Last week I decided to get rid of my cable service after developing a small but intense rage issue when I found out my cable + internet bill had risen from $60.00 to $100.00 after removing the promotional rate that used to be non-temporary but had been arbitrarily temporary and subject to revocation all along.
I was pretty smug for dropping TV, partly because I managed to wait out my company's customer service endurance challenge and stayed on hold for two hours to get it done, partly because I view television mostly as a huge black hole waiting to suck the productiveness out of my day and the intelligence out of my brain (empirical evidence includes not only my willingness, but absolute slavish devotion, to keeping up with new "Maui Fever" episodes on MTV), but also because it was $60 bucks gone from my cable bill, and that could be used for much more purposeful things. Things like lots and lots of cherry lip gloss or 420 pieces of Bazooka gum from the counter of the Mexican restaurant down the block from my house.
So since I was all pleased with myself, I called my parents to let them know I had just made a Responsible Adult Choice and that they could start showering me with adoration and apologies for assuming I am a screw up most, if not all, of the time.
Unfortunately, the conversation went more like this:
ME: So, I decided to cancel my television subscription. Isn't that great?
THEM: Are you in financial trouble again?
ME: No...I just realized the four shows I watch are already on the Internet for free, and I don't really think there's anything else valuable on anymore.
THEM: Why wouldn't you want TV?
ME: I just told you...it's cheaper and I can get whatever I want from the Internet.
THEM: What about news?
ME: I read the news online or in a paper as I eat breakfast each morning.
THEM: What if there's a tornado?
ME: Um...we have sirens here too.
THEM: Well, if you needed money you should've just asked.
ME: *Sighs* I'll see you this weekend.
During the aforementioned weekend, I received a fancy television antenna from my father who proffered it with a look of total incredulity that one of his offspring might actually forsake television. And in a way, I can understand that, because my father works a physically grueling job with horrible 12-hour shifts and by the time he comes home, the only thing he has energy to do is sit in his recliner and watch television. That's sort of been the culture in my family since I was little; the TV was my babysitter when I was a latchkey kid, it was what eased family tensions after a dinntertime argument, and it's what my dad and I bonded over whenever I was home in college. We didn't have to talk, or think, or interact. We just...existed...and the TV played a vital role in that.
But now apparently my father is telling family members that I really didn't turn off the television voluntarily; that it had been disconnected because I couldn't pay the bill and that obviously makes me a little mad. I guess he didn't want me to know he was saying those things, though, because when I made a joke about it he got really, really angry and hung up the phone. I'm translating that as embarrassed that he had those suspicions and probably frustrated he didn't feel like he could talk to me about it if he did think that. In the end, my brother got yelled at for telling me and I got yelled at for bringing it up and now I'm sitting here scratching my head and having a major WTF moment. How was that our fault?
My mother explained it like this before she declared the family "just so darn messed up" and hung up on me: I should've known my father well enough to anticipate that a joke like that wouldn't be perceived as something funny, but as an insult to him. I should've realized that if he talks about one of us to another family member, that the information is supposed to be confidential and not talked about even if I do find out about it from someone else. And I should've known that telling my father something like giving up television is going to be viewed with skepticism and alarm.
Well, no...I didn't know those things, because our parents NEVER TALKED TO US ABOUT ANYTHING. Mostly what I know about my dad is that he likes "The Golden Girls". His favorite TV snack food is popcorn or cut vegetables. He can tell you the name of any actor or actress in a movie, but he has a harder time remembering details about the plots. He wants to go to Hollywood someday and take a studio tour so he can find out what a gaffer and a best boy are.
But I don't know what my dad thinks and feels about things, and I didn't know he'd completely wig out over something I perceived as so trivial in the course of my life.
And I didn't know because my parents are so neurotically private and closed off that the stupid television must've been a relief to have around, because it ensured that no one in the household would have to do any extraneous thinking or feeling or connecting that might actually help them become whole, happy individuals and maybe even a functional family.
Good riddance to all of it, I say.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Sunday, March 04, 2007
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky...
My hairdresser, fondling my scalp with her marijuana-scented fingers remarked that she heard sirens pass the hair salon yesterday afternoon. She pronounced it "Sigh-reens", like she was auditioning for a bit part in O Brother, Where Art Thou? and her delight at hearing the sigh-reens was mitigated just a bit by the fact that there "weren't a whole lot of 'em". After she had manipulated my problem hair into something that passed for a style, she sold me a completely unnecessary bottle of rosemary clarifying shampoo that smelled like paint thinner and I drove home to my little compound of ecru quadplexes nestled like tiles between giant mocha-colored piles of earth, as if our domains were Mayan temples situated among long-forgotten burial grounds.
I turned right onto my street, paying more attention to the dripping iced tea I was balancing between my knees than the road in front of me and almost hit a police car blocking the two lanes to my house. A portly man who looked like Captain Kangaroo in a service uniform motioned for me to roll down the window and told me I couldn't get through, that a unit was burning down near the cul-de-sac. I saw smoke coming from the general vicinity of my house and leaped out of my car, sprinting toward the fire. It was a series of stops and starts...full out running to make sure it wasn't mine, and a pause each time I realized it COULD be me and what would I do? My jerky progress was interrupted once in awhile by groups of strolling rednecks, alternately horrified and excited by the scene and breaking out coolers of Busch in their Dale Earnhardt festooned garages. If my neighborhood weren't so transient, I would imagine our block parties would look similar.
I folded my hands across the front of my shirt and walked with my head down, bracing against the gale winds that charged down the street. I had forgotten a coat, and the yokels were giving me odd looks as I hustled to get to the fire. I wonder if they thought I was one of the residents, in shock and wandering aimlessly while my possessions turned to ash inside my house. If they did, their concern didn't seem evident and we mutually avoided one another's eyes as I passed.
