Sometimes, three is NOT a magic number

Today I got home from work to find that Nelly had [warning: discomfiting material] splattered the house with explosive diarrhea. We know it was Nelly because she'd had some symptoms yesterday. This morning I left the house with a nagging feeling that she might be sicker than we thought, but I just couldn't bring myself to up-end yet another day of work for a personal emergency. There was the whole water heater thing. I was scheduled to take Eva in for service today (an amusing anecdote on THAT follows), after blowing off the garage twice at the last minute already: once because I had to drain my leaking water heater, and then a few days later when I just completely spaced it. I couldn't face making a last-minute cancellation call to them AGAIN, because I hate looking like a ditz. I know, pride goeth before a fall (or in this case, before a house full of poo).

Anyhoo, that turned out to be a poor choice.

So Enrico has bundled her off to the emergency vet, which is clear across town, and most likely a three-hour excursion, minimum. He immediately volunteered to do it, because by the time he got home I had, as he put it, done the worst task (namely, the cleaning of poo - our hardwoods will never be the same). So it seemed only fair. And I have to say, karmically speaking, he kind of owes me on this one, after that one time that I had to take Nelly to the emergency vet in the dead of night while he was out of town, oh, and, let's not forget THAT OTHER time when I again had to take BOTH dogs to the emergency vet while he was out of town, on the same day our car broke down and the house across the street burned in a massive middle-of-the-night conflagration. You see the trend here?

The other trend? Is the whole trouble-comes-in-threes thing. There was the aforementioned veterinary emergency/car trouble/arson day. And then a couple years ago there was the broken finger/car accident/house burglary combo. So my question is: Does the water heater/van repair/veterinary emergency count as three? Because the van repair wasn't really an emergency, it was pretty much expected. The price tag was much higher than anticipated, so maybe that counts; but it's not entirely clear, and now I'm on edge, waiting for the third shoe to drop.

I'm sure Nelly is fine, by the way, in case you are fretting about her. She probably has giardia or something. Dogs eat stupid shit; sometimes they get sick. It's only a big deal because they are (relatively) small and dehydrate quickly. I'm just glad it didn't happen while we were on the road.

Speaking of which (I know, this is too long and rather rambling, and I should probably break this out into two separate entries, or perhaps just shut up, but such is my state of mind at the moment), I did indeed take Eva in for a check-up today. As expected, she needed an oil change, air filters (engine and internal) and replacement of pretty much all her fluids. That wasn't a surprise, though just as everyone has warned us, it's crazy expensive to do anything to a Volkswagen. The special fairy-dust VW transmission fluid? Literally costs seven times as much as any other kind of transmission fluid. And they have to do this whole elaborate thing to change it. So it costs $350 fracking dollars. But since the transmission is kinda important, and we know it's a weak spot on this model, we gritted our teeth and told them to go ahead and do the work.

An hour later, the shop called me back.

"We just got your van up on the lift," he said, "and the underside is completely caked with, like, an inch of mud. The wheel wells, struts, underside, everything. Totally coated."

"That doesn't surprise me at all," I said calmly. "Like I explained, we spent a lot of time on gravel roads."

"Seriously, it's totally encased in mud. I'm surprised you didn't have any alignment problems. Where exactly did you go, anyway?"

I explained where we went. He thought that sounded cool. He expounded a bit more on the unbelievable extent of the mud.

"So, can you clean it off?"

"Well, yeah, we have a power washer that can do the job. But we think it's going to take about an hour, so we're going to have to charge you for labor."

"That's fine, I understand."

This was followed by a bit more of [Dude! the mud, THE MUD!], and when I hung up the phone, I cracked up. I envisioned every single mechanic in the shop - and this was a large place, not the two-man hole-in-the-wall we took it to before; Volkswagon Guru Man was on vacation - anyway, I envisioned every guy in the shop standing underneath the lift, gazing up in awe at Eva's belly. You ever seen that much mud? Not me. No way, me neither. Man, that's the most mud I have frickin' EVER seen underneath a car.

