NOT WITHOUT MY CORGI – THE TOBY JONES STORY

PART I

As many of my friends know, my dog Toby was once dognapped (which I’ll refer to as kidnapped going forward) by my would-be terrorist landlord and her crazy animal rights activist friend.  They took him while I was still living at my landlord’s house and then gave him away to a family in Maine.  I hired a private detective to find him and we were able to discover who took him and where they took him, and then got him back.

This is a 100% true story.

I’m going to need to spread this over a few posts, because it’s pretty involved and you need to know everything to get the real picture.

Let’s go back to June 2007.  I was living in Boston, preparing to move down to DC.  I got a job working for a charter school in the city, and didn’t have time to visit in person to find a place to live.  Because I had Toby, I needed to find somewhere that was pet-friendly, while being affordable.  So I headed to where we all go for things we need/don’t need – craigslist.  [Remind me to tell you another time about my dating (mis)adventures on that site; this was in the days before the “Craigslist Killer.”  Not that it makes it any better- I’m just trying to justify my actions a little.]

I started corresponding with a woman named Karin A.  She was advertising a room for rent in Takoma Park, and she only rented to people with animals.  Karin was taking care of her friend Susan L.’s house “while she was away,” and was very excited to have someone with a dog move in.  Takoma Park is located just north of DC – it’s a community full of environmentally conscious, co-op shopping folks, who love their hybrid cars and being outdoors.  A great place for a dog owner to live, really.  The house had a fenced-in yard and Karin was just a few streets away, should we need anything.  After looking at the photos and conversing a few times, I made plans to move.

I packed up a U-Haul with Toby, my bunny Molly, and all my stuff, and headed to DC.  When I arrived, there was basically a monsoon happening.  It was storming hard.  Karin wasn’t around when I was moving in my stuff, but the girl who had been living in my room was there; she was on her way out.  You’ll see throughout this story, many times where there were signs that I needed to get the hell out of this situation – this was the first.

GIRL:  So you know about Susan, right?

ME:  Yeah.  She’s away.  Karin’s watching the house for her.

GIRL:  Yeah, she’s away…IN JAIL.

ME:  Come again?

GIRL:  They say she accepted money illegally from Iraq, but I don’t think she did.  She’s a real nice lady.  Bye!

Umm, YEAH, Karin forgot to mention the fact that Susan was being held on The Patriot Act at a prison in Texas.  You know, MINOR DETAIL.  When you say that somone is “away,” it is assumed that you mean a long-vacation, someplace awesome like Europe.  NOT FEDERAL PRISON.

Susan has a Wikipedia page- oh yes she does.  I’m not going to tell you her last name, for my protection.  You’ll know why in a little bit.  However, this is from her page:

She was accused of conspiring to act as an unregistered lobbyist for the Iraqi Intelligence Service and engaging in prohibited financial transactions involving the government of Iraq under Saddam Hussein.  (She) was found mentally unfit to stand trial in two separate hearings-

Yes, this was my first sign to get the hell out of the dodge.  HOWEVER, I was starting work in 24 hours and had unloaded most of my stuff and really didn’t have any other options.  Plus, she was in jail, it’s not like she was living with us (yet).

So I finished moving in.   I asked Karin about Susan being incarcerated and she spouted some stuff about how illegal (to arrest Susan) and ridiculous the whole situation was, that Susan didn’t do anything they were claiming. Totally glazed right over the fact that she completely hid this situation from me; I guess it’s hard to rent out the house of a possible terrorist.  I mean, I see where she was coming from.

There were three other people living in the house.  In the room next to me was a nice, older Indian woman.  She was quiet and kept to herself.  Downstairs in the finished basement was a gentleman named Jay – late 40s computer nerd.  Upstairs in the finished attic was another woman named Karen (not neighbor Karin).  I spoke with her the first night I arrived.  She was in her early 40s, extremely overweight, and really, really strange.  Here, just let her tell you.

KAREN:  I’m a writer.  Yeah.  I like to write Vampire Literotica on the internet.

Yes, you read that correctly.  Online.  Vampire.  Literotica.   Sign #2!

She was also just out of the closet – she had been married, realized that she was gay, and separated from her husband.  She then started a long-distance relationship with an African-American woman who was living in South Carolina and was hiding the fact that she was a lesbian from her family.  Her very conservative Southern Baptist family who would not approve of her dating a woman, especially a White one.

