F Is For Factotum

Factotum: A lackey, person who does a variety of jobs, a servant.

Today’s word reminded me of when I first moved to Oklahoma and I was looking for a job. I knew I didn’t want to teach high school anymore (largely because our community doesn’t pay high school teachers enough to keep a goldfish alive) but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. So lo and behold, one day on Craigslist (I know, I know, that's like looking for a job in Serial Killer Monthly but I couldn't help myself) I found an ad for cleaning and care of small dogs.

Hey, I thought, I love animals...perhaps dog grooming is just the career change I'm looking for.

Then I met the woman who posted the ad and I thought “Hey, it’s Miss Havisham!”

Because not only did this poor pumpkin LOOK like the crazy old lady from Great Expectations, she was every bit as nutty. I mean, no, she wasn’t wandering around in her wedding dress plotting revenge but she was definitely a few degrees right of center.

A situation not helped by the fact that she left two very important words out of the job description: “up after.”  The job involved cleaning UP AFTER small dogs.  15 small Yorkies, Chihuahuas, and Bichon Frises that roamed freely in this old office building that Miss Havisham had inherited from her mom.

“Well, kind of inherited” she said when we met at a local coffee shop for what I thought was going to be a job interview.  “Except my mother isn’t dead.  But she has Alzheimer’s so the building is basically mine.  And I also own the building behind it, the old jail.  That’s where I live, in the old jail.  It’s so interesting!”

“It sounds lovely,” I said sarcastically.

But she didn’t hear me because she was busy telling me about the cancer that she’s pretty sure she’s had for ten years or so that she’s managed to keep in check with Vitamin C—then she interrupted herself and said “Wow, are you dressed nicely to clean up after dogs!”

Which is when I expressed my own confusion about those two rather critical words “up after.”

“Well, cleaning the building,” she explained.  “I inherited it” she reminded me and launched into the whole story again. “Anyway, the city lets me sell my dogs out of it, isn’t that nice?”

It would have been nice if it had been a PET STORE but it wasn’t.  It was an office building and these little dogs run around there all day and night.

How do I know about the inside of the building?

Because I am a complete sucker for slightly broken people who are in clear need of help and when I told Miss Havisham I wasn’t interested in a POOP SCOOPING CAREER, she actually started to cry. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” she said.  “I need help with these dogs!”

And somehow—probably to stop her tears AND to check on the physical condition of the dogs in question and IN SPITE OF THE FACT THAT I WAS WEARING MY GOOD SUEDE BOOTS—I heard myself agreeing to at least help her THAT day. And we went down to the office building and I spent 2 hours shuffling around trying to clean up while keeping my boots feces free.

(It is interesting to note that, when I was relating the story to Opie, this was the exact moment when he began surreptitiously looking around to see how many puppies I had snuck home.)

On the bright side, the place didn’t smell nearly as bad as I was imagining (though it didn’t smell GOOD) and the dogs were super cute and obviously happy and reasonably well cared for (why wouldn’t they be happy, they had the run of the whole building, the gated courtyard behind it, and, of course, the old jail!)

On a not so bright side, at some point Miss Havisham wandered away and the “helping” became a solo endeavor and when I went out into the courtyard to find her, the door locked behind me…and all the gates and doors out of the little courtyard were also locked so I was basically trapped between the building and the old jail.

And, because I'd been watching too much American Horror Story at the time, I immediately began imagining some rubbersuit wearing freak jumping out of the bushes with murder on his mind...I even had a plan in case that happened: I was going to dial 911 on my phone (let's be honest, I had 9 and 1 already dialed), then throw it over the fence and scream my location over and over...and just pray the 911 operator understood "Behind the old jail!" as a location.

Luckily, Miss Havisham shuffled out a few moments later and said “Ohh was that locked?”  And I managed to escape with my life.

And yes, fellow animal lovers, I have made several surreptitious trips back to check on the condition of the dogs and have placed a few discreet phone calls to animal control…

But thus ended my career as a factotum.

The Oklahoma Department of Transportation Might Be Evil

Ok, let's just get the hard part out of the way right up front:

Opie was right.

 ­

And, yes, that's painful to say. Not because Opie is never right--he's frequently right. He's a smart guy and he makes good decisions (like marrying me!). However, when I have to specifically acknowledge that he was right about something, that usually means that I was wrong about something.

And I really, really hate to be wrong...almost as much as I hate to admit I was wrong.

Here's what happened:

As you may know, I'm a liberal.  Opie is not a liberal. He says that he's basically a Libertarian but the truth of the matter is that I’m pretty sure he's a government hating anarchist.

I base this on the fact that any time a political discussion comes up, he spends a long time ranting about government should keep out of peoples’ business and how politicians are thieves and idiots and all out to screw somebody else.

