Going to the Bank=Running the Gauntlet

My company finally got Direct Deposit. 

That's this thing where they automatically put your paycheck into your checking account on payday instead of sending you a check that you have to take to the bank. (Actually, we used to use Chase Bank and then I could just take a picture of it with my phone and it would deposit it for me, but we left Chase and so we had to go back to the bank visits.)

Before I had a driver's license (and we weren't using Chase), Padawan always deposited my checks. Our bank was simply not within walking/biking distance. When he became a full time student, this became even better because he had no time restrictions on Fridays (the day after payday) so he usually could just deposit it at some point during the day. Every now and again, though, he has a test or a study group or a project or something, and then I have to deposit the check.

For normal people, this is not a big deal.

But I am not a normal person. And my bank (which is actually a Federal Credit Union) seems to know that I am not a normal person and makes every possible effort to rake me over the coals as I try to put money in the bank. Therefore, every trip to the bank for me is like running an emotional gauntlet. 

For starters, I leave for work so damn early in the morning (because I have to get to South Austin, preferably before the traffic gets bad) that the lanes of the drive through are not open yet, except the ATM (which is always open). My Credit Union, though, does not have a function where you can deposit your check in the ATM. You have to do it with a real, live person. I believe most banks actually do it the other way around: open the lanes first, and the actual doors open later. Or maybe they all open at the same time at normal places. I can't really be sure, because I've never in my life deposited a check myself until after I got my license. (Please don't judge me. I'm highly anxious, and I've lived in a damn city my whole life. I didn't NEED a license all those years.)

Because the lanes are closed, I have to park my car. This really annoys me because parking for me is hit or miss. It's usually a miss when I have to park in straight parking spaces instead of those nifty angled ones. Sometimes I can park in the straight ones with only two or three reverse, adjust,  and forwards (I have to park DEAD CENTER. I like to minimize the chance of someone dinging my door). More often than not, it takes me four or five tries. (We have straight parking spots at work. My very first day driving myself after I got my license, I made a fourteen point parking job. Unbeknownst to me, I had an audience of seven coworkers who stopped to witness the entire affair. It has been a year, and they still bring it up. To this day, it is the only time I have parked off center because I just gave up.) So not only do I not have a choice of using a lane, but I have to fight the stupid parking spots. 

When I actually go in, they do not have the stupid pieces of paper to fill out like in the drive through. (I think they are call Deposit Slips.) No. They want to engage you in a fucking conversation every time you go in, so they don't let you just hand over the paper with the signed check and get in and out with a "Hi, how are you?" and be on your way. They make me go inside, where I am immediately greeted by three freaking people every time (and yet not one of them can man the stupid drive through lanes!) and so I must look at and greet every single one of them in return. By the time I make it up to the counter, I have had to make eye contact and a little conversation (ugh!) with three different people, none of whom are going to be the actual person helping me. This much human contact and conversation before coffee and breakfast is just torturous. 

Then there is the person who is actually behind the super high bank counter thing. (All marble and gold. Seriously? It's so over the top. Wood wouldn't suffice?) They once again force the whole eye contact thing, smile, and say, "How are you?" I have literally just told the other three people that I am just fine and dandy, thank you, and there is NEVER anyone else in there that early because the bank has literally been open for five minutes by the time I get there, so I know this person always hears my responses to the other people, but still they always ask. I can't be rude, so I have to smile back, answer, and ask them how they are. 

Then this person will ask, "How can I help you?" and I have to say, "I would like to make a deposit, please." By this point, we are already at a ten minute delay because it probably took me six minutes to park plus one minute per employee that I've spoken to since walking in the stupid revolving glass doors. We go through the drill: account number (And do you have any special plans today? Nope. Just work), name on the account (How is traffic this morning? It's about that time isn't it? Awful, as usual), and do you have your bank card with you? (at which point I hand it over and the person makes a comment or five about how cute my dogs are because I have a picture of them in the bluebonnets on my card. Thinking about it, that one actually is my fault. I like looking at my dogs, but when you put a picture on your card, I think people expect that you want them to comment), AND THEN they ask for the check, which I have conveniently already signed but they never look first and always ask, "Can you sign this for me, please?"

Then they start typing information in. I'm not sure what, but it always feels like they're typing way more than just the amount of the check. Maybe they're commenting on my outfit for the day, or whether or not I am friendly. Who knows? And they always make conversation while they're typing. Sometimes it's more about my dogs, sometimes it's about whatever music or art festival happens to be going on in town. But it's always something. The whole process could take a matter of two minutes if they would stop trying to talk to me and just do their damned jobs, but I never say anything and just deal with it.  I just stand there, silently panicking that I will run out of things to say, that maybe I am making too much eye contact and is this weird? Worrying about traffic piling up outside and maybe there's an accident and OH MY GOD what if I am LATE TO WORK????

When they finally get their novel typed into their stupid system, and they give me my receipt, they hit me with the last fucking punch that seriously makes me grit my teeth and clench my jaw. Padawan and I have a joint account, but we are not married. My name, actually, is the primary on the account. We have different last names and on all of my bank paperwork it has "Status: Single" checked. But when I am leaving, they say, "Thank you, and have a great day Mrs. *last name*. 

Every.

Single.

Time. 

Different employees, but EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. 

So this whole Direct Deposit thing is like the greatest thing ever in my book. 

And now...The Rest of the Story

Transferring locations was a huge deal for me.

The biggest part of it was the location: we'd just bought a house in Round Rock, which we chose because it was close to my doctor (yay!) and only six miles away from the store. The South location stands 25 miles away from our house. On a good morning, that's a 35 minute drive one way. On a GREAT morning, it's 25 minutes. On an average morning, 45 minutes. And then those terrible, awful days happen...and it's 1 hour and 15 minutes. By car.

By bus? A total commute time of 2 hours each way, so a 4 hour commute daily IF there were no complications.

It only took one month of driving me back and forth for Padawan to put his foot down: he was NOT taking me to work and picking me up five days a week. NO WAY. It only took me a week of taking the bus to decide I was getting my license. A week later, I had a permit. Two weeks later, I bought a car. Six weeks later, I got my driver's license. (Interesting note: car insurance companies do not actually care how long you have had your driver's license when they choose to insure you or charge you a rate. Turns out they only care about your age. I was 26, so I got full coverage auto insurance plus Gap Insurance for a bargain $87 a month from Progressive, while my then 24 year old sister was paying $322 a month for her full coverage insurance.)

It must be noted that I learned to drive on Mopac, one of the most awful and terrifying expressways known to man. Mopac and I have a very deep love/hate relationship. I love that Mopac drops me off practically on the doorstep of my job, but I hate her narrow lanes, construction, and all of the assholes that congest her lanes by driving too close and just completely disregarding the use of blinkers. It must also be noted that I refuse to drive on I-35, which would probably shorten my commute by ten miles. But I am an Austinite, and I grew up with the saying, "Stay alive, stay off 35." One day, that may have to change. But today, in the here and now, I have reached my limit. Mopac or bust.

Fitting into the new location was actually pretty simple. What my title became is anyone's guess: I was not a department manager because there was already a department manager, but I retained all of my authorities and even got a raise, and when the department manager wasn't around I assumed his duties and handled the problems.

