...and after

STIPIMM: "Let it Snow," by Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn

18 inches, ladies and gentlemen.


Yes, Phoebe is somewhere under there.

Bridget

STIPIMM: Roman Catholic recessional song: "Whatsoever you do, to the least of my people, that you do unto me."

A couple of weeks ago, I helped Bridget put together a video for her mother’s 50th birthday. It consisted of Bridget telling the story of her mom’s life in pictures, most of which were taken from her mom’s photo albums. And of course, since Bridget plays a major part in her mother’s life, I got to see a lot of pictures of my dear wife as she was growing up.

And by golly, she was such a cute kid. (Almost) always smiling, always cherubic, always looking like Bridget. Since shortly after we met, I’ve always teased her about her tendency to tilt her head to one side as she’s posing for a picture, and sure enough, she’s been doing that since she was little.

But as cute as she was (and is!), one thing that she was not was skinny. Looking at the pictures, she was never fat, per se (there are plenty of kids who look like that, but she wasn’t one of them), but she definitely had more to her body than other kids her age. And of course, kids being what they are (i.e., mean), that made her fat.

School was hell for Bridget. She’s been told by therapists that her history qualifies under the clinical definition of traumatic childhood, and it’s hard to disagree with that: mean, vituperative, nasty, undeserved behavior directed toward Bridget, ranging from name-calling to outright social sabotage. Girls who essentially made it their mission to make Bridget’s life miserable through rumors and other petulant behavior.

I myself didn’t have a terrible time in school. I certainly wasn’t popular, but I didn’t need validation from my classmates, so if ever a social problem presented itself, I tended to keep my head down and try to remain invisible. Gregarious loudmouth... I mean, people person that she is, Bridget didn’t really have that option. And she did seek out validation, because her own self-esteem was already so low.

Hearing Bridget’s story sometimes reminds me of a girl who was in my grade in Mustang. Her name was Penny Willoughby and she was in my 5th grade class with Mrs. McLaughlin. Like Bridget, she wasn’t fat, but she wasn’t skinny, and she talked a lot, so she stood out. She was often singled out for teasing and picking on by the rest of the class, and though I don’t remember it, I was probably guilty of it once or twice. I know I thought of her as an annoying loudmouth, so even if I didn’t pick on her, I certainly didn’t go out of my way to be nice to her.

But at the same time, I often felt sorry for her, because she didn’t deserve the treatment she got from the class. No kid deserves it.

And so, I look back on Bridget’s childhood, and I look at those pictures of her, and think of all the crap that was being flung at her on a regular basis by people her age, and it makes me want to cry. There’s my Bridget, smiling with pride, holding the very first cake she had ever made. When I see the picture, it makes me happy. God knows what the kids at school would have said if they had seen that picture; they probably would ruined what was a deservedly proud moment for Bridget. An enormous amount of pain is under the surface of those pictures, even if wasn’t in Bridget’s mind at the time they were taken. If I reflect on it too much, as I am now, I get very sad and angry.

Anyone who was ever picked on or faced teasing as a child holds a special place in the darkest part of their souls for the people who tormented them. Even as time and maturity heal most of the wounds, there are still some scars that never fully heal. I don’t have anybody on my “kill” list from my childhood, but there are only two people (from high school and college) who the black part of my heart would love to see suffer. Bridget, though she’d probably never admit to wanting to kill them, has a much longer and more painful list (indeed, my two are rather petulant choices, hers are visceral).

She actually ran into one of those on her list by total accident a couple of years ago on the streets of Silver Spring. I won’t go into the whole story here, but suffice to say, it was a conversation full of pleasantries and, of course, no recognition from the other person of the suffering she had placed upon Bridget. It was as though two people who were in the same class but never talked to each other had bumped into each other years later. Not for Bridget. No, no, no. It didn’t dredge up all the old feelings of childhood, but it did dredge up some, and Bridget had a lot of thinking to do in the days thereafter.

