There Ain't No Devil, It's Just God When He's Drunk

I've been thinking a lot about my employment situation, and I think that the reason I feel so insecure in the job market is because of how increasingly you job has come to define who you are as a person. Since I still don't have that idea of what my lifelong career is, it's almost as though I don't know how to define myself, and all of this has left me wanting to just hide inside and never emerge. And making me loathe all those friends I had back at university doing engineering or the sciences who now have jobs in those fields and are constantly referring to themselves and their behaviour as 'so like an engineer', or as 'such a chemist.'

So last night, as I was getting myself ready for bed, I got to wondering how things have changed that make us use our jobs as indicators for who we are. Certainly it wasn't always like this? And that got me to thinking about my grandma. Anyone who reads this (or has since the beginning) knows I have a love/hate relationship with my grandma. Love when I'm away, hate when I'm in physical proximity. But I also love history and grandma is a living piece of it.

Grandma just turned 93. She was born in 1916, meaning she lived, if not saw or remembered, World War One, the Great Depression, Women's Suffrage, World War Two, the Civil Rights movement, and the election of the first black president. And perceptions have certainly changed during the course of her life. Growing up, women didn't work the 9-5 (unless they were slaving away in mills and factories and dying of malnutrition, or trying to eek out a living as a secretary or shop assistant in a large urban city). Middle class women were mothers, wives, and fighting to get their vote to count as a people.
In 1934 my grandma went to university. Not to further her career, but just to learn because she was interested. She majored in History and Zoology,just for fun, and god knows what she actually learned because she has no idea what the mitochondria is or how its function in all cellular creatures is pertinent to life. I think she just memorised animal names and locations while studying how amazing America is. Regardless, it was obvious that university was what middle/upper middle class women participated in, but was in no way a stepping stone to a career. After uni, grandma continued to live at home and help out with the family, but it was 1938 and you can guess what was coming around the corner. When war hit, granny joined the Marines and was stationed out in the Mojave desert working as a meteorologist along side a whole phalanx of women. My grandma was an example of a change taking place in the US. Rosie the Riveter was born, and women were being called upon to work, to fill the positions originally occupied by men, and were getting a taste of what it was like to be heard and used for the knowledge they had and for what they could do. In fact, after the war, it seems as though the whole working mentality of the US changed. Xenophobia and the Red Scare had caused the US to turn inward, proclamations of 'Made in the USA' were announced from all the shops, and the American car industry boomed, with thousands of people taking to the interstates to 'see the USA in [their] Chevrolet's!'. The blue collar worker was looked to with respect, and there was pride to be had with any occupation.
After the war, my grandma went back to univeristy to do a masters in History. She never finished because she met my grandpa and chose marriage over a degree. I asked her about this a lot, and her response has always been that college was something that occupied her time, and that being a wife and eventually a mother would take up more time than being a student would. To her, the choice was an easy one since again, education was not a pathway to a job. She did work, however. For a few years, grandma worked in an accountancy firm helping people prepare their taxes and keeping track of finances. But ask my grandma what she was, and she will always say a Homemaker. Not a marine, not a financial consultant, but a wife and mother. Ask my grandpa (born 1908) and he labels himself a Czech American. Jobs were what you did to put dinner on the table, but now what defined you.
For my mom's generation, it seems as though work was a means to an end. In the beginning, at least. My mom has said that grandma used to try and pursuade her to be a secretary or waitress or teacher, but the children of flower power had other ideas, at least until the 80s where new innovations in technology and Reganeconomics encouraged a renewed fevor in business models. Slowly, our parents and now our generation are finding themselves defined by an occupation. We're workers. We wear suits, answer blackberrys, and organise spreadsheets.
And since I don't have a job, it's like I don't have an identity. Or at least one I want. I don't want to be defined as 'receptionist,' 'book fetcher', 'secretary,' or 'assisant'. And it's infuriating!
So which comes first? Will knowing who you are first without a job lead you to find a job that matches your perception of who you want to be, or do you find a job first that then shapes the way you percieve yourself?