When I picked her her, I asked if this impression was correct, that this was indeed The Muddiest Vehicle they had collectively ever seen. The guy chuckled, and didn't really answer. But then he leaned forward conspiratorially, and said in hushed tones, "You ought to see the guy who did the work. He is filthy."

So I guess I made up for the fact that I blew them off twice, by providing them with a tale that they can relate for years to their spellbound children and grandchildren. The mud, THE MUD!

Things I have learned

First, a correction: It turns out it is not, in fact, illegal to let your cat roam loose in Seattle, as I recently and incorrectly asserted in my posting on coyotes. The City of Seattle's leash/containment laws apply to all pets except for cats and...pigeons (I kid you not). My apologies for the error, and let me just emphasize that I am sincerely sorry for the loss of anyone's pet cat to a coyote. Please, I do not want hate mail from the cat community, some of whom seem to be quite agitated about this whole coyote situation. I just still think the coyotes are entitled to live here. And that cats are safer indoors anyway - seems to me their demise is more likely to come from a car or a raccoon.

Speaking of which, we heard a coyote howl nearby last night. It was cool, I've only heard that sound in the desert of Utah before. Our dogs went absolutely bonkers. I do hope all the neighborhood cats made it through the night unscathed.

Second: I had an arborist out today to look at our ailing maple tree, which is apparently suffering from the tree equivalent of congestive heart failure. But the arborist also pointed out that one of the ornamental trees on our property, planted by the previous owner (a landscape architect), is apparently a rare and valued species which we could likely uproot and sell to an enthusiast for something like ten thousand dollars. And in fact, if the tree were smaller and in a more accessible spot, somebody might even steal the tree to sell on the rare-tree black market. Jiminy Christmas, the world is a strange place.

The little-read blog of 9-Fingered Flora

I know, I have been completely AWOL from the blogger scene. I'm sure the blogger scene has suffered greatly for it, too. I have been described by my parents as "the one that does not blog."

I haven't had much in the way of inspiration, what can I say? But here's something new and different that happened this week: My dog broke my finger.

Yes, that's right. It's a variant on the "dog ate my homework" excuse for being lame, a variant which can only be rolled out selectively, but hey, it comes with props! In the form of a shiny metal contraption, on your hand!

It was not her fault (yes, it was Nelly). It was an accident (no, she did not bite me - sheesh, several people have asked me that - Nelly has a lot of flaws but biting people has never been one of them). I was walking the beasts and we rounded a corner and encountered a dog up close suddenly, and Nelly was startled, and lunged (lunging at other dogs HAS always been one of her flaws). The leash must've been wrapped around my hand funny, and SNAP - I actually felt my ring finger break.

Of course it's a pain in the ass (I say, typing one-handed-ish), but in fact I am an old hand (no pun intended) at cracked extremities. Fingers, feet...at least this time it's my left hand. If only I'd thought to remove my wedding ring as coolly as I iced, splinted and called the doctor. With just a scosh more swelling, they'll have to cut my ring off.

Tomorrow I go to a specialist, who will tell me what kind of contraption I have to wear and for how long, on the blackened and twisted appendage that looks (and I quote) "like a hideous thing that crawled into a hole and died." Did you know that the three segments of your finger could actually take on a zig-zag shape? It's true!

Meanwhile I have lots and lots of work to do! So many people want our consulting services, and on the community organizing side of my work, regular citizens are turning out in droves, clamoring to change the world. It's busy but quite satisfying. I've been surfing the creative force of the universe, and one stinkin' broken finger isn't going to kill my buzz.

(And no, that is not a Vicotin buzz speaking. I have 'em, but I haven't taken a single one yet. Because I'm an extremity-breakin' bad-ass, that's why)

Where to begin?

I guess I'll begin with the Check Engine light. Somehow in my mind, that's where it all started.

