newest team only spoke to me when I made a mistake; one of my friends lost a leg in a mining accident and another tested positive for HIV (not technically things that happened to me, but those sorts of things affect everyone); and to top it all off, I invested everything except my 401K in my brother's business plan.

HOLY CRAP!! That's a big list! And it doesn't even mention the "little" things like the toilet leak that caused a $400 water bill; the toilet that still isn't fixed because it just hasn't been a priority; the dog that keeps getting out; my rampant, unchecked vehicle addiction; never having time to clean my house or catch up on laundry; friends that are mad at me because I'm not as present in their lives as I should be because sometimes the weight of everything comes crashing down all at once in a soul-crushing shit-storm of emotion. Through all of that I didn't smoke, not even once. I wanted to. Often. Like every twelve minutes. But I didn't even take a drag of someone else's. Instead, I ate. A lot.

At the thirty-pound-gain mark I joined Weight Watchers and started taking classes at the community pool. I joined the gym down the street and would reward myself for working out with time in the sauna. I got a bicycle and vowed to ride everywhere that was less than five miles away. I went to yoga at least two days a week. One by one these things fell by the wayside, but I continued to eat when stressed or bored. For someone who is bored every ten minutes this is not a good thing.

A couple weeks ago I saw an addiction therapist who politely informed me that my problem wasn't that I had an addiction, but that no one is supposed to deal with that much stress all at one time. Especially not ADD adults. We're really good "in the moment", but totally fail at the long-term stress management. She suggested exercise and six months worth of a good anti-anxiety medication so I made an appointment with my regular doctor for the script but went straight to my list of excuses for the exercise.

The next week my company took my entire team (150 people) to Salishan on the Oregon coast for two days of intense "team building". Wednesday night I spent the three hours of off time before dinner drinking with the Executive Assistant while we did some much-needed job venting. Then I had a couple drinks at the pre-dinner mixer. A glass of wine with dinner was followed by an obscene amount of drinking at the generously open bar. (I really felt my team bonded over the second round of Petron shots.) As frequently happens with this sort of binge drinking I woke up with a few regrets.

On Thursday morning my alarm went off and I reached to hit the snooze and felt something out of place. Cautiously I opened one eye and tried to make sense of what I had touched. That's when I saw what I had done. The evidence was there, spread casually across the pristine sheets of the bed. Chocolate and flour and butter and sugar all baked together to create the half-eaten cookie on the pillow next to me.

That's when it really hit me that I had to get some shit under control. My king-size mini-suite overlooking the golf course had become my oval office; the white sheets with their chocolaty crumbs my fateful blue dress. Somewhere in the back of my imagination I heard flashbulbs and clamoring reporters while I looked them in the eye, steadfast and earnest from the podium stating in no uncertain terms, "I did not eat that cookie."

Sometimes you don't fall all at once. Sometimes you slowly step down the mountain, sliding a bit here, stumbling a little there, until you look up one day and realize that although you once sat atop the highest peak you have now inched and crept and stumbled your way to well below the tree-line and you're left there with your half eaten cookie and a vicious hangover.

As an appreciation gift we were all given iPod Nanos with the Nike+ sport pack thingy that tracks your run. I considered it a sign, an intersection of my personal low and a really great tool. The morning of August 24 was my first recorded "run". It left me winded and sore and soaking in sweat and it took me 22 and a half minutes to fight my way through the entire 2.73 kilometers. If I were in a movie I would have been zombie food.

