Warning! Doppler radar!

Whoa wait a minute – what’s with this tornado business? Nobody warned me about this when I moved here! I knew tornadoes existed from The Wizard of Oz, but I thought they were only found in MGM scripts. Besides, tornadoes aren’t something you’d intuitively take under consideration when looking at prospective areas to call home. Does the city have a high percentage of employment? Are the school systems decent? Does it have a low crime rate? Is there a chance I’ll be sucked up into a life-threatening 150mph tunnel of wind?

I hail originally from Arizona, where there is no weather, only heat. Someone once asked me what we did for fun during those 120-degree days (i.e. all of them). I told him truthfully, “We sat on the couch and whined.’” We couldn’t get up from the couch if we wanted to, because we had become stuck to it.

Then I moved to New York where I discovered there is more than one season. Colorful trees in autumn, sparkling snow in winter that decorated the city in birthday cake frosting. And when the snow’s pristine white became peppered with black soot, it looked like Cookies and Cream.

I thought Alabama would have even prettier seasons than

New York. Plus I assumed it would be a lot safer. But I discovered seasons have a dangerous side, called “inclement weather.” This is a scientific phrase meaning “weather that could kill you.” For example, the tornado, a side-effect of seemingly harmless thunderstorms. The tornado is defined by Webster’s as “a rotating column of air… whirling at destructively high speeds.” This translates into my own words as “a rotating column of air… that could kill me.”

When the sirens went off I ignored them and went on watching TV. But my boyfriend immediately leapt into Tornado Action while I sat dumb-founded on the couch, wondering why he didn’t want to watch the movie anymore. “Don’t you hear the sirens?” he cried.

I blinked in bewilderment and tried to concentrate. As a matter of fact, there was a high-pitched squealing siren that seemed rather urgent in its intensity. He gave me a look that clearly said, “Are you paralyzed, or just an idiot?” What he didn’t realize is that if I’d leapt up in a panic every time I heard an unexplained high-pitched siren when I lived in Manhattan, I never would have sat down the entire six years I was there. And I would’ve required even more prescription medication.

“That’s the tornado siren,” he explained, disassembling the couch and hauling cushions towards the coat closet. “We need to be prepared to take cover, if necessary. I think the coat closet is the best place.”

He seemed serious. Also, he was making a mess. Panic started to kick in as I began running a quick calculation of which valuable possessions to take into the closet. I vaguely wondered why Tom was suddenly so attached to the couch cushions.

I thought maybe we should get water and batteries and duct tape, since that’s what everybody says you should have in an emergency. I learned this from TV. Left to my own devices I would have selected chocolate chip cookies, Diet Coke, and a battery-powered television. While everybody else was saved by the life-giving powers of duct tape, I would have perished, full of sugar and soda and watching “Cheers” reruns.

But Tom explained that tornadoes are one of the few emergencies that do not require duct tape. We just needed to prepare to take cover, using the cushions as additional protection. In the meantime, he seemed to feel it was just fine to go on watching television, which is what I had already been doing. It seems to me that if all we needed to do at this point was watch TV, he could’ve kept the rest of it to himself, since I was now fighting the urge to curl into the fetal position and whimper.

For the next 30 minutes we watched Channel 5’s Doppler Radar. They are mighty proud of their Doppler Radar, and not too eager to divulge just what Doppler means, in order to keep a corner on the Doppler market. I was quite impressed with the Doppler Radar computer graphics. However, the “Storm Team” member at the controls must have had about twelve pots of coffee that night. He was zooming in, zooming out, spinning the map back and forth, and drawing arrows and lines and circles at such lightening speed that I started to feel slightly nauseous.

Turns out there never was an actual tornado that night. As far as I know, the only fallout from the excitement was the hospitalization of several people who were treated for severe dizziness after watching too much Doppler Radar. But before the next tornado hits I’m running out and getting myself a pair of ruby slippers. I’m no idiot.

© 2004 Karen Bertiger

Would You Hire This Person?

Except for the poverty, unemployment is great. You can get up late, watch crappy TV all day, and grocery shop when the lines aren’t aggravatingly long.

Well, it was great for about the first two months anyway. Then I started to notice that my brain was kind of rotting away. I was having trouble formulating sentences. I realized my world had become too narrow when I started stressing about emptying the dishwasher. It was the only thing I had to get done on a regular basis. To feel more secure, I would create a priority list: 1) empty dishwasher… 2) write tomorrow’s priority list.

Really I decided to start looking for a job so I’d have somebody to talk to, but I should have thought things through a little better. Interviewing is certainly not a medium for fascinating conversation or, for that matter, honesty. I am stretching the truth about my background or lack thereof while they are conveniently leaving out the downsides of the job, such as 26-hour work shifts and fluorescent lighting that has been known to cause severe facial ticks in 40% of their employees.