About nine months after my arrival, though, there was a snag. As it turned out, I was doing great and the South store was extremely pleased to have me, but my sudden departure from the North store apparently caused something of a decline. I was called into the Vice President's office one day where I was asked, asked not ordered, if I would consider going back.

The Store Manager was asking me to come back.

I'm not going to lie. I wanted to just say "no" immediately and have done with it. I think they knew that was the way the wind would blow, too, which is why they asked me to "take a week, talk to Padawan, and see how you feel about it." It must also be mentioned that they said they knew about my "difficulties with management and some of the staff" and that "management was prepared to make it work" and "if you can't consider it because of a certain employee, you can make that call and we will fire him".  (They were, of course, referring to the Game Show Host. It seems EVERYONE thought that people problems were why I chose to jump ship.)

Wow. I'm not going to lie. That last line super impressed me. And I realized, of course, that the ball was in my court. They needed this. They needed me. And even as I walked back downstairs, I knew that I was going to go home and make a list or pros and cons, and then a list of things that I needed to change if I was going to entertain the idea of going back. In the course of twenty minutes, I found myself wondering if I was going to go back.

I made two lists, of course. One list of pros and cons for each Store. Having worked at both locations, I now knew the good things and bad things about both. In the end, both lists turned out pretty much even. So I made a list of things that would need to be changed, and a week later I met with the VP and told him what I would need. He said I would have to work that out with the Store Manager, and so the Store Manager called me and we arranged to meet for coffee on my day off, outside of the store. (Because nobody could know about this, obviously. We didn't want to upset anyone South or excite anyone North until we knew which way this would go.)

Anyone who knows me will not be surprised by the way the meeting went. First of all, I was ten minutes early. He was six minutes late. (I knew he would be late, he always is, so I ordered myself a coffee and a danish to occupy my time.) And I did not make it easy for him. After he got his coffee and sat down and we went through the obligatory "how are you?" and so on, I started made my first comment. "Well, this is pretty awkward, isn't it?"

Because it was. Let's not mince words here: this man made me feel weird, alienated, and unwanted. It was no secret that I seriously disliked everything about him and that he made me so angry sometimes I wanted to pop him one. And yet here we were, playing nice as if a year ago had never happened.

"Why is it awkward?"

I mean, he really opened himself up for what he got next. "Well, a year ago you called me into your office and you said, and I quote, I'm a bad teammate, I'm unpleasant to be around, I make everyone uncomfortable, and if I was fired I would never be able to find another job. I mean, if you believed all of those things, then why the hell are we here?"

He, of course, said he couldn't remember the conversation. Of course he couldn't. That was exactly what I expected him to say. Except he added that it sounded like something he would say when he was pissed off, and had we been arguing? Well, yes, we had. Two days prior to the conversation, actually. Which brought me to the next point, "You also said, in that same conversation, that if you say 'jump', my only response should ever be 'how high?' and that you expected me to just be quiet and do as I'm told. I can't work in an environment like that."

And that, of course, brought about a response that I was not prepared to hear. "Well, I don't remember saying those things, but they all sound like things I would say, and so I am sorry about that. I say things I don't mean when I get angry, and then I forget them. I didn't mean them."

Well, aren't you just lucky to have the luxury of saying terrible things and then forgetting them entirely. I, unfortunately, do not have the luxury of hearing terrible things and forgetting them. But I do have the common sense to know a genuine apology when I hear one. I accepted his apology and then we moved on to my terms.

He was more than willing to give me every concession I asked for, bar none.

It seemed we were in agreement, and I was not opposed to returning. I wasn't opposed to staying either, which is exactly what I told the VP the next day at work. "I just want to do whatever is best for the company."

But then they talked to my department manager who raised enough of an outcry that they decided to scrap the whole idea and leave the North location to deal with their own problems without me, and I was content with the idea that I was a valuable commodity that was wanted everywhere. It's not a bad feeling to have.

Come April, there was suddenly a new position available. Or rather, created within the company. It came with an impressive title (just in time for my high school reunion), a nifty pay raise, a desk of my very own, upstairs and away from the sales floor, with Monday-Friday hours on my terms, options for vacation at Christmas, Spring Break, and over the summer, and, as silly as this sounds, the best part was that my lunch time became completely independent of everyone else's. I could literally have lunch WHENEVER I WANTED and not have to wait for someone else or ask when everyone else was planning to go. (Yes, the idea of lunch on my own terms was listed prominently in the Pros column of my list.)

Four months later, Artist (who works the counter and was my counterpart in all things creative and fun) is finally coming around and isn't so mad at me for leaving her anymore. (When a rumor got around that I was considering returning to the North store she point blank told me that she felt like the balance of personalities in the department was perfect and I would totally fuck it all up again if I left.) Although, she still laments the fact that Rivers (my replacement) is not a woman. He also doesn't know a lot of movies so he never gets any of her obscure movie references. We are currently trying to teach him the art of punning. As Lumberjack has so succinctly put it, "It's like trying to teach Data from Star Trek how to tell jokes. It's hilarious."

In all honesty, sometimes I miss the camaraderie of working the counter, so I stop in about fifteen minutes a day to tell some jokes and let Artist tease me about whatever personality quirk of mine she finds the most baffling that day. (She loves to tell me I'm bananas. I think that's like a common saying up North. Like someone is bananas rather than saying batshit crazy.)

But I'm very pleased with my new position and all that it brings. (Except the deposit. That wasn't part of my job description. It was dumped on me a month into my promotion, and it is awful.) Turns out I was right (as is often the case), and making the change was a good thing.  

Making a Comeback

So here it is. I have decided that I really do, at this point, need to come back to Blogger, if only because I need something to save my sanity. This blog was a way to express myself and work out my frustrations. Also, it gave me a chance to embrace my inner crazy that, frankly, is often regarded with horror, irritation, and disbelief in the reality that is my life.

Let's just catch up for a second. 

Last year, just a couple of months after Relly had her baby (who is now eighteen months old and a genuine little terror running around), I made the difficult but long overdue decision to transfer from our North Austin location (where I had worked for 7 1/2 years, climbing the ladder from receptionist to counter staff to management) to our South Austin location.

A lot of people think my decision to move was based on my relationship with the new store manager, who had been appointed to the position about nine months prior. Our working relationship was barely functional at its best, but mostly I left every conversation with him wanting to slap him across the face. Mostly I think I made him feel stupid. I like structure, and I have expectations. One time he literally told me to stop working so hard because I literally made everybody else uncomfortable when there was down time and I insisted on doing the things that needed to be done. 

Yes. I worked so hard that it made people uncomfortable. By uncomfortable, of course, he meant guilty. I made everybody else feel guilty because I actually wanted to do the job I was being paid to do. And, quite frankly, my work ethic never bothered anybody until he became the store manager. Now, his style may work in a "everybody has a good time all day" sort of way, except that when it gets to crunch time, they find themselves annoyed, stressed, and hampered by the fact that things don't run smoothly when everybody plays and nobody works because nothing gets done. 

