We're doomed

I was listening to Day to Day on NPR a while ago (yes, I was. It's part of being a member of the liberal media fan club), and there was a report about how Americans are viewing the encroachment of government surveilance on their phones, email, etc.

What got me was the sheer idiocy of the chuckleheads that the reporter questioned. Almost all of them said something along the lines of, "why should I mind if I'm not hiding anything?" Well, Mr. or Mrs. Chucklehead, let me tell why you should mind- and why it's NOT an acceptable sacrifice to safety.

How about this. In the future, our administration decides (and it could do this without telling anyone initially- check out the secrecy of this administration if you doubt me) that they want to investigate all people who have a certain political leaning. Perhaps they'll decide that people who are members of the Green party are just too closely aligned to Al Quaida. Then they start looking. There is NOTHING to keep them from fishing expiditions if we accept their surveilance as part of doing business. So then they find something incriminating in an email. Perhaps a mention of an illicit substance that plenty of states have legalized for medical purposes. Then they send the homeland security boys into that person's house for a little look-see. Warrantless, of course, because that's an acceptable thing now, right?

What's wrong with this picture? That person shouldn't be smoking something illegal, or voting for the Green party, right? Well. Wrong. That person can vote and be in contact with whomever they want. Period. Part of doing business. And as far as the smoking thing goes- the jury is still out on whether or not the feds can crack down on that or if the states have jurisdiction.

I'm not a horribly paranoid person (well, maybe a little bit), but I don't have anything to hide. I also do not want the government, my neighbors, my family or my friends poking around in my business. I don't even want Kenga reading my emails without my permission. It's part of doing business in my book. It's my right as an American. It's my right as a person. And that I DO mind having chiseled away by the government. That is not ok by me.

Ethically challenged

Now I'm pissed. I found out yesterday afternoon that I didn't get the job that I interviewed for on Tuesday. That's not the problem really. It bloody figures, that's all.
The problem- the agency that sent me to the interview. As I understood it, they were supposed to be helping me find a good job. Not the shit crap that I've been doing for them. A real good job. Basically payback for being a good little worker bee for them.

Well- the woman who sent me on the interview let slip an interesting little fact that makes me wonder about their ethics in the first place. She told me that the person who got the job had industry experience. But was tied to an assignment elsewhere, and would pose some complications getting out of them. Now for the big question- why the fuck are they sending currently employed people on these interviews??? I have a huge problem with the whole ringer situation here. I bet the other 3 people who interviewed and didn't get the position would, as well. Makes me wonder how many of the other interviews they've sent me on have had similar outcomes because they cherry picked the interviewees like this.
I think my days with them just got very numbered. That's all.

Good news, though. A recruiter at the bank where I was working has been working with me on a job that I didn't get. But he called yesterday with another position that I'm very qualified for, and he has said that he really wants me to get it. So there is some real hope.

Creepy coincidence

I don't know why this occurred to me- or why I am compelled to write it down, but that's the way my blogging works.
There once was a serial killer in my home town. He was legendary. My biology teacher in High School talked about him. He was alleged to have killed his girlfriend and dumped her body from a plane in barrels. They found one, I heard- with some jewelery that belonged to her.
Now for the creepy part. He is in the state pen for life after killing his wife and burning her body.
His best friend was (and probably still is) my icky uncle.

The girlfriend was my wonderful Step-father's cousin.

(I met him once- he had the coldest, most reptilian eyes that I have ever seen on a human- and that was before I knew the rumors and stories...he was a nasty one)

What the hell is that bird doing so early.
Why does he sound so happy.
There is nothing to be so pleased about this early in the morning.
Stupid bird.

Where's my shotgun????

Splits

So I hear that Paul McCartney and the newest Mrs. Paul have decided to split. Sad. But even sadder, and quite embarrassing is that they are blaming the media. That is incredible. It's interesting to know that they allowed the media to share their lives so intimately. The media was at the breakfast table with them. The media tucked them in at night. The media held their hands during long walks in the rain. The media was there when they dealt the the minutae of their daily lives.
I call shenanegans. They, and every fucking celebrity out there needs to get a reality check right about now. I, a non-celebrity normal (reasonably) person am calling them all out. Every last one of them. NO MORE blaming the media for their own fuck ups. Face it, Paul and Mrs. Paul- you JUST DON'T GET ALONG anymore. Period. No blaming anyone but yourselves. You're adults dammit. Don't be stupid. It's silly and regrettable. Makes you look like major tools.