Our car's check engine light has been on and off for a couple weeks, and it's notoriously finicky so my usual policy is to ignore it for awhile, until it proves to me that it's serious. Which it did, last Thursday, when the Oil light also went on and I found the dipstick bone dry. I stopped for a temporary fix, which took up a whole morning on a busy day, but a permanent repair still loomed.

Enrico left town, Toby got his ear infection, and by Monday I decided I had to bite the bullet and return the car to a state of reliability. This entails a 90-minute commute each way to the mechanic and then to work, including two buses. But by 4:00 yesterday, I was on the first of the bus legs home and feeling good about getting things tidy. The car was fixed, and as always, the mechanics cleaned it to an unrecognizably shiny luster inside and out. Cousin Flora likes things tidy.

At home I found a note from the dog-walker suggesting Nelly might have another bladder infection, and after walking her myself, I reluctantly had to agree. Her last infection was exactly a year ago, when Enrico was also out of town, and in trying to make it through the night I ended up at the emergency vet at 4 am with Nelly, while Toby attempted to destroy the house back home in a fit of panic. Good times!

Fun as that was, I decided to head straight to the emergency clinic this time, in the hopes of wrapping things up by bedtime. I took Toby along figuring he could always wait in the car. I heaved a sigh as I heard Nelly throw up en route, all over my newly spotless car. But then the clinic was pretty empty and we breezed through, relatively speaking. Although they were unable to get a urine sample from Nelly - who after all had been trying to pee every 5 minutes for the past several hours - the vet took my word for it and sent us home with antibiotics.

When we got home I left some of the barfy mess in the carport to deal with later, gave Nelly her first pill, and had myself some dinner and a nice glass of wine. It was a long day, but both the car and the dog were dealt with. Life had thrown me a couple of logistical curve balls, but things were back on track.

I'd been asleep an hour when the dogs woke me up with their barking. At first it was a typical alarm bark, which I planned to ignore, and then suddenly, they amped up to a frenetic pitch I had never heard before, ever. I hopped out of bed and looked out the window. The house across the street was on fire.

This is the house across the street that was sold, and the lot is being subdivided, and whose temporary occupants were cleaned out by the police. The one with Garry the Exceptional oak. I called 911, and by the time the fire trucks arrived the house was engulfed in flames. Intimidated by the size of the blaze, I waited to step outside until I saw the fire trucks, and as I walked out onto my front porch I felt the heat of it hit my face from clear across the street. Dozens of firefighters descended on the place with hoses and chain saws and ladders.

The dogs were barking frantically inside and I realized they couldn't see me from the window, and all they knew was that I had stepped out into this hellish, terrifying maelstrom, and they couldn't find me. So I went back, leashed them up, and took them out to the front steps with me. At first they were interested and excited, but soon they just became anxious. The noise and the smells and the lights were overwhelming, disorienting. I took them back inside but it was enough to assuage their fears, to get to see for themselves where I was disappearing to.

Suffice to say we got very little sleep, because it turns out? Full-on house fires are loud, what with four fire trucks pumping, the firefighters yelling and clanking their oxygen tanks and ladders, the screaming chain saws, the roar of the fire itself, and the EXPLODING KITCHEN. The noise and the light made sleep impossible, and I was joined by a neighbor as we watched the firefighters do their jobs.

It made me sad to watch it burn, because for ten years I knew the couple who had lived in that house for 40 years, raised five kids there, and when their daughter died they raised a granddaughter there too. I know it's slated for demolition anyway, but it was somebody's home once.

I eventually got a bit of fitful sleep and awoke around 5 am as most of the fire crew packed up and left. Shortly, the forensics investigators showed up to do their thing. One of the remaining firefighters told me this is the latest in a string of arsons in the neighborhood, all at corner properties like ours. How lovely. I have a call into the community policing officer for our precinct to try to learn more.

