Zombiepocalypse

As referenced in a really old blog post—walk with the scientists—Brian’s department holds a retreat at the beginning of each year. It’s a time to get to know the new students and have some fun away from campus. The retreat used to be held all the way out at the biostation, several hours north, where most of the department does their field research. Bri’s professor (Trisha) had long lobbied that as an evolutionary biologist, she would not attend such a thing because a) non ecologists do not want to give up their whole weekend to tramps around in the woods with ecologists and b)she doesn’t do field work, and thus has no desire to go to the biostation. To appease her (and appear as if they had a unified department), the Ecologists compromised and will be holding the retreat near Ann Arbor every other year.

This means that when the retreat is in town, Trisha and Brian are obligated to go. Which makes me obligated to go. So we went. And it sucked. We joined a group touring a “fen”, which, as we learned after we were at the site and had no way to leave, was just another word for swamp. At one point, our tour guide decided to take the group into the swamp. Brian and I did not bring our waders, and so said we’d wait behind. The department chair assured us they’d be back in 5 minutes, and disappeared for an hour as we swatted at mosquitoes and talked about how much we hate ecologists. And texted the absent Trisha things like “your baby better have pink eye.”

Turns out, she had an even better reason for not attending. The night before, she was sitting around the house when she heard what sounded like fireworks outside. She ignored it until her husband called and instructed her to get the baby and get away from the windows. Her husband was a few blocks away at a police roadblock, being kept out of the neighborhood because one of their neighbors, who just so happens to be a big game hunter (he has a taxidermied elephant in his house!), had some sort of a mental breakdown and informed his neighbor (also a big game hunter with a taxidermied giraffe in his house) that they needed to prepare for the Zombies. Yes, the Zombiepocalypse was happening in Michigan. He then proceeded to shoot at what one can only assume were zombies and accidentally blow up his fuel tank during the process.

Trisha said they were up until 3am dealing with the police and such, and we all agreed it was a good reason to miss a boring retreat.

Like Fergie, I don't want no drama

So softball has continued to be interesting. After Roz’s jaw was broken (had to be wired shut, which made her lose her job), we had lots fewer team members.

Brian and I had joined the team because a friend from college asked us to. He and I had met while working together over a summer and had become friends through a mutual appreciation of how awesome I am. We moved to Ann Arbor at about the same time as the friend moved back in with his parents in neighboring Ypsi.

We were unaware that the rest of our team members know each other either through this friend of mine (2 other people) or because they have bought from, sold to or smoked with other team members (rest of the team). So while I was excited to be on the “High Life” softball team, it led to the rude realization that no one else is interested in having a Miller after the games.

This is not the source of the drama.

The drama centers around one little sect of our team. This group was headed by Billy and Chase. Other folks in the group who are also team members included Ken, Taylor and Amanda, Billy’s girlfriend. Since our team had a high attrition rate at the beginning of the season (one injured and one scared off), it’s really important that everyone attend and participate. It is also really important that Amanda be on the team, because without her, we will face games where we lose points for having too few girls. So while these 5 aren’t all great at softball, they all are good and are necessary for our team.

But, Billy and Chase are annoying. Chase slept half way through a game, arrived late and almost got us disqualified by adding himself to the roster after the game started. Chase also is loud. So loud that I can hear him heckling from the dugout while I’m in right field. But he doesn’t usually heckle the other team. He just heckles our own players.

Billy is more subtle. Apparently he and Chase objected to the skill level of one of our team members, Scott. Since Scott comes to practice and shows up on time to games, he gets one of the first picks for what position he plays. And even though he knows he’s not great, he wants to have fun and play second base.

Billy and Chad didn’t think he should. And so they heckled him. And pestered our coach to move him from second base. Constantly. Our coach apparently received 40 texts in a single day on the topic.

Our coach had gotten fed up and planned how to deal with this problem. Unfortunately before that happened, Amanda injured her knee badly while batting and left for the hospital with Billy. Now we are permanently down one girl.

In what may have been a poor political choice, our coach decided to call a team meeting. In the team meeting, he specifically called out Billy (absent due to hospital trip) and Chase for their annoying behavior. He cited their constant whining about the way things were run and noted that Chase had threatened to leave the team and take Billy, Amanda, Ken and Taylor with him. This was about the time that Chase freaked out.

