Sometimes it’s fun to fall off the face of the earth. Give it a go sometime. It’s been a crazy month, so I’ll just start with the first chapter, and fill you in on the rest later. Oooo. Suspense.

We had a work retreat back at the beginning of the month. It was a good and relaxing one. But I’m not supposed to talk about work online. So shush my hush.

We went to the middle of the state, where the weather is much different and high desert-y. I saw chipmunks which are small and run so fast that their black and white stripes are gray. And these bugs that fly like they’re drunk and click while they go. Which is creepy.

The weather was gorgeous. I got some good pictures, including one where the sensor in my phone camera did not like me trying to use it while going over a bump on a cruiser bike with chopper-wide handlebars and pedal-backwards brakes which are nearly impossible to use if you aren’t still six years old. ::Shrug:: But the results were kind of cool and acid trip-y. I’m sure you’ll be able to guess which one it is. Enjoy.

Hint Hint. Cough Cough.

Evil.

Is there a flag that is vertical stripes and goes brown, blue, green?

This one looks like some utopian painting of fakeness. It’s not. I’m not that creative.

Textures. Mmm.

Fancy dinner candles.

I was putting together a file for a new client this afternoon, and when I pulled the folder out of the supply cabinet, it was a more reddish-brown than the plain brown files I’m used to.

Me: L, this is a different color than the ones we usually get, right?
L: Ya. It’s a slightly more reddish color.
Me: Ok. I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t gone crazy. Plus, this is the most interesting type of event that can occur in office life.
L: Sad. But true.

Me: D, do you need to put this client into the billing system or do you already have him entered? ::holds file up for D to scrutinize label::
D: I think I already have it.
…
That’s a STRANGE color. I must have ordered the wrong brand.

Me: M, here’s the new file – you’re good to go.
M: Oh my god what color is that file?!
Me: ::shakes head sadly::

My cell phone photography could not even begin to do it justice, but last night the sky looked like waves of fire.

There was a party in my backyard this weekend. A going away party for my roommate, A. She was one of the first people I met when I moved here three years ago, and I met her through the first roommate I had here, C (though I moved into this house because of The Boy, not A…it’s a small world). C came to the party with his fiance. The two of them have just moved back from Madison, Wisconsin, where she was pursuing her masters. We got to talking and reminiscing and then suddenly remembered and recounted another mini-adventure.

This one time when I still lived with C, my friend Y was visiting me. It was fall. There is this awesome small island, barely outside of town (a 20 minute drive away) that has farms and nude beaches (of which I have yet to partake) and all manner of islandy things. In the fall there is a pumpkin patch. You can frolic in a corn maze and pick your carving pumpkin straight out of the muddy patch and drink apple cider and use porta-potties (well hey, it can’t all be lollipops and gumdrops, can it?).

On Y’s last day in town, we decided to go pick out some pumpkins. We went in the afternoon. C drove us in his pickup. We frolicked in the maze. We picked our pumpkins. We drank our cider. We…used the facilities? Who knows. Probably.

As day transitioned to eve, we prepared to depart. We started up the truck and made our way out of the bumpy makeshift parking lot. We rolled down the windows and enjoyed the breeze.

And then we hit a long line of cars.

I guess everyone was trying to leave. The island has one long road circling the perimeter, and one skinny bridge crossing to the main land. So there are no alternate routes. So we waited in traffic.

And waited.

And waited.

It was that kind of traffic where everyone turns off their engines and kids get out of all the cars and run around in the grass, making temporary fast friends with the neighboring car’s kids.

Normally, this wouldn’t really be a problem on a Sunday afternoon. But C had a gig. And Y had to catch her plane home.

Oh. And we had almost no gas.

But what can you do? So we kicked off our shoes and relaxed in the pickup’s bed, admiring the fall leaves and soaking up the nice weather. We watched kids catch butterflies. We shot the shit. All in all, it was quite enjoyable.

But then it was an hour later.

To be fair, the truck had moved. A few feet.

I had to pee. So badly.

The road runs along the front yards of homes. There was no bush to duck behind. Before we had hit the traffic, we had made it too far from the patch to walk back without losing the car. So I waited.

And waited. C called to tell people he might miss his gig. Y called to see if she could switch to another flight, which she couldn’t. Every time we got to inch forward, we threw the truck in neutral and pushed it to conserve gas in the hopes that we could make it off the island and to a gas station before puttering out.

My cousin calls. He’s in town from out-of-state, want to hang out? I tell him where we live and that we’re on our way – but going nowhere fast.

And then I couldn’t wait any longer. And so, though it is totally not my style, I hopped out of the bed of the truck and knocked on someone’s door.

Um. Ya. See…I’m so very sorry, but um…well. There’s really bad traffic and I have to pee REALLY badly and I’m so sorry to bother you but –”

The woman waves me in

First door on your right. You’re the third person today. This happens every year.

I thank her profusely and run to the bathroom. And when I get back out, the line of cars is moving. Slowly, but not inching slowly.

Hooray!

Wait. Crap. Where is the truck?

I’m still barefoot, but I’m worried that if this starts really moving they’ll have to get out of line to wait for me and then it’d take even LONGER to get off and it’d be my fault when everyone missed their shows/flights or the truck ran out of gas.

So I bolt barefoot down the road. It’s pebbly and ouchy.

Turns out it hadn’t gone that far. And it stopped right up again. So I ran for nothing. They’re right there. Six houses ahead.