I mainlined some coffee and took Nelly back to the regular vet - Toby in tow, again, because the dogs were just as jittery as I - to try to get the elusive urine sample (failure, again). By the time Enrico gets back I will have had two trips to the mechanic, five trips to the vet, and a sleepless night watching the neighbor's house burn.

Plus, I believe I may have appeared on Fox News in my pajamas, which is just the icing on the cake, really. Who doesn't aspire to that?

In short, I feel like I've come to the end of our own little action-packed episode of 24. I feel like I've lived several weeks' time since I stepped onto that #65 bus just 24 short hours ago.
P.S. Garry the Exceptional Oak is fine. A little singed, but handsome as ever. The firefighters were just as smitten with him as the rest of us and worked heroically to keep the flames away from him. Here's a picture of Garry, as requested:

Blogging: 1 Unit

Lately it has been feast or famine for me in terms of discipline. I've been self-employed for over 4 years now, which requires the ability to self-discipline in terms of time management. But lately I'm either incredibly focused and productive, or completely, utterly consumed by inertia. I have no middle ground. I know lots of good time management techniques, but they have all been failing me.

So, I've decided to treat this as you would any bad habit, and assume that if I can replace my undesirable behavior patterns with desirable ones for at least 30 days, the new behaviors will become the new habits. And for this, I turn to the movies for inspiration.

I remember virtually nothing from the movie About a Boy, EXCEPT that Hugh Grant, who for some reason is not obliged to work for a living, has a system for organizing his days which prevents him from slipping into a state of drooling sloth. He divides his days in to 30-minute "units" and allocates those units: Personal grooming, one unit. Exercise, two units. Dinner, two units. Etc.

So I decided to try the Unit-allocation approach to changing my behavior. I started today. First up, one Unit of planning, over breakfast, to allocate the rest of the Units. Exercise, two Units. Work for Client X, 6 Units. Work for Client Y, 3 Units. Meditation, 1 Unit (strategically scheduled before the phone call with the ever-maddening Client X). Housecleaning Task Of Choice, 2 Units.

I did ok, for a first try. When I realized I couldn't actually do 6 Units of work for Client X today - the ball is in somebody else's court - I replaced them with 2 Units of napping, and 2 Units of...leakage. I leaked 2 units. I have no idea how they were spent. I cannot account for them.

But I'm going to take the Buddhist approach here and simply observe this fact with non-judging loving-kindness towards myself, and curiosity. The good news is, I did in fact accomplish the 2 units of exercise, 1 unit of meditation, 2 units of housecleaning, and 3 units of work for Client Y. And in the midst of all that, I leaked 2 units. How interesting. Now I am like an auditor, searching for the missing Units on the great check register of my life, so I can fix the problem and balance the books!

And now for something completely different

I am just excited beyond words for tonight's episode of Lost. What is up with Juliet? Could she be more inscrutable? Is she on anyone's side but her own, and why will she see the Others in a week? Where did Rousseau disappear to, and when will she pop up again? Is Locke's evil dad really on the island or is it a mirage, like Jack's dead dad or Hurley's imaginary asylum-friend? Where is Locke now? Will Charlie actually die? Will we ever find out whether Michael and Walt made it back to civilization, and if so are they doing anything to get the Lostaways rescued? Could they team up with the tenacious and wealthy Penny? Or is Michael too guilt-ridden? Who the hell is Jacob? Why is Jack still the "leader" when his judgment is so consistently terrible? Wouldn't you pick Sayid as your leader, with his mad skillz and his unfailing ability to tell when people are lying? What's going to happen to poor pregnant Sun? Is Charlie really going to die? Is the island really invisible to the world or is Ben just bluffing? Will the Dharma Initiative food drops stop? Why wouldn't the Losties go take over Otherland's lovely little surburban camp, with its electricity and running water and comfy mattresses, and recode the security fence to keep the Others out?

I don't think we'll get all those answers tonight, but after a bumpy start to the season, they've got me hooked.