My two scooters

When spring rolled around, and gas hit $3.50 a gallon, I decided to buy a gas-saving scooter. (100 mpg is hard to pass up when your four wheeled vehicle only gets 22.) So I did the sensible thing and researched. Size, brand, price, overall stylishness, ease of use and maintenance needs all went into my decision to buy the Twist 'n Go Milano in a minty green that reminds me of Mojitos. I named him Paco. He's sweet and reliable and when I ask him to haul me to Beaverton and back he responds with a jaunty "OK boss!"
But then I started thinking...
If Paco had gears he'd be zippier. If he were a Vespa he'd be more stylish. If he had a metal body he might trigger a light to change once in a while. Well, probably not that last one but a girl can dream. So I started combing Craigslist for a Bajaj. It's beautiful. Jade green, chrome edging, and gears - glorious gears. I named him Hadji. You know, after Johnny Quest's best friend who occasionally does magic. My plan is to sell Paco because I don't need two scooters AND a motorcycle. And a Jeep. And the motorcycle that's already up for sale. And a bicycle. (Soon I'll be standing up in a smoky church basement saying, "Hi. My name is Leela and I'm addicted to vehicles." No, Leela isn't my real name but if I gave my real name it wouldn't exactly be anonymous, would it?)
Friday I took Hadji down to the Bajaj dealer to make an appointment for his first check-up. Tim at Columbia Scooter pulled up his service records and filled me in on his background. Nothing surprising, but it was time for service. I made the appointment then Tim wanted to take a look at the damage the previous owner did to it while trying to figure out the clutch so we went out to the parking lot and I pointed out the scratches and paint dings. He then checked Hadji's oil and jiggled the shifter. Oh no. The shifter was pronounced "sloppy". Not to worry, it's probably OK until the service appointment but I should be aware that not OK means not shifting. While riding around in the sun today the shifter slid further into the territory of "not OK".
And that's when it hit me. My two scooters are easily a metaphor for my relationships with men. Were I craftier I could spin it into a schmaltzy novel that would probably sell millions of copies only to finally be made into a boring but beautiful movie directed by either Clint Eastwood or Robert Redford.
Damn, I've gotten sidetracked again. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The scooters as a metaphor.
Paco is reliable, mostly cute, non-offensive, and will take all the abuse I can dish out without complaining. He's great, but I don't really want him. Hadji, on the other hand, is sexy, temperamental, and virtually guarantees that I will spend long afternoons fine-tuning and fixing because deep down he's fundamentally broken... I must have him.
Even in scooters I pick the wrong men.

Something else that sucks about being single

Tuesday night and its raining like cats and dogs, or whatever it is that cats and dogs rain like. I've heard rumors (all unconfirmed) about where that saying came from, but nothing concrete or provable. Whatever, the rain is the least of the single girl's worries.

What is of paramount concern is that I hate my job. Maybe I'm naive and I don't realize that every other person in America gets up and goes to a job that makes them either 1) want to vomit, 2) burst into tears, 3) break down into a screaming and incomprehensible rage for no visible reason, or 4) laugh like a loon for long hours at a time. Take your pick as to which one actually manifests itself. Sometimes it's a combination platter... what a treat.

What it comes down to is that if everyone gets up in the morning and goes off to a job feeling like one of these four things might happen then I am truly and profoundly sorry for the state of the entire nation, and I don't understand why there's not more spousal abuse and killing sprees. If they don't then that means I'm in the minority (read: outside the norm) and therefore I should be happier. Well, I'm not. And the more often I feel like succumbing to number two (crying) the more I feel like I'm actually sliding into number four (lunacy). Not a comfortable feeling at all. I'm not hot enough to carry off being bat-shit-crazy.

Well, at least I feel I am relatively sane - as long as I recognize the edge of lunacy approaching; so that's something.

So here I am, hating my job, and I have to ask: Logically speaking, what is keeping me there? Well, I have a house payment to make. Regardless of everything else going on in my life, the mortgage must be paid. Which means I must pay it. Which is when it occurred to me that now, right now, this moment in time, right this minute, I wish to the depths of my core that I wasn't single. That I had someone else to share this burden with. That I had someone to lean on who would say, "You shouldn't be so unhappy, my love. Quit your job. We'll make it work while you figure out what you want to do." Or even to say, "I know you hate it, but we have a plan... and it's a good one... so stick it out for a while longer." Something. Anything. Because the only thing the dog says is, "as long as there's food in my bowl and you have plenty of time to pet me then we're good."

The other problem is that I no longer have any real savings. I invested my "take a year and do whatever you want" money in my brother's business. (Again... what was I thinking?!?!?!...... Oh, I know, that I believe in his business plan and that it will eventually pay off to a lifetime of dividends. That's right. Sorry. I had a moment of hysteria there.) So realistically what I have in the bank is three month's worth of mortgage. You may be surprised how quickly you'd burn through that if you stopped having an income right this moment, but trust me - I've done the math - it's blazingly fast.