Okay, enough blathering... MURRAY VICTORY IN WIMBLEDON! Come on!

Ah, another wonderful outing with Grandma. She was already making me grind my teeth and threatening to commit homocide before we even got out of the driveway.
"I'm excited to go to Ross!"
"Uh huh"
"You know, your mom told me that there were all kinds of places to shop up here when she was trying to get me to move"
"Uh huh"
"She promised me that she would take me to Ross and that there was a Dollar Store up here, but she's never taken me."
"We're not going to the Dollar store, that's up in Grass Valley."
"Well your mom said there was one in down here"
"I'm sure there is, but I don't know where it is and I'm not going to go traipsing around town looking for one."
"Well I didin't say I wanted to go to one, only that there was one down here and that you mom promised me we'd go"
"Well if you didn't want to go to one, why did you bring it up?"
'Oh, I thought it would be fun to find it"
"I'm not going to look for one"
"I didn't say I wanted to go to one"
"Okay"

Then, we had another tipping incident. We ate at this Chinese Buffet that grandma is in love with, and it came to $15. When it was time to leave, granny whips out her purse and pulls out 65 cents in nickles and dimes.
"Grandma, we should leave at least $2"
"Well NOT my quarters! "

4 hours later, we finally go t back home.

Now, I'm no Indiana Jones/Bushman/Detective tracker, but I swore I could see the tire (tyre) tracks of the UPS truck imprinted in our rain-softened dirt/gravel driveway. So I was praying that my mom was home to sign for the delivery I was pretty sure arrived. Sure enough, when I brought all of grandma's shopping in, there it was on the kitchen counter...MY VISA! FINALLY!

After almost two months for what was quoted to be a 24 hour turn around time, I FINALLY GOT MY VISA! Entery clearance from 20/01/09-20/01/11

Wankers didn't backtrack it to NOW so that I could have my whole MONTH, but whatever. I'll take January, even though technically, it should totally read 01/02/09. The British Consulate: Taking you money, your soul, and a HUGE portion of your time.

One the most daunting experiences, I find, is the uncomfortable position you're in when you're at a restaurant in a foreign country. Not because you don't understand the menu and might inadvertently order fried chicken uterus ( fact: it's street food in Taiwan), but because of the questions that looms at the end of the meal- to tip or not to tip, and if so, how much?

As a foreigner in another country ( especially as an American), you don't want to NOT leave a tip and appear to be the 'bastard American prick who thinks they're too good to tip', nor do you want to leave a tip inappropriately and be ''that pretentious American who shows off their wealth by giving it to the 'little people'''.

I remember my first time visiting the UK back when I was a 19 year old adventurer, rebelliously refusing to spend Christmas and Christmas holiday with my emotionally unstable family. My best friend, some others, and I decided to venture forth for 2 rollicking weeks of hardcore...walking, picture taking, and cheap sandwich dinners alone in our hostels. Although we were of age, we were way too scared to enter those daunting and very imposing pubs, so we just walked past them talking about how we would totally go into one later that night, only to head back to our hostel at 7 to sit around until falling asleep. Bad ass.

Then one night our other accompanying friend Jenny decided that enough was enough, and since it was her birthday, she wanted to visit a pub, god damn it, and was determined to have a pint of something called 'cider'. We happened to be in a pinprick of a town called Stranraer at the time, and the only pubby places we could find was a 21 and over strip bar and another wee place that was completely empty. We went in the later and, and Jenny proceeded to order a birthday Steak Pie and pint on Strongbow, while the rest of us just sat there not knowing what to do- what to order, what to drink, and how we would cope if they ID'ed us. Which they didn't. In the end, I think our other traveling companion settled on some form of alcopop like VK while Melissy and I just sat there thinking how we were totally saving £5 by not eating or drinking anything and chomping down on our awesome cold pancakes and cheese when we got back to the hostel.