Who knew?

We are one week away from the tax deadline - a week in which I will be mostly out of the country - and I have not started our taxes. Well, the accountant did the business taxes, thank heavens, but I've done nothing whatsoever about our household taxes. I opened TurboTax today to find that I can't just update the version I bought last year, I have to go out and buy a WHOLE NEW VERSION. I just assumped you could download an update - who knew TurboTax is a disposable product? I am crossing my fingers that this year's version is still available in stores, because I can't go back to the paper and pencil method, I just can't!

(Why am I in charge of the taxes, you might reasonably ask, given that Enrico crunches numbers for a living? Well, the ways in which couples divide up life's chores are mysterious. Suffice to say that I handle all matters financial, and Enrico handles all matters that involve dust, mold, the attic, and getting out of bed at 6 am. Even now, staring down the barrel of the tax deadline, I'm pretty sure I got the better end of the bargain.)

Second thing I learned this week: Did you know you can buy an external 10-key number pad for laptops? Plugs right into the USB port. Isn't that cool? See, I'm typing with it right now: 123456789. This will come in very handy for the whack of survey data entry that I have to do sometime between now and when I leave the country. Along with the taxes. No pressure.

Third thing I learned this week: There is no Hindi for Dummies or Complete Idiot's Guide to Hindi. These well-known (and actually fairly good, despite the titles) language instruction books can be found for Latin, Yiddish, and the languages of Middle Earth - but not for the official language of the second most populous country on Earth. It turns out that Hindi is the native langauge for less than half of the population, and there are over 20 official languages under the Indian constitution. So why does Hindi seem to be the de facto language for Bollywood movies? The more I learn about India, the more confused I get.

Lights, action, Bollywood!

Enrico and I joined Netflix a few months back, and one of the results is that we've developed a taste for Bollywood movies. They are just fabulous. The colors! The dancing! The rhythmic yet haunting music! The tragic misunderstandings!

On one level, the plots are as formulaic as you get, generally a boy-meets-girl with at least one party hampered by pride or prickliness, or class differences, or previous engagement to the wrong person. But a story that in Hollywood might merit a breezy chick flick of under two hours, in Bollywood is three to four hours long. Some of the added length comes from the fabulous musical numbers, of course, but these movies also dig into the complex family obligations, the personal struggles, the social expectations. A US movie would be satisfied with one token piece of dialogue to telegraph to the audience: Daddy Issue here! or Class Issue! or whatever, But there is no shorthand in Bollywood. You get long dialogue AND a musical number, in case the point wasn't clear without song and dance.

We recently got a BBC mini-series of Pride and Prejudice, and also the Indian adaptation Bride and Prejudice; Jane Austen is perfect material for an Indian setting. The long demure walks, the eloquent dialogue layered with subtext, the stiffling societal expectations, and the lively, intelligent characters who bristle against them. Just as a decent adaptation of Pride and Prejudice required a six-hour mini-series, so a Bollywood movie must be at least 3 hours long.

I am also incredibly impressed with the actors. My sense is that a working actor cranks out a huge number of movies each year - all of them 3 to 4 hours long, with songs to memorize and complex dance numbers to master. Most of the acting is far from Oscar-worthy, to be sure, but I've got to believe that India has the hardest-working, most multi-talented actors on the planet.

Of course, we know nothing about Bollywood, so we're picking movies somewhat at random out of the Netflix collection. So if there are any afficionados out there of Indian movies, feel free to drop a few suggestions. And it's also making me wish I knew more about Indian culture and history, something I've been reading about a bit in preparation for writing the Rutabega Family Saga, but my knowledge is really woefully limited. And because I don't have enough to do in my life, I'm thinking of learning Hindi.

It was a dark and rainy afternoon...

The shop was small and cluttered, in an out-of-the-way corner of suburbia, the ugly part near the airport. But it was the only place I'd been able to find to do the job.