So what is a single girl to do? Well this girl, for one, has cried all she wants to, vomited... well, never, but just thinking about it is enough..., and screamed more often than any one's neighbors should be willing to put up with. (Thankfully the guy kitty-corner from me ran over his wife - really - with his car! - so they're a bit jaded to random screaming fits and/or drunken yelling at the walls.) What else is left? Logic. Blessed logic. The refuge of the indecisive.

So I asked myself some questions.

1) Why do I feel trapped in this job that I hate so much?

Because I have to pay the mortgage.

2) Would I be willing to take the house out of the equation?

I love this house, and I love my neighborhood, but it is just stuff in the end. So, yes, I'd be willing to consider it.

3) If I take the house out of the equation, then why am I keeping the job that I hate?

And since it's only just me making this decision (not man who either will support me through finding another job or who I am supporting through his own career crises; nor any kids that I have to put through college or even buy new shoes for this summer) and I eventually want to give up most of my worldly possessions and live in a camper for a few years anyway, then I came to the only logical conclusion: Give up the house and quit the job now.

Fuck it. If not now, when? (Yeah, I had a plan. Three to seven years. That's when. But things get in the way of plans now and again.)

And if then, why not now? (YES, I know! The reason I had a plan was so that I had a solid place to come home to. But, REALLY!! WTF!)

F U C K ! ! !

It's too much for one person to deal with. Or at least too much for me to deal with.

Don't be surprised if you see me in tattered clothes with tales to tell of strange Tuesdays in Kansas City and average Saturday nights on the Aleutian chain because I think that could be my life for a while. Maybe because I didn't have anyone to lean on when I needed them. Maybe I would have chosen the same path, but I'd at least have a partner to walk it with. Maybe Bin Laden will convince some earnest young Muslim to crash a plane into the Simnasho rest stop just when I decide it's safe enough for a white girl to stop and pee while on the res. Maybe...

But instead it's just me. And I can't do it any more.

Equal Opportunity

I used to date this guy who once foolishly tried to argue equal opportunity laws with me. He was one of the many people who are under the completely mistaken impression that the government is trying to make you hire or promote under-qualified people simply because they aren't white men. There are two things wrong with this argument; 1- discrimination is discrimination, even if you're a white man; and 2- if you hire the most qualified candidate your employee base will, by default, resemble your community. However, the sad fact of the matter is that there are an alarming number of people who still allow color of skin and/or the presence of a Y chromosome dictate their hiring decisions, which is why we still need these laws in place.

One night we're chillin' at his place, chit chatting about this and that, and it comes out that he's totally prejudiced against blacks. He tells me that he doesn't see how they've contributed to the cultural make-up of this country. (And he claimed to be a musician!!) My eye started twitching, I think I might have blacked out for a minute, I was in complete and utter shock. Stuttering through my anger, but persevering nonetheless, I stammered out a few hundred ways how non-whites in general and blacks in particular had contributed to American culture. Finally he conceded enough ground to not only calm me down for the moment, but to make me believe he was open to at least enough change to keep me in the relationship for a little longer.

But on the other hand he held a very firm belief that everyone deserves a second (or third, or even fourth) chance. He owned a small business and was active on the "Felony Friendly" list. This was something else that made my eye twitch. Not that I'm anti-rehabilitation (the differences between rehabilitation and prison may be explored later, but it's too much to go into here). I do think your personal history of decision making needs to factor into any hiring manager's decision. If you were fired from your last four jobs as a waiter because you refuse to charge your friends for their meals, why should I believe you would start now? Either way, that's not quiet the heart of the matter. After calming down I had to ask him to explain to me how it is that he was comfortable discriminating against people based on an accident of birth, but was still open to hiring people with a proven history of disobeying the laws we all live by.

That was the beginning of the end.

I cannot tell a story

Some people, like my brother and my uncle Howard can tell great stories. They can turn a drive to the grocery and back into an edge-of-your-seat narrative that you'll laugh at or cry with or bite your nails through. I don't get it. I can't do that. Really. I can't. I can write one down. I can even make it humorous, or poignant, or snarky or informative. But I cannot verbally tell a story.

I notice it all the time when I'm speaking to people. I ramble on, repeating myself in slightly different ways and adding in completely unnecessary details. Frequently I get the "hurry up" motion from friends and tired listeners. Occasionally I actually get the words "Get on with it already!" from friends.