After Jenny had finished her hot meal, we were left with the uncomfortable unknown of 'do we tip or not?' A young couple had come in, ordered a pint, and then split, and we stared them down the entire time to see if they left any tip.
"Well, I don't see any tip"
"Yeah, but they just got drinks...what if you don't tip for drinks, but you have to for food?"
"What does the guide book say?"
"I left it at the hostel"
"Shit...so...do you want to ask the bartender?"
"God no! Let's just leave a pound and run away"

So we did. Jenny left a pound on the table and we ran out of there like we had stolen the Mona Lisa. It wasn't until I returned to the US and quizzed a Scottish exchange student that I learned that you don't tip at pubs, that students are not really expected to tip in general, and that the pound we left on the table was probably stolen by whatever NEDs wandered in after us. But we didn't know, so what were we to do?

However, I find that while Americans are more eager to tip, both at home and abroad, while those visiting the US are a bit more reserved. I remember when Scottie first came to America and we went out to dinner. He was comfortable leaving a 10% tip, but could not understand why anyone would ever leave more. I told him that 15% is standard in CA as a minimum tip. He claimed that such a custom was stupid, but accepted it as part of American life. In his view, a tip is only worth it if you get actual service. Being thrown in a booth at Dennys and served cold eggs was not worth 15%, but he wanted to fit in with Americans. On the other hand, my dad is an extensive tipper. After walking in on a Sex and the City marathon, he caught the scene where Samantha takes Lucy Lui out to lunch and impresses her with a 20% tip. From then on, he started tipping 20% as well.

I bring all this up because of what happened today with Grandma. Grandma took us out for lunch after a fun day at the eye doctors and 4 ginormous loads of laundry at the laundromat (yay for being in a drought and NOT having water). Our meal came to $27something. Grandma took out $30 and made to leave. I told my mom that $30 was on the really low end, and that we should add at least a dollar or two. Grandma interrupts, saying "Oh wait, let me use my change," and then proceeds to take out a fist full of pennies. Now, I understand that money is money, but seriously! Leaving pennies as a tip, in my mind, is TOTALLY demeaning. If I were a waitress, I would rather not get a tip than a tip of pennies. "No, grandma, you can't leave 7 cents in pennies" "Oh, were those pennies? I though I had some nickles and dimes in there!" But no one but grandma had any cash, so we left the < $3 tip and ran out. Sorry, waitress!

But as bad as grandma can be in the tip department, she can't even compare to her sister. I remember with Ol'Auntie took us out for lunch. She seriously did just leave change. I think she added a dollar, and then emptied out her change purse, leaving a total of like 68 cents. No quarters. When I cautiously remarked that leaving change was a bit odd, she remarked "Why? They're Asian! They need change for laundry!" We promptly ran out of there too before anyone else could hear any more racist remarks. And I just learned from my grandma that Ol' Auntie got recently scolded at by her 40 yr YOUNGER boyfriend for not leaving a large enough tip.

It's bad enough when you're in another country and don't know what to do after dinner, but it's even more embarrassing when you're in your own country and stuck with people who honestly can't see what is wrong with leaving a small pile of pennies.

It's pretty common knowledge that Granny does not have the best hearing. She is also known for asking inane questions, making pointless comments, and speaking for the sole purpose of eliciting some kind of response. So in a way, she really is asking for it. IT would be the awful little game that I play with Granny and her horrible hearing.
Granny: "Now where are you going?"
Me: "To kill some hookers"
Granny: "The post office? Oh, I have some mail too!"

Granny: "Where's your dad?"
Me: "Dead"
Granny: "So early? wow, he must be tired."

Granny: "Where were you all day?"
Me: "Vivisecting puppies."
Granny: "Gettin groceries?"
Me: "Yeah"

Sometimes I genuinely am telling the truth and Granny still can't understand me, so I just agree with whatever she says because it's so much easier than arguing.

"Oh, don't forget I have an eye appointment on Tuesday"
"You mean Thursday. Thursday at 11"
"That's right, 11"
"On Thursday."
"Tuesday at 11. We can go to the bakery afterwards"
'Okay."

