America: illogical to the core

Can somebody *please* tell me how this makes any sense???

I have had incredible difficulty finding a new apartment to move into when I have to leave my current apartment on May first. The searching has caused a huge disruption to my schoolwork. So, in four days I am moving out of my current apartment and into a spare room in a friend's condo. I will stay there for 30 days, maybe a bit more, while I search for a new apartment to rent. This means that upon leaving this address I will have to change my address with all my credit cards, my university, every one else who might have any reason to send me mail. A forwarding of mail with the postal service usually takes about 2 weeks to really get going. In another 30 days I will need to change my address AGAIN, and have my mail forwarded AGAIN (provided I find a new home by then).

All the address changing seemed to me like a really good way for my mail to start getting lost. So I thought, "Self, get thee a P.O. Box and then give that as your address in the change of address you register with all these people who need to send you mail. That way you can change it once, and then when things are all nice and settled in, you can change it more permanently." Great idea, right? It's organized, it's logical, it's responsible. God, I am *so good*.

Well, as it turns out, the USPS would rather have me complete a bazillion changes of address, and deal with having to send my mail all over the greater Boston metropolitan area, than have me rent a PO Box. Totally makes perfect sense. It's logical *and efficient*!

Today I went to the Cambridge branch of the US Post Office and there the clerk (who refused to look me in the eye, btw) told me I would not be allowed to rent a PO Box, and here is why.

In order to rent a PO Box you must:
Present two forms of valid government issued identification. Ok, I have a passport and my drivers license. But my license is currently expired (oops, have to get that renewed), so it doesn't count. Want to know what else *doesn't* count? My social security card and my birth cirtificate. Both forms of identification that are issued by United States government agencies!! Granted one is a state issued document, but are not the state governments acting proxies of the federal government regarding the issuance of identification documents? I mean, my *drivers license* is a state issued form of identification, so how is it that my license counts but not a certified document proving I was ever born in the first place? And please, please tell me what is my social security card if not a *government issued ID???**

Want to know what, other than my drivers license and my passport, *does* count as a valid government issued form of identification? My student ID!! My effin student ID. A little laminated card with nothing more on it than my picture, the name of my university, and the year I graduate. A piece of ID valid for nothing more than getting into the building, making copies and taking out books at the library, and getting little discounts at a select handful of businesses. A form of identification that is issued by *the university*, which is in no way an agency of the United States Government!

Can somebody please explain the logic here??! I realize I am *only* a masters candidate, but I am fairly sure that this makes no sense whatsoever.

Proof of valid residence (as in, proof of an address where you live). The second thing you must have in order to rent a PO Box is proof of a valid address. This means you must present a lease or deed for either a home or a car that has your current address on it. So, if like myself and probably about 50% of the rest of the renters in this city, you are a tenant at will - meaning you do not *have* a lease or a deed to your apartment, and if like so many of us you do not *own* a car, you do not have any valid documentation of your address. As the clerk explained to me, without this proof of address they cannot, prove that you are receiving mail at this address and that you therefor actually live at this address. He says "we don't want transients renting PO Boxes".

I'm sorry, but if I had a stable address at which I was receiving mail, I would not need to rent a PO Box!!

Somebody, please explain this to me. I am so, so confused.

All around, the logic of the requirements for renting a PO Box are completely backwards. They prevent the people who have need for PO Boxes from renting one, and the only people who are able to rent them are the people *least likely to have the need for one*!!

The USPS is an agency that is severely in debt and constantly trying to find ways to net more revenue and get their heads above water so that they can continue to exist. The renting of PO Boxes is a money-making service that they provide. Yet it seems that they have created policies that aim to discourage anyone from actually taking advantage of the service.

Can you imagine how much more revenue they would net in a city like Boston where people are constantly shuffling addresses, if they made it a little more possible for a person to rent a PO Box? Hell, even if they wanted to charge $200/yr I think it would still be worth it to not have to remember all the people I have to notify of a change of address each time I move.

Hey friends in business school: If any of you are looking for sinking ship to save, I have a recommendation for you...

Welcome to Dudeville: Where the dirty socks run wild and the cleaning supplies are banned

Dear men of Cambridge/Somerville:

After having visited your apartments I would like to offer you some advice as you attempt to attract new roommates to fill that teeny open room you have available.