Thing of note

There was some kind of bike ride today to draw attention to bicyclists who have been hit by cars. The thing I thought was kind of silly was a bicyclist who said that, "drivers need to know that we have a right to be here too." (I paraphrase)
I thought this was kind of a dumb statement. No shit, buddy. I doubt that drivers would deny that you have a right to be on the road. And I have no doubt that if you didn't sidle up to them in their blind spot in traffic, during rush hour, before they've had their coffee, on Monday morning, they wouldn't run your ass over, either. (there are some incredibly stupid cyclists out there- who don't seem to have much of a concept for the laws of physics. Or of visiblity- not all of them- but a choice few...)
That was a little hostile. I don't think that it's an issue that cyclists should be able to ride safely in traffic. I think it's an issue that roads in this town aren't actually constructed with the kind of visiblity or width to accomodate both cars and bikes. So someone loses. And it ain't the car. Solution- ride on the damned sidewalk. But don't run over the old ladies. They have a right to be there too. (God knows we don't need a silent march of old ladies protesting getting run over by cyclists)
And then there are the idiots who I have seen who are driving whilst reading. No lie. A book on the steering wheel. Betcha they aren't looking for those cyclists with rights. Betcha if they find one, they'll be in for a surprising day.

There's this problem see
Only I can see it
Lives in my head
Makes my heart race at night
when I should be sleeping.

It's like an itch under the skin.
I can scratch and scratch
it doesn't go away.
Gold Bond doesn't help.

It lives with me-
new shoes don't ease the pressure
new sweater doesn't make it go away
they build the guilt which builds the wall that keeps the itch inside.

Someday it might ease up.
That's the small, flickering light that keeps me alive
hoping to find the release valve
that will make the pressure stop.

(this isn't actually my state of mind- just a memory of worse times- and better ones)

Parting shot

Last night Kenga and I went for a walk down by Alki beach. We were looking at the water and the skyline of Seattle, and looked up. There was a bald eagle flying over us- probably only 15-20 feet in the air. I've never seen one so close on the wing. And it was being chased by a screeching seagull. Figure that one out. If there is some kind of cosmic message there, I really can't interpret it. But I suppose that doesn't matter. It was cool nonetheless.

And for inspiration

The ever amazing Elvis Costello- who writes songs like they really mean something-

Don't tell me you don't know what love is
When you're old enough to know better
When you find strange hands in your sweater
When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote
I'm a man with a mission in two or three editions

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book

Chapter One we didn't really get along
Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you
You said you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three
But you were up to your old tricks in
Chapters Four, Five and Six

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
The way you walk
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh
In four or five paragraphs
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
Don't tell me you don't know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book

Spring cleaning

Ya all mighta noticed the new template. And I finally roused myself off of my lazy ass (metaphorically speaking) and added links. Yup. If you're not included, don't be offended- this took me HOURS of trial and error to figure out. That's why I'm not a programmer. I hate that kind of stuff. Photoshop kills me. And I hate Flash. Makes me almost violent. The sheer frustration of it all. Give me a pencil and some paper, damnit- I'll just draw the fucking thing myself!BRAAAAWWRRR!
Anyway- hats off to the programmers of the world- and the graphics designers who can tolerate working with that kind of crap.

Wing nut neighbors

Well. So there is a variance request posted in the front yard. It has been there for months. The landlady wants to demolish the garage and build it elsewhere. No big deal. Haven't heard a thing about it- should probably remove the damned sign. The meeting was 2 months ago. I've been waiting for the city to do it.

Last night I was on the computer at dusk. And I see someone in the front yard. Mind you- there is a large fence around the yard, and it's pretty obvious when you're in here that you're in the blasted yard. It's a crazy lady from the neighborhood. And she's peering in the garage. I sight her, she sees me watching her, and darts for the stairs. I go out the door, and call out,"can I help you with something?" She stops, and says, "I was just looking- sorry to disturb you." She was embarrassed--rightfully so- it's creepy to be looking in the windows of someone's garage. And downright cheeky. She apologized again, and slunk off into the dusk. Serves her right. Bloody busybody (Ellen!).

Funny thing- she is the one who would always stand at the bus stop and bitch about being late because the bus is never on time. I was always tempted to ask her why she didn't take an earlier one, then. But I figured she liked to have something to talk about. Crazy beeitch.

Don't be alarmed

This is just an observation. NOT an indication that my head is in the oven (hard to type in that position, anyway- and it's convection, which I think makes putting my head in there untenable). But I think that the bulk of my time I've spent on this planet has been from an outside observer's stance. As a rather ill-socialized (betcha that's a bloody revelation), I wasn't what you would call popular. Not to elicit pity- just the facts, M'am. Not by any conception of the word, would I call myself popular. Maybe popular amongst the paper dolls in my bedroom drawer. Or in the stuffed teddy bears in the basement playroom. But not amongst my peers.