What I’m about to say will sound strange, but knowing what I know about Bridget’s childhood pain, and the people who did such terrible shit to her, if Bridget had come home that day and asked me to help her stalk and ruin the life of this woman she bumped into, I would have unquestioningly agreed to do so. Especially if it was going to be something as benign as the “Friends” episode where Chandler, as an adult, gets his clothes stolen by a girl he tormented in school (who, as an adult, was very hot), but even if it was something more vicious. Yes, yes, revenge is not mature and healthy, blah blah blah... We Kiowa are patient people and are particularly fond of long-awaited revenge.

But I’m not writing today to express my willingness to inflict pain on my wife’s tormentors. I’m here to celebrate her. I’m here to celebrate that little girl who endured so much, cried so hard, and felt so alone, and yet still managed to smile her bright, beautiful smile. Her life improved as she moved to South Carolina, and her friends and family have kept her grounded ever since, all leading up to the time when she walked through the snow one February morning and met a very lucky graduate student near his home in Tenleytown.

I wish I could have known her as a child. I wish I could have been her friend and stood up for her when the assholes started being mean. I wish I could have given her some of the validation she so desperately sought (and deserved) from her peers.

But I have her now, and I may not need to stand up for her in the face of others any more, but I would be glad to do so. And every day, when she flashes me that smile, the same smile that was recorded onto film so many times as she grew up, I feel at home – comfort just emanates from her and I am so lucky, so, so very lucky, to be the recipient of that love. I hope that, everyday, I am able to show her just how much she means to me, how much she makes me happy, and how glad I am just to have her around.

I love you so very much, Bridget.

Happy birthday, my love.

(And what happened to Penny Willoughby? She got addicted to meth and spent two years in jail. No, I'm not making this up.)

We pawk our caw in Brighton

STIPIMM: “Sisters,” by Irving Berlin

We finally broke down and did it. Bridget and I are 100% legal in the commonwealth of Massachusetts. We both have our driver’s licenses, and perhaps more importantly, we registered Phoebe, our beautiful gray Saturn, with Massachusetts tags.

It took some teeth-pulling to get to this point, and indeed, all the wrinkles haven’t been ironed out. But we’re pretty much there. We had been doing so well for several months, taking the T wherever we needed, walking to places that were within range. But then, it became clear that once H&R Block was through, I would have to have a way to get to all the various places I wanted to interview at, and if I ended up getting a job, I’d have to have a way of getting there. So, early last month, we began the process of making Phoebe legal. In Massachusetts, that’s a four-step process:

1) Getting insurance: The whole reason we didn’t want to get the car registered in the state to begin with. It turns out that, despite all the boo-hooing you hear from people about how bad the rates are up here, they’re not really that much worse than what I was used to down in the Delmarva area (that’s the first time I’ve ever used that stupid word!). Once we figured that out, and were ready to dip our toe into the frightening world of Massachusetts insurance, the next problem was where to get it. Because the state regulates insurance so heavily, there are only a handful of insurers available (boo hoo to the insurers), and none of them are as easy to spot as a State Farm agent would be in other parts of the country. Instead, we pretty much had to throw a dart on the map of the insurers in the area and just walk into their offices.

The one we picked (the main criterion was that, instead of some funky business name like Windmill Insurance or Viking Fidelity [made-up names], it was actually someone’s name: John Ryan Insurance, which of course, screams folksy, and mom-and-pop [which it turned out to be!]) was just down the road from our apartment, which is nice. More importantly, they made the process extremely easy, walking us through what we needed, and what our options were. No pressure, no nothing. Moreover, they made the next two steps of the process easier by preparing all the materials we’d need for it and telling us exactly what we’d have to do. [Paid for by John Ryan Insurance]

2) Registering the car: More standing in line at the MVA or the DMV or the RMV or whatever the hell they call it up here. Not very exciting, just handing over the title and a hefty chunk of change in exchange for new license plates and registration. The title came in the mail yesterday, which sparked this “all-official” post.

