More that I have learned from watching BBC murder mysteries, part 3

More things I have learned...

1. If the aristocracy is involved, there will be revelations of surprise children and sometimes incest. (That gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Are you my mother?")

2. Revenge is a motive no matter how tenuous. "A bell ringer once ruined my ancestor! Therefore, will kill all the bell ringers in this village, even though it is 300 years hence!" (This was in an episode. Really.)

3. The boytoys and trophy girlfriends are always (surprise!) using the older partners for their money. Hey, at least it gets revealed in fiction, as opposed to real life.

4. A clue that will later reveal the mystery will be found in a book, or a song, or a diary.

5. The friendliest person or the person with the best accent is usually the sociopathic killer.

6. The American accents are terrible! Guys, find American actors to do American parts, and we'll do the same, yeah?

7.  Learning the language:"Workshy" equals "lazy bum." This is me improving my British.

8. The murderer, before being found out, will inevitably cry and say, "I loved him/her!" Not as much as a blowup doll, apparently.

9. Even in small counties, public safety offices have TONS of resources. Like enough to spontaneously fly a helicopter to Wales, for instance.

10. You make up the last one. I need some more laughs today.

Meet Mandrake! (Crazy cat lady post.)

Our dear Earl Grey lost his battle with kidney disease last week. My dad tried to console me that he had a great life, and paid me a backhanded compliment: "You're so good to your cats! You're almost as nice to people!"

We thought we'd see how Vasil McNut did as an only cat, but immediately, he turned into a needy, yowling fuckface, so we got him a brother.

Meet Mandrake! The shelter we adopted him from was calling him Candy Cane. We thought that was a bit ridiculous, and Mandrake sounds close enough that he already knows his name.

Does he look like a big Oreo cookie or what? And he has adorable white socks.

Doesn't he look serious? (Portrait by Mr. RK. I told him he could go into pet photography. And yes, there is a sideline of business in that area.)

He and Vasil are becoming buddies. Stay tuned for lolcats.

Oh hell, why wait?

My dad is right - they do lead the good life (see Vasil below.)

Do you find any of these things annoying on a Monday?

1. It's daylight savings time, AND the Monday after getting back from a trip the evening before. Translation: I'm fucking wiped.

2. People who keep mentioning how great it is that it's DST, because we get an extra hour of light tonight! Fine, then give me the extra hour of sleep you lost and we will call it even.

2. My boss forgot to bring some goodies for some of our volunteers that he went to meet with in another part of the state. That's not the annoying part. The annoying part is that I am totally inept at taping up a package with the tape gun. Why the fuck can't I master this thing? (OK, it's not just me; my dad has copped to the same inability.) It twists, it turns, it tangles, it won't tear, and the only time the spikey tear strip thing works is when it slips and the spikes get me.

3. A friend who texted last night about porn is texting today about work stuff. Would that be confusing for you, mentally? Perhaps it's just me and DST.

4. A colleague asking me about a question regarding something that he is in charge of, and that I have no clue about, hinting that I should investigate. This being the same coworker who doesn't ever offer to do anything outside his job description unless I specifically request it, and if I do, he then says, "I don't know when I'll have time..."

5. A large espresso drink just isn't large enough. I mean, size matters.

How was your Monday? And more importantly, can any of you handle the tape gun without any mishaps or injuries? Inquiring minds want to know.

In better news, though, I read that Tardar Sauce the Grumpy Cat is a bigger attraction at SXSW than Al Gore! Well, duh.

Old and boring, still paying for coffee

I was talking to my little brother B the other day, and I asked him what was new.

"Nothing."
So I asked him what was old and boring.
He giggled. "You!"

I told him I'd remember that when he wanted me to drive him to get coffee in my cool red car.

And somehow I am still obsessing over that remark (you would, too!) I started reading a book yesterday and the main character is 37 (a year older than me) and some of the other characters in the book are starting in on her that she needs to hurry up and get hitched and multiply because she's pushing it at her age. Ahem.

Then I was talking to a friend who is several years older than me, and somehow we got into a discussion about this very topic.  Each year, he recruits a huge team (about 100 people) to bring to our walk, and they always have a theme. Last year they were pirates; this year, they're going as people from the 1960s.

I asked him if they were going to do tie dye and dreads.

"Maybe! It's too bad we aren't half an hour further north, or we could all smoke pot!" (Washington state legalized it a few months ago.)

Then we both agreed that we couldn't stand being around potheads, and that neither of us had smoked that in God knows how long and then we started feeling...old.

Here I am, hoping that my 17-year-old brother doesn't ever try a cigarette, lecturing my friend's 16-year-old son about drugs and drinking. Does that make me old? I'd like to think, if I make it that long, that I'll be the Ruth Gordon of my generation and wear miniskirts and be outrageous as a senior citizen.

Would I have listened to anyone about this stuff back in high school? Probably not...

Somehow, despite B's insulting joke, I still ended up bringing him expensive chocolate and I am sure I will be buying his coffees on this visit (I am in California with family for a few days.)

Old and boring is debatable, but definitely still a sucker!

I'm one of them

I had an exchange of emails with someone at work who was asking for resource assistance. The way her email was worded, it sounded like a provider, so I asked if she was.

She wrote back a kind of snippy reply, chastising me for my "assumption," and then she made one of her own: "I'm one of them, not one of you."