"What do we have here...ah, a sweet little Buffet R-13," said the repairman, peering into the case. Even back in the day when I spent a lot of time with it, I couldn't have told you it was an R-13, so I took this as an indication that the guy knew his stuff. He examined the barrel, and closed one eye to carefully look down the bore. "How old is it?"

"About 25 years. It's been sitting there untouched for the last 10, though. I assume it can be put back into service?"

"I have one myself that's 21 years old. Great era for Buffets," he said, continuing his examination of the various moving parts. "Yeah, this little beauty will clean up just fine. It needs a complete overhaul, but 25 years is nothing for this quality of workmanship." He looked up at me. "You said it's been 10 years? But you must have been pretty serious, in your day, to have invested in a nice piece like this."

"Yeah, I was. I thought I wanted to make a living at it, even. But I changed my mind when I got to college, and somewhere along the line I just stopped. And then recently I had the urge to pick it up again, so here I am."

He beamed with obvious pleasure the imminent return to the fold of a lost tribe member. "Will you look for a group to play with?"

"Nope. The first goal that I've set myself is the Messiah." He raised an eyebrow. "My church has a sing-along and even the orchestra is all volunteer. The clarinet part is only about five pages, so I figure that would be a nice easy goal to start out with. And I can still sing alto for the rest of it."

"Ah, the Mozart bit."

I was confused. Didn't Handel write the Messiah, I asked?

"Yes, but Mozart was the one who adapted the clarinet part, later."

"Oh, really? Well no wonder, that makes sense - I thought Handel would be too early, but then it was only five pages." It figures that Mozart, the first real advocate of the newfangled clarinet, would be the one to weave it into other composers' masterpieces. This guy really did know his stuff.

"Well, normally we're running a week out for overhauls, but next week I'm out of town for Thanksgiving. So it'll be another ten days, unfortunately."

"That's all right. It's been sitting 10 years, another 10 days won't matter much."

And so we concluded our business. But the very next day, he called me back. "I had a window of opportunity, so I did the overhaul on your horn. It sounds fabulous, you're going to love it. Come get it any time." I imagined that he just couldn't resist it, my sweet little R-13, neglected for so long and awaiting new life.

And so, as soon as I can get down there, and new reeds arrive in the mail, I'm back in business. After the Messiah is done, I'm looking for a clarinet transcription of Dave Brubeck's Take Five, if anybody has one.

Damn the rain

This morning my internet access was down, AGAIN. It's been happening on and off for the last week though I can't feel too cranky about it since I'm pretty sure it's on account of half the state of Washington being under water. But, I make my living from home and the lack of internet access cramps my billable style.

Meanwhile, I also had a rare asthma attack last night, probably because the rains of biblical proportion are causing everything to rot, which produces mold, to which I am violently allergic. So I woke up with bloodshot eyes and that unmistakable feeling in my chest, the feeling of lungs pumping in and out without actually taking in air.

As I sat at my computer, revising my productivity expectations downward for the day, I found myself pondering: Which am I missing more right now? The oxygen, or the DSL?

The Google makes me giggle

I know it's been said by everybody else already, but - I just can't stop myself from giggling every time I think about George Bush's "the Google" quote:

Maria Bartiromo: I’m curious, have you ever googled anybody? Do you use Google?

George Bush: Occasionally. One of the things I’ve used on the Google is to pull up maps. It’s very interesting to see — I’ve forgot the name of the program — but you get the satellite, and you can — like, I kinda like to look at the ranch. It reminds me of where I wanna be sometimes.

Oh my gosh, could he POSSIBLY sound more like a doddering, out-of-touch old geezer? It reminds me of that time Ronald Reagan was a guest commentator at a Cubs game, after he was no longer president and his Alzheimers was already advancing. He just sounded like a sweet old grampa, a little overwhelmed by all the hubub. But of course, George Bush does not have Alzheimers. He's just a doofus.

Happy Floralia!