First, you may want to consider cleaning your apartment prior to a visitor's arrival. While I appreciate, on some level, your honesty and seeing this potential living situation in its natural form, it doesn't quite get us off on the right foot, so to speak. Walking a woman through a trash pit and explaining to her that it would be cleaner if she lived there (right... because I am your live-in cleaning service?), does not build a lot of confidence. Sorry to rain your fantasy, but picking up your dirty under-roos is actually not an appealing prospect.

Second, trying to sell me on your apartment based on the large kitchen would work better if it looked like a space that was actually used for cooking and eating, rather than as a storage space for your science experiments. Between the grime caked kitchen with its pile of moldy dishes and the take-out your had delivered during our visit, I understand you are hoping for a personal chef?

While the city of Cambridge may recognize your address as within its boundaries, they have clearly made a grave error. You clearly live in the heart of downtown Dudeville. I believe I can speak for most of the women in Boston who are apartment hunting: Please note your correct address in your roommate ad. I, for one, am looking to live in Cambridge - not Dudeville. I had nightmares for a week.

Thank you.

ps: You might want to consider having a shaman come smudge your apartment. It smells like evil spirits in there.

Walk Your Life

Walk Your Life

(Act I)

The hard parts,

I wanted to stomp them out.

Grind them into the ground until

Only a fine powder remained.

Breaks in the line,

Frantic, twisting, climbing.

Swaying from one pole to the other.

One location to the other.

Emotions.

Heartbeat.

Lost and broken.

Returning.

Climbing.

Colors changing,

Forms changing.

Wandering, continuing, returning.

Returning to dance.

Returning to play,

To twisting, turning, lightness, and laughter.

Returning to where I began,

To where I have never been before.

(Act II)

Calm.

Aware of opening.

My life.

My tree.

My twisted branches and snarled knots.

Wounds healing,

Beautiful scars remaining,

Gentle and worn.

Old soul, young heart.

All me, parts of I.

My life, a dance, a song.

The slowest dawn

Trickling thaw of spring,

Hesitant, yet confident.

Growing.

Returning with the thaw of spring to sprout new buds,

To grow new branches, deeper roots.

Base grows more solid,

Holding steady through the howling winds,

The storms of winter.

The texture of the darkness,

A cool delicateness.

The subtle refraction of light

Beautiful, sparkling, scared.

Growing.

Returning to where I began,

To where I have never been before.

(this poem was written in response to an experiential exercise in a course titled "Principles & Practices of Expressive Arts Therapy")

Tabling the Salt

In case anyone is wondering, I hate table salt. It tastes like rust. And makes my tongue hurt.

This semester I have been on a kick with popcorn as my study snack. Hey - it's fat free, cheap, crunchy, and satisfying. What else can I ask for?

This was actually inspired by the popcorn habit of an autistic teen girl I work with. She LOVES popcorn and has it almost every evening I have spent with her.

Smart girl, man! Popcorn: perfect snack!

So it's been almost nightly that I bust out my little popcorn maker (One of the best gifts I have ever received, courtesy my lovely ladies from SMFA) and cook up some fresh hot popped corn. I toss some sea salt on it, bring it and my cup of tea to my desk, and try my darnedest to not inhale it Cookie Monster style. There are even nights when I have to restrain myself from making a second bowl.

Last night I ran out of sea salt. I shed a little tear and put "buy Sea Salt" on my to-do list for on my way home from the library today. But this morning I decided to work from home instead, seeing no reason to haul my crap to the library and cause myself even more back pain.

After an ungratifying can of soup for lunch I decided that what I needed was a nice piping hot bowl of popcorn! I whipped it up, tossed it in the bowl, and...

Oh, sad face! I'm out of Sea Salt.

I thought, oh it's not such a big deal. I'll just toss some table salt on it. It won't be that different.

Well, kids, I am here to tell you that it is. And it SUCKS. My popcorn tasted like... well, rusty. And all my saltiness tasting taste buds cringed.

I had to abandon my popcorn. It was tragic.

I hereby declare myself Anti-Table Salt.

Oh Monday...

I have been working hard all weekend on a number of different papers and on the final steps for a group project which was due for presentation this morning in my class titled "Examining Power, Privilege, and Oppression". I've been really stressed about it all. Rather, *am* really stressed about it all, about getting it all done.

After a full 8hr day at the library, and 3 more hours of working when I arrived home, I went to bed at 2am (this has been the norm for the last few weeks), and set my alarm for 7am, hoping to get to school by 8am to do one last minute bit.