Does anyone wanna guess where they met online!?

Anyhow, I impressed myself with the straight face I kept while she told me all of this.  I think I was still in shock over the face that I was living in a (possible) terrorist’s house.

So, although it was an un-conventional place to live, it seemed harmless enough at the time.  The roommates were ok, Susan was safely tucked away in prison, and Toby had a yard to play in.  And lots of doggie friends that came to visit – Karin had a caravan of small dogs.  She ran a rescue and was constantly picking up dogs.  She used to show dogs, but I think she gave that up when she went into rescuing.  She was known in Takoma Park as the Crazy Dog Lady.  There were stories that she had broken animals out of makeup testing facilities back in the 70s.  You know, your typical animal rights activist.  She was in her late 60s, but still going strong!

The summer went by pretty quickly.  I was up to my ears at work; those of you in the charter school world know exactly what I’m talking about 🙂 Karin came by several times a week with her doggies and they all had a good time hanging out.  In fact, I was feeling pretty good about the living situation – right up until September came.  We found out that Susan was being released from prison.  She had been found incompetent for trial and the courts couldn’t force her to take antipsychotic medication to make her competent to stand trial.  Apparently they also couldn’t hold her any longer – I would say legally, but that really doesn’t exist under The Patriot Act.  So Susan came home.

I remember seeing her for the first time.  She was in the front yard with her dogs.  She had two dachshunds – nice dogs, but they weren’t housetrained and peed and shat in the house ALL THE DAMN TIME.  She and I talked for a few minutes.  She was very friendly, quite apologetic about “the situation” she was in.  You could tell she was very intelligent, if a little spastic and crazed.  And it would make sense, if she really had been imprisoned for no good reason.  She asked if it would be alright if she slept in the living room; since all the rooms had been rented out, she had nowhere else to go.  Seeing that it was her house, and she had just been in jail, we all agreed it was fine.

At first, things were pretty normal.  Susan couldn’t really work – she was still being charged with something, at that point it wasn’t really clear to me exactly what they were charging her with – so she spent a lot of time at the house.  This was really great for me, because Toby hung out with her and her dogs all day.  She loved having Toby around, was always telling me that she could watch him if I needed to go on vacation or were away for the weekend.   This was really helpful to me at Christmas, when I visited Florida.  She was great with the animals…even if she wasn’t with people.

See, after a short time, Susan’s personality started to reveal itself.  And crazy, well, that doesn’t even begin to cover it.  She was paranoid for starters, which one could justify by the fact that she had been watched by the FBI (and was still being watched, I’m sure).   She was suspicious of, and hated, all psychologists/psychiatrists.  She referred to them as “mind rapists” and “mind fuckers.”  Charming.  I was sure not to mention my fascination with psychology 🙂

She use to “rehearse” what she was going to say at her future trial – to the lawyers, the judges.  She would pace back and forth in the living room, talking aloud.  She was full of emotion – shouting at times while “arguing” with the judge.  She got especially bent out of shape about the “mind rapists.”  From my bedroom door I would peek through the key hole (it was an antique door with a large keyhole) and watch Susan in front of her bathroom mirror.  She would be stammering under her breath, repeating the same things over and over again, quietly shouting and arguing.  It became a case study for me – for the longest time I tried to figure out her diagnosis.  She wasn’t schizophrenic, that I was pretty sure of.  It’s not like she thought there were other people in the room with her when she had these “practice” conversations.  And she never took on other personalities – it was always her, the crazy train of one.

This happened on a consistent basis – pretty much every night.    I would try to avoid going out of my room most nights, I really didn’t want to interact with her when she was in one of her moods.  When I did see her after these “incidents,” she would apologize for her behavior.   Sometimes she would tell me about her case and everything she was wrongly being accused of.  One time she randomly let slip that she had tea with Osama Bin Laden in the mid-90s.

Signs #3, 4, 5, 6, and 7.