A lot of other people think I decided to leave because a part time staffer that was hired (with my approval, I admit, but then you never really know how somebody will work until you actually hire them) turned out bad, and our working relationship actually wound up worse than the one with the store manager. This employee was a former barista and car salesman who had the personality of a game show host and the work ethic of a twelve year old princess who never cleaned up after herself in her life. He wanted all of the glory (and commission) of selling products, but wanted nothing to do with actually stocking or maintaining anything. When he became a full time staff member, I nearly died.

I do admit that I was concerned if I stayed any longer I was going to wind up in prison for attempted murder by tuba. Which of those two men would be my victim changed from day to day. Sometimes I thought I would snap and it would just be a double homicide. I started thinking if I just shoved them both into tubas, the world would be a better place. 

When I received the (quiet, under the table) offer to transfer locations, I did not jump at the opportunity. In fact, I took a week to decide. I made my list of pros and cons (I have used this list for every major decision in my life). I didn't tell anybody about the offer, didn't ask for any opinions. What I wanted was to decide if I really wanted a transfer, or if 7 1/2 years at the same job was my limit and maybe I was ready to leave.

I decided after two days I wasn't ready to leave. I love the company. I love being such a great, strong part of the community. I love working for a family company. I love music. I love sharing music and being part of creating the next generation of budding musicians. I love that I feel like I'm changing lives. Leaving was, ultimately, not an option.

The reason I chose to leave, contrary to popular belief, was strictly strategic. I had climbed as high as I was going to at my current job. The new store manager was never going to let me go any higher, he made it very plain to me that he didn't want me there (he threw around words like bad teammate and you'll never be able to get another job if I fire you in our last meeting, not that it worked because he literally has no authority to fire anyone) and I wasn't satisfied as a department manager. I wanted, ultimately, not to be in a sales position at all. I hate working at a counter. At the South location, all of the owners have offices. All of the highest company positions are at that location. Ultimately, I wanted to have opportunity to climb the ladder again, and I knew the best chance for advancement was to be right where they could see me. 

So I decided to transfer. Leaving behind two of the biggest tool bags I've ever had the displeasure of knowing was simply a perk. 

And, as it often turns out, I was right. But that's a story for another day. 

Babies

My sister had her baby.

God help us all, he burps just as loud as she does, and he's only two weeks old. Shrek aspires to his potential.

Being with my sister in the hospital was...probably the scariest thing I've ever seen in my life, to be perfectly honest. Before she received her epidural, she was like the girl in the freaking Exorcist. No joke, she was nuts and absolutely terrifying and, given the choice between being there and having a tooth pulled at the dentist, I think I'll take the dentist.

I have held the baby, but only when he is wearing mittens. (I once held a baby as a child that stuck his finger up my nose and scratched me so bad that I bled. Quite a lot, actually. The blood ruined my nightgown and my Beanie Baby horse and I was screaming so loud my mother heard it all the way at the pool with her friends and came back to investigate.) I have only recently learned, however, that babies have mittens, not to protect the people holding them, to protect the babies from scratching themselves. 

I have established a set of rules, of course, to keep people from becoming confused.

I do not burp the baby.
I do not check the baby's diaper.
I certainly will never change the baby's diaper.
I will not hold a crying baby.
I will not change the clothes on the baby.
I will not hold the baby if he is gassy.
I WILL sing "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?" to him if he is fussy, but not if he is already screaming. (Works like a charm, by the way. Calms him right down if I sing it before he hits his stride.)

Penny has her own rules for the baby.

Penny must kiss the baby every time he moves.
Penny must investigate anyone who wishes to approach the baby.
Penny must investigate whoever is holding the baby when he cries.
Penny must sit beside the baby at all times.

Choo Choo....

Well, she only has one rule, and it encompasses everything.

Choo Choo owns the baby.

And then there is Ripley, who has no rules for the baby because Ripley gets too excited around the baby and jumps around and tries to lick him on the face and scares people with his puppy exuberance because, let's not forget, Ripley just turned two years old. So Ripley isn't allowed around the baby until the baby is not so small and breakable. Or he learns how to be around children. (And let's face it: he's not going to get the opportunity to learn how to interact with children from Matthew and me.)

I also suspect that motherhood makes women lose their minds.

I was holding him today, and I thought something felt wet, so I said I thought he needed to be changed. My sister sniffed his butt. 

That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. Dogs sniff each each other's butts. It's disgusting to see people do that. Especially to determine if a diaper needs to be changed or not. It's also crazy, and not something I will ever do, thank you very much.

Of course, motherhood is crazy, and not something I will ever do, thank you very much.

But I would like another dog. Or a goat.

Sometimes there aren't enough words.

I know it's my own fault, really. I disappeared, dropped off the face of the planet, ran off to do busy, important management things that consumed all of my time and energy and didn't teach me a single damned useful thing. It makes sense that the rest of you moved on with your lives, left the blogosphere behind as you became entrenched in your own lives. It is extremely selfish that I came back so suddenly after...what, a year?...to find that most of you had gone. 

I was part of a blogging circle that was a very good part of me, and the loss of that circle is very hard for me. Yes, I took it for granted that you would all still be here, and that was sill of me. It's my fault, I know that. I own up to my mistake.

But I sure wish you guys would come back.

A couple of you stayed. I'll just go ahead and pretend that you did because you love me and knew I'd be back some day. I'm a little narcissistic these days, so let me go on believing it, Candice. I just wish I could talk to all of you because when I make my big announcement...

Well, let's just say it would have shocked some of you.

And don't go thinking I'm pregnant. 

I am not having children. 

I am going back to school.

Hello, all!

I wonder how many of  you are still on here?

I have about two years' worth of blogs to catch up on. I have become lazy! So lazy!

Actually, not lazy. Just busy beyond all reasonable belief.




The big news of the day is: I am going back to school. Like this semester. As in, just a couple of days away at this point. For what? Why, to get a degree in....English!

Why English?

Well, why not English?

All jokes aside, I love English. I love reading and writing, and I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be great if I could spend the rest of my life reading and get paid for it? I wish there was a job like that."


And then...

BAM.

It hit me like a Krispy Kreme truck full of Original Glaze Donuts. (Doughnuts?)

Editors get paid to read all day. In fact, they get paid to correct people and tell them what they are doing wrong!

Now, if ever there was a job for me, it's one in which I get to do a lot of reading and constructive criticizing!

The thing is, I've been doing this for years for free. I have friends who have me edit their papers, even Padawan and my older sister have used my help (and received A grade papers for my trouble). I even recently edited the scripting for a comic book a friend is creating. I mean, I could probably advertise my skills on Facebook just to edit papers, websites, and other things and make some extra money. People are incredibly lazy, and if I charged something like five dollars a paper, I think I'd do OK.

And since we now have a house of very own, I have an office where I would have plenty of space, peace, and quiet to work!

Oh, did I forget that part?

Padawan and I bought a house. With a big back yard and a huge oak tree in the front  yard and not an ugly patch of carpet in sight!

We also got...Ripley. Who is Ripley?

THAT is Ripley. We rescued him from Austin Boxer Rescue on August 31st. Actually, we signed all of the paperwork and paid everything and fell in love with him on August 30th, but we picked him up from his foster home on the 31st. He was my 26th birthday present from Padawan. 

He had Cherry Eye, which is why  his eye was red in this picture. It has been removed (courtesy of ABR) and his eyes are big and brown and pain free now. 