My most recent interview was conducted by a man who should be in the Guinness Book of World Records for Largest Stick Up the Ass. This guy made it look like it hurt to be happy. He didn’t laugh at any of my jokes – I mean, let’s face it, you’d have to be dead not to laugh at my jokes - and he was asking seriously stupid questions. Like, “Do you consider yourself an ethical person?” An ethical person would answer yes; an unethical person, due to a lack of ethics, would also answer yes. I mean… duh.

My favorite question is, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” There is no good way to answer this. “I want to be the president,” is no good because that gives them the impression that you will not be happy to be a lackey for the next 10 years, which is what they secretly have planned for this position. “I want to do the same tedious crap I’ve always done,” is no good either, because then they will think you lack the initiative to do the really awful grunt work, which is what they secretly have planned for this position.

At least interviewing here is a little less complicated, albeit less interesting, than it was when I lived in New York City. Since I usually had a bit of a walk to and from subways, I wore my sneakers and carried my heels in my bag, just like you see in the movies. Then I would change my heels in the elevator. But no matter how fast I was, the elevator doors always opened up to reveal me leaning over, balanced on one foot, with one heel on and my dirty socks tucked under my armpits. Once when I performed this little ballet in a packed elevator, a good looking suit remarked, “You’d make a terrible Superman.”

Also, people in New York tend to forget certain interviewing laws and guidelines, which is to say, they didn’t know there were any. In one interview I asked if any of my five (yes five) interviewers had any more questions for me and one executive piped up, “Have you ever been a man?” I think he was trying to be funny. The others at least had the decency to look horrified. They offered me the job, probably because they were afraid I’d sue them if they didn’t.

While this second type of interview could in fact land you in court, it does seem to me that employee turnover would be significantly reduced if we could ask the questions we really wanted to in job interviews. Like, “Do you foresee having any problems working for a manic-depressive alcoholic?” Or, “Are you against kissing your boss’s ass in order to get promoted?” And in return I could ask, “Are the rest of the employees here as dull as you?” or “Do company benefits include Krispy Kremes in the coffee room?”

I guess it’s a toss up. You can have interesting interviews with crazy law-breakers, or really boring by-the-book interviews that make you want to quit before you even get the job. In any case I doubt anybody who has read this article is going to be inviting me in for an interview any time soon.

But if you happen to be looking for a lazy smart ass who likes to talk about herself, isn’t shy about pointing out your shortcomings or those of the company, and doesn’t really like to work past 3 on Fridays, please let me know. Because there’s absolutely nothing to watch on TV and I’ve already emptied the dishwasher.

© 2004 Karen A. Bertiger

The Fine Art of Consumption

For Valentine’s Day I made my love a gigantic heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie. Just writing about it makes my mouth water. He thanked me profusely, complementing me on my baking and decorating skills and how delicious the cookie looked. And then he put it away.

If I am ever presented with a cookie, of any size, the only place I’m putting it is in my mouth. Post haste. I don’t understand how men can see something yummy and think, “I’ll eat this later.” I have no concept of waiting to eat anything that contains my recommended weekly fat and sugar content. When it comes to high-calorie foods, I operate not on the assumption that I could be dead tomorrow, but that I could die in the next few minutes.

But worse than being able to shelve a cookie, men just don’t seem to have a need to, every now and then, for good reason, consume their body weight in fried dough in one sitting. Like those late night “I’ve got the blues” binges involving a dozen Krispy Kremes. Well okay, it isn’t always because I have the blues. Sometimes I just have a bad day and need a good binge. Well, okay, it isn’t always because I had a bad day…

I know I’m not alone here, girls. I don’t mind admitting it to you, because I know you do it too – in private, and for good reason. In fact you’re probably crouched on the closet floor right now, next to a box of Ring Dings. I understand. We can’t let them see us. First of all, it is not a pretty sight. Second of all, we could never again get away with bitching about how fat we feel. Men don’t understand that we can shovel food into our faces at warp speed with one hand, while with the other grab a chunk of wobbly flesh whining, “I have got to go to the gym. I am such a porker.” If you did that in front of a guy, he’d say, “If you don’t like the way you look, stop eating all that crap!” Whereas a woman would say, “What fat? Are you insane? You’re a stick. Look at this,” grabbing a hunk of her own flank in sisterly solidarity.

Men, I feel your pain here. I realize that what we’re asking for is completely irrational and, frankly, you can’t win anyway. We demand you “help us out” by steering us clear of the cookie aisle in the grocery store, but you’d better ignore the sudden cravings that send us on a special 30 minute trip out of our way to our favorite fudge store – God help you if you say a word in that case. How are you supposed to know the difference? You aren’t. But you’d better.