Yeah, I know.  She was a loon.  Despite her strange behavior, she was fine with me and good to Toby.  So I overlooked the crazypants part for awhile.   She got into spats with the other roommates, though.  The Indian woman, who was much smarter than I, moved out not too long after Susan arrived.  Susan moved into her room.  Karen, lesbian vampire literotica writer, often got into it with Susan.  Susan wasn’t the best landlord.   She wasn’t really ontop of repairs and keeping the house in working order.  Luckily I didn’t have any issues that needed attending to.  So for me, as long as I kept out of the living room at night, things were pretty good!  And really, it was pretty damn entertaining to listen to her rants in the evening.  My friend, Dan, stayed with me for a few weeks that winter and he can confirm her insane behavior.

One day I actually came across her psych evaluation.  It was lying on the coffee table, out in the open for anyone to see.  It basically confirmed what I thought – paranoia, delusion, and anxiety were the basic theme.  A mixed bag of crazy, if you will.

The longer I stayed, the more intense things became.  The rants were more frequent, and she was visibly agitated most of the time, even around me.  She would get annoyed with the dogs.  She just wasn’t in a good place.   So I knew it was time to leave.

Yeah, I know, about a year slower than the rest of you.   Don’t judge me!

It was August 2007 and I decided that I would move out at the end of September.  I was nervous about telling Susan that I was moving out – I thought she would freak, honestly.  Plus, I knew that it was be near impossible for her to find someone else to move in to her insane asylum.   However, I found time to talk with her about it one evening.  About six weeks before I was to move out.  I explained that it was much better for me to live in the city, closer to work.  The commute was really hard on me (45 minutes each way…and that was to go, oh, 8 miles to work) and this would give me more time to spend with Toby.  I was at work by 7:30am and didn’t leave until after 5, so I was away from most of the day.  I had a lot of guilt about not spending more time with Toby, so this was actually a really good move for me.

Susan was surprisingly supportive about the whole thing, thought it was a good idea for me.  She did, however, have a couple of suggestions.  One, she thought it would be a good idea for me to leave the bunnies with her.  I had two bunnies at the time – Molly and Sweet Baby Butter Bunny.  No, I did not name the second one.  She was given to me by my boss.  The bunnies had a sweet outdoor living habitat and they loved it.  I knew that I wouldn’t be able to provide that at my new place, so I agreed with Susan that it would be best for them to remain there.  And I thanked her for offering.

Then, she suggested that I let Toby stay with her as well.

Crazy psycho says what?

She felt that I worked too many hours and that Toby was “lonely” and “sad” when I wasn’t there.  I explained that one of the main reasons for moving to the city, was to be able to spend MORE time with Toby.   I also explained that while it was generous of her to offer, there was no way I wasn’t taking Toby with me.

She then proceeded to asking me Twenty Questions about the new living situation.  How much yard space was there?  What other animals lived there?  What time would me and the roommate be leaving in the morning?  When would we get home?  Where could the dogs go to play?  After reassuring her that Toby would be well taken care of, that the new place had a yard and a dog and was near a park.  She laughed and said

“Haha!  Look at me!  I’m not worried about you at all, I’m just worried about the animals!”

Yeah….HA….PSYCHO.

But we left the conversation on a good note – while I appreciated her concern, I was moving in town and Toby would be coming with me.

Things were quiet over the next few weeks.  Until one day in September, when it all went down.

It was Thursday, September 13.  I got home from work at 8pm; there had been an Open House that night at the middle school.  I arrived at the house and went into my room – Toby wasn’t there.  I went out into the main house, not there either.  I went outside, searched around, no sign of him.  Now, Toby had been staying inside during the day.  Susan had found temp work, so she was working on and off.  Some days she was there, sometimes not.  But Toby was an inside dog, he was inside unless supervised outside.

I called Karin to find out if Susan had taken him over there; which would have been odd for her to do, especially since she didn’t take her dogs with her.  They were safe and sound, inside.  Karin let me know that Susan wasn’t there; she hadn’t seen Susan or Toby all day.  She did say that there were a lot of construction guys going in and out of my house.  This was odd for her to “notice,” since she lives a few blocks away, and not within view of our house.  She wouldn’t have known that unless she was there.  We were, however, having the kitchen remodeled, but the construction workers were not there that day.  I asked if she had Susan’s cell number – she said she didn’t, and that Susan didn’t even have a cell phone.  I asked her if she had Jay’s cell number; Susan and he (downstairs neighbor) were dating.   Karin said she didn’t know it off the tope of her head.  I let her know Toby was missing.