Yes, today is the first day of Floralia, the Roman festival dedicated to Flora, goddess of flowers and spring! From today through May 3, we should all be wearing bright colors and making offerings of milk and honey in a joyous celebration of springtime and the renewal of life. No doubt you already have your Floralia festivities all planned, with dancing and drinking and of course the customary tossing of chickpeas!

The best show in town, Part II

My PI classmates have gotten over their previous temerity about blunt questioning of witnesses. Possibly a bit too much so.

"And could you tell me how I might be able to contact this Tom person and his bitch?"

Meanwhile, however, one of our classmates felt moved to berate us all for our naivete about how the "lower classes of people" live and talk. I don't know what he does for a living, but I wanted to smack him. The instructor - who is fabulous, imagine a cross between Judy Dench and Peter Falk playing Det. Colombo - handled it well though. It was true that many of my classmates were not listening, and repeating the same questions over and over; she pointed out that we were missing clear, culturally specific clues that should have directed our questioning. However, she also reminded us, not for the first time, that a private investigator cannot express or even feel the slightest hint of judgment, condescension or mockery toward anyone they speak to. Otherwise - conversation over, they won't tell you a damn thing. And plus - shame on you, for who are you to feel that way about any fellow human being?

This week's homework assignment is to find a specific house (residence of the fictious Tom, and his lady friend), based on the kind of vague directions that people often give. "Go down Yesler a ways from the grocery store, away from town, farther than you'd want to walk, and then there's a community center where we play bingo sometimes - Minor or Myers or something? Go right somewhere about there, and it's a grey house. It's not the white house where Alex's grandfolks live, it's the one next to that."

Seriously. That's my homework. Find this house and come back with the address.

And the Oscar goes to...

This week in PI class we practiced interviewing witnesses. We are working on a real-life case from a few years ago, a drive-by shooting of a house in which no one was killed, but a bullet lodged near a sleeping baby. We are criminal defense investigators, so our client is the accused shooter, Joe, who maintains he didn't do it.

So six students had signed up to act as the various witnesses, including Joe; Mary, the victim whose house was shot; the investigating police officer; and a few alleged eye-witnesses. The rest of us were divided into groups, each with a shot at questioning one of the witnesses. It was, by far, the most entertaining three hours I have ever spent in a classroom.

Let me tell you, these witnesses were fabulous. They were more believable than I could have ever expected, these retirees and soccer moms. The instructor must have prepped them, and it really brought home that in real life, these interviews are rarely linear like in the books and movies. The interview is happening a year after the events in question. People are hostile, or confused, or stoned.

The police detective grunted unhelpfully. The defendant, Joe, interrupted his own defense investigator repeatedly to ask "Got any gum? Got any candy? Got any cigarettes? Got any money?" The victim, Mary, answered nearly every question by shouting "HE TRIED TO KILL MY BABY!"

A streetcorner witness was asked if they had been drinking prior to witnessing the incident, and then, as a follow-up, "How many beers would you say you'd had?"

"What, you mean, like, since morning?"

Eventually, it became clear that our victim, Mary, had a relationship with the officer who had arrested our client. But being the middle-class folk that we are, all of the students were avoiding the uncomfortable questions. Finally the instructor said, "Look, you have learned some things about Mary. You have to ask about them."

One brave guy finally ventured in. "Mary, did you have relations with Detective Dogood?"

To which this perky mom gamely responded, "You mean, did I do him?"

At which point, we all howled with laughter. And decided we should probably close the door lest the Software Project Management students in the next room get the wrong idea.

Sent packing

I have been informed by my co-worker that I need to go home and not evaluate anybody else's resume for today. Apparently I've gone 'round the bend and my judgement is suspect.

This, after she informed me that a candidate had just called to say she was submitting a revised application, and would I please read that one instead of the first one?