I hop into the truck, and my heel is throbbing, so I pull it up to look at it. I must have stepped on some tiny shard of glass that worked its way into my heel because it’s bleeding underneath the heel callous and creating an interesting Rorschach.

So thereafter they push and I steer when we move, because now I’m lame.

We eventually make it off the island, some two hours later (usually probably a 10 minute drive around the island).

We get gas.

We mad dash back to the house, where my cousin and his friend have had an interesting stand-off with our other roommate wherein he was thinking “who are these punks loitering by our house?” and they were thinking “who is this dude drinking on her porch?” which has since resolved, and they are sitting on the couch on the porch, having a beer with the other roommate.

We throw C’s gear into the bed of the truck and he zooms off.

We throw Y in cousin’s car, and drive like crazy people to the airport.

C makes it to the his show at the last possible second.

Y catches her plane at the last possible second.

I hobble around and hung around with my cousin.

It was a happy ending.

Six months later, I still had an inadvertent tattoo on my heel to remind me of our random adventure. Honestly, I didn’t half mind. And, fortunately, it was on the sole of my foot so no one had occasion to say, “interesting ink…what’s the story?” to which I would have had to reply, “see, this one time I had to pee…”

A friend of mine recently met me at my office after work so we could go for a walk in the park up by my old apartment. On her way to my office she got stopped by a canvaser, and when I emerged from the building, I saw her but was held up by another canvaser.

When we had extricated ourselves, we went up to my office for her to change, and upon emerging were hassled by a third, and exceedingly pushy, canvaser.

I had long been of the opinion that, hell, we’re in public. They’re as welcome to be out as I am. So while everyone else griped about them, I shrugged my shoulders. I would just smile, say no thank you, and keep walking.

But as of late I’ve been less and less pleased with them (I know it’s just a crappy job – I don’t mean “them” as much as the situation).

See, I like to interact with people in public. I like to make eye contact, and smile. I like to be friendly, and to the best of my ability, I try to help out strangers. When they drop something, I’ll pick it up and hand it to them. If someone asks for directions, I’m happy to provide them. And the thing is, as hippie-y as it sounds, it’s really exhausting to avoid eye-contact like the plague or interact with someone and have to refuse them what they’re asking for over and over again.

So, being that my office is right smack dab downtown near all the shopping, the corner outside the building usually has at least three canvasers at a time. At least. This means that if I go a few blocks away to grab lunch at a food cart, I probably am faced with five canvasers on the roundtrip (since they’re not just on the corner in front of my office, but all the other high profile corners too). It’s completely exhausting. They grab your hand or stand in your way. The girls are self-righteous. The guys use their job as an excuse to flirt like drunk frat boys. It’s exhausting.

So as my friend and I hiked up to the park, we were discussing this, and she explained that canvasing was the only job she could get when she got into town, and she worked off commission, and it sucked. So she tries to humor them a little (though she also said that she had made an effort to pinpoint those who worked on her turf and avoid talking to them since she knew they’d probably had enough of it daily).

So this week as I’m coming out of the library, some guy says, “Hey you, pretty girl with the green shirt.” He’s the third canvaser I will have passed since leaving my office at noon. I use my normal line, “I have time, not money. Do you need volunteers?” He brushes that off, so I say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not giving away any money.” And he assures me that he won’t ask for my money. So. I humor him. I listen to his ridiculously long spiel. He’s from Greenpeace. There’s this horrible paper company cutting down old growth trees to use for toilet paper. They’ve tried appealing to the company, but it won’t budge. So consumers need to take action. Great, I say. Tell me again the name of the company, and I’ll happily boycott them. He says that’s great but rushes on to say that the only way to make change is through organizations like Greenpeace. I stop him to ask if Greenpeace wants my money. He said, “Yes, but I’m not asking you to give money to ME. See. I didn’t lie.” Which outright pisses me off.

Does this really work? Do people stop and get cajoled into listening and then say, “Ok, I’ll give you money even though you just tricked me.”? I highly doubt it.

I repeat that I’m not giving money. He asks why. Again, I humor him and explain that when I give money to charity, I do so after having sought and researched the cause myself – not just because some stranger asks me on the street. He says, dripping with self-righteousness, “That’s great. Those are nice shoes you have. Did you research them before you bought them?”

Not ever knowing when to shut up, I answer honestly and say, “No” (I bought these $7 flip flops at a 7/11 in a tiny town this past Memorial Day when we were on the beach and all I had were sneakers.) But quickly follow with, “I’m not arguing with you,” and turn to walk away.

He says to my back, “I’m not arguing with you. I’m just trying to show you the error of your ways…” Not even feigning a sincere desire to be helpful – just dripping with disdain.

And first of all, Greenpeace, that is some bullshit tactic you have of getting money. And not only is it abhorrent, but I highly doubt people go, “Oh! There are errors in my ways! Oh my god. I hadn’t realized. Here – have a twenty.”

Second, I just kept walking, but it was fifteen minutes later, back at my desk, when I stopped wanting to march right back to him and say, “Hey, Punk. Did you research those industrials you have in your ear? Do you know where the metal is mined from? Or are they bone? Do you know where the bone for those earrings comes from (most come from irresponsible farming)? Oh, and you have a really nice faux-hawk. Did you thoroughly research the mousse you used? Do you pay to be a member of Greenpeace? Do you have any idea if the TP in your apartment is made by a subsidiary of Kimberly Clark?”

That’s what I thought, punk.