So maybe that's part of the whole dilemna that I find myself in today. I sit in my car, drinking coffee, eating a yummy cookie (not right now- but earlier) looking at the Seattle skyline- from an outsider's standpoint. Even when I was inside the buildings I see downtown, I was an outsider- a temp. There is something not only transitional about being an outsider- but it's something that I've grown up being. And I professed to always hate it. Immensely. But lately, I have noticed that it's really not so bad, in a way. I don't mind having lots of time to myself. In fact, if I don't get enough, I get grumpy. Unless I'm on vacation- then all rules change. But I am guessing that going from being a solitary creature by necessity to being a social one isn't the easy, fun-filled leap that I had thought that it was.

And it doesn't really spell out what the problem is. Maybe I've grown too comfortable by myself. And need to re-connect. I dunno. But I just suspect that I'll be one of those solitary non-parent types who grows old and eclectic- and reads a lot, and becomes set in a routine- and who fits fewer and fewer people into that routine. That's not really who I want to be- but it seems to be the pattern that's emerging. Thank God (or whomever) for Kenga- he's the antidote to that reclusiveness. I'm by far the better correspondent to distant friends of the two of us- but I would never leave the house if he wasn't around to prompt me. I consider him a good influence.

I've stolen the philosopher's jacket. He was wearing it the first time I noticed him in Latin class. It has remained in the closet for 14 years- pretty much unworn most of the time. But I wouldn't let him throw it away.

It is olive green courderoy. It is pretty rough looking. It has been worn. He used to keep a rock in the pocket to strike his matches on when he smoked the camels. It has some serious mojo for me- it is our past in a way. And I am going to wear it on bad days. Reminding me that there is a coat for every mood.

Ha Ha! I say. Take that Kierkegaard you depressive Nordic bastard!(who btw was born on cinco de Mayo- Old Soren invokes Coronas, getting fucking loaded and puking in an Oaxaca gutter to me- don't know bout you)

Confessionary zeal

I've always prided on the ability to face problems head-on and solve them. Call it a first-born slight of hand. But now I am beginning to see that what I called problem solving wasn't really accurate terminology. I developed habits of problem resolution that didn't really involve resolving the problems at all. More of an elaborate system of smoke and mirrors, and learning the proper terminology to parrot to keep others off of my back.

So now I have the problem. It's internal. It's not going anywhere. My modus operandi of sleeping it off...of feeding the whining inner child a cookie (or buying her shoes)...of diving off the deep end into a book or movie...all of these and more tricks of the trade aren't solving it. Not at all. It's still there. So. What do I do. Call the fucking WAAAAmbulance. Because I've fallen and I can't get up. Well. Not really. I can and I will. I think I need to harness one of nature's miracles. My enormous capacity to get royally pissed off. That's been the missing element, I suspect. I've let plenty of stuff in the last 2 years kick the shit out of me. I've let all of that determine how I view myself- far too personally. I've let the bastards win- which is antithetical to my father's credo. And it sucks. So.

Now what does a pissed off almost 40 year old do? I do not lean on the parents. At my age, they really have earned a respite. Only go to them when dire things or extremely happy things happen. Don't be a burden. They don't need it. I do however, lean on Kenga a bit. That's his job. And he's done it to me before- it's really ok. What else...wing it a bit, I guess. It's new territory in a sense, and if I don't become productive doing things for myself, how the hell am I going to get anywhere?

Part of the project has been writing this tortured (at times) and ridiculous (at other times) thingy. Keeps me in touch with whatever needs to bubble to the top and get written down (within reason- I do have to exercise some restraint- this isn't entirely private). But now I think I have to take another deep, deep breath (after a lungful of the inhaler) and dive into the life I've avoided really living for some time. No more tip of the toes. No more up to the ankles. Right? Right. As long as there is a lifeguard somewhere in the vicinity.

Skeleton in the closet has these long wiggly fingers. He waves them in my direction, and scrapes his nails along the louvred doors. Just to get my attention. He thinks it's fun.

His clickety, clackety jaws smile openly at me. He knows everything. He sees everything. He doesn't need to have a voice. He just knows.

Skeleton in the closet will keep his day job, and prefers to come out on special occasions. Like dreary wet days in the middle of winter. Or when I'm sick. Or when I'm in the middle of a headache.

The good news- skeleton in the closet doesn't sport any flesh, clothes, or anything resembling horror movie status. He's just good, clean bones. With secrets lying like little hand grenades inside the marrow.