NOTE:  I forgot to mention that not long after I moved into the house, Toby disappeared one afternoon.  He slipped out of the front gate.  I noticed he was gone within a few minutes.  I called Karin at the time and she was over at the house, within 5 minutes, to help me search for him.  We found him, one street over, hanging out in the yard of a neighbor.  He walked right up to her front porch door and when the neighbor saw him he started begging for treats.  When she gave him one, he then proceeded to eat it and lay down in her yard.  We found him, contently waiting for us.  Not very adventurous, that one.

So it struck me as odd, right away, that Karin didn’t offer to come over and help.  But I was panicked at the time, and didn’t pay that much heed.  I continued to look for him, it was now dark, and drove around the neighborhood calling out for him.  I returned to the house about the time that Susan got home, 10pm.  She and Jay had been at dinner.  Susan got out of the car and immediately said that she heard about Toby.  That Karin had told her.  And she had no idea where Toby was, hadn’t seen him since she left in the morning for work at 7am.  Jay said he hadn’t seen Toby that day either (he doesn’t go through the main house to leave, though).  I asked her how she had found out about Toby, since she had no cell phone.  Without skipping a beat, she said that Karin had called Jay’s cell phone and told them.

Then she and Jay went inside.  Neither one offered to look for Toby with me.  Susan, who had offered to keep my dog less than a month ago, didn’t even seem worried that he had been missing for hours.

I knew something was up.  But I had no reason to believe they would have taken him.  I mean, my God, that would be crazy, right?  Who would take a dog for no reason?

However, I didn’t think it was a real possibility, stealing the dog.  So I focused on finding him.  I continued to search the neighborhood for several hours, with no luck.

The next morning I made a flyer and started posting it around the neighborhood.  No help from Karin or Susan; Susan didn’t say a word to me and Karin didn’t call to check-in.  I started contacting all the shelters in the area, letting them know I was looking for a missing corgi.

That night, my suspicion really started to kick in.  I mean, it just didn’t make any sense.  Susan told me that she thought that Toby must have snuck out of the house through the back doggy door.  And by doggy door, I mean cat door.  This pet door was so small; if you know Toby, you will understand that there’s no way he could have gotten through it.  It was too narrow.  However, Susan claimed she had seen him do it before.   Fine, let’s say he did that.  It would have led him to the back porch, and the only way off the porch was down the stairs.  The stairs that had a pile of concrete blocks in front of them, specifically put there so the dogs wouldn’t escape.   Yeah, if you know Toby you also know he had zero ability or desire to hop over a tall pile of blocks.  There’s no way, he’d be too afraid to even attempt. But let’s just say he did.  Once in the yard, someone would have to leave the gate open – could have been the mailman, Susan said.  So Toby gets out, let’s give him that.

Where’s he gonna go?

You’re talking about a corgi.  A short, fat, purebred dog, that doesn’t look homeless or wild in the least.  People notice him, they would have noticed him right away.  We live in a tight-knit neighborhood.  Plenty of families, pretty quiet overall, with not a lot of traffic.

He wouldn’t have gone far.  Toby is very lazy.  Toby doesn’t like to go on walks, he doesn’t really run, he just likes to lounge.  If anything, he would have repeated what he did last time.  Go a street over and hang out in someone’s yard until they fed him.  Add onto that the fact that Toby has a collar with tags on it.   Tags that have my name, my address, and my phone number.  And he was microchipped.  Plenty of ways to contact me, should anyone have found him.

But no one did.  No one had found him.  There wasn’t a single call for the next week.

END OF PART ONE.

Link to Part II

Link to Part III

************************************************************************************************************

You know how pissed off I was when US Weekly said I was on crack?  That’s racist!  I’m straight up mentally ill!

– Tracy Jordan, Pilot Episode of 30 Rock

So it’s three weeks into my Plan B life – and I’m feeling a little lost.  Due to the 330% increase in tuition costs for out-of-state students, I’m not going back to school until August.  Which means I’m gonna have some time on my hands once I leave my current position.

