Don't Go Away Mad, Just Go Away

Private Enemy Number One: A Story About Dec. 29

It's been almost two weeks since this day happened, but it's still bothering me.
I started the day feeling optimistic and responsible. I finally decided to pay Oprah's pet deposit on the day I left for New Year's since I've had her since Labor Day. Before I brought her out here, the resident assistants and resident life coordinator said the deposit wasn't a pressing issue, so I kept putting it off...and putting it off...and yes, putting it off some more. I didn't want Kali and Rob (the people who watched the cats during the break) to freak out if the main office found out that I had two cats instead of just one.

I try to be a responsible pet owner, after all.

PSU uses an outside vendor to rent out their apartments. I get to the office on the other side of campus to talk to the receptionist/office slave. Her first comment: "you're only allowed to have one cat, and only in certain apartments." Now, I read the handbook beforehand, just to make sure that it was technically allowed. I showed that part to her, and that's when she noticed that only apartments over 500 square feet are allowed to have cats.

Mine is 492 square feet.

Eight fucking feet. For CHRIST'S SAKE!!!

Which is exactly what I said...without including the profanities. She made some statement under her breath about me wanting to bend the rules for certain things and not for others. We argued about it for several more minutes, until I did what all composed, confident citizens do in this case: I started to cry.

Although I did lose any credibility I may have had, I did gain the second best thing: pity. She said that I could deal with it after I got back from Albuquerque. The day I got back, I went to one of the resident assistants to pick up my brand new camera phone and to open my apartment for me since I didn't have the keys. I asked about the 8 feet discrepancy issue, and here is the answer I got:
"Just keep the second cat a secret."

I try to do the right thing, and people just try to make me regress. Sigh. College life.

I went to pay my rent yesterday and managed to avoid the fascist receptionist. However, this can't go on forever. I have several different identities to hide behind since none of my identification cards or credit cards have the same name (Britt Baca-Hochhausler, BM Hochhausler, etc.). If anyone has any appearance-altering devices that I can use on the first of every month, though, I'm all ears.

Wish me luck. Also, wish Uma and Oprah luck...they certainly need it.

Don't Go Away Mad, Just Go Away Pt. 2

Intelligence Quotient Decrease: Dec. 29 a.m.

My travels to the Land of Enchantment continued with a, um, enchanted discussion on the bus. I was carrying my suitcase and backpack, thereby giving the impression that I was traveling. A fellow bus patron asked where I was going. I said to Albuquerque, presuming that this person would know where it was, since it is a "booming metropolis" approaching the 1 million population mark.

Portland is supposedly one of the most educated cities in the country. Maybe I assumed too much out of this new friend. He said that $300 for a round-trip ticket wasn't too expensive to Albuquerque, which I disagreed with, since there are travel agencies who sell tickets to the U.K. for $350. He said he heard there was a lot of really great artists there, which I took as a compliment.

Most people say Taos have the great artists, after all, but Albuquerque has the car on Gibson. Great art indeed.

Then he started to say that he had only been to Tijuana, implying that he believed that Albuquerque was in Mexico. He said some other comments in this direction as well.

Will we as New Mexicans never win? I don't even have a passport...or a birth certificate. At least the Swedes said "New Mexico...that's in Texas, right?"

I got off the bus shaking my head. Next time, I'm going to bring out my map....and my middle finger.

Don't Go Away Mad, Just Go Away Pt. 3

Implementing De-Escalation Strategies in Airports: The Dec. 29 Saga Continues

I went through the security checkpoints successfully and entered the airplane feeling excited and jubilant to be heading back to Albuquerque. "Woodstock," one of my all-time favorite comfort movies, was playing on the television. It was only at Country Joe and the Fish's first performance, which meant that I could still see Arlo Guthrie; Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young; Ten Years After; Country Joe McDonald solo; Santana; Sly and the Family Stone; and Jimi Hendrix.

I just recited those performances from memory. It's obvious how many times I watched that movie in middle and high school, until my dad confiscated it, afraid of re-living his youth.
Granted, his youth was spent in Swedish boarding schools, and he didn't come to the U.S. until the 1970s, but this was the excuse I was given.

Maybe my parents felt that pot-smoking hippies were a bad influence for a middle-schooler. Maybe they felt that Jimi Hendrix's performance of the Star-Spangled Banner was unpatriotic. Maybe they felt that these white upper-class kids (currently called Trustafarians) weren't doing anything worthwhile or productive for the minorities being persecuted or the men drafted for the war. They were just listening to gentrified bands like the Grateful Dead singing songs about drugs, then selling out to the Yuppie Party of the 1980s. Sound familiar?

I then had a three-hour layover in Denver. I spent the beginning hours checking email in the airport, then eating spinach artichoke dip at my favorite airport bar. They carry Stella Artois on tap, after all.

I sat at the terminal chairs doing random free writes and listening to CDs for the next half hour. The flight sign was finally saying "Albuquerque." I smiled and zoned out for a while. I look up again. Now the sign is saying "St. Louis."

St. Louis? It was like a bad horror movie....or worse, a Jennifer Lopez movie.

I look at the Departures schedule, screening for a-l-b-u-q-u-e-r-q-u-e. "Flight cancelled." I was about to cry....again.

I go to the desk to calmly ask what happened. I decide to utilize some de-escalation strategies instead of crying or sounding like an irritating asshole customer. She tells me I can take the next Frontier flight...which means I have to wait another three hours, and I wouldn't get back to Albuquerque until 11 or so. I calmly mention that I saw a flight leaving through a competing airline. Could they reimburse me for the flight if I was to fly standby? She directed me to the main Frontier desk. I calmly left....and ran (BRITTSPEAK: walked slightly faster than usual) to the desk, where I collected a *free* United ticket.

I had to go from one part of the airport to the next while having a severe anxiety attack and trying to maintain my fragile composure. Somehow, I was the only one who was flying standby on the flight. Other people must have more patience than I have.

Then I was informed that there was a problem with the airplane. Was I ever going to get to a city I was comfortable in, or was I to live in a crappy airport for the rest of my life?

Somehow, I made it to Albuquerque in one piece. I was tired, but that night we went to Martini Grille, where I had some of their infamous mayonnaise fries. All was well. Happy ending to a long-winded story. Yay.