There was screaming, cursing and at one point, almost a fist fight. The meeting ended with Chase taking off his jersey and throwing at our coach before stomping off to the parking lot. I would have taken it more seriously if there wasn’t 2 inches of butt crack showing.

Softball Scare

Last night was my softball team's first game. I had to miss our one and only practice the week before because of work, so i was a little nervous to start playing the game again after 15 years. Brian has joined the team with me, but had to miss the first night because of exams.

I arrived to the field and was greeted with the news that our opponents were not going to come. But since everyone needed the practice, the team playing before us stuck around for a scrimmage. The first inning went well, and we switched to being the team in the field just as it was my turn to bat (SAVED! was my response). I played a mean right field, and showed a great deal of team spirit by running quickly from the dugout to my position, and back again.

The second inning started with me batting. Since it was only a scrimmage, each batter started with one strike and one ball. The first pitch, i swung and missed entirely. At the second pitch, the umpire behind me yelled "illegal pitch" as i swung my bat. Apparently if i hadn't swung it wouldn't have counted against me, but since i did swing, it was a strike. I went back to the dug out to chat with a friendly girl named Roz.

Midway through the inning, Roz was up to bat. She hit the ball right to second base, where the basewoman caught it off the ground and LAUNCHED it to first. The ball, the baseman and Roz were all zeroing in on the same target. THWACK went the ball into the baseman's glove...and Roz's head. In an awful moment of alignment, the glove and ball were right in front of Roz's left jaw, and the huge momentum of the ball sent Roz sliding 3 feet past first base, to lay sobbing and spitting blood.

The other team supplied her with clean wash cloths and water, as the umpires and middle aged mom/softball players assessed the damage. It was decided that she might have a concussion, might have injured a bone in her face and might need stitches for where she bit her lip open. Two of our players drove her to the emergency room.

I figured, once someone needs medical care, the scrimmage ends. Right? Wrong. We kept going. My next run up at bat i thought, "no way am i getting any where near this ball. When it comes at me, i'm moving out of the way." So when my bat connected to the ball and sent it flying towards third base, you can imagine my shock. I stood there for a moment wondering where the ball was going, before i made a mad dash to first. I didn't make it that time, but did later in the game.

My team also saw fit to make me catcher, despite my fear of the ball, the bat and other players running towards me. Since the job mostly consisted of chasing bad pitches after they had bounced off the ground, i did pretty well. At one point, there was a runner on third and first. The batter hit the ball to the infield. The player on third was headed home, but i was ready. I stood with one foot on the base and my glove ready, shouting for the ball. Which i caught. Unfortunately, my knowledge of softball comes from "A League of their Own," which is of course about Baseball. In softball, you can't just stand on home base, you need to tag the runner. Which I did not.

In the final inning, I was catcher again as a runner was headed toward me from third. The one really hard core guy launched the ball towards home base, and it could either be caught by me, or by the pitcher, who was standing 3 feet in front of me. Watching the velocity of the ball as it headed towards my face, I made the decision that i believed in the athletic abilities of my teammate, and stepped out of the way to the right. He caught the ball, then had difficulty keeping it in his glove. The runner was safe at home, and nothing hit me in the face.

We still won the game.

Fractions

I'm big on numbers. Anyone who has ever talked to me about my job for the past 5 years has heard me talk about 1 in 4, the number of women who will be sexually assaulted or raped in their lifetimes or 1 in 8, the number of men who will experience the same. Today i heard a new number. 1 in 5. That's the number of people (adults and children) who only know where one meal a day (or less) is coming from in South Eastern Michigan. 1 in 5 people in my area are going hungry. United Way has started some work to address that need, and I hope we can meet it soon. In the meantime, I’ll do the math and be glad that I know where 3 meals a day are coming from.

Elder Abused

I was at work this week, quietly filling up the shelves with Jello and syrup when a customer approached me. “There’s an old woman in aisle 13 who asked me to find someone to help her.”

It’s not uncommon for elderly customers to need some extra help shopping, and I was ready to help. I found the old woman standing in front of the paper towels. She was about four and a half feet tall, short white hair permed up, and looking angry.