"Oh, is that In-N-Out?"
"Yeah"
"They made such a fuss in the paper when In-n-Out was coming to town. They has a picture of cars lining up around the block just to get a hamburger."
"Do you want to stop and get a hamburger?"
"Okay. I think they were created by some old lesbian women in Southern California"
"What?!?!"
'Yeah, and that's why Marge likes them so much- because it was started by women."
"They're actually kind of religious...they have proverbs printed on all their cups and stuff"
"Because they're lesbian."
"Okay."

I also tend to see how much I can make her believe me. This happens a lot, particularly when she asks particularly stupid questions or is just downright annoying me.

For instance, I just got home after discovering not one, but TWO Thai markets in the uber ghetto. I have been aching to make some of my sweet, sweet Asian dishes, so I splurged on things to make Vietnamese Spring rolls, Thai tea, prawn salad- noodles, sauces, fresh herbs, etc. Granny came into the kitchen to poke around and start taking things out of bags so she could see them.
"Oh, where did you go?"
"Thai supermarket"
"Is all this Thai food?"
"Thai/Vietnamese-ish."
"Oh, and what are you going to make with it?"
"Italian."
"Italian?"
'Yeah."
"Oh, I didn't know they used the same ingredients."
'Oh yeah, Thailand colonised Italy in the 14th century."
'Wow, I learn something new everyday!"

Normally I try to restrain myself when company is around, but sometimes I can't help it. I remember when Scottie was here and we were preparing to leave for town so that he could buy up some quality American merchandise before flying home where everything is twice as much. Granny caught us as were were making for the door.
"Now where are you going?"
"Into town, bye."
'Hold on, now, why are you going into town?"
'We're going to Kohls."
"What are you buying at Kohls?"
'Nothing. Bye."
'No, wait. Why are you going to Kohls if you aren't going to buy anything."
"I' m not, Scottie is."
"Scottie!?!? What does he need to buy at Kohls?" (FYI- Kohls is like a Macys or Debenhams, only 187 times cheaper. Levis are $28-$32, Vera Wang towels are like $10! They just sell clothes and shoes and a few home furnishings like picture frames, candles, and posh frying pans.)
"A chainsaw."
"A chainsaw? Why does he need a chainsaw?"
"They don't sell them in Scotland."
"Really? Then how do they cut down trees?"
"With axes. "
"But how will he get a chainsaw on the plane?"
Before I could go on, Scottie came to my grandma's rescue and told her that I was only joking, and that he was going to buy jeans and shoes. Then we ran out the door before she could ask any more questions.

I started to do the same thing with mom, but she catches on quicker and isn't as guillible. I know that this will probably happen to me too in 40 years, and I only hope I'm as entertaining.

I am in my room, just finished putting my bra on, and what do you know, I hear the doorknob turning and in pops grandma. GET THE FRACK OUT OF MY ROOM! I'M GETTING DRESSED!

"Going somewhere?"
"No, it's almost 10 in the morning and I am getting dressed!" You nosey, snooping paedophile!
"You mean you're just getting dressed?!?"
"I'm more dressed than you!" (grandma lives in her PJs and bathrobes until she has to go into the public sphere.)

AND, I had actually been up much earlier, but since I have nothing to do in life at the moment, I take my mornings leisurely. Get my cup of coffee, go online, see if the lovely people at the British Consulate are still alive (note-they're not) and eventually get around to making breakkie and getting dressed.

This better not turn into a habit...I know how to lock a door, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Seriously! Ever since I came back to the US, I have seen a correlation between the amount of time I spend with Grandma and the amount of alcoholic beverages I consume. And there it is- the reason why I never really drink the UK is because there is no grandma there to drive me towards daily inebriation.

This happened the last time I had to return from the UK to 'look' after grandma. My 6 month student work visa had expired, my family (grandma included) was moving to a new house, and someone needed to play chauffeur whilst my mom and dad made weekly trip to the 'ranch' 3 hours away with all our worldly belongings.

Now, to the outside viewer, grandma is a lovely, sweet, adorable little bundle, similar to a baby bunny. And every where I go with her, I always get comments from people like the hairdresser, the lady at the sandwich shop, the dental receptionist, going on about just how adorable and sweet grandma is. But luckily for them, they don't have to live with her.