3) Getting Phoebe inspected: There were actually two inspections we had to do, both of which got done at the same time. One was the usual state inspection, which I’m always paranoid my cars will fail, even though they never have. The other required inspection was one asked for (and paid for) by the insurance company to make sure the car was in one piece before they insured it. Easy and straightforward. Indeed, where states like Maryland and D.C. (yeah, I called it a state... fuck you) have complicated inspections that could take hours at a time, the Massachusetts one was done in about 10 minutes. I think the commonwealth still has a way to go if it wants to uphold its reputation as having the worst bureaucracy in America.

4) Getting a resident parking sticker: Had to go to City Hall for that, which was a pain for parking purposes (downtown Boston – not fun for driving). But since I had actually read the website in advance and knew what I needed to bring to prove my residency, it was a fairly easy task. Again, Massachusetts falling behind on the red tape. As a new resident of the commonwealth, I just have to say: we can do better.

And so, with the tags on, the inspection done and the resident sticker affixed to the back window, Phoebe became a resident of the city of Boston (or Brighton, however you want to look at it). We now get to park her virtually wherever we want on the streets of our neighborhood, which is a nice change from the 10-minute walk we used to have to endure to park her in the non-resident areas. Even so, we’ve still learned one key thing about parking in our neighborhood: don’t go anywhere Friday or Saturday night unless you want to do some walking from the parking spot you’re able to find. Are all those extra cars party-goers who are just parking illegally? I dunno, but they sure do fill the streets. Nevertheless, the walk home from those parking spots is still much better than the hefty trek we used to have to take, regardless of what day it was. It’s good to have a car again!

Bank error in your favor

STIPIMM: “(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love and Understanding,” by Elvis Costello

The nascent McKenzie household has faced a number of financial woes since August. Of course, if you’ve read any of my whining about it lately, then you know all about it. We’re actually not that bad off though; Bridget’s loan money has provided a bit of cushion in the post-H&R Block days, and I will be getting a nice chunk of bonus from them in a couple of weeks. So we’re not eating Ramen noodles yet, and we’re confident that things will pick up.

But it is true, we have been living paycheck to paycheck, and it has been rough at times. In all this, though, there has been one bright light, one that has little present-day impact, but has added to our Net Worth in Quicken and given me something to do other than look at all the debt we have piled up. When Bridget and I got married in August, she unwittingly brought a sizable dowry with her in the form of a 401(k) pension from her last employer in D.C.

Now, when I say sizable, different people will have different ideas of what that means. Well, it’s not chicken scratch, but it certainly isn’t gargantuan; I mean, Bridget was there for five years and didn’t contribute a dime to it, so you know it can only be so big. But, since she was there for five years, the money that the company put into her fund is fully vested to her. And since her troth is my troth and all that... ka-ching!

We found out about it... nay, I found out about it when we got a quarterly statement from the fund company with details about her holdings. I didn’t quite understand at first what it all meant – I had a similar arrangement with the first company I worked for in Oklahoma, but since I had only worked there for two years, none of it was vested, and it was gone when I left, so I figured this was the same. But no, there was that line saying that it was 100% vested, and so, well, it was all hers... um... ours.

This was a boon, but an inconsequential one. First off, we couldn’t touch the money right now even if we wanted to. Well, I suppose we could touch some of it, but the tax and penalties would make it very not worth it. And second, it really isn’t that darn much, so what would be the point? As far as Bridget and I are concerned, this money is almost like Monopoly money right now. It’s just there theoretically and someday, in 30+ years, it might matter.

But since it is an investment account, that means we get to be investors! Suddenly, Bridget and I are players on the seas of international finance! Yes, our stake on that sea amounts to little more than a life-preserver, but it’s still something. Most importantly to a financial nerd like me, it gives me a chance to move the Monopoly money around into different investment accounts.

Because Bridget knew nothing little about the fund before I filled her in on it, it was fully invested in the default safe, low-yield trust fund account that the company had. I only know so much about 401(k)s and mutual funds, but I know enough to know that young folk like us are advised to put a fair chunk of their money in higher-yield accounts that can endure the long-term ups and downs of the market. And so, the first thing I did after getting online access to the fund, was to move them into “growth funds.”