I also cut off all of my hair, as you might have noticed in this picture.

So that's a lot of news. In the last year I have: cut and changed my hair, bought a house, decided to go back to school, started studying for my driver's license, bought a house, rescued a dog....and...

Well, the last piece of news is not news yet. But it's also big and exciting. I just can't talk about it yet.

So, this is all for now, but I SINCERELY hope that I will be able to keep this blog up once again.

Management

I'm really not sure how I feel about the whole official management thing.

Did I ever tell you guys how that came about?

The BD Manager position became available suddenly this summer, and after being turned down for SMD Manager a year and a half ago, I was a little hesitant to try for this one. Last time I wasn't even granted an interview: they just promoted someone else and told me "I didn't have any experience as a manager." And that frustrated me. 

You guys know I've been with my employer since I was nineteen years old. If their excuse was always going to be I have no management experience, how was I going to get experience there? 

But when this position came up, I really wanted it. Sure, it would be sad to leave North before the expansion, but there was nowhere to go North. There's the Manager, and then there's the Assistant Manager, and that's it. Now, I get well compensated for making calls in Sheet Music, an override just the same as any department manager makes. But I had no authority behind the pay: just the compensation. This was different, though. I practically ran Band up North anyway. There are only a couple of aspects of my job that differed from the BD Manager at the South location.

This time, I called R and said I was interested and what did I need to do?

What surprised me was the answer I got. "Oh, I'm glad you called. We've already thrown your name around a couple of times. I couldn't find your resume on file. Do you guys have that on file up North?"

I had to explain that I didn't have one, that I literally came in with a friend and filled out an application and got the job on personal recommendation without any real kind of interview. I had never made one before, and I would have to make one.

She sent me her personal one so I could see what they were supposed to look like, and told me, "Just fax it up to me or e-mail it to me when you get it done, and then we'll set up an interview." 

An interview. A real, honest to God interview. That scared the living hell out of me. I stressed about it the entire week before the day, and I actually went out and bought an outfit (to Padawan's everlasting amusement) because I felt like if I was going in for an interview, they'd probably take me more seriously if I wasn't wearing jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt. Then I made Padawan work with me on practice interviews where he asked me a bunch of common interview questions, so I would be prepared.

Bit of a wasted effort, really. R and C conducted my interview, and they only asked me one of the questions Padawan had, and it was the ONE question I was really hoping they wouldn't ask. My job before I came here, and why I left.

*sigh* Padawan told me not to answer it for them the way I'd answered it for him. But you know what? I couldn't help myself. When C asked, "So why did you leave?" I said, without missing a beat, "Because it was Wal-Mart."

And I got the exact reaction I was hoping for: they both laughed. 

And then I added how the management wasn't...to my taste. I tried to be diplomatic. I probably failed.

Mostly, though, they asked me management questions. How would I handle an employee I didn't personally like but had to work with? How would I handle older employees who resented my youth and inexperience? What would I do if I was told to do something by someone over my head that I didn't agree with?

And honestly, that was the one answer I gave that worried me.

It's one of my biggest personality flaws: if someone tells me to do something that I think is just flat out wrong or stupid, I fight it. I've been that way since I was a little girl, and I wasn't sure how I should answer the question. I have never been a "Yes" person. 

So I stalled for time. I said, "Let me make sure I understand the question. In this scenario, you would have told me to do something in a way I did not agree with, and you want to know what I would do?"

"Yes."

Part of me thought I should lie. But I figured they probably knew me well enough at that point to know if I was telling them what I thought they wanted to hear. 

So I told them the truth. "If I really was against it, the first thing I would do is ask, respectfully, why it had to be done. Perhaps if you explained it to me so I could see it from your perspective, I would be able to agree with your decision and follow through." That sounded diplomatic, but they didn't let me end it  there.

"And if you still didn't like the idea?"

Well, there was no way around that one. "If I still didn't agree, I would try to offer an alternative. It's useless to just point out why something wouldn't work if you aren't going to offer a solution."

"And if we didn't like your solution?"

"Well, if after all of that you guys still wanted me to do it your way, I guess I'd have to do it because you're the boss. However, if we did it your way and it didn't work out, I'd offer another alternative." 

The rest of the interview went pretty well. They asked me, at the end, if I had any questions. And that was the question Matt told me I should be prepared for. And, oh yes, I had a question.

The concern that had prevented a promotion last time: experience.

"I know that you had expressed concern in the past about my lack of experience as a manager. I was wondering if anything in our discussion had failed to relax those fears? I realize that I still have no experience, but I've been here since I was a kid. Is that still a major problem?"

They said no, that my interview and my resume had everything they needed.

And then they were like, "Okay, the interview is over. Now I just want to ask you some questions to get to know you better." Which kind of freaked me out. Was this is a test? A trap? A trick?

But it was just a normal conversation, and then we talked about some problems we were having at the North store and normal things. They did ask about my pet peeves, which made me nervous because that sounded like something an interviewer would ask. I gave a little spiel about how tardiness really annoys me. 

I only had to wait a couple of days for my answer. Friday, both C and R walked into the store.

C is very rarely up North, and when he said that he and R were there to talk to me, I was immediately horrified. I couldn't decide: is this a good thing, or a bad thing, that he came all the way up to talk to me? It was obviously a huge thing. 

They took me into Manager Man's office and closed the door. I wondered if they could hear my heart racing or if was just my imagination that it was thumping louder than a bass?

Didn't matter.

R started, "So, we both came up here today because what we have to say is very important. We're changing a lot of things, and we both needed to be here for it. I should start off by saying that we went with someone else for the BD Manager position South."

Well, my stomach kind of dropped a little. I had kind of expected that, but it was still disappointing.

"But, that doesn't mean you're not getting promoted."

I was confused. There was no other promotion available that I was qualified for: sure, my resume mentioned my experience in Guitars, but it was LIMITED. Where was this going?

"Chanel, we see how hard you work, how good you are, and how willing and able you are to change things when it doesn't work. We were going to give it to you, but then we had someone pop up with almost all of your experience who had managed a large music store before. He was just so qualified we couldn't afford to lose him, but we don't want to hold you back because you've been here since you were so young. Obviously, we're not going to hold you back because you've always been with us."

C broke in there. "You rocked your interview. I mean, I learned more about you in that hour than I ever knew about you before. I took a class on interviewing, and it was like you taught the class: you did everything exactly right. I hadn't expected that, given the circumstances of how you were originally hired. I was impressed."

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that much, at least! I was worried about my interview. I've never had a real one before, so that was a new experience for me."

R said, "Well, your interview gave us a lot to think about. So, we're here today to tell you that we want to invest in your future with the company. So, you're not the Manager, but we've made a position for you. You're going to be the Assistant Manager of BD, and you'll stay North. You'll run the North store BD, and he'll run South. The two of you will work together, and you'll be learning from each other as we go. Obviously, he's got experience you don't, but you know a lot of things that he doesn't. Once a month, you and I are going to meet for lunch to discuss any concerns you might have, things that you've seen. You'll be assigned a book to read, because there are some things you need to learn that you haven't yet."

Well, this was just sounding better and better. Substantial raise (hell yeah!), actual authority.