“I want the Bounty with NO colors but NOT the extra strength. The extra strength is STICKY. And Kroger’s has let me down again.” Since there was nothing to say to this statement except agree and apologize, that’s what I did. Then I offered to help her find something else. And she proceeded to go on a tirade about how great Kroger’s used to be and how it now is terrible (and she growled her ‘r’s). She also used the phrase “spittin mad.”

So far, I was with her. It’s frustrating to go to a store that used to carry a particular product you want only to find it’s no longer there. It’s even harder when you’re older and need to rely on a bus service to get you there and home. You can’t even shop on your own schedule, and generally having to ask for help all the time makes you feel powerless. I was inclined to be sympathetic, so I used my social work skills to respond to her in a respectful and sympathetic manner. Eventually my offers to help her find other items brought her out of her anger about the paper towels.

“I need Tropicana orange juice. In the SMALL bottles. WITH PULP!” I told her where we could find it and offered to help her locate it. We started walking (at her slower, older pace), and she eventually just stopped, clearly assuming I would find the juice and bring it to her. I wasn’t adverse to this situation, and besides, she was probably tired. So I went to the juice aisle, found the smallest bottle of Tropicana and headed back.

She must’ve had a bionic eye because I was still half way across the store when she spotted me and bellowed “I DON”T WANT THAT ONE!” I apologized and offered to bring her a different option. “NO PULP!” was her response.

On the way back to the orange juice, I spotted one of the store managers. I informed him that I was working with an older woman who had some complaints about the store for a manager to hear. “I think I’ve heard her enough,” was his response. Then a woman interrupted us to congratulate me on being so nice to the “woman who is being so awful to you.”

At this point, I was feeling like a saint among sinners. I was unimpressed by a manager who was hiding from customers, and still felt sympathy for a frustrated woman. Sure, she had yelled at me quite a bit at this point, but it was no worse than Grandma yelling at Grandpa during a game of bridge. It was a bit more malicious feeling, but I figured I felt that way because I had never been on the receiving end of old lady anger before.

We located the right orange juice, and she decided to buy the bad kind of paper towels. She asked me to help her make it up to the front of the store for check out. As we were walking slowly along, she asked me to check her out personally, so that she wouldn’t make her bus late in picking up the other seniors. I’m not trained to work a cash register, but I promised to find someone who was.

As we were walking, one of my coworkers finished loading two very full carts (not shopping carts, these carts have a bottom that’s about 5 inches off the ground and are open on 3 sides) of cardboard and decided to pull out infront of the old lady and I rather than wait until we had passed to make her trip to the backroom. I’ve always found this coworker to be a bit inconsiderate of others, but I could understand her reasoning that since the old woman was moving so slowly.

We did not realize that the old woman was The Hulk in disguise. Suddenly we weren’t walking so slowly anymore. We were walking FAST. And I mean FAST. She rammed her shopping cart in to the carts of cardboard four times, until the cardboard slid off the cart and on to the floor. After we passed my coworker picking things up, the old woman said to me “I’m sorry. She pulled out right in front of me and I just couldn’t help it,” in a very helpless old lady way. It was then that I realized I had spent the last half hour being verbally abused by Satan’s nana.

I delivered her to the cashiers who all cringed to see her, but were willing to open a special check out lane just for her. One of the nicer team leads asked me to come to the back of the store with her for a “special project.” The special project was the two of us escaping from the old woman, who apparently comes in once a week to yell at the staff, demand special treatment and vows never to shop at Kroger’s again.

An unexpected first day

On Tuesday, I got my call back from Kroger letting me know I had passed my drug test. I was told to come in on Wednesday at 11 for my “hiring session.” Great, I thought. I’ll have a job for after Thanksgiving, and still will have plenty of time to cook today after the ‘session.’ I was wrong.

I went in and spent 15 minutes signing forms. Things were going as planned, until she set me up with a computer so I could complete the online training sessions. There were at least 15 sessions, between 25 minutes and 60 minutes long. I was told by the manager not to worry, that the sessions really only took half as much time as listed. She was wrong.

Each session was essentially like watching a glorified powerpoint presentation, except I couldn’t control the speed at which the information flowed. A bullet point would pop up, and I would read it. And read it again. And spin around in my chair. And then the next bullet point would pop up.