At which point my head spun around on my neck and I apparently said something along the lines of "I ALREADY READ HER RESUME. SHE CAN'T MAKE ME READ IT TWICE. NOBODY CAN MAKE ME READ ANY MORE RESUMES THAN I ALREADY HAVE TO." And, I might have been beating my head against the back of the chair.

160 resumes, people. With sentences like "Management is Management, Selling is Selling and Marketing is Marketing!" ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY.

So I've been fed some restorative chocolate and relieved of my duties.

Bleary-eyed

I have finished sifting through 80+ resumes. I've hired (or been part of hiring) many people, but this is by far the densest pile of resumes I've ever handled. And we're only halfway through the application period.

Anyway, my all-time favorite job title appeared on one of these resumes:
"Deckhand and Corporate Giving Advisor"

You just have to wonder about that one.

Tips for jobseekers

If you send in your resume as a Word document, and you had the "track changes" feature on for redlining - accept all the changes and render it final before you send the document. Unless of course you want the reader to see all the things you deleted. Presumably you deleted them for a reason, no?

Better yet - PDF.

I know, I shouldn't hold things like this against candidates. But it's hard not to. It's certainly a lesser sin than neglecting to follow the application instructions, or calling me to ask questions that are CLEARLY answered in the posting. ("I see the closing date is January 31, but can you tell me when the closing date actually is?") It's also a lesser sin than writing a cover letter that has nothing, not even one little sentence, that expresses why you're interested in this job specifically - I mean, it if you can't be bothered to add one customized sentence to your otherwise patently boilerplate letter, how interested can you really be?

And seriously - don't send your photo. Unless it's for an acting or modeling job, just - don't. And serious job applications do not come from people with email addresses like cutiepoo@yahoo.com. Unless your name is in fact Cutie Poo, which would be very, very unfortunate.

Twenty resumes later, edited to add:

• Don't send two or three versions of your resume - "attached is my functional resume, and my business resume, and my community service resume!" The person receiving your application is having to open, read and print many, many documents. Don't add unnecessary clicks.
• Don't set your electronic documents so they can't be opened from an email, and have to be saved. That's just more clicks. More clicks = bad.
• Don't set print margins so tiny that most printers can't accomodate them. Your stuff will print crappy, and the computer will ask me whether I want to print despite the tiny margins, and that means - say it with me, people - MORE CLICKS.
• Proofread!

The things I learn in PI school...

Here's a little quiz. You've gone to the home of a witness in order to interview them. They invite you in and initiate some welcoming conversation. Match the questions with the appropriate answers!

Questions:
(1) Would you like a Coke or some coffee?
(2) Would you like a beer?
(3) Would you mind if I smoke some crack while we talk?

Answers:
(A) Yes, thank you! (Always)
(B) No. (Never)
(C) Gee, I'd prefer that you wait until I'm gone. But you can set it up if you want.

PI School, Part II

Tuesday was the first night of the new quarter of private investigator school. Last quarter was the lawyer and the law. It was ok. This quarter is finally about private investigation, and it's taught by a career investigator. Very promising so far. She knows her suff, and is a hoot and a half to boot. And, she brought cookies! Here are three tidbits of wisdom from the very first night.

• The best job training? Get a job in the sleaziest bar you can find.
• The trick to trailer parks is: Walk down the middle of the road with a clipboard and a pen. Within minutes you'll be having coffee with the trailerpark busybody and you'll know everything there is to know about anyone who lives there.
• The most important skill is being able to write as fast as a person talks. So it's very, very important to find the right pen.
  

I could not possibly make this up

So, here's a handy tip for you.

Tonight at private investigator class, I heard the following story about one of our instructor's clients: A guy's girlfriend dies, and is cremated. He can't locate any family, so he takes her ashes, because he figures somebody should. He puts them in a nice urn.

A month later, members of the girlfriend's family show up. Next thing he knows, the police charge the guy with misdemeanor theft of cremains.

So, the very important moral of the story is: Don't just accept any bag of human ashes that somebody might try to give you.