C started talking, "Now, this position has never existed before. We've created this position for you. If you decide to leave the company, or if you get promoted up to another position, this one will never be filled. This is strictly so you have the opportunities you need to learn what you don't already know. That way if this, or any position like it, becomes available we can immediately move you into it and you'll have all the tools you need for success. If we had put you in the position you wanted now, I think you would have quit in six months. It's a stressful job, and some things you need to know before you get put in the situation. This way, you'll be eased into some of the harder things about management. This will also get your foot in the door: if ever you decide to leave the company, you will have this title on your resume and a stellar recommendation from the two of us personally so that you won't be held back anywhere, should you choose to leave us."

I'm honestly very touched that, to give me a chance, they made a position for me.

But that very thing is EXACTLY the source of a lot of stress for me.

It's a running joke North. We all watch the Office, and everybody thinks the same. Assistant to the Regional Manager= Assistant TO the Band Manager. 

South, they all take me seriously. I got congratulations and people ask me questions and defer to my opinion.

North, they laugh at me. Argue with me. Before, if I wanted something done the people in my department would snap to it. As soon as they gave me that title, I started getting argument instead of action. I thought that once Tuba left, it would get better.

But it hasn't.

In fact, it's been so busy (it's our busy season in BD) that we don't have enough time in the day to go through our deliveries. Stuff is just piling on the counters, unreceived, because we just don't have time. It's back to back customers for all of us: if we get five minutes, it's just enough time to START on something, but never time to finish it. And one day in particular, it was so bad that none of us stopped for two hours. And then we finally had a lull, and I immediately started working on the things piled up. I can't stand clutter and mess, it's in my way and it makes it hard to do my job. Three of us could conquer it all in half an hour if we tried.

But I suddenly realized that my two...employees? subordinates? what do you call them?...had left the counter area. I figured they'd be back in a minute or two, so I kept going. And then I heard one of them saying, "She's playing the guitar on the other side, and it sounded so funny." She was talking about the other girl, and she was telling the receptionist.

I had been working just as long as them with just as many customers, and I was working by myself now while one played on a guitar and the other just talked?

No.

I said, "Hey, can you pull Two over here so you guys can help me with this stuff? It can't just sit here."

And it would have been fine. D immediately put down her drink and went to go get Two. But then Jazz, the receptionist, spoke up. "Oh my god. Just give her a minute!"

And it wasn't the words. It was the tone that pissed me off.

Because, for God's sake, I had been working non stop just as long and I was still trying to accomplish something! I wasn't asking anymore of the girls than I was planning to do myself. And since I'm the fucking head of the department, when I say you have to do your damn job, you have to do it! There is no arguing, and you certainly don't need to use that tone. 

And am I no longer human? I mean, I'd like a fucking minute to myself, too! 

The thing is, my authority is limited. I am responsible for discipline in my department, and Reception is not my domain. So she, like everyone else, just kind of mocks my position. She feels free to argue because I can't do anything to her about it. 

It had already been a stressful day: it took every ounce of self control not to tell her off.

I'm seriously going to have to talk about this ongoing problem that I am having with back talk. Because it's happened a couple of times when I tell D and Two to do something, and Jazz just butts in and argues with me about it. I'm not telling her to do it, but she sits there and argues with me anyway. And it's always in the same tone, which I would find offensive if she used it on me outside of work if we were just hanging out! And when she argues, then the other two start to argue.

B Money says that it's because nobody respects a position that was made up, and that I should just accept the fact that I'm not any kind of manager and just enjoy the raise. I want to talk to Jay Jay about it, but I don't know how. 

At this point I'm thinking maybe I should resign the raise and the position and go back to what I was before. 

To Senior: You are not the man you think you are.

Fun facts about Chanel:

1. I can and will hold a grudge when I feel I have been wronged.

2. I am not a pliable or easily controlled human being: not at 17 and certainly not at 25.

3. I am not inclined to be forgiving when I am repeatedly egged on in the same manner.

4. I dislike being called stuck up more than any other insult. It makes me want to scratch out your eyes when you say it.

5. I do not like people, even sisters who supposedly mean well, sticking their broken, crooked noses in my business. 

6. I have, according to my coworkers, the patience of a fucking saint, but I do have a breaking point.

7. If you want my love and forgiveness, repeatedly calling me stuck up is not going to get you there: it take you the opposite way.

8. I do not consider sharing blood a reason for unconditional love: you may be a relative, but if you are a bad person, I will not love you. And nothing you say or do can prevail upon me to love you.

I consider myself a reasonable person. I consider myself an honest person. But most of all, I consider myself a human being, and as a human being I do not let anyone, man or woman or beast, walk all over me. I have pride and a sense of self worth that comes from who I am, where I came from, and who I mean to be.

You can sit there and insult me till kingdom come. You can tell me that I will wind up alone and unloved and abandoned, you can tell me that I am cold and selfish. You can say whatever the hell you want, but it will not change who I am or what I want.

You can say I am worthless as a woman, that's fine.

But you will never know all the things that I have done, all the things that I have seen. You will never know all that I have been. You will never know all I mean to be. And you can say those things and think you are saying something important, that your words carry weight, but they slide right by me because I mean to be so much more than what you think of me, and your words don't change that. 

My name is Chanel, and I am myself. I love and accept myself for who I am.

Writing Books

Do you ever wonder how on earth people manage to write an entire book?

I do.

I can't see how they don't just get bored and give up. It happens to me. Every time I sit down and try to write something, I get maybe eight chapters in and then...it just dies. I die off even sooner if I go back and read what I've written. Anything I write after that point seems forced and doesn't flow the same way. If I keep going then eventually I just...get tired.

It's not like I don't plan where it's all going. I map everything out so that if I get lost or forget something, I can check my thought web and get right back to where I was supposed to be. But even with the best and most awesome thought web of all time (it was pretty freakin' epic, let me tell you) I only got twelve chapters in, and then the will to write it just left.

I do that. I will suddenly have an intense desire to tell a story, and I will go with it for weeks and weeks and weeks...

And then I will wake up one morning, sit down, and I won't have a damn thing to write. 

I'm not a writing machine or anything. Even during my "productive phases" I change things and delete and rewrite. On a good day, I'd get half a page done. On a GREAT day I'd get half a chapter. There was one day in particular I wrote a whole chapter from start to finish in three hours, and I felt like it was the best chapter in the history of the world! I never went back and changed that particular chapter. To this day, I still think it is absolutely perfect.

On my worst days, I sometimes only get one or two sentences that I keep, and the rest gets deleted. 

That's another reason not to go back and reread the whole thing. You tend to change things and then you lose what you were trying to do and then the web doesn't matter anymore and you're left with one big forced story that you hate.

Except for the one chapter that is still the most awesome chapter ever written. 

My sister suggested maybe I should try writing historical fiction. She thinks I'd be great at that since I spend a lot of my time reading the genre, and then complaining that the author didn't get something right, or in some cases, failed to capture the subject of the story correctly. (I have never read a story about Anne Boleyn that didn't annoy the living hell out of me at one point or another.)