I learned all about in store safety, how to operate a price gun, how to operate a fork lift, how to prevent theft (which really just gave me tips on how to shoplift), more about how to promote safety, how to create a work schedule for my department and how to use work schedules to train new workers (impressive, given that I haven’t even been trained yet).

At the end of each training session, I was tested on the material. For information on safety and fork lift usage, I had to get a score of 70% per section. For information on proper dress and team spirit, I had to get a score of 100%.

At one point when I found myself listening to the in store musical stylings of Justin Timberlake and watching an hour long cartoon about a floating talking star and a guest services clerk, I thought I was loosing my mind.

Finally at 6:00 I left. I am $52.50 richer (not including taxes and union dues) and theoretically able to operate a forklift and assist a coworker in removing sulfuric acid from their eyes.

Our interesting apartment

Our apartment has gotten interesting again.

We had received a message from the main office that our cable was changing over to HD, and that if we didn’t have an HDTV we should pick up our free digital converter. So I walked over to the main office and instead of being given a converter, I was put on a list and upon arriving home, found that the cable had been canceled.

We had also received a message that our apartment building would not have water Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday from 7am to 7pm. We assumed that when the water was on, we’d be able to shower, so it seemed a minor inconvenience. Except we didn’t have hot water or enough water pressure once the water was back on.

I also asked the main office about our heat. So far, we have been unable to find a thermostat in our apartment, and last night the temperature was supposed to get down to freezing. I was informed that our building has a central heating system, so once the maintenance department turns on the heat, it’s just on. I asked when “on” would happen, since its getting a bit chilly in the apartment. I was told that it usually would have been turned on, but since there are “problems with the water,” we would have no heat until the “problem” was resolved.

And our on going problem of having no internet or 3-prong outlets on the second floor means that we still have internet and extension cords running up the stairs.

As Brian summed it up: “No heat, no water, no cable and messed up electricity.”

Michigan is an interesting place.

The Concert

A friend of mine drove up (or over, or down, or whatever) from Madison to visit me for a few days. Part of the visit was going to see her favorite band, a “hillbilly rock” group called “Lucero.” I haven’t been to a concert or anything of the sort since high school, so I was a bit nervous, and excited to see a good band. They were playing at the first night of an outdoor street fair, called the DIY festival—a big craft fair with a lot beer.

The night did not start off on the best note. We got a late start from the house, and the unfamiliar roads eventually led me to run a red light (although Callie and I agreed, it was a confusing intersection). But we were determined to have a good time. We watched the last songs of the opening band, and snuck into the front as their fans filed out, but before Lucero’s fans made the journey from the Beer Garden to the stage. We had an amazing spot. We were touching the stage—front and center. We made plans to take the lead singer’s beer glass at the end of the night.

Then, the first sign of trouble. The ringleaders of a drunk group of 19 year olds who drove “all the way from Ohio” started screaming their love for the various members of the band. This love quickly turned to angry impatience as the band took “too long” to set up. While we were standing next to the ringleader’s dreamily intoxicated girlfriend, he kept yelling “are you tuning a harp?” at the bass player. Apparently, this is a hilarious heckle in Ohio.

But the show began. We were excited to dance and sing along to the music. After the first song, the audience got excited too. The crowd began to surge into us in waves, pushing us against the stage. The band made several announcements that if the crowd surfing did not stop, the cops would shut down the show. The drunk Ohio fans started a mini mosh pit (which Callie and I strongly resented being involved in). The ringleader shoved us, and Callie shoved him back, which apparently affronted his honor. He cursed Callie out, and proceeded to attempt to dump his drinks on us. We stuck it out, as the mosh pit grew behind us, a throbbing mass of elbows and knees that had the remarkable ability to always hit you in the kidneys. The final decision to move came as I looked up as a pair of feet were coming towards my head.

We ended up enjoying the rest of the concert hiding behind the speakers, still occasionally being hit by the crowd and dodging the beer being thrown at the stage.

Afterwards, Callie informed me that it was the craziest show she had ever been to. She felt bad that this was my first concert in such a long time and we spent more time avoiding certain death than listening to the music. I said it was okay, it’d give me something to blog about.

They say our love won’t pay the cable bill

When I moved to Michigan with no job and no prospects, I knew paying the bills would be hard. I didn’t know it would be literally difficult.