I’m in the middle of hiring my replacement.  One of my co-workers asked me if that was weird, finding the new me, and I told them that it wasn’t at all.  It’s actually the easiest position to hire for, one that you’ve done.  You know exactly what to look for.  But maybe that’s not what he meant 🙂

I’ll be staying on to train my successor, for about 3 or 4 weeks – which means that I’m looking towards the end of April for my last day.  And then it’s three months of….well, I’m not really sure what.  I’ve been throwing around ideas of what to do for income 1) before I start school and 2) once I’m in school.

I had thought of  bartending, but my good friend Patrick is pretty adamant that I shouldn’t do it.  He’s done it for 7 years now and says that the best (and most successful) women bartenders  have something in common – they are bitches.  They don’t take shit from anyone.  Apparently I’m too nice.  I’d say Patrick doesn’t know me that well to come to that conclusion, but the truth is that he knows me way too well.  I think he’s onto something.

My ideal job is something that doesn’t require a lot of brainpower on my part, I won’t have to take work home with me, and offers healthcare benefits.  I think I’ll do some temping for awhile – that will leave me with a flexible schedule and perhaps one of the clients will work out and I’ll remain with them.

It’s times like this that I wish I was motivated enough with my creative side to make some real money from it.  I mean, I love writing, so I am hoping one day to write one or more of the following:

a.  A book of my mother’s witticisms.  I shall call it “Tongue Thai’d.”  Someone please copyright that for me right now.

b. A serious book about my mom’s life.  She’s led such an amazing one, considering where she started out, and I’d love to take the time to delve into who she is and where she came from.  That’s going to be titled “Call me Anna.”  Why?  My mom often tells people to call her Anna, whenever they ask her name.  Her Thai name is hard to pronounce and instead of trying to tell that to people, she just says “Call me Anna.”  Where’d she get Anna from?  “General Hospital” of course!  Her favorite character from the 80s was Anna Devane; she was pretty badass on the show 😉

c. A short story/article on the dognapping of Toby.  Many of you know the story, but for those who do not: my dog was kidnapped while I was living in DC in 2007 by my (then) landlord – who was arrested on the Patriot Act and thrown in jail – and her neighbor, an elderly animal rights activist.  They stole Toby and adopted him out to a family in Maine.  I hired a private eye (Pet Detective!) to track Toby down and bring him home.  Then a legal battle began.  Yes, this is a 100% true story, and one of the best that you’ll ever hear.  It’s perhaps the only thing I can guarantee in life – best. story. ever.

d. To follow-up on the success of my Toby Terrorist Kidnapping story, I will write a series of children stories, told from Toby’s point of view.  The first will be his “vacation” to Maine 🙂

So yeah, I have dreams!  I’ve got a plan!  I’m not sure how much money I could actually get out of those ideas, but I know I’ll do at least one of them in my lifetime.

My other creative side is very Suzy Homemaker.  I like to sew.  And crochet.  And quilt.  Hmm, quilt is both a verb and a noun.  Very convenient.  Anyways, when I put effort into it, I’m good at these things:

I made this dress for my friends’ daughter, Hailey.  I was taking a sewing class at the time, and this was my project.  I’ve been sewing since I was a teenager, but I never had any formal training until then.

I actually finished the dress, unlike this lovely project:

I’ve made about 20 of these squares…I think I only need 36 of them.  My problem with this, and so many projects, is that I lose steam/interest after awhile and stop.

I can’t tell you how many blankets I’ve started…

Oh!  I did finish something!  This quilt was made for a family friend.  It was finished because 1) I had to, it was a present and 2) I took a class to help me make it, so again, I had no other choice 😉

 

Perhaps I need to turn everything into a class project?

***************************************************************************************************

Let me guess: New York third-wave feminist, college-educated, single-and-pretending-to-be-happy-about-it, overscheduled, undersexed, you buy any magazine that says ‘healthy body image’ on the cover and every two years you take up knitting for…a week.

-Jack, Season 1, Episode 1.

Things were a little tense last week.  And no, not because I told my parents about leaving my job (I haven’t).  I think seven months of living together has started to wear me down.  I’m starting to…revolt.  I use that word in particular because I’m in the middle of reading The Hunger Games trilogy, which only serves to make me more annoyed with the “authority figures” in my life.