This is bad enough when it comes to health care, smoking bans, and seat belt laws—all of which are clear examples of nefarious government forces exerting their vicious control over the populace—but don’t even get him started on the Oklahoma Department of Transportation and the numerous toll roads across our fair state. 

Opie maintains of these toll roads are a total scam designed to screw the common man out of his money and line the pockets of politicians.

I, on the other hand, have always been a fan of toll roads, maintaining that the people who use the roads are the ones who pay for them and that's a great and fair thing.

And then I plug my ears as Opie screams things like, “Thieves! The government is full of thieves! Those toll roads were supposed to be paid for in  few years but they're STILL CHARGING TOLLS. Why? To improve all the roads in Oklahoma and have they? NO! All that’s happened is a bunch of rich people got richer and the roads stayed crappy because the government is full of THIEVES!”

I’m not going to lie, it’s a little frightening

But after last Thursday, I might be a bit more on his side.

I was using a toll road as I was driving to my night class in a small town north of Tulsa and as I pulled off I hit a pothole that was roughly the size of the Grand Canyon.

I would like to point out two things before continuing: One, my tires are almost brand-new; we got four new tires for my car less than a year ago.

Two, I was not going excessively fast because I never go excessively fast. I hate to drive and thus I tend to drive like a 90-year-old woman on Valium. I firmly maintain that 70 mph is the speed limit, the limit you understand, you certainly don't have to drive that fast.

And yet, that pothole flattened not ONE but TWO of my tires.

And of course I only had one spare

Which, to be fair, didn't really matter that much as I am almost as likely to disarm a nuclear weapon as I am to change my own tire.

Needless to say, I called Opie and dropped the problem hysterically yet squarely in his lap.

We called AAA,  they came to tow the car; however, because it's a small town in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma and it was after six, the local tire shop had already closed for the night.  So, we had it towed there but we had to leave it overnight and Opie had to drive out to get me.

When we went back to retrieve it the next day we realized that not only did I have two flat tires but one rim was damaged beyond repair and we had to order a new one in from California. Therefore, the shop could only put one new tire on it and we had to use the spare while waiting for the rim to come in.

The screaming and cursing that accompanied this revelation is far too horrifying to relate.

Now, you may be telling yourselves this is was really some bad luck but not proof that Opie is right about the pernicious devils in Oklahoma Department of Transportation.

But the thing is, I'm not done with my story.

We still had to get the car home. Which means that one of us had to drive 50 miles on the tiny and wobbly donut spare tire.

And I'm a strong powerful woman of the modern age (even if I can’t change my own tire) so I offered to do it.

“Give me the keys,” Opie said firmly.

So, once again, I was denied my God-given rights by a male-dominated misogynist society! I feel so oppressed.

In any case, Opie drove home on the horrible donut wheel, traveling on the highway at about 45 miles per hour, getting honked and screamed at and being the recipient of many obscene gestures.

And then when he was about 5 miles from home, he also hit a pothole on the Oklahoma toll road and got ANOTHER flat tire and damaged ANOTHER rim beyond repair.

So the long and short of it is that I am now convinced Opie was right. Because there is no way the Oklahoma Department of Transportation is spending all that toll road money on road maintenance.  The roads are obviously not fit for human transportation.

While I probably (hopefully) won’t start screaming about miscreants and thieves, if I hit another pothole I don’t know if I’ll be able to maintain my somewhat tenuous grip on sanity. 

Weirdness Magnets and Wrong Numbers

My friend, Kathy told me the other day that I must have a weirdness magnet hidden somewhere on my person.  And today I learned that this magnet is so strong, it pulls in weirdoes from 2 states away!

Here’s how my morning started:

My phone rang and the caller id indicated the caller was in Elgin, IL –which, by the way, is about 11 hours away from where I live—but I’ve had several calls from that number in the past week  and I decided to go ahead and answer this one.

“May I please speak to Elizabeth So and So,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry, “ I said politely.  “But you must have the wrong number.”

“Hmmm,” she said.  “I have this number down.”  And repeated my number back to me.

“That’s this number,” I agreed.  “But there’s no one here named Elizabeth.”

“Well, I’m calling from the Dominican Art Gallery and we want to feature some of her work.” The woman said angrily.

“That sounds like a great opportunity for her,” I agreed.  “But I’m still not her.  I’ve never even heard of her. And, in fact, I’m no where near Elgin, Illinois.  I’m in Oklahoma.”

Which was, apparently, just about the most insulting thing anyone had ever said to her.

 

“Here at the Dominican Art Gallery we feature artists from ALL OVER THE COUNTRY!” She snapped. “And I was given this number as a contact number for Elizabeth So and So!”