And then I had an email exchange with a volunteer today, agreeing that we really need to highlight the fact that our events aren't just about raising money, but about changing minds. Not "raising awareness." Changing minds. Blasting stereotypes out of the water. 

Every year I write a post to ask for donations for an event I'm in charge of at work, and the point isn't only to raise funds (and thank you for all of you who have donated, and for those of you who can't, thank you for the good wishes), but also to write on the off chance that someone who reads this might not feel so alone.

I'm one of "them." The one in four American adults living with mental illness. We're your neighbors, your coworkers, the people serving you at Starbucks - but most of us don't dare talk about it. So the upshot is that many people don't get help.

I have been very lucky in my life. I didn't know how lucky until I came to work where I work. I've always had support of family and friends, and, for the past nearly 9 years, a wonderful partner, during my tough times. I've always been able to afford, or have family help me afford, the treatment I needed.

I know when the nightmares happen, I'll have someone to hold me until I fall back asleep. When the days hit where I don't see the point of getting up and putting one foot in front of the other, there are people telling me I can do it.

So many people don't.

So many of them have no one.

So many of them can't afford the care they need, or if they can afford it, they can't access it.

Humorous posts aside, this is why I do what I do. My organization runs on a shoestring. We don't charge for any of our programs or services. We have tons of volunteers helping us out - many of them with their own mental health ups and downs, or family members' ups and downs - because we want people to be able to talk about it. And we want people to get the help they need. This can only happen in the context of a broader social conversation.

My walk team is named in memory and in honor of a friend of mine who never got the help he needed. He was shuffled through the Medicaid system and died of a preventable illness.

In short, he was treated, like many people in the system, like a throwaway person.

Adults living with mental illness die an average of 25 years before the rest of the adult population, mostly from preventable illnesses - just like my friend. And suicide is the second-leading cause of death of young people in my state.

It still blows me away. Such big numbers, so many people affected, but as a society, we don't talk about it unless something terrible happens, and mental illness is suspected as the culprit. So many suffer silently.

So we walk, although some days we feel like pounding the pavement, or even hitting it.

And that is why I ask for help, if you can. Whether that's a donation or simply giving people our information if you think they need help.

The conversation starts with you.

There's a reason the villain has a twirly moustache

A few posts ago, I wrote about the affectations of a moustachioed hipster I had to work with in the context of planning an event for work.

Now, this is a post for laughter - not for whining - but also to prove that, yes, it's true! The guy with the long moustaches is always the villain.

Yosemite Sam...

Bill the Butcher...

 

Snidely Whiplash...

The Purple Pie Man. You get the point.

I arrive and he fails to tell me there is a loading zone. He gets me a parking space that's the equivalent of several long city blocks away from the event space.

Now, if you're ever done events or even been to an event, you'll note that there are things to bring - in this case, packets of info, pens, fliers, etc. Which makes for a very heavy box.

Halfway to my destination from the faraway lot, thinking my arms are going to snap like twigs, I flag down a guy with a little cart and beg for help. (This, after several people who have seen me struggling to carry the box discreetly look away and keep walking.)

Luckily, he is the guy bringing the food to my event. (Note: the trays of food weigh less than my box, and he has a cart! I only have arms. How does this happen?)

I get there and Mr. Twirly Moustache, who was supposed to meet me, is a no-show. The signs that are supposed to be outside directing people to the event are also MIA.

And of course, I have left my phone in the car.

I run back and when I get there, my volunteers still aren't there - because there are no signs, and they're totally lost.

45 minutes after he is supposed to have met me, a pissed-off looking Mr. Twirly Moustache appears and tells me, "I dropped everything because I got a call that you wanted to see me!"

I ask him where the signs are.

"They got rained on."

Hello. This is the NORTHWEST,  in WINTER. There is rain virtually every day. Why didn't he put them in plastic?

Did I mention the room is also set up exactly the way I asked him not to set it up? And that they forgot to give us silverware?

I am not making this up. I wanted to unroll those windy moustaches and give them a good hard yank.

Fortunately, the event itself was a success and our members were happy, even if they had to eat with their fingers.

But the moral of the story is...if you see twirly moustaches, run. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Things I would really, really like to say, but won't

Except here. Now, I should state that the bulk of people are fantastic advocates. A handful are a huge pain in the ass and time vampires and did I mention I have PMS? And will be happy when the upcoming event is over? Because I am SO tired of hearing:

"Where are we meeting (at the event)?"
At the place listed, address included, on the registration form that you filled out.

"Where exactly is the building?
On the map I emailed you. Twice.

"Can you send me a list of bullet points about that legislation?"
For the third time, or the fourth?

"I know the registration deadline was two weeks ago, and you're full, but can't you make an exception for me?"
Why, yes! I can physically expand the room we're in and miraculously clear legislative calendars, just to make room for you!

"When is it again?"
The times are listed on the same form you filled out and then, apparently, burned, so you could bother me.

"Should I bring quarters for parking?"
Maybe you could skateboard and save yourself the trouble.

"But I don't want to wait until (X time) to meet with (legislator X.) Couldn't you get me something earlier?"
Yes, I could have, but I decided that you had nothing better to do. It has nothing to do with the fact that they're in the middle of a legislative session and their calendars are extremely tight.

"Why can't I meet with (legislator X) even though I don't live in his/her district?"
Because I don't like you, that's why.

Wish me luck...and patience. The other night, as we were watching Dr. Who, I heard my new favorite quote: "Patience is for wimps!"

Mr. RK said, "You have found your spirit guide!"