It starts and builds slowly. First come the demands. "Fill this cup," "make me an egg," "put this on a shelf," "when you're done planting my azaleas, get me more toilet paper". No "please," no "thank you," just an endless list of demands that slowly wear down you patience as they eat away at your soul like acid. I called her on it once during that 3 month moving process when I first got back from the UK and she started crying, saying that she loved me so much she thought she didn't need to be polite because it was inherent in her demands...or some crap like that, but said through the tears of a granny. Oh aren't I horrible for even asking her for some polite recognition because really it's accusing her of not loving me!

Which brings me to no.2- the passive aggressiveness.
My grandma is the queen of being passive aggressive. If she wants something done, somehow the facts that (1) she's old, (2) she's a nuisance in your life, (3) she used to take care of you as a baby, (4) she would do it if she could, and (5) she loves you more than you love her will come up during the hour, day, week that she needs something done. And it is always over something amazingly trivial. You could be bleeding from a gaping flesh wound caused by man-eating rabid cows, and as you desperately dial 911, grandma will come in and say 'Well when you're done, doing that, don't forget to come in my room and put new staples in my stapler!"
"Right, well, trying not to die over here!"
"I know, but- oh, my arthritis is just acting up so, and I would do it if I could, but I just don't know how."
"AH! I think I am fainting from lack of blood! Can it wait until tomorrow?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry I am such a burden! You know, I never complained when I had to do things for you when you were a baby. I enjoyed looking after you so much" Que tears.
Later, as you lie in the hospital bed, grandma will come in and say "Hey, I bet you forgot about my stapler, so I brought it for you do to right now."
Oh, thank you so much for reminding me about your stapler. I know it was an emergancy that a paper clip could just never fix, and I know just how many important documents you have laying around that are in desperate need of being stapled.

Mhhh, smell that guilt! And after making you feel like a horrible person for making her wait for 3 hours for her stapler to get filled so that she could put it away in her desk, she tries to trap you into admitting it.

True story: I knit a hat for my mom. It was the first hat I ever knit and I was just trying to use up some alpaca/wool blend I had. Mom showed it to grandma. That night, when I went to take grandma her hot chocolate in bed (because granny gets a cup of hot coco EVERY night in bed, heavily laced with brandy), she pounced on me. "Say, that's a really great hat you made! Am I special enough to get one too?" And what do you say to that? Plus, grandma HATES hats. They mess up her hair. I have only seen grandma wear a hat once, and that was to a neighbours pool to keep the sun off her face. And I like the things I make to serve a function and be used. So yes, granny, I will eventually knit you a really crappy hat just to shut you up, and you will put it in a drawer and never look at it again. Thanks for making me waste my time.

Lastly, it's the constant interruptions. Naturally you're at fault for her having to interrupt you because she's just so lonely, and if you made constant trips down to hall to visit her, she wouldn't have to come in a pester you will 2,000 questions. And the things that get me the most is her use of the words "now what," said as though you are at fault for having different activities, all of them blatantly obvious.
-I'm pouring hot water from a kettle into a cup.
"Now what are are you doing?"
"Making tea, grandma"

-I am on the couch knitting the SAME thing I've been working on for a week
"Now what are you making?"
"A shawl, grandma"
"You mean the same one"
"Yes, grandma"

-I am on the couch watching TV
"Now what are you doing?"
"Watching TV, grandma."

-I am on the couch with an open book in my hands
"Now what are you doing?"
"Reading"
"Oh, what's that, a book?"
'Yes"
"Oh, what's the title?"
"It's a book Brother gave me for Christmas, you wouldn't know it- it's science fiction"
"Who's the author?"
"You wouldn't know him. Orson Scott Card. "
"Oh, I've never heard of him."
"I know! Can I read now?
"Oh, I'm just so interested in your life! Sorry for being such a nosy nuisance, but I get so lonely with no one to talk to. I'll go back to my room now since no one wants to talk to me"

And ALL of these events happen EVERY DAY, SEVERAL TIMES A DAY! I could handle it well when I first got home because I had been away for so long. Plus, having Scottie there made it easier to run away/avoid grandma/have him calm me down. But now, with it just being me, my mom and my dad here, the diluted version of grandma has turned into super concentrate.