It started a couple of Tuesdays ago, Dad and I were watching “The Biggest Loser.”  We don’t see it every week, but tune in when we happen to catch it channel surfing.  And I admit, there’s a lot of crying involved in this show (more than “The Bachelor”, less than “Extreme Home Makeover”), but that’s par for the course in reality shows; emotions bring in viewers!  Anyway, Dad doesn’t do well with emotions, in person or on the television.  And it annoyed him to to extreme, when everyone started tearing up at the end of the episode.  In a shocking turn of events, a certain teenage boy is being eliminated from the show.  His father, who is also on the show, starts freaking out.  He pleads to take his son’s place, insisting that he’s much better off, physically, than his son and therefore his son should stay.  Everyone’s a mess – no one saw it coming.  And the son’s going on about how he couldn’t live with himself if his father took his place.  Yeah, it’s dramatic and cheesy.  But it was moving because you know that his son needs this more.  The son is in much worse shape than the father – looks like he could have a heart attack at any point.

My Dad, however, could not be more disgusted with the situation.  His voice reflecting real hate, seeing these people cry.

God, do they pay these people to cry??  Look at him, grown man.  It’s disgusting.

And my god, it just pissed me off when he said that.  Something triggered – Dad’s always been pessimistic, sarcastic, negative, but I was just fed up with it.  Because he’s an adult – just like that man who was crying on the TV – and I shouldn’t excuse him from his reactions, like I had done most of my life.  Also, because I thought he should understand what the father was going through better than anyone else.  If it had been me or my brother on that show with him, you can bet your life he would have cried like a baby and tried to take our place, knowing that we need it, far more than he did.

So I called him an asshole.  Now, I don’t know if you know a lot about my relationship with my parents, but we don’t swear around each other – not jokingly, not in any way.  And we certainly don’t express ourselves like this – we don’t tell each other to shut up or anything harsh.  I can clearly recall telling my mother to shut up, just once, when I was 13, and boy did the shit hit the fan (not that I ever said “shit.”).

But there’s a freedom that comes with age and distance.  Being away from him, from them, for nine years had let me lead a relatively normal life.  To be around adults and families that didn’t have all this pent-up negativity, it was very refreshing and good for me.  So being tossed back in this “situation,” well, I was bound to react at some point.

Why do you have to be an asshole?  No really, why do you have to be an ass about it?

He laughed it off at first – a sort of nervous fake laugh, indicating that he was trying to make light of how shitty he was acting. “What?  It’s true!”  Because the thing about my father is, he knows he has these problems.  He knows how bad he can get.  And he feels bad  about it afterwards (which is more than I can say for my mom and me, but I’ll get to that in a minute).  I ended up watching the last few minutes of the show in silence, and then headed off to bed.  Not another word was said about it.  Which is strange – when I do come close to swearing, or god forbid say something like “damn” around him, my dad always reacts the same way:

Don’t talk like that, it’s not nice.

He didn’t say anything that night, I think he knew how mad I was.

Then, a few days later, I made my Mom angry.  It isn’t hard to tell when she’s mad at you – she’s incapable of hiding it.  I was sitting on the couch, watching TV, and she was rocking in the recliner.  She was complaining about something, I’m not sure what because I tend to drown her out after awhile.  My Mom is one of those people that needs to talk it out.  When something annoys her, she cannot let it go – she has to keep bringing it up, over and over and over again.

Yeah, that’s not annoying or anything.

She calls my name, trying to get me to weigh in on whatever petty little thing she’s fixated on.  And I tell her, in a mainly joking voice:

Mom!  Why do you have to talk ALL THE TIME?  Really!  You go on and on, yapping like a little dog!

And that did it.  That right there, comparing her to a dog.  I might as well have spit on her grave.

There are certain things you don’t do in the Thai culture, things that are “customs.”  I’ve heard them all my life.  For example, you are never to sit on a pillow, especially one that your elder has used.  In fact, touching an elder’s head is strictly off limits.  It indicates disrespect, a level of informality you shouldn’t use with your elders.

Adding to this list – never compare a person to an animal.   She tells me this, looking hurt and angry.  I mean, really, how dare I?  But I definitely know how – because she’s done it to me my whole life!

I can’t tell you the number of times she’s compared me (and my friends) to animals.  Pigs, cows, water buffalos (very common in Thailand) – we eat, look, walk like them.  We’re too loud, too big, too rough around the edges – we are animals!