I am luckier than most. I have a man sufficiently savvy (or maybe just experienced) to say, “Is this when I am supposed to try to stop you, or is this when I am supposed to tell you I love you no matter what, and you’re not fat, and you should eat whatever you want and do whatever makes you happy?” when I make a nose-dive for a box of brownie mix after wailing that my ass is the widest in three counties. Even a guy sharp enough to pose this query before proceeding, however, can still get into trouble if the woman’s really in the mood to twist your words into punishment material.

I managed to wait a whole day and a half before turning to my sweetie on the couch and, with the strain of the past 36 hours barely contained in my high-pitched voice as I tried to sound as casual as possible, asked, “So, can I have a bite of your cookie?” He replied, “Of course, baby!” as if I were crazy for asking – whereas a woman would have bitten my hand off if I made any motion toward her cookie, as well she should. It would have been tacky of me to eat his whole cookie, considering it was my gift to him, so I just took a big bite. Besides, I didn’t want him to see how truly insane I could have gone on that gigantic heart-shaped, icing-laced delicacy.

Three days later that damned cookie, minus one big bite, is still in the fridge. I have not slept in that time just thinking about it, sitting there, sugary and delicious. Also I’m a little cramped from crouching here in the closet for so long.

© 2004 Karen A. Bertiger

Invasion of the South

When I announced to my family that I would be joining my boyfriend in Alabama and leaving

New York City behind me, there were mixed reactions. Some said, “Are you freaking kidding me?” while others said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Friends and strangers alike offered their unsolicited opinions, which mostly ran along the lines of, “You’ll never fit in there.” (question: do they even have bagels in Alabama?” Answer: "No.")

But my uncle, who is not one to dispense advice or wisdom of the How to Live Your Life variety – although will not hesitate to dispense a violent opinion on What Movies You Should Hate – said something that made up for the negative vibes I was getting from so many. “We’re not a family of risk-takers,” he said. Which is true; they all still live in New York City. Or, as in the case of my grandmother,

New Jersey, which is where you go when you get too tired to deal with the City full time but can’t bear to be too far away from the action. Although I’m sure he felt slightly alarmed by my decision, he was fully supportive. However, when I asked if he’d come visit me, there was a lot of hemming and hawing and not-too-subtle changing of the subject. My uncle is of the Woody Allen variety New Yorker, who thinks the U.S. consists of two states: New York, and Not New York. Not New York is not a place worth his time, unless he has to go there on business.

Since I’ve moved, some people have changed their tune a bit. When I go home for visits, and to get my City fix, my friends gather round to hear fables of growing green things called Trees, and monsters that live in your sink and chop up left-over food so you don’t have to put it in the regular garbage and stink up the kitchen. I am asked over and over to repeat the Tale of Two Bathrooms, in which I regale them with stories about homes so spacious, they actually have room for more than one commode.

Friends listen in awe while I tell them of my driving escapades, of how I am not limited in the number of errands I run or the amount of groceries I can buy by what I can carry the quarter mile and four flights of stairs back to my apartment. I tell them of warehouse-sized stores where you can buy toilet paper in a bulk-size that rivals their closet space.

Of course, they don’t all believe me. Some of my tales of suburbia are just too outrageous to be true. Swimming pools that are outdoors, for example. Well, swimming pools, period. One friend fainted when I told her how much I now pay for a gym membership.

I have created a new breed of New Yorkers who are starting to think seriously about Alabama, a state they were aware of only peripherally and usually in conjunction with an off-color joke. My 10-year-old cousin now begs her father on a regular basis to please take a trip to

Alabama. My uncle just looks pained during these conversations. “Haha!” I laugh. “Ever think your kid would beg you to take her to Alabama?” “No,” he responds despondently. “You can thank me later,” I tell him.

My mother is now thinking of renting a winter home here. There was a wooshing noise as a collective series of jaws dropped at hearing that news. The family squirmed even more. It was bad enough that I had moved to the South. Now I was influencing others. The other day my grandmother called and said, “You know, I’m sick of the snow here. Maybe if your mom gets a place there, I’ll come too.”

Soon they’ll all start flocking here and before you know it, we’ll be uprooting the trees and lobbying for a subway system (none of us know how to drive that well). On the bright side, if enough of My People do migrate here, Alabama may finally get a decent Chinese restaurant. For those of you unfamiliar, decent Chinese is never buffet-style and, if I may further enlighten you, jell-o is never found on the menu.

New Yorkers, I’ve discovered, aren’t the only ones who like to offer unsolicited opinions. Since I moved here, I have been told that I will hate it for 18 months, 2 years, 6 months… and then I will love it and will never want to go back to New York.

I don’t know about never. But a girl could certainly get used to two bathrooms.