Afternoon malaise

Holy cow you guys, my stupid blogging knows no bounds. And my boredom is deeper than the blackest of seas. And my mood is blacker still. The neverending stream of stupid people who cycle through the gallery is continuing unabated today. I must hve told at least ten people that the Desiderio show isn't here today. And at least five that we don't have a bathroom. And at least five more that I don't speak Spanish, or French, or whatever-the-hell-else language they were speaking. It took me two hours to eat my lunch because of the constant interruption of dumbasses in person and on the phone, and damned if I didn't get some mystery meat in my bimibop. Or however you spell it.

If I were a praying person, I would pray for the patience to get through today, but I am not.

Instead, I write.

About nothing, apparently.

Ah, well then, let the observations of people and happenings in New York continue.

There is a grey man who comes into the gallery sometimes. Yesterday was I think the fourth time I've seen him, and I recognize him each time despite my terrible memory because he is grey. All of him. Grey. His skin is pewter colored. The first time I saw him was last winter on a particularly cold day, and he had a bike helmet in his hand. His skin was almost shining and looked silver, and I could only think that he might have had on some sort of skin-protecting silver lotion, like zinc oxide, all over his face to protect him from the cold. But then he came in again, while it was warm out, and he looked the same.

I mentioned it to a few people, and they suggested that maybe he was one of the Blue People from Kentucky. I researched it (online, of course) and discovered that there was indeed a family in Kentucky, in days of yore, that had an extremely rare congenital condition called methemoglobinemia. About a quarter of them were blue skinned. Caused by a combintion of recessive genes, this condition comes about when the blood is not able to carry enough oxygen, and as a result turns brownish blue, leaving white sufferers with a blue appearance. The condition is treatable, but extremely rare.

Methemoglobinemia can also be acquired by ingesting certain types of chemicals in oxidizing drugs, some antibiotics, local anasthetics, and others.

I'm assuming my Grey Guy has one form of this condition. Otherwise, the only conclusion I can draw is that he is indeed dead and reanimated. For a zombie, though, he knows an awful lot about sculpture.

Two amusing anecdotes

1) Firstly, despite my dreams of having a blog where I write about important issues and philosophy and world events and yadda yadda yadda, I seem incapable of sticking to that dream. When one lives in New York and works at an art gallery that attracts completely insane rich people, sometimes the stories are just too good not to tell.

On that note, yesterday I was handed a check made out to the New York Times, which was to pay them for ad space we've bought. I was to hold it at the front desk until someone from the Times came to pick it up. No big deal, I've done this before. They usually send nice people to pick up the checks.

A few hours later, I heard the elevator doors open, and a moment later saw arms flapping in the entry way. I looked up to see a grown man walking toward me, arms spread straight out to the sides, leaning from left to right as he came, and make a "whoosh" airplane noise. Like a five year old playing airplane. I thought, "Well maybe he's a little, you know, slow. No big deal."

Mr. Airplane whooshed right up to me and smiled, laying his hands on the desk. "Hi," he said. "I'm from the New York Times." He smiled and I saw that he was missing his canine teeth. From the way he spoke, he didn't sound slow at all. (Far be it for me to think someone is slow because they're having fun walking - I do strange things while walking to keep myself amused a lot. One just doesn't see it very often in a high-end gallery where everyone takes themselves VERY seriously.)

"Oh," I said, getting up to open the drawer I had the check in. "I have something for you."

As if he hadn't heard me, he continued, "I think there's a check here for me somewhere. Is your name Lynsey?"

"Yes," I said, and handed him the check. "Here's your check."

"Oh, great." He took the envelope and looked at carefully, then back at me. "You're Lynsey, right?" he asked again.

"Yes," I repeated.

"You're a good looking woman, Lynsey," he said as he turned to leave.

"Thanks," I said, holding myself back forcefully from adding "...airplane guy..." to the end of the sentence.

That's the whole story. Not oh-so-exciting. Just amusing.

2) Also, far be it for me to pass judgment on the other sex. I mostly try to refrain from being one of those "Men do this, women do that, we're so different, blah blah blah" people. Because in truth I really LIKE men, and I think that it's counterproductive to focus on differences between the sexes like I'm straight out of a Cosmo article. I think that treating the differences inherent in our biology and culture like a vast gulf between us only serves to widen that gap and increase hostility between the sexes, which helps nobody.

But, this just struck me as so amazingly true that I had to put it up:

On being bitchy

I've had a bit of an altercation with the people at ZipCar.
You see, over Turkey Day, I had rented this car to drive to Pennsylvania and back over the course of 27 hours. ZipCar is a car rental program that uses a fleet of cars, all parked in specific locations all over the city. You pick up the car you reserved for a specific trip, drive it, and return it on time, and you get low low low rates and free gas. It's pretty fantastic all around. As long as you honor the contract you sign when you become a member, it's all good.

Well, on that contract it says that before you get in the car to drive it, you must do a walk-around inspection of the car. If you find any damage, you must call the people at ZipCar to tell them about it so that you won't be billed for it if it wasn't your fault.