I managed NOT to say that I was beginning to suspect why Elizabeth had fake numbered her…but I did say “Ma’am, I’ve had this same number for over 10 years  and I know who I am. I’m not Elizabeth anybody.”

“But this was the number—“ she started again.

“Yah, I’m hanging up now.”  I said.  And did.

Now I’m well aware that part of this probably occurs because I engage the weirdoes and don’t just hang up but come on!  Who argues with someone when they tell you that you have a wrong number?  And who knew that my weird magnet could reach so far??!!

Foo Dogs -- The Perfect Memorial

You know what’s hard?

Trying to find a Chinese Foo Dog in the middle of Oklahoma.

You know what’s harder?

Driving around rural Oklahoma AND the Osage Nation Native American Reservation trying to find the one and only store in the middle of Oklahoma that sells a Chinese Foo Dog.

Not to mention keeping my temper when I discover that the one and only store in the middle of Oklahoma that sells a Chinese Foo Dog only takes cash.

All in all, it’s been a rather weird day.

But I get ahead of myself…it all started about a month and a half ago when I had to say goodbye to my 13 year old Chihuahua, Peek-A-Boo.  I still can’t bear to talk about it, you can read about his life here.  Anyway, my mom wanted to get me some sort of memorial of him and since he was always outside in the garden with me, she thought I should get some sort of garden statuary.  But she wanted me to pick it out, because she wanted it to be just right.

To be honest, it was challenging to find the exact right thing…largely because the main reason Peek liked the garden was that he would wriggle his fat little body through the rows and eat any vegetable he could get his paws on.  Seriously, he ate tomatoes off the vine, spinach and arugula off the plant, he even dug up the broccoli plants and gobbled them down stalks and all.

He was not what you might call a normal dog.

And there aren’t a lot of Chihuahua Eating Broccoli statues available.

Anyway, I finally decided on a Chinese Foo Dog because they are half dog, half lion and are the traditional guardians of Buddhist temples…and I decided that they were the perfect representation of Peek’s lion-like heart.

However, as I mentioned, they are a little challenging to find in the middle of Oklahoma.

It has taken me almost a month to find a place that even knew what I was talking about…and that place is in the middle of a little town called Skiatook.

Which is only about 45 minutes away…if, of course, you don’t get lost.  And if the route that your GPS sends you on isn’t filled with construction and crazy detours through the worst parts of town…I mean, meandering around North Tulsa wasn’t quite as scary as the time I got lost in East St Louis, but it was close.  There’s just something about a pawnshop on every corner rusted out cars on every lawn that gives me the heebie-jeebies.

So, an hour and fifteen minutes later, after making my way through scary North Tulsa, three practically abandoned small towns, and finding my way to the Osage Nation Native American Reservation, I found the statuary store.

And saw this sign:

Have you ever seen a more customer unfriendly sign in your life?  I mean, we’ll TRY to help you…unless we’re on our lunch break, then you’re on your own.

But my main concern was that they don’t take credit cards…and I never have cash.  I looked in my purse, hoping for a miracle, and managed to gather twenty-seven cents.

Probably not enough for a concrete Foo Dog.

So, after trying to remember every curse word I know—and singing a few in time to the song on the radio—I started driving up and down the streets of Skiatook, looking for a bank or a gas station or a grocery store where I could buy something like a pack of gum and use my debit card to get cash back.

Which is when I found the WalMart.

I think every town in America has a WalMart…and every WalMart has 1,716 lanes but 1,714 are usually closed—in spite of the fact that there are always 453,892 people in the store.

But you can get cash back on your purchases so I grabbed a bag of M&Ms and waited 10 minutes to get through the line and get enough cash to go get my dog.

And if you think this added stress to my day, consider the poor man who had to finally deal with me at the statuary store…I went back, called the number,  and got lucky enough to get someone to find me.

“I’m looking for a Foo Dog,” I said…and surprised myself by kind of tearing up.

He gave me a strange look and let me to the Asian art display.

And I took one look at the Foo Dog and burst into tears  “That’s perfect!”  I said.   “It’s just like my dog!”

I had the feeling that he either wanted to explain to me that Foo Dogs aren’t real or ask me what kind of mutant dog I had, but he had clearly already decided that I was a dangerous lunatic (perhaps he saw the cursing display on my first trip) .  Or maybe he just isn’t used to women sobbing in the statuary store.

So he just said, “Ok then.” and practically ran over to the cash register.

Then, after he got the dog all loaded,  he stood to the side of the car, eyeing me suspiciously while I wept over the Foo Dog and shot M&Ms like they were cheap tequila.

Can you imagine the blog HE’S writing tonight?  “I thought we were going to have to call the police because the woman JUST WOULDN’T LEAVE…I think she might be an escaped mental patient.”