I reached the turn around of our cul-de-sac and drew in a sharp breath, partly out of relief because it wasn't my unit, and partly because the one next to me was completely engulfed in fire. I expected people to be crying, to be milling about and wailing for one another and their possessions, but I only saw firemen trying to outpace the wind with their hoses and a cluster of grim-faced Midwesterners, pulling flannel jackets and bathrobes tighter over their shoulders as they watched their life burn away. I suppose when you live in a place like I do, there aren't many things inside to be destroyed, and the pioneer mentality supersedes sentiment; times are hard, they'll always be hard, and we'll pick up and move on even if God shits on us again like he did today.
I asked a nearby policeman if I could go into my house and he stroked his mustache, considering.
"Way-ull...", he responded in a nearly pitch-perfect imitation of John Wayne, "I heard the unit next to the one on fire might be in danger of exploding if the fire gets into the gas lines somehow, but since you're one of the interiors you should be okay. Just start runnin' if you hear popping sounds."
Cold comfort, but I was freezing and at the very least I could grab my coat. I sat at my office window and watched the activity for a bit before I left, noting how the displaced residents sat like monoliths in the ambulances parked all around the neighborhood. They didn't speak and sat ramrod straight, maybe mentally willing the day to be over, or to just rewind. I watched the firemen and policemen cart out smoldering furniture and douse it with water in the middle of the yards. Neon orange condemned notices were put up on all four doors, and the front screen doors, loose on the hinges now from so many shoves and slams, fluttered like Kleenex on their hinges.
I've become fairly desensitized to human tragedy recently, I suppose like everyone has, but this has been weighing on my mind so much. There's the obvious thought that this could've easily happened to me, and that I should probably get renter's insurance as soon as possible in case my neighbors get careless with a cigarette or a firecracker, but more so the idea that a simple accident could ruin not only my life but four sets of lives as well. That my neighbors, whom I absolutely do not trust or like, might have to help me get out of our burning house someday. That we are intertwined, by contractual obligation if not by choice, and that those nameless people I waved at each morning as we pulled out of our driveways for work aren't going to be there anymore. That their lives have been incontrovertibly altered, and that they may never feel safe in their homes again.
Just...wow.
I turned right onto my street, paying more attention to the dripping iced tea I was balancing between my knees than the road in front of me and almost hit a police car blocking the two lanes to my house. A portly man who looked like Captain Kangaroo in a service uniform motioned for me to roll down the window and told me I couldn't get through, that a unit was burning down near the cul-de-sac. I saw smoke coming from the general vicinity of my house and leaped out of my car, sprinting toward the fire. It was a series of stops and starts...full out running to make sure it wasn't mine, and a pause each time I realized it COULD be me and what would I do? My jerky progress was interrupted once in awhile by groups of strolling rednecks, alternately horrified and excited by the scene and breaking out coolers of Busch in their Dale Earnhardt festooned garages. If my neighborhood weren't so transient, I would imagine our block parties would look similar.
I folded my hands across the front of my shirt and walked with my head down, bracing against the gale winds that charged down the street. I had forgotten a coat, and the yokels were giving me odd looks as I hustled to get to the fire. I wonder if they thought I was one of the residents, in shock and wandering aimlessly while my possessions turned to ash inside my house. If they did, their concern didn't seem evident and we mutually avoided one another's eyes as I passed.
I reached the turn around of our cul-de-sac and drew in a sharp breath, partly out of relief because it wasn't my unit, and partly because the one next to me was completely engulfed in fire. I expected people to be crying, to be milling about and wailing for one another and their possessions, but I only saw firemen trying to outpace the wind with their hoses and a cluster of grim-faced Midwesterners, pulling flannel jackets and bathrobes tighter over their shoulders as they watched their life burn away. I suppose when you live in a place like I do, there aren't many things inside to be destroyed, and the pioneer mentality supersedes sentiment; times are hard, they'll always be hard, and we'll pick up and move on even if God shits on us again like he did today.
I asked a nearby policeman if I could go into my house and he stroked his mustache, considering.
"Way-ull...", he responded in a nearly pitch-perfect imitation of John Wayne, "I heard the unit next to the one on fire might be in danger of exploding if the fire gets into the gas lines somehow, but since you're one of the interiors you should be okay. Just start runnin' if you hear popping sounds."
Cold comfort, but I was freezing and at the very least I could grab my coat. I sat at my office window and watched the activity for a bit before I left, noting how the displaced residents sat like monoliths in the ambulances parked all around the neighborhood. They didn't speak and sat ramrod straight, maybe mentally willing the day to be over, or to just rewind. I watched the firemen and policemen cart out smoldering furniture and douse it with water in the middle of the yards. Neon orange condemned notices were put up on all four doors, and the front screen doors, loose on the hinges now from so many shoves and slams, fluttered like Kleenex on their hinges.
I've become fairly desensitized to human tragedy recently, I suppose like everyone has, but this has been weighing on my mind so much. There's the obvious thought that this could've easily happened to me, and that I should probably get renter's insurance as soon as possible in case my neighbors get careless with a cigarette or a firecracker, but more so the idea that a simple accident could ruin not only my life but four sets of lives as well. That my neighbors, whom I absolutely do not trust or like, might have to help me get out of our burning house someday. That we are intertwined, by contractual obligation if not by choice, and that those nameless people I waved at each morning as we pulled out of our driveways for work aren't going to be there anymore. That their lives have been incontrovertibly altered, and that they may never feel safe in their homes again.
Just...wow.
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