So I told her as much, comparing what I said to what she’s said.  But she was having none of it, saying that in those instances she had said them as little “pet names,” if you will.  Well, I never.  All these years of telling me I was chubby and overweight and ate like a pig – all with love!!

Yeah, I’m not feeling the sympathy there.  So I walk off, not willing to be apart of this nonsense.

And for several day it’s very tense around the house.  Not a lot of talking, people keeping to themselves.   Which was actually quite nice at first 🙂

With my Dad, I really expected him to apologize that first night.  Because that’s what he does.  He always apologizes when he thinks he’s hurt my feeling – which I indicate by giving him the silent treatment.  Growing up, this only happened a few times.  But each time, he would stop by my room a little later and apologize for whatever part he had in upsetting me.  Dad’s like that.  Overly apologetic, even when things aren’t his fault really.

Mom, on the other hand, I can’t think of one single time she’s apologized to me.  For anything hurtful she’s said.  And let’s be honest, she has a tendency to say the craziest shit – call it the foreign factor.  At first, you chalked it up to living in a different culture.  In Thailand, people are pretty direct and blunt (at least that’s been my experience with my Mom).  If it look and quacks like a duck…call it a duck.  So if you smell, she’ll tell you.  If  you are fat, she’ll tell you.  In front of company, strangers, the world.  We’ve told her repeatedly, through the years, that Americans don’t work that way.  That telling people such “truths” it’s against our “custom,” and is seen as pretty rude.  And she’s learned to tone it done – mostly just out of range of strangers.  It’s progress.

Dad didn’t end up apologizing.  We went through a good week where I didn’t talk much, but I didn’t shut him off completely.  I don’t know, maybe he thought I wasn’t that mad?  Maybe he felt he didn’t need to state an apology, that I should someone know he felt bad for what he did?  Or perhaps he didn’t feel bad about it at all.  Beth seems to think that he acted that way as a defense mechanism, because the situation hit a little too close to home for him.  A parent watching their child struggle with obesity, the same obesity they struggle with and perhaps feel responsible for.  She is probably right.

I didn’t apologize to Mom.  At first, I didn’t think she was that mad.  However, a couple of days later when I started chatting with her like everything was normal, she made it real apparent, real quick, that it wasn’t.  She said that I hadn’t apologized for hurting her feelings, for being mean to her.  To which I responded, “are you seriously still on that?  You have GOT to be kidding me,” and walked away.

It might have looked like me being prideful (or an asshole), but that certainly wasn’t the bulk of it.  It was the idea that a grown woman, who has never apologized for her actions, felt that I should apologize for mine.  And I thought long and hard – she’s never apologized to me or to Dad (that I know of, and I could bet a million on that one).  She once got angry at me while she was washing dishes and threw a plate at my foot.  I moved my foot in time – but the plate shattered all around me.  Apologies?  Not from her,  you can bet that much.  And that’s somewhat our fault, because we excused her out of so much of her behavior.  She not from here, she’s a little different in her thinking (and she is), she doesn’t understand the effect her words have – all excuses that allowed her to believe she could act this way.

But I’m done with giving her permission.  Because at some point, we are all responsible and accountable for our own actions.  And everyone has to apologize at some point in their lives – to their parents, children, spouses, friends.  No one gets excused from this custom.  At least, not all the time.

I will add this – growing up, my Mom probably had no idea when she said things that hurt me.  No, really.  My defense mechanism was to look un-phased, to show no change in emotion.  I would have rather cut my foot off than admit she hurt me.  So maybe that’s the difference between us.  She’s more than willing to tell you when she’s hurt.

*******************************************************************************************************************

LIZ:  Jenna stop.  I just want to get past this.  What do you need me to do?

JENNA:  Well you can start by saying you’re sorry.

LIZ:  Fine.  I am sorry that I assumed other people would hate the movie just because I hate it.  That was wrong.

JENNA:  That’s it?  That’s your apology?

LIZ:  Yeah.  Are we good?

JENNA:  We’re good.

“The Rural Juror” – Season 1, Episode 10

So, slight snag in the plan.

I submitted my application for Summer Classes at UCF, beginning in May.  I found two evening classes that are part of the Masters Program I want.  I paid the application fee.  All set, right?

Then I remembered that I needed to find out costs of the classes.  Since I won’t have my FL residency until August (one year wait), these Summer classes would come at the out-of-state price.  I don’t know what number I had in my head, but it certainly wasn’t the one the Registrar spoke.