Also, I have no sense of timing whatsoever. I start and stop in weird places, sometimes even veering off into some completely different story altogether. No cadence. Just call me "No Cadence Candace" from now on. I'm just kidding. Don't call me that. Seriously. I'll punch you in the butt if you do.

The thing is, when I write something down I can re-arrange it so that it flows better. I can spend an ungodly amount of time choosing just the right word to express myself. This tiny missive took an hour and a half to write. But in person I can barely relate a quick paragraph about lunch.

Am I that socially awkward? Well, yes. I am. I'm really uncomfortable most of the time I'm out in the world, even with people I love who I know love me back. At my age you'd think I'd probably either be over that sort of shit or get used to it. The best I've come up with though is to just grit my teeth, slap a smile on my face, and get through it. But on the other hand, I truly enjoy the interaction with other people.

I took this class at work once that was based on Carl Jung's theories of personality and it was no surprise to me when the results came back that the dominant portions of my personality were equal parts of "blue" (give me facts and get out) and "green" (show me you care). Maybe its that blue and green make for one murky story.

And then there's the ending. Ending a story is sometimes difficult, and if you've heard me go on about "No Country for Old Men" then you know how I feel about the importance of a good ending. But ending one verbally is almost impossible for me. I tend to just stop speaking. There's no real conclusion or punchline, just a point where words become pointless.

I envy those who can tell good stories.

When I was eleven I wanted to be a drug dealer

One bright and sunny summer day I was at my grandmother's house, writing or drawing or something of the sort at her mahogany dining table, the same table that currently sits in my dining room, chatting with my grandmother about this and that, when she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. A perfectly reasonable question for an eleven year old child. A thousand things ran through my mind; cop, ballerina, stunt woman, rock star, fire fighter, secret agent. All sounded like wonderful choices, offering a life of adventure and excitement, when it occurred to me that what I really wanted was money, guns, and planes. Looking back I realize that this was probably fueled by, romanticized and glamorized by, watching the Friday night adventures of Crocket and Tubbs. But at that moment, when my mind was racing between daredevil or smoke jumper, contortionist or trapeze artist, I had a vision of myself in the future, or maybe a memory that hadn't happened yet. As clearly as anything I had ever seen, but just for a brief instant, I saw myself hanging out of the door of a small airplane, sub-compact machine gun tucked against my left hip, warm and chattering out bullets toward an unseen enemy on a dirt runway as the plane strained and sped toward the azure sky over the brilliantly green trees. All of this I saw and I knew exactly what it all meant, so I took a deep breath and answered my grandmother earnestly. "I'm going to be a drug dealer."

She paused in her lunch preparations, an eternity she stood at the stove, frozen in time while she digested this disturbing news from her oldest grandchild. Chicken burned in the pan while she processed this bit of information and I was fascinated by her lack of response. Had it occurred to me that this would be the reaction my announcement received I would have done it on purpose, but at eleven I was just learning about shock value and the beauty of a perfectly manipulated reaction. She finally came back to herself and turned the chicken a fraction of a second before it was ruined and said, "Really? A drug dealer? How do you see that working out for you?"

"I figure as long as I can not get arrested it will work out pretty well."

This she found amusing so she started asking me more questions. What kind of drugs would I sell, how would I get them, who would I sell them to, and how is it that I planned to avoid incarceration? The basic questions that any career plan needs to answer. I think she planned to trip me up, point out a flaw in my scheme, but (other than the obvious) she couldn't find one. For every question she asked I had a complete and comprehensive answer. I would eventually focus on marijuana, which I would grow on a farm in South America, but to build cash reserves and a solid reputation I would start out with cocaine. I would sell only to late-teens and adults because they knew what choices they were making, (Also, I couldn't believe anyone my age would mess around with drugs - I mean, duh! everyone knows they're evil.) and I would build a network of bribe-able officials and good lawyers in order to avoid doing any jail time.

The questioning went on through our lunch of buttered chicken and rice but I had an answer for everything, and I had them fast. Even if she asked something I hadn't really thought of it only took me moment to come up with something reasonable. When we were done eating and she was finished interrogating me she picked up the dishes and said, "that was some story Kelly, you should consider writing. It's a much less dangerous job."

I've considered this advice several times throughout my life and never really been able to pull it together enough to actually set pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and write something. Until recently. Grandma would be proud, I'm finally writing it down.