The Mothra Effect, or: sensitive dependence on unexpected conditions

What happened was this: I was on the phone to cancel my credit card, having left my wallet on the plane, having called the airline and been told to fill out the form online, having insisted that I’d just gotten off the plane, that my wallet was definitely on the plane, that please could they connect me to the San Francisco desk as they’d probably found it by now, being on hold only to learn that no, my wallet had not yet been discovered, having gotten mad at myself for doing such a dumb thing, having only left my wallet on the plane in the first place because I’d gotten it out to pay for drinks, two whiskey gingers, having not been charged for the drinks, having said quietly to my boyfriend, woohoo, free drinks, and having not put my wallet back in my purse, having forgotten about it, having exited the plane.

So I was on the phone with Chase to cancel my credit card. The customer service rep expresses sympathy with me for having lost my card, offers to put a 48-hour hold on my card, I agree, and he asks me,

So, what’s it like, living in California…

[I laugh]

...with that movie San Andreas coming out?

What movie? I ask, I don’t know anything about it.

You know, it’s about the earthquake, the big disaster.

Ok, I say, I definitely know about the San Andreas fault, but I don’t know anything about the movie.

But what’s it like living so close to that?

I don’t really worry about it, I laugh again. I’ve lived in California almost my whole life, and I don’t really think about it.

I like your attitude about it, he responded approvingly.

You can’t really predict earthquakes, anyway, I add, so I don’t see the point in worrying.

But aren’t you concerned that there could be disaster at any moment?

I mean, everywhere is a little bit like that, right? Some places have hurricanes, tornadoes, tsunamis.

Yeah, but doesn’t it concern you that disaster could strike at any moment?

Well, really, the way they exaggerate these things for movies, too. I mean, Hollywood. You know, the last big earthquake we had here, that broke the bridge, only one person died, and that was because they were doing something weird with their car. The way they depict it in movies, it just doesn’t match the historical reality.

And wasn’t that with Mothman, too?

Ok, what? I laugh hugely. Mothman? What is Mothman?

You know, half-moth, half-man.

Wait, what does this have to do with earthquakes?

They saw it on the bridge, right? Before the earthquake.

I don’t know what you’re talking about man, I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality here.

Yeah, well, it is 1:30am here in Florida, so…

All right. I don’t know. No one in San Francisco talks about Mothman.

You can watch it on Animal Planet, look for Lost Tapes.

I definitely will.

And I did.

I don't think I even want to know why this is happening

Sponsored links in gmail. Give a girl a break, why don't you.

the doorbell saga, exhibit A

this was the cause of earlier trouble. The screw pictured below has since been replaced with one of proper size and color.

Unfortunately, of the wrong type. We have again received complaints. Stupidly, we used a screw with a slotted head when we should have used a Phillips. It does clash dreadfully.

ring my bell

It always surprises me when people live up (or down?) to their cultural stereotypes.

I live in a "WG" (pronounced "Vay-geh;" short for Wohngemeinshaft, or shared apartment) with two other people. Our WG is in a four-story apartment building. There are eight flats. In Germany, or at least in Bavaria, there are no apartment numbers. Instead, the building has a number and each person's mailbox in the hallway has their name on it and that's how we get our mail. Outside our apartment building we have a shiny brass plate sort of thing with everyone's name next to their respective doorbell. The names are not engraved; rather, your name is on a little piece of paper inside a sort of slipcase. In January, when I moved in, we updated our nameplate and mailbox accordingly. Unfortunately, in the process of doing so we lost one of the tiny brass screws that affixes our nameplate to the wall. We tightened the other screw, though, and the name plate sat quite correctly in its proper position, nicely parallel to the one below it. However, about three weeks ago, one of our neighbors stopped one of my roommates on the stairs and said we really should replace the screw. (Did I mention that we are by far the youngest people in the building? The next closest in age are in their late thirties, I suppose. The oldest is probably around seventy.) As of just over two weeks ago, the screw has been replaced.

We received a hand-written note today in our mailbox. Dear WG, it said, It would be nice if you would replace the screw on your name plate with one that matches...It would be so nice if it didn't look "messy." Kind regards, Your Neighbor.