You died with all of your mysteries (and miseries) intact. I never bothered or had the courage to ask about the source of it all. I just stood up to you. I just challenged you. I was your scourge. I was also your pride.

You were never able to grind me under your workboots- like your own children- all in the name of being a "realistic" parent. I never told them that they would fail. You never told me that I would fail. You didn't have the nerve. My daddy could beat up you.

So now that you're dead, burned to ashes and scattered to the winds, I worry this problem to death. I think about your motivations. I think about your pain. I think about the pain you inflicted with what appeared a great deal of forethought on others. The others you were charged to protect and to nurture. Was your inner life so barren, so horribly infertile that you had no other way of functioning? Or were you just the world's biggest ass?

Mmmm. Mexican food.

It's Cinqo de Mayo (apologize up front for the spelling- never took Spanish. Russian, yes. German, certainly. Even French and Italian. And Latin. But never Spanish)

Loverly springlike weather. And in celebration of all things Spanish-speaking, I finished reading a wonderous book today. I have always had a soft spot for certain authors- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carlos Fuentes, etc. Love the boys from south of the border. Really do. The images of butterflies floating around her head...Love Isabelle Allende too. Laura Esquivel also. So the distaff side isn't neglected.

The book I just finished which I can highly, highly recommend was The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Damn. One hell of a story. Seriously. All about books, mystery, growing up, the Spanish Civil War, writing, and lots of other things. One of the best that I've read this year. And that's saying quite a lot. It's out in paperback, and I've seen the hardcover in remaindered bins. So there is no excuse to not read this most wonderful book.

And now the coffee I ingested moments ago is humming through my veins. It's a warm buzzy feeling. I feel the need to not sit at the computer, and to go do something moderately active. I'll even wear sandals. Because it's nice out. And it's Cinqo de Mayo.

(I did get the worst sunburn of my life (and that's saying one hell of a lot, kids) in Mexico. Thought I was gonna die. Probably gonna kill me someday when the melanoma takes over. Stupid Mexican sun. Stupid pasty white genes.)

Up all night

Almost. We went to the Sigur Ros concert last night. It was in a great venue- so I made the executive decision to see them again. It was great. They are good. I was happy. Then I was unable to sleep. Too keyed up, I guess. It also didn't help that I spent a largish portion of yesterday either sleeping or napping. Basically coming down off of the job and all. And having a headache. Brought on, no doubt, by the sleeping and napping.

But Sigur Ros. Let me tell ya. I knew a guy who said that they made him want to open a vein. Silly man. Didn't get it at all. Loverly Icelandic boys and girls (Anime- the girl sidekicks were in the house).

Celebrity sighting- we sat 9 rows behind Paul Allen. I saw him going up the aisle earlier, and thought it looked remarkably like him. He caught my eye in the first place because he has the same body type and hair style as my dad. And he didn't exactly fit the emo demographic that was fully represented. He was with a posse of older-larger guys- one of whom was wearing a shirt suspiciously akin to Hawaiian. And it's not even Hawaiian shirt Friday! But then the confirmation came when a cheeky youngster came up to him, introduced himself and handed off a demo tape. That clinched it. Twas the 5th richest person in the world. Sitting directly in front of us. Enjoying the Sigur Ros. When he shuffled out, he did look awfully tired. My guess is that in order to be the 5th richest person in the world, you tend to go to bed early. But it was really cool to see an old guy out with the kids- enjoying the music n'all. I shoulda asked him for a job, though...

And another thing...

Guess it's gotta be said- what the hell is the problem with having Latino and Asian immegrants, anyway? What about the Canadians? Why aren't people all chapped about the Canadian illegals amongst us? Yeah, they can pass- until they start talking "aboot" something. Then you know. They're our unfriendly neighbors to the north, doncha know.

Gotta go have a Bergman film fest tonight, in celebration of May Day. Nothing like a dour Swede to add a delightful chill to a lovely spring evening...(perhaps I do have a masochistic tendency in there after all)

Gettin the hizell out

Traffic was fuck all bad this afternoon. The big rally/protest was a block from the office. So I left early. There was an exodus of well-paid bankers leaving at the same time. I felt priveleged to ride the elevator with their well-heeled selves. The police had the barricades ready. The news vans were blocking the bus lanes. The buses were crowding the cars. The people were streaming in.

The best one- an older, wirey guy wearing a black leather jacket sewn with numerous grungy patches. He had greyish scraggly hair, was unshaven and looked angry. He was holding a sign saying, "Save US jobs, hire US citizens". Don't tell me he was looking to make friends. Idiot.

At lunch I saw several members of the dirt tribe arriving in the business district. I can only guess that