Carefree

It's very odd to not have a single care in the world. What I mean to say is that as far as the world is concerned, I have nothing to care about. I know, that's really no clearer is it, and actually, I think it sounds like I'm a bitch. I'm not. Well, I am, but I'm not.

Obviously there are things in the world to care about, Bangkok, for instance, the senatorial race, the re-opening of the dog park in Grand Forks, but for all intents and purposes, none of these "speak" to me.

Due to this lack of chatter coming from various topics that normally speak quite loudly or stir a certain measurable amount of chatter within me, I've begun to look to the ridiculous for stimulation.

The deportation woman is a bust. I'm trying to maintain high hopes, but even I have begun to falter in my unwavering hope for a mystery. She needs to pay the damn $50 and buy the birth certificate in Boston with her mother's name and if it's her, case closed, if it's not her, she's SOL. There could maybe be room for discussion if it's not the right one, but unless that discussion involves me going to her mothers house in Michigan, ND for a one on one interview in which I find out just what kind of socialite she and her family were, the case is closed.

I'm reverting back to my more carefree days. My X-Files stuff has it's own bookcase again. I was almost going to add the alien water bottles to it. I watch Brothers and Sisters to give me a sense of drama. Things are grim.

Really I just mean I have no problems to solve. Look at how dramatic things get when left without a solvable problem. I occasionally solve other peoples problems, a professor had a janitor throw away a plant she'd received when her mother died, and I was ready to go out and buy her another one - sounding the alarms and rallying troops to put together some money. Luckily, the President's office will do that, plus she bought herself one, but problem solved none the less. Solving other peoples problems isn't as satisfying as it used to be, mostly because I've realized if I'm solving their problems, I'm usually hurting them in some ridiculous way, too.

So, now what?

How do people live without a single problem? I know I should consider myself luckily, but imagine for a second that you have nothing on your mind. Nothing. You're perfectly comfortable staring at the wall for an undetermined amount of time. You can play Bejeweled Blitz for more than an hour at a time - that's something like 45-50 rounds. Puzzles? We've been doing puzzles. Real puzzles, where hours just disappear. It's actually a little unnerving.

The real issue is that I'm positive drama comes from caring about people, and I'm worried that perhaps I've stopped caring. I get along quite well, for the most part, with everyone I'm around on a regular basis. This would appear to confirm what one person believes, this being that I go around creating problems where there aren't any, with people who have supported me, but he's wrong in the sense he was using it in. I do do that, but not with him. I was telling him he was making an ass of himself. He didn't have to do anything with it, it was just a fact. That's totally different.

I guess I'll continue to enjoy it for now, but if I start blogging about how beautiful the trees are, or how green the grass is, or how long my finger nails are getting (I'm a biter), please alert the authorities.

And, if you hear of any "realistic" (I use that word loosely) mysteries, let me know.

More Anthropology Adventures.

I was wondering how long it would be before a weird job related thing would happen, as all of my jobs like to spite me just a little bit, and the time is here.

I know many of you will say, "Please, Amy. You've received mafia letters, are conducting a genealogy of someone who might get deported, this is not the first weird work related thing to happen."

It's true, I would say in response, but this is the first thing that's been specifically directed at me. The other things I just sort of jumped in front of, if you know what I mean.

It all started a few weeks ago. I received a message in my Facebook inbox from someone I didn't recognize. It said, "You Rock!" I responded with, "Interesting, thank you. Have we met?" He claims he hit the wrong Amy, and that that's what he gets for being on the computer without contacts in. Yeah, right. I ignored the request.

It was not long after this that I realized, thanks to a janitorial plaque with pictures courtesy of UND, that the guy is one of our building's janitors. The next week I come into my office and find the single of Journey "Lights" sitting on my desk. I left it in the exact same spot I found it for more than a week and it never went away, but my garbage was always changed.

Last week I get in and I noticed a bootlegged copy of Stevie Ray Vaughn sitting on the student workers desk right outside my office. Definitely home made, from a concert in 1989 with Santana. I thought, well, at least he's not leaving them for me any more, and added Journey to the pile.

Then I get here today, and the Stevie Raye Vaughn CD has been moved from the student workers desk and is now on MY desk, but Journey remains where I put it.

What the fuck, dude.

Stevie Ray Vaughn is an excellent guitar player, but he's a douche, and I hardly ever listen to him. Journey, I listen to at the bar and make fun of all the really drunk people singing, "Just a small town girl..." by throwing entirely too witty for their sloshed minds to comprehend remarks at them.

I do not want the janitor to leave me anything, let alone really shitty music. Plus, am I supposed to keep these? Does he want them back? I don't even want to find out unless he plans on leaving an autographed Tom Waits record, or tickets to Simon and Garfunkel, or money.

I hope this doesn't become a problem, I would like to feel comfortable in my office and not like there might possibly be a camera taping me. I'm a jammer, and I want to jam out Bohemian Rhapsody in peace.

Not only that, but the only reason I even know it's the janitor leaving them is because I'm a freakin' sleuth. As far as he's concerned I don't know who's leaving them, and that's a billion time creepier.

Dear Janitor - I know your name, I'm just choosing not to use it here,

If you're reading this, please stop leaving me CD's. I'm flattered and appreciative, but more than that I'm creeped out. Even worse than that, the student workers are creeped out. So, please stop.

Thanks,

Amy