The problem with that is you can't just write a historical fiction. Even if you choose a subject you know all about and you can just go with it, you can't write it like that. You have to give credits and whatnot. And if you pick a subject you've been obsessed with for your whole life, how are you supposed to remember where you read every single fact you've accumulated over the years? Historical fiction means research, lots of research, even if you already know everything you intend to put in your story. That, to me, means all the fun of just writing gets sucked out of it. 

And if it's not fun, what's the point? 

I have kept every single story I've ever started on my computer. And sometimes, when I'm out of books to read and don't feel like rereading any that I own, I go back and I read them. There are a couple that I read that I just get pissed off at myself for not finishing. It annoys me that I can't finish the story because I never finished the story! But I can't just pick up and start working on it again. Like I said, it never works out. It feels forced. 

So, I know some of you have actually written your own books. I want you to tell me...how do you do it?  

And something else important...Is this just me?

No More Books: I am sad.

What's it been? Four months or so?

Bah. Who remembers these things anyway.

I know I've been a bad blogger. Bad reader, bad writer.  Just bad all around. I have no excuses, really, except that I am busy. Which I realize we are all busy, but after working all day and coming home...I kind of just like vegging in bed with a book. Or watching old episodes of the Tudors just so I can wait for Duke Phillip of Bavaria to make his appearance. (Helloooooo, Captain Hook!)

Sometimes I like to relax by refusing to let Padawan play his video games. (Usually by sitting on his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck so he can't see the screen and then refusing to budge.)

But mostly I just like my books. Good old friends that I like to visit over and over again. Sometimes I buy new books, of course, but we're really trying not to buy new things because our tiny one bedroom apartment is getting awfully cramped with two full grown humans and two dogs with big personalities. Our bookshelves are overflowing as it is and we have no space for more, so we're really trying not to buy new books. 

Honestly, Padawan is better at this than I am. He is all about the public library and being able to digitally check out books on his Kindle, read them, and then get another one, all within the comfort of our own (tiny) home. I am not good at this. I don't like borrowing books. I like owning books and then rereading them over and over and over again. (I've read Gone with the Wind so many times I have entire portions memorized verbatim.) And Padawan likes to read his books once: read it once, and never again. My God, if I want to watch a movie we've seen in the last eighteen months he says "But we watched that recently!" 

Here is the downside to a library: you find a book, you read it, and then you have to give it back. Well, if I've read the whole thing, that means I loved it. (As I love most books. I have only three books in my entire life I did not finish reading: some version of Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest, The Fellowship of the Ring, and Passage to India, although that wasn't a personal dislike for the writing but rather what happened in the story.) When I love a book, I want to read it again. I like to own it so I can read it again at any time. You never know when the mood will strike to relive a particular character's life. 

So I don't like giving books back. 

As for digital rentals...well, I like my Kindle only when I need books to travel with  me. It's not exactly logical to go Zilker Park for a picnic and a swim with Gone with the Wind in my bag. It's a huge book! But I certainly don't want to use my Kindle at home! No, I like the feel and smell of the traditional book. I like turning the pages, using a book mark, (God forgive you if I catch you dog earring my pages, for I never will!) feeling the weight of the words in my hands! A Kindle is no replacement for a good old fashioned book. It's just not.

So while Padawan is all about the new, I am firmly passionate about the old. In fact, you could say I'm a little neurotic about libraries and Kindles and renting books. Don't get me wrong, I love Rosebud. But she's not my book. She's just capable of holding all of my favorite books. It is not the same thing at all.

What I like to do is go to the book store (these days it's Half Price Books...do those exist outside of Austin?) and go to my favorite sections. Sometimes I'll look for specific authors, but generally I just read titles. When I find something that seems interesting, I take it out. I read the synopsis. If that proves interesting, I'll open the book and start reading.

If I am not hooked in the first paragraph, I put it back. There have been two instances in my life where I have continued reading past the first paragraph even though it was not interesting to me, and both times I wound up abandoning the book. Those were the Robin Hood book and The Fellowship of the Ring. Now, I really tried with both of those books. With The Fellowship I even made it to the last chapter. And then I just gave up, because reading it was torture. No offense to Tolkien, but if he is as dry when he speaks as he is when he writes, people must fall asleep listening to him! 

And when I go to the store I generally find two or three new books to come home with me, and I read them all that week...and then a couple of months later I'll probably read them again. And again....

And again.

Because I do not read it once and then have done with it. 

If you've ever seen the movie Toy Story, you can understand where I am coming from: books want and need to be read. When you buy a book and read it once, you're hurting its feelings! You are denying it the pleasure of whisking you away to another time and place and world! 

Which is exactly how we have so many books. I do not sell or donate them. I buy them, and I write my name in them, and I keep them forever and ever and ever. And so my collection grows, but my space doesn't.

So. Until we finish paying off the car (planning to do that at the end of this year: six thousand left!) and manage to save enough for a house, we're staying in a tiny apartment.

Therefore, I must resist the urge to by more books.

But damn it, it's like telling me not to buy shoes. I just want to buy them. 

You tell me: Was I being selfish?

I don't know how to start this so I guess for you to understand tonight I have to tell you about what happened like four months ago.

One night four months ago some coworkers talked me into going to a sports bar/ karaoke bar because one of those coworkers, we'll call him Voices because he's the man of a million voices, was hosting karaoke there that particular night. It was a Friday and it was also the night of the Presidential Election, so Padawan elected to stay home to watch the election (though it was playing at the bar on all of the TVs except one, which was showing a basketball game I think. Some kind of game.)

We aren't particularly sure what happened to set this all off, but long story short: one very large, very drunk Mexican dude took a strong dislike to my friend Dee's boyfriend, Dayd. Now, I'm not entirely positive, but judging by this man's repeated use of the "N" word and the fact that Dayd had been in the bar for all of three minutes and hadn't spoken a word to anyone other than us when this whole thing started, I'm going to assume it was some sort of racially motivated hatred. Though how a Mexican man can be racist against an African  American boy (I did not choose these terms lightly: the aggressor was clearly in his thirties and Dayd was 19 years old) in a city with lots of redneck white supremacists hanging around, I do not understand.  

Threats were made, a knife came out (in self defense), threats of guns in cars...Jazz called the police because this man was threatening to kill Dayd.

Now, this was the first time I had agreed to go out to a social gathering that didn't take place in somebody's personal home in quite some time. I'm guessing it's been about a year since I agreed to have drinks and relax at a bar or restaurant with any friends. Because I am a socially awkward individual who is afraid of crowds, strange men, and casual human contact. 

It's not that I hadn't been to that bar before. I'd been in there several times: lunch with a friend, drinks with coworkers, a couple of times with my sisters. I knew the bar. I'd never once felt unsafe in that bar.

But when this large, aggressive man came to our table after he'd tried to beat the hell out of Dayd in the parking lot and started screaming in mine and Jazz's face about keeping our little "n word" friend away or he would wind up dead, I was determined to get the hell out of there.

But that wasn't anything personal against the establishment: that was fear motivated by the fact that I am a hundred and fifteen pounds and this two hundred and fifty pound drunk guy was hulking around and threatening to kill our friend. 