And thus, enter the drink. Why hello there, you sexy bottle of Merlot! Drown my frustration in you? Why I just think I might!

I've been home now for about 3 weeks, and so far, the waters have been mostly calm. Most of that, I feel, is due to Scottie being here, causing everyone to act on their best behaviour and, more importantly, keeping me away from dealing with that thing known as Grandma.

I had to take care of my granny for 3 months before she and my family moved to Boonies Nowheresville (pop. rumoured to be just under 2,000- I went to high school with more people!) and life was almost hell. Seriously, I don't think I drank more in Scotland or University than I did in those 3 short months.

Anyway, Scottie is sadly leaving me on the 31st to get back in time to work while i have to bide my time here waiting for my Visa (hopefully) to arrive. And I have a feeling that once he's gone, Granny is going to get pawned off on me. Again.

Things she has done so far:
Granny's dentures no longer fit her shrunken head, and she has a penchant to talk whilst chewing her food, causing projectile missiles of half-masticated dinner and lord knows what kind of gunk that has been sitting for months or years in the crevices of her fake chompers to spray in the listeners' general direction. For the record, those bits can fly distances!

She is by far the snoopiest, nosey-est, curious busybody that ever existed! "What are doing?" "Where are you going?" "Why did you come back at 3 instead of 4?" "Why are you watching this programme?" I have been crocheting the same shawl for 3 weeks now, and every night i pick up my hook, I get the same "What are you working on now?"

Granny is shafted down to the bedroom at the very end of the house, which is nice for the rest of the family because she is annexed out where no one has to deal with her. She has her own large screen HD TV, Satellite, Radio, newspaper, cat, and glass door out to the garden so she can watch her birds. But she still insists on exercise, so every now and then she'll thump her way down the long hallway to the living room, cane knocking against the walls as she waddles along. I've noticed that she tends to do this along when we are all watching TV together, or if she wants a snack. If we're all watching TV, then she interrogates us about what we're watching and how it reminds her a book or an article she once read on the same subject, and if we hold on, she'll go get it, except that she read it a while ag0, and can't remember if she still has the book or article, or if she gave it away.......and on it goes until we get irritated enough and shoo heR away.

When she comes in for a snack, though, she is as quiet as can be, trying to ninja in and out without being seen. This is because granny has some bad habits. First of all, she wants to nibble everything, so there will always be half a slice of bread in the bread bag, half a cookie laying around, half a bit of cheese, half a bagel, bits of halves all over the place. Secondly, she has this thing with margarine. I noticed it a lot when I lived with her-she doesn't really use knives to get the margarine out of the tub, instead she dips her pointer, middle, and ring finger into the soft buttery spread and then uses her fingers to smear the margarine on her half piece of bread. You can tell by the three parallel ditches left in the tub as evidence.

The last thing I'll reveal before boring everyone is her strange bathroom habits. The other reason granny is annexed down to the end of the hall is because directly across from her room is a bathroom. Technically it's meant for her room and my room to share, but ever since granny moved in, it's been firmly hers. This is because granny has incredibly bad IBS and has the runs a lot. A LOT a lot. But sometimes I'll pop in there to use the mirror or brush my hair. And that's when I notice that there always seems to be quite a bit of dirty water in the toilet, but never any toilet paper. Then I realised that for the past few months, every since finding out that this half of CA is in drought, granny has been going potty, wiping her bum, and...throwing the dirty paper in the trash can instead of the toilet. Now, I remember back when we were having a drought and the rhyme "If it's yellow it's mellow, if it's brown, flush it down", but NOTHING about disposing your IBS soiled paper in the trash can for weeks before having it emptied...no wonder there are always so many flies buzzing around that end of granny's room!