In-State Tuition: $1056.00/class

Out-of-State Tuition: $3435.00/class

HMPH.  That is not cool.  That is so not cool.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do – I certainly won’t pay three times as much to take one class, let alone two, when I’m only a few months away from being a resident again.  But it just sucks, because I was really looking forward to starting soon.  Now it looks like I’ll be twiddling my thumbs until August.

My co-worker suggested I look at financial aid options, so I’m going to check that out next.

College is expensive.  I mean, I know this – still paying for Stetson 10 years later – which is why I’m very hesitant to take on any additional debt I don’t have to.  I mean, I will get this degree, but I want to be smart about how I finance it.

BLURGH.

TRACY:  How many years have you known me, Liz Lemon.

LIZ:  One.

TRACY:  So you know I like to minister to transvestite prostitutes.

LIZ:  I don’t think I did know that, no.

DOTCOM:  It’s true.  He doesn’t mess with them.  He just tries to get them into computer school.

LIZ:  Ah.

TRACY:  So Labor Day weekend, I see this young she-dude at the dumpster by the 40/40.   I pull over and say “you don’t have to live your life like this!  You can be a freaky-deaky AND do data entry!”

LIZ:  Sure.

TRACY:  “What about Court Reporting?  Believe in yourself!”

 

Hope everyone had a Happy Leap Day!

30 Rock promotes Leap Day in their latest episode as a day to do something you normally wouldn’t do.  As they say, “real life in for March!”

So what did I do this Leap Year?  Why thank you for asking.

I made a life change.

(look at me going Oprah on you!)

I’m leaving my job and (finally) starting grad school this summer.

Yeah yeah, I know.  I’ve been talking about going back to school forever – basically since the moment I left college 10 years ago.  Why haven’t I gone back before now?  A number of reasons  excuses.  Mainly fear of  1) leaving a real income to go back to a student’s “income” and 2) not knowing if I would be happier doing something else.

I’ve been working with a Finance degree since college, doing all different types of administrative work.  HR, Operations, and Finance.  That’s the world I’ve been living in, with little passion for the work.   Why did I stay?  Well, I kinda just chalked up my lack of interest to the idea that no job is THAT much fun.  That all work, at some point, becomes routine and boring.  And work is work, you’re going to have bad days and not be happy all the time.  But what I was experiencing in my career was a complete disconnect.  I found my passion in the organizations I was working for – their mission and vision – more than the actually tasks I was performing.

Anyhow…

I spoke to my boss, who has been extremely supportive and encouraging, and just annouced my departure to the staff today.  I’ll stay around to hire on my successor and train them – so we’re looking at at least a month or more.  And then?  Well, I’m not entirely sure.

I haven’t been accepted into a Masters program yet, mainly because I haven’t taken my GRE and therefore can’t complete my application.  However, I can still enroll in classes as a non-degree seeking student while I am in the process of applying to the program.  So I’ll begin Summer classes in June.

My next steps are to:

1.  Study for the GRE and take the exam

2. Finish my application

3. Apply for summer classes

4. Find a job

I’m a little unsure what to do for a job.  I need to figure out if I will work full-time or part-time.  Ideally I would work part-time, but I don’t know if that will be financially feasible.  I know that I want a job that is relatively stress-free;  I work hard while I’m there, but then leave the job behind once I clock out.  I don’t want a lot of responsiblity, as I need to be able to focus on my classes.  Maybe I’ll do temp work for awhile?  I’m also very interested in bartending – I’m going to look up some bartending classes in the Orlando area.  I don’t have any restaurant experience so taking the class is a must.

As for my program of study, I’m applying for a Masters in School Counseling.  My favorite positions in the past have been working in charter schools; I love working with students.  I thought for awhile about teaching, but I’m more interested in working with students on a one-on-one basis, or small group.  Plus, I love psychology.  I really feel like this is a good fit for me.  Which is great feeling, as I’ve not experienced being in a position where I really felt successful and had passion for the work.

I’m headed in the right direction.  There have been a lot of starts and stops in this process – a lot of procrastination on my part – but now that I’m almost out of job, I feel like this creates just enough stress to light a fire under me and get myself in gear.

And looky there, it just became March – real life time!