I find the anonymity amusing. And it's true, the screw we used to replace the one that disappeared (despite much searching!) amid the tiny stones and dirt of the flowerbed doesn't match. It's silver and it's slightly too big (this was a tiny, tiny screw), so it sticks out from the frame by about one centimeter. Clearly, this is an eyesore.

So, my plans for Monday (every single store is closed in Bavaria on a Sunday) include going to the hardware store to search for a tiny, tiny brass screw.

I won't ask for a cup of sugar anytime soon.

I try and I try but I don't understand

I'm not sure why it is that cosmetic surgery which is in no way medically necessary is not considered malpractice. My assumption would be that it has something to do with profit, and perhaps lobbying groups. And of course in the background everyone is singing "America's a free country and people should be able to do whatever the hell they want," which is our real national anthem.

Why anyone would want such breasts is almost beyond me to imagine. But I'll try. Some mix of self-aggrandizement and insecurity, stirred with a generous measure of societal pressure and garnished with the tantalizing knowledge of inevitable and instant internet celebrity convinced this woman that this was what she wanted. More: that this was what she deserved. She had to leave the country to get it done, since the amount of silicone she's had implanted in her body exceeds the legal limit.

This woman is married and has children. Surely they're past breast-feeding age. Assuming the claims made on her website are true, why is a woman who can speak five languages wasting her time and money on 18 different plastic surgeries? I've wondered for some time whether girls who have always been very pretty are never encouraged to pursue anything intellectual, or to evaluate themselves based on any other criteria. To feel self-esteem for any reason other than people's response to your attractiveness. I don't know Sheyla Hershey. In her photo, she looks as though without all the surgery she might actually be cute. Too bad she has terrifyingly large, potentially life-threatening breasts that overwhelm my ability to notice much else about her (and she's five foot three! It's so wildly disproportionate!). Two bronze beach balls stuck to her chest. How will she ever buy a bra? Or a blouse? Or a dress? I bet she develops back problems.

I can't imagine what they feel like.

it's a great time to have a hero

I never would have said this in high school, but I really, really want to be a cheerleader.

For Kima Greggs.


Actually, think I want to be her sidekick. Yes, that’s more like it. I would REALLY like to be her sidekick. As far as I can see, the only potential obstacles that could possibly prevent me from achieving this goal are:
- she’s a fictional character
- her show is over
- she doesn’t really need a sidekick

Aside from that, I don’t anticipate any problems.

If you haven’t watched The Wire, which yes I know is over, but I am slow – and perennially dragging my feet at the end of the pop-culture parade, long after the band, the mayor, the beauty queens, and the float for the county feed store – and so I’m only partway through the second of five seasons. Thus far, at any rate, Kima Greggs is a hard-ass, semi-butch, wise-cracking, take-no-shit, African American lesbian cop. What a non-stereotypical television character, and yet the show is written in a way that shows the variety of human experience and nature, rather than dealing in easily recognizable cardboard people. So she doesn't stand out as "different," she's not a foil for a cute blond ladycop. Kima ain't no lady. Don't take my word for it, she'll tell you. I’m having a hard time recalling when – if ever – I admired a fictional tv character to this extent. Probably the closest runner-up is Alex Mack, but that was when I was about 12, so a few things have changed since then.

But how could I respond with anything but unbridled enthusiasm for a female character that is smart, confident, pragmatic, tough, funny, bold, unintimidated and unimpressed by the shenanigans and horseplay of her less committed and generally less intelligent colleagues, who are almost uniformly male. I think Sonja Sohn, the actor who plays Kima, is nothing short of tremendously perfect in the role, to understate the case a bit. I wondered briefly whether I was more interested in the actor or the character, and quickly decided that while I’d be happy to see Sohn do something else in the future, Kima Greggs is the one I’m really rooting for. And I do mean rooting – I watch Kima with nothing short of glee, occasionally augmented by verbal encouragement. This is how I find myself at times: alone in my room, watching a 4-year old tv program on my laptop; generally silent, but with occasional cheers.

Which tangentially, reminds me of when I was grocery shopping this evening. There was an old lady, who seemed more than a bit off. She was walking in uneven circles, pushing her cart around the store, and talking out loud. At one point I saw her stop in front of the Haribo display, and start singing in a warbly voice “Hallelujah” over and over, until she quit because she started laughing. For a moment I thought: she’s crazy, and then I thought: no, she’s just like me, only louder.