I woke up at 7:40 with my little "daylight/sunrise" alarm going off, glowing happily and radio chattering away, and my cell phone alarm in hand and shoved under my pillow. It too was buzzing away, as well as sounding it's annoying alarm. I had probably been hitting snooze for the last 40 minutes but I have no memory of it.

So I scramble to get everything together. get dressed. look nice. get books for afternoon class. feed cat. brush teeth. make coffee! oh, don't forget breakfast!

I get to school at 8:45 and thankfully find that the last bit i thought I needed to do did not need to be done.

My group and I present our project (A discussion of the culture of, history of, and counseling issues pertaining to counseling refugees from the Sudan and Somalia - no small deal, let me tell you!).

The presentation goes great!

As soon as it's over I scurry off to the restroom...

Where I discover that I have my undies on backwards!

Well, that explains why they were all in a bunch.

And yes, I am thankful that they are the *only* thing I have put on backwards, or that I remembered to put them on at all.

Oh, Monday...

Dear Term Paper:

Dear term paper on Gender Role Quality Development:

I am sorry that you are feeling moody and have locked yourself in the bathroom, but I really need you to come out now. I know you are having a very rough week, but can we please talk about it later?

I am sorry that you are feeling bloated, and tired, and feeling like no one listens to you... yes, I know, not even the cat. But I really wasn't trying to offend you.

No. that isn't what I meant.

I'm sorry, I was trying to be funny.

Yes, I was being an ass. You are right.

No, I think you are beautiful... OK, sexy. Incredibly hot!

Yes, I really mean that.

Will you come out now? Please?

You see, we are kind of running out of time...

With man gone is there hope for monkey?

October 1st, 2009

I've been meaning to start a blog about my adventures in graduate school for a few weeks now. Actually, since I returned from France. But being the good procrastinator that I am, I had to wait until I was in the throws paper writing with pending deadlines to find the time to start the blog.

Actually, I should give credit where credit is due. The impetus to write tonight is the direct result of the conversation between three 18yr old freshman students which I overheard while eating my lunch this afternoon.

I was sitting in the cafe minding my own business, eating my reheated pasta covered in vast amounts of garlic and olive oil, when without warning...

Sitting at the table next to me were three dolled up young gals loudly discussing a book one had recently read that she had found very profound.

A few moments after I sit down I realize this young lady, we will call her Girl #1, is talking about the book "Ishmeal". She is now describing to her cohorts the end of the book. With tremendous affect comes the following description:

"So then, like, he goes to the circus and stuff, right? So, like, then he goes to the apartment and the monkey is gone. Then he's, like, going through some, like, boxes and stuff and he, like, finds this poster, ok? On one side the poster says, like, 'With man gone is there any hope for monkey?'. And then on the other side it says, like, 'With Monkey gone is there any hope for Man?' So, it's like, if he [the monkey] isn't there to tell him stuff, what's going to happen to the man??"

OK, wait. Did I really just hear that right? So you really think the author is asking the reader "what is the fate of the narrator without the magic talking "monkey" to 'tell him stuff'??"

Ouch. I think I just burst a blood vessel.

Oh wait. Hold your horses, kids. It gets worse.

They go on to compare what they would like to get tattooed to their butts, backs, hips, etc. One of them recounts seeing another girl in her dorm with a tattoo on her back that is a poem, a segment of text, and how she thought that was just the coolest ever. She pulls out a piece of paper saying that she would like to get part of "this" (what is written on the paper) tattooed to her back. They discuss a little longer their various tattoo fantasies and then pack their bags to scurry off to class.

Two get up, one remains a moment longer looking at the paper. The following exchanges ensues:

Girl #1: Yeah, so I would totally want to get like not the whole thing but a part of that as my tattoo.

Girl #2: That's cool. But who this is? I don't know who this is.

Girl #1: You don't know who Nelson Mandela is?

Girl #2: No.. Should I?

Girl #1: OMG. You should just like google him.

Girl #2: Is he important?

Girl #1: Well, so like, he's African American, lives in Africa. And like, he was thrown in prison and like beaten really badly, and then he was released. But like, yeah, he was in prison.

Girl #2: oh. ok.

Ouch! There goes another blood vessel. It might not be evident from my description, but hearing this description I wanted to ask this young lass: "So you think he is African American because he is black and speaks English? Please tell me you do know that Africa is not one of the 50 American states." Jesus, I think I just figured out what is wrong with the world. If the average human uses only 10% of their brain power, these girls were using only 1/3 of that.