When I went to pick up my car the day before Thanksgiving, I was chomping at the bit to get out of the city ASAP. When my friend and I arrived at the parking garage where it was located, we found our vehicle parked in a dimly lit back corner, next a pole on one side and parked in by other cars all around it. I could clearly see the driver's side, but that was all. There didn't seem to be anything wrong it.

Now, according to the contract I signed, where I promised that I would do a complete inspection of the vehicle and call in any damages, I should have driven the car out to a well-lit place and immediately inspected it, then called in all damages. But, this being my first ZipCar experience and myself being so excited about driving, I just kept on going and assumed everything was fine. Big mistake.

Apparently there were some black paint scratches and a dent on the car after I brought it back on Thanksgiving. Thse damages MUST have been there when I picked the car up, since I didn't hit anything, and since I didn't even park the vehicle anywhere I couldn't see it for the entire time that I had it. Nobody hit it, it hit nobody, and nothing happened.

But last week, I got an e-mail from ZipCar saying that they were "investigating" damages to my car that appeared to have occurred while I had it. I e-mailed them back, explaining what had happened - and what had NOT happened. And that was all.

Over the weekend, during which I was in Pennsylvania dealing with a terrible tragedy, attending a funeral, and generally being out of touch with the rest of the world, I had two missed calls from ZipCar and no access to my e-mail. When I returned to new York on Monday I was so exhausted that I hardly remember getting to my apartment, where I slept for the rest of the day.

Yesterday morning, my first day back to work after my horrific weekend, I received an e-mail from Zipcar alerting me that, after an "investigation" that did not include actually speaking to me about what had happened, the Powers That Be decided I had been responsible for the damage. They tried to stick me with the maximum bill allowed on the ZipCar member contract: $500.

So I called the guy at ZipCar and explained to him that I hadn't been able to see the whole car when I picked it up, that I realized I could have given it a look later on, but that I had been so nervous and excited that I'd just taken off. I told him I was sorry for not having done so and called in all damages I saw, but that I had not been responsible for them and that I had two passengers who could back me up on that. I told him where I had gone and where I had parked the car and for how long.

He said that he could lower the amount that I owed since I seemed sincere and since it was my first experience with ZipCar, but that since I had not called in the damages, and since they had been reported after my time with the car, he could draw no other conclusion than that I had caused them. He lowered my bill to $250, I thanked him, and that was the end of it.

Well, after this had all gone down, I got word from the two friends who had been in the car with me on my trip. They both told me that I should have bitched and moaned and made a huge stink about the whole thing. That I should have told the ZipCar guy that it was a breach of their end of the contract for not having the car placed in a well-lit, open area where I could do a walk-around inspection. That I should have denied responsibility for anything and demanded to talk to higher-ups until I got someone on the phone who would take all the charges off my account. That I should have been a bitch, rather than be held responsible.

I thought about it. I really did. After all, I know that I'm not responsible for those scratches or that dent. In all likelihood, the person who had the car directly before me banged it up and didn't report it, and that person is sitting back on his ass laughing right now about the poor sucker who got stuck with the bill. And that really sucks for me. I mean, since when should I have to pay $250 for something I didn't do?

But the truth is that I still cling to an antiquated belief in three things that might make me old-fashioned, but I don't care. Those things are: responsibility for one's actions, accountability for those same actions, and keeping one's word. It might be silly of me, since in this case it's costing me way more than I want to pay. But no matter how firmly I know and believe that I didnt mess up the car, I refuse to ignore the fact that I signed my name to a contract which bound me to do something I just didn't do. I knew at the time that I should have done it. I knew I had promised to do it. And I didn't. I threw caution to the wind and decided that I'd do what I damn well pleased, consequences be damned.

Well, the consequences came knocking, and it turns out that while I might have the power to tell them to go to hell, they have a piece of paper with my name signed on it, which says that I'm responsible. And while I might have it within my grasp to scream and whine and caterwaul until those consequences go away - if I'm bitchy enough - I choose not to do that.

These days I know plenty of people who seem to get out of everything by being intractably rude to customer service people, who refuse to be held responsible for any expenses they have incurred or damages they have caused or problems they have initiated, just because they are able to make a big enough stink. I have been told over and over, and have witnessed the proof, that people who are willing to be total assholes can and do get what they want. And especially in a PC, customer-service focused, poor-me, I-could-sue-you-for-this-and-probably-win climate like the one we're in today in America, it's true. You can get into or out of just about anything you want if you're willing to overlook your own responsibilities in favor of being a rancid bitch.

But I'm not into the idea of suing some just because you can, or revoking promises you made just because it hurts to go through with them. Maybe this makes me stupider than noble, but I'm going to stick by it. And I'll freely admit that I'm a huge wimp when it comes to sticking up for myself. But I do know when I'm being walked on, and this time I wasn't. After all, I knew what I should have done. I signed something saying I'd do it. And I didn't. And now it's landed me in a big old hole. But, next time, I'll damn well do that inspection.