We got our first cable bill this week. It was for roughly twice the amount we signed up for with the cable company.

Step one: Call cable company. Speak to representative who changes bill back to original amount.

Step two: Set up account to pay bill online through cable company’s website.

Step three: Attempt unsuccessfully to view or pay bill online. Give up and go watch TV.

Step four: Try again next day to view or pay bill online. Bill is still in previous amount.

Step five: Call cable company and speak to representative to pay bill

Step six: Convince representative that even though the cable bill not in my name, I should be allowed to pay. Her response: “yeah, most people wouldn’t pay someone else’s bill.”

Step seven: Hurriedly abort paying bill over the phone to avoid a service fee of $4 for using the phone to pay.

Step eight: Drive out to cable company, spend an hour in line, speak directly to representative. Representative informs me that the phone bill pay went through, but I was not charged the $4.

I’m actually quite proud of my accomplishments.

Another Domestic Partner Update

So I’ve already posted about the University threatening to evict us and finally granting us an exception that allows us to happily live together in sin. At the end, I said I’d be filing a complaint with the woman who screamed at Brian on the phone, rudely asked personal questions, sent us a rude email that essentially called us liars but finally granted our exception.

I called the housing main office to ask who the woman’s supervisor was. I was truly shocked to hear that she has no supervisor. She is the head of all of the Northwoods and graduate apartments.

“She’s in charge. Whoa. Serious?”
I ended up talking to someone who was her superior. So let’s hope it makes a change.

Domestic Parner Update

I blogged last week about our problems with the University’s requirement that puts Brian and I between a rock and a marriage hard place. To recap—the university requires all non student residents to be married or have a domestic partnership with their student roommate. Upon arriving, we were threatened with eviction or a legal domestic partnership.

We wrote an email to the Housing Powers That Be asking them to grant us an exception on the grounds that 1) I’d lose my insurance and 2) we could not find any mention of the requirement in the lease and 3) we were told verbally on the phone that a 2012 wedding was not a problem.

A few days ago we received the much-waited for email letting us know that we had been granted our exception. And since the woman is particularly nasty, she reiterated that the exception was given because of the insurance situation, and that we had not read the lease nor given our wedding date to the university.

We’ve decided to contact her superior.

Define "not friendly"

When Brian first decided on moving to Ann Arbor, I was nervous. I had only been in Michigan once, and it was a very unsanitary experience. What would the weather be like? Would the people be Midwest-nice? Did they have even crazier words for ATM and drinking fountain? I began to ask everyone who had lived in Michigan or Ann Arbor what the city was like. I was told several times that it was “very nice” and “not as bike friendly as Madison”. “Very nice” was good, and Brian and I weren’t bike crazy, we just took ours to and from campus mostly, with occasional side trips.

Today Brian learned what “not as bike friendly” means. Apparently, it involves every road on campus lacking a bike lane, so bikes interact freely with traffic. It also includes speed bumps while going up hill. It means that the bike ride to campus really is up hill both ways. And it means that drivers hate you.

Brian had the thrilling experience of being cut off and narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. While we know plenty of people who have had near misses or actually collisions while biking, it usually was because cars don’t notice bikes. This one definitely noticed him, because before almost hitting him the driver was yelling “Get back on the sidewalk.”

So if someone asks me what Ann Arbor is like, I’ll say “very nice” and “bike hostile.”

A shotgun partnership

We moved to Ann Arbor two weeks ago. It was Tuesday. On Thursday, we were asked to send in a copy of our marriage certificate.

“We are not married. We are engaged.”
“Congrats. When is the wedding?”
“2012.”
“That is too far away, you will have to get a Domestic Partnership.”

Apparently, although we had called ahead to confirm that we needed no legal contract between the two of us in order to live in our apartment together, we had been given incorrect information. To live as a student and non-student under the same roof, we needed a state sanctioned union of some sort.

We spoke to a rather nasty woman about the situation on the phone, explaining that I would loose my insurance (provided by momma and papa’s insurance provider) if we got married/partnershiped. Her response was to threaten us with eviction.

Eventually she backed down and asked us to write up our situation, so that her superior might review it and decide if we warrant an exception.

So now we sit and wait to see if we will be forced into a Domestic Partnership. By our landlord.