My personal problem with the bar came because the owner lied to the police when they arrived and said that the man (apparently a regular and a personal friend) hadn't had a drop to drink, was stone sober, and that we had been bothering him for several hours. Now, at that point Jazz and I had been there for a little over an hour, drunky had been there for several at least and he'd already been complained about by our friend hosting the karaoke before we even got there, and Dayd and Dee had been there for all of twenty minutes total by the time the police arrived. And our interaction had started about fifteen minuets beforehand. 

And then, the real kicker, the part that really and truly pissed me off, was when the owner declared that Dayd was banned for life and that the police couldn't trust any of our testimony because we were all drunk and clearly on drugs.

Me.

On drugs.

And his supposedly sober friend who hadn't had a drink all night? He was handcuffed on the sidewalk and STILL trying to get loose so he could attack Dayd. They had to put Dayd in a car to protect him from this drunk psycho.

So I gave my testimony, and I emphasized the part where I did NOT appreciate being threatened and intimidated by someone who clearly had no idea how to behave in public.

Ever since that night, I have refused to return to the establishment. Not just me, of course. None of my coworkers have been back, or their friends or spouses.

My sisters are the only people who, after hearing what happened, insist on patronizing the bar. They repeatedly invited me out with them to this bar after the fact, and each time I patiently explained my reasons for not going. My sister's husband Peacock even apologized profusely on behalf of the owner, who is a personal friend of his, and said that he would set things right with the owner if I would just go with them. I have always refused.

And then, tonight Lydia and Mo Mo decide they want to celebrate their fifth anniversary by going to this bar to watch the first women's UFC fight. 

Of all the mother effing sports bars in this city of over 750,000 people, they choose to go to the ONE FREAKING BAR I have adamantly boycotted. 

Never mind the fact that this is an imaginary anniversary because they haven't even been married three years yet (you guys remember: I posted a rant about their elopement and changed her pseudonym from Wheat to Lydia because she reminds me of the character from Pride and Prejudice.), but they all come out and say I'm being selfish for not going to celebrate with them.

Selfish. 

It's a fake fucking anniversary for one, and I have a very fucking good reason for not going, for two! 

And yet they call me selfish. 

So I pulled on my shoes, put on a jacket, and I went. I walked through that door with a look on my face that clearly showed my disdain for the entire operation: location, company, and reason. It was crowded. It was noisy.

And Lydia and Relly were plastered by the time we got there.

And then Relly has the audacity to tell me she thinks I'm stuck up.

I am reserved.

But I am not stuck up.

And excuse me for saying so, but I think it's really selfish to  HARASS me into going out to a place that scares the crap out of me, and then after I agree to go it's fucking RUDE to insult me once I get there.

And then she had the nerve to tip the waitress ten percent.

TEN PERCENT.

The food was right, the drinks were prompt, she came by every few minutes to clear things off and clean things up. 

What did she do wrong?

"She didn't ask us how we were doing." Relly's opinion.

"Yeah, she doesn't deserve a tip at all. I was a cocktail waitress. I know." Wheat's opinion. Who, I would like to point out, was a cocktail waitress for two days on afternoon shifts at a gentleman's club. 

I was conflicted. On the one hand, it really pisses me off that my sisters, who were raised to be better than this, were such rude, ungracious customers. On the other hand, I vowed after that whole fiasco on election night that I would never contribute any money to that establishment in the form of buying drinks or tipping employees. 

If I hadn't seen the owner standing ten feet away while I was having this argument with my sister, I would have left her ten dollars of my own money for a tip.

So now I am annoyed with the entire situation, and I have told them point blank that next time they can find a different bar, or don't bother inviting me because I won't do it again.

I just won't. 

Credit reports suck balls.

In this day and age, I know it is absolutely stupid to not check up on your credit report at least once a year. You know, to make sure bad things aren't happening. 

But I've never been that kind of girl.

I had a credit card once upon a time, when I was in college and they said, "It will help just to have it. You don't even need to use it." And I used it once or twice, paid it off at the beginning of the month like a good girl...and promptly forgot about it for a while. Then I moved out on my own, got an apartment with a roommate who frequently overspent and then needed to borrow money for rent. And that credit card came in handy, especially when Daddy offered to pay it off for me every month to help me.

But then, you know, I decided six months into THAT deal that I was a big girl with my own money and financially stable enough to pay my own bills. I asked him to stop paying it. And I forgot about it a couple of times, realized it and did what any sane eighteen year old girl would do. I paid off the balance and closed the card. Credit saved.

That's about all. 

I mean, I've rented apartments, but I don't know if that actually goes on your credit or not. Does it? I don't think so. It's not like an account or anything.

So I've just gone through life with student loans (paying off slowly) and some medical (paying off even more slowly) on my credit, and a card that I once had but I closed myself.

I've never worried about my credit.

I wasn't interested in credit cards or the idea of loans and mortgages and other things, so I didn't check it.

But then I decided to do it. And low and behold, my credit score wasn't fabulous. It's not awful, but it certainly isn't in the range I thought it would be. Of course, according to my credit thing my biggest problem is that I have NO lines of credit open. 

Following the advice of my financial nanny (AKA Padawan, who is frequently asking, "Do you really  need to buy those shoes?" when we go out), I decided to apply for a credit card through my bank. And for some reason, I got declined.

Based on my credit score (I got it without getting a credit report), it should have been simple to get one through the bank that I have used for a few years. That I have a savings and checking account through. Why couldn't I get one?

So I got my credit report.

Um...in July of 2003 I got a car loan for ten thousand dollars? WHAT????

Let's do the math here. I'm twenty four years old. In July of 2003 I was fourteen years old! What the FUCK would I do with a car loan? Better yet, what fucking idiot would give a car loan to someone who's social security number said she was fourteen? I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I a pretty sure that my DOB is attached to any information on my SSN, so either some shady loan shark gave it out, or some idiot bank employee wasn't doing their job.

The crazy part is that I've never had a driver's license or owned a car on my own. It's ironic, really.

It can be pulled from my record, of course. Legally, I can't be held responsible for identity theft that occurred before I was eighteen and capable of taking care of my own legal affairs. The law, in this case, is on my side.

But that's going to take a while, and in the meantime I'm stuck with this crappy ass credit score with a few other things that aren't mine. I can't even get a credit card through my own bank until this is cleared up.

Here's my problem, though. I'm lucky enough to be able to get out of this because I'm clearly not at fault. But getting my credit UP with a score like that? If I was stuck like this, if it was something I had done myself, how the hell would I be able to improve my credit score? You can't get ANY credit open with a score like that...so how does it work? Once most people are in bad credit land...how do they get the chance to fix it? Will they be stuck forever with no hope of improving their situation in life because they made a few dumb choices when they were young? 

Halloween

So I thought I'd tell you guys about my Halloween.

First of all, I was off that day. Which on any other day would rock, but my job hosted its first EVER Halloween Costume Contest and a Halloween Party at work. And I've never won a Halloween Costume Contest before, and I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity. You know, because I just wanted to win. The fifty dollar visa gift card prize wasn't the point. I just wanted to win.

So I got ready that morning, picked up some chocolate and pumpkin cupcakes on the way, and breezed into work, in almost full costume, just after noon. I only needed to be there long enough for the voting, which was supposed to take place when I got there. But. You know. Musicians are incapable of doing anything on time. Ever. So I was there until four when the results of the vote finally came in.