But I’ve got my Foo Dog in memoriam of my Peek-A-Boo dog…and here it is: 

More Life In Oklahoma

So I’ve been in Oklahoma for another month and, as you all probably suspected, the adventures continue!

My latest adventure?

My incredibly futile attempt to get my Oklahoma driver’s license.

You would think this would be a relatively simple task…I mean, when I moved to Missouri from Illinois, it was a huge pain in the butt…but that was only because I had foolishly let my Illinois license expire and therefore had to take the written test which I assumed would be easy and instead had questions like “When driving at night in the fog, for how many feet should your lights be visible? 300, 350, or 400?”

Let me just close the curtain on that particular disaster and assure you that I learned my lesson. Not only did I go to the Oklahoma Tag Office before my Missouri license will expire, I also actually got online, checked the website and carefully assembled all the documentation I needed.

And I was so incredibly pleased with myself that the ridiculous line at the Tag Office didn’t even phase me. I smirked at the different people getting turned away for lack of proper paperwork and lost myself in near hysterical self-congratulation.

Until, of course, it was actually my turn.

I walked confidently up to the gum-chomping, vacant-eyed, twenty-year-old clerk, handed over all my stuff and she, if possible, got even MORE vacant. “You can’t do that here.” She said.

And I sad “Do what?” meaning ‘What is it that I can’t do here?’

Unfortunately, this is Oklahoma and she thought I meant “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you.” So she said “YOU CAN’T DO THAT HERE.” Louder.

Which I, of course, took as a challenge to see who could actually be the loudest. “WHAT CAN’T I DO HERE?” I shouted back.

“Trade in an out of state license. You have to go to the Department of Public Safety to do that. To, you know, get a copy of your driving record and stuff.

“Wow,” I said. “That would have been really helpful information to have on the website.”

Unfortunately, sarcasm is clearly NOT covered in the Oklahoma Tag Office training so, she looked at me terribly confused and, of course, said “Do what?”

And I punched her in the face.

Ok, not really.

In the fantasy I was imagining in my head, sure, but in real life I just heaved a huge sigh and said “Never mind. Can you tell me where the Department of Public Safety is?”

“Oh, sure!” She said, perking up for the first time. “It’s in the Old Eastland Mall.”

And when I said “I don’t know where that is.” She said “Do what?”

And that's when I punched her in the face.

Ok, fantasy again…instead, I summoned up my best “You’re kind of an idiot but I’m a teacher at heart so I will put up with you” voice and explained that the whole reason that I needed to go to the Department of Public Safety was because I’M NOT FROM HERE so directions with landmarks—particularly OLD landmarks aren’t terribly helpful.

It only took about 5 more minutes to make her understand and get somewhat coherent directions.

And her directions were good but it would have been better if she had told me to drive north until I was afraid for my life, turn right at Murderville, pass the abandoned neighborhood in which EVERY window was boarded over, and turn left into the mall. Then drive around the entire mall lot twice until I knew for sure that the Department of Public Safety is the only office with no sign on the outside of the building…and I was there!

And you would think that the Department of Public Safety would inspire people to feel safe but the thing is, they themselves are clearly so creeped out by the environment in which they are located that you have to take a number off the door and they won’t even let you in the office until it’s called. Instead you have to wander around the lower lobby of the old Eastland Mall, dodging water from the leaking roof and making small talk with gang members.

Nice.

So there I was, with the 9 and 1 already dialed on my phone, primed to press that final 1, when I finally get called inside.

I take in my old license, my wedding license, my new social security card, and a postcard that proves my residency to the window, hand it over and the guy says “You also need your birth certificate or passport to trade in an out of state license.”

Newsflash, this is more information that would have been helpful ON THE FREAKING WEBSITE!!!!

Which I was more than happy to point out to this guy but, as we have already seen, my sarcasm is not universally appreciated.

“I’m not in charge of the website,” the guy said.

“Clearly, no one is.” I agreed.

Oddly, this didn’t endear me to him…nor did my sweet inquiry that perhaps he was just making this up to irritate me , like some bizarre newbie to Oklahoma hazing ritual.

He wasn’t.

So I immediately stormed out of the office, grabbed the first gang member I could find, pointed out the Oklahoma official and said “You wouldn’t believe what THAT GUY just said about you…and your mom.”

Ok, kidding again..because if anyone is going to lose it and attack an Oklahoma Department of Public Safety employee, that person is going to be me….possibly this week when I attempt once again to get my license. Stay tuned for a news report featuring me and the Department of Public Safety, liberally sprinkled with the phrase “Lunatic rampage!”


Check out the other Theme Thursday rerun posts by clicking the link below:
 

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