In doing so, I got to learn about one part of Quicken that I had never used before: investment portfolios! I can track the daily progress of our investments there with cool graphs and charts, which show how much Monopoly money we’ve gained or lost.

Of course, as any day trader will tell you, watching the progress of your money can get addictive. Fortunately, these funds only update once a day, so it’s not as though I can sit at the computer constantly hitting Update watching the minute-by-minute fluctuations. But you can bet that most evenings, after the markets have closed, Chris goes into Quicken to get the daily quotes.

Lately, however, the evening quotes have me wondering if Bridget and I have invested in Baltic and Mediterranean. The past week since all the funds have been put in different higher-risk accounts have seen steady declines in the funds. But even losses are kind of fun for this financial geek; Quicken gives you detailed lists of exactly how much Monopoly money you’ve lost or gained. Kind of cathartic in a strange way.

But either way, to both Bridget and I (especially Bridget), the money’s not really there in the first place, except as a theoretical entity. So all this doesn’t really matter; but in 30 years, it would be better if this nest egg had been fruitful and multiplied instead of being run into the ground. We shall see...

God bless America

Umemployment

STIPIMM: “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” by Irving Berlin

Last Tuesday, I walked out of the offices of H&R Block for the last time this season, officially unemployed. It is the first time in almost 10 years (since July 1996) that I have been without employment, without income, and without prospect (not counting the transitional phase of this past summer). (The biking documentary is still on, but it’s been delayed for a couple of reasons, which I shan’t go into here.)

I’ve been looking for jobs pretty much every day on the usual sources online. And there have been a variety of things that I’ve gotten nibbles from those hunts. But for my two months of searching (actually, I’ve been searching since October, but who’s counting), I’ve gotten absolutely no nibbles from the kind of jobs I’m looking for: long-term, decent paying, and film/video-related.

What about the Avid software job I interviewed at? Not long-term; it was a two- to three-month contract job. And besides, I didn’t get it – it’s a large company, with lots of internal moving around; i.e., if I wanted to get a job there, it would have to be all the way at the bottom working up.

I interviewed at another place last month that was looking for editors, but they were only paying $10/hour (one of those lame places that hopes that the passion you have for the work will stifle the hunger you have at not being able to pay for food). There are a couple of other things that wanted me for various things, but don’t want to pay me much or anything. I’m past the point of working just for experience or deferrals.

Everything else... no go. No responses for teaching jobs. No calls for interviews for openings at production houses. I haven’t even been called back for grunt A/V kinds of places.

In somewhat of desperation, I’m going to a meeting at a freelance booking agency that books gigs for professional film folk in the Boston area. I’m trying to be hopeful, but I’m realistically pessimistic for two reasons: 1) I’ll probably end up only able to get jobs at the bottom end of the totem pole; and 2) god only knows how many people are in line for booking.

Truth is, Boston is just not a good town for my kind of work. I slowly came to this realization over the past few months, and as much as I try not to get glum about it, it’s very true. Not a lot of films get made in Boston, and it’s not just because it’s cold: a combination of local ordinances, fees and permits (including paying for police service that, gee, comes free in other localities), mixed in with a corrupt web of unions, makes it a very inhospitable place for both film and video production, be it narrative, documentary or whatever. David Mamet is one of the only filmmakers who likes to regularly brave the system and make movies around here (e.g., “Spartan” and “State and Main”), but that’s about it.

Bridget broke my heart the other day when she told me that “you should look for the kind of jobs you want for a month, and then look for the jobs you’d settle for after that.” Truth is, I’ve been looking and applying for both of those since December, and the latter category ain’t looking too hot so far either.

And again, I will make the exhortation to all readers that any comments that include anything about "something will come along" or "if one door closes, another one opens" or anything similar, will either be promptly deleted or openly mocked.