My competition for the contest: One Dallas Cowbows Football Player, one Star Trek Uhura, one kitty cat, and one Jim Halpert as Facebook. And then there was me. The Black Widow.

Jim Halpert as Facebook, complete with Dunder Mifflin Paper Company Mug

Uhura, Communications Expert or something.

The Cat with Cheetah Spots

The Dallas Cowboys Football Player

I practiced flipping over the bed in this costume.

So, I thought Jim Halpert as Facebook had it, or considering that all of my coworkers are extreme Trekkies, I thought maybe Uhura had it.

But imagine my surprise when the votes were tallied and I was declared the winner.  Even without the wig (which Penny ate that morning because she's still in her puppy chew on everything phase) I was the winner.

Most awesome.

And I was covered from my toes all the way up to my neck and almost to my finger tips. 

That was pretty fun. I also tried on Padawan's costume when I got home. It was too big.

Then we got ready to escort Master Plo Koon off for trick or treating. And this was the three of us ready to depart.

The Avengers! And their giant twinkie.

 So, his costume is something called Jake from Adventure Time. From behind, he looks like a giant twinkie with a tail, and even then...most of the time the tail is invisible. So he just looks like a giant twinkie. He forgot his sword and didn't realize it until I asked. But if he HAD remembered his sword then he would have looked like a giant twinkie with a toothpick. Come to think of it...that might have been funnier.

We took the dogs, too. They were dressed as Choo Choo the Jack-o-lantern and Penny the Harry Potter Dog. (Which really just meant she wore my tiny tie from my Hermione Granger costume and then I made a small dog sized scarf with red and gold yarn. I also made glasses from pipe cleaners, but she wouldn't leave them on.) 

All in all, it was quite a fun night.

Vicious dogs? What are you talking about?

When I was eight years old, my mom and dad drove out one Valentine's Day and came back with a loving gift for our entire family. A puppy.

But not just any puppy.

This was the cutest, fuzziest puppy I'd ever seen. Black with a fluffy coat and a purple tongue, it look more like a teddy bear or a lion than a dog. We named him Taz, like the Tasmanian Devil from the cartoon, and he became a beloved member of our family.

Taz was a breed known as a Chow Chow. Until we got him, I'd never heard of the breed, so all I knew about Chow Chows was what I learned from Taz.

They make great pillows. They are good foot warmers. They like to cuddle. They are warm. You can brush them for hours and it never gets boring. They like treats. You can teach them lots of tricks and they learn quickly. They like oatmeal, and love eating it from a spoon rather than from a bowl. They like to sleep under the covers, head on a pillow. Kisses are a daily requirement before any person is allowed to leave the house.

It wasn't until he was fully grown that we learned that not everyone loves Chow Chows. We moved to a house in a quiet neighborhood in Jacksonville, and my sister and I were walking him.  We were, of course, scrawny and undersized children. Small, blonde, not the kind of kids you'd expect to see walking around a giant lion dog unattended. But like I said, Taz was a giant teddy bear. He was gentle, walked by your side, never pulled the leash. He was a good dog. When we were out one day, a woman stopped us and asked if she could pet him. (We learned later she lived three houses down and her name was Suzanne. Mom never liked her.)

Taz loved to be pet. A pat on the head was second only to a good belly rub in his world, so we told her of course. She praised him and then asked, "What kind of dog is he? He's so good!"

"He's a Chow Chow," we told her.

She snatched her hand away."A Chow Chow? Your parents let you walk him alone? They're dangerous!" 

I remember being confused. How was a Chow Chow dangerous? Taz didn't bite people. I'd never even heard him growl at someone before. We told her, "He's not dangerous. He's a good dog." We told her about how the Twins rode him around like a horse. She was appalled that our parents would have a "vicious dog" in a house with four small girls. 

She hurried away.

Every time we took Taz our for a walk, someone would comment about how it was dangerous to let us walk him alone. One man even escorted us home and told Dad that he was "concerned the dog would turn on them. Haven't you heard about these dogs?"

Our dog would turn on us? 

What were these people seeing when they were looking at Taz? 

Is that the face of a dangerous dog about to turn on his little girls at any moment? What exactly where they seeing that seemed so dangerous? Sure, he looks like a lion, but not in a dangerous way! But all of these people seemed so worried!

Dad did some research.

So it turned out that Chow Chows had a bad rap. They were considered high risk breeds. Something about extreme aggression.

Well you know what?

It's bullshit. Straight up bullshit. That dog never in his life showed a hint of aggression. He loved children and adults. Yeah, he was a guard dog. The one time he ever tried acted viciously, and he was protecting our house from someone trying to break in through our back door. It was unfortunate for that man that Taz was sleeping in the den by the back door that night. (He normally slept in bed with us. I can't remember why he was in the den that night, but I'm sure glad he was!)

That Chow Chow was raised in a home with four little girls constantly underfoot, ranging from ages  five to nine. Our cousins were often over for visits, ranging from ages four to thirteen. Friends from school parading through, our parents' friends. A constant flow of people in and out of the house. Taz never so much as showed his teeth in anything other than a welcoming smile. 

And you can sit there and tell me, "Well, you had the one good Chow Chow. Most of them are dangerous! They've killed people."

My answer?

There are no such things as bad dogs, just bad owners.

You can take any dog of any breed and turn it vicious. You could make a Boston vicious if you were so inclined. It's not in the genes of the dog, it's in the personality of the owner. I've known lots of Chow Chows in my life, and they were all beautiful specimens and a credit to their breed. Polite, loving, cuddly, and loyal. 

I've always said that when I live in a house and I have a yard, I'm going to get another Chow Chow. When we took Penny to her first vet visit, there was a golden Chow Chow in the office. I got really excited and I commented to the owner, "What a beautiful Chow Chow! They're such great dogs!"

She answered, "Are they? I just got him from a pound because he's so pretty! Everyone's been telling me they're really bad pets because they're mean! You're the first person who had something nice to say."

I snorted, "They are not mean! They're great furry children! Anyone who told you that has clearly never owned one. I grew up with a Chow Chow, and he was the best dog ever!"

When I commented to Padawan that I intended to get another one, he said, "Chanel, those are really aggressive dogs. Do you want to risk Choo Choo?'

I berated him for listening to stupidity. German Shepards and Rottweilers have the same reputation for aggression and violence, and my family has owned both. They were all well trained, well behaved, gentle dogs.

I've read articles that claim that Chow Chows do not obey well, that they tend to dominate their owners, that they are difficult to train.  I don't know who these people are or what the heck they've been doing with their dogs, but if I could train my Chow Chow to sit, lay down, roll over, and shake within two months as an eight year old, then surely experienced dog owners could do better! As for the saying that they are dogs with the personality of cats, I've never met a Chow Chow who fit the description, and Taz most certainly didn't! 

So if you're ever out on the street and you see a dog that the media says is "vicious", pause for a moment before you hurry to get away and think. There is no such thing as a vicious breed of dog. Every dog is different, and every owner is different. Before you label that dog as dangerous, wait and see what it does. Every dog deserves a chance at happiness, and imagine how you would feel if people shrank away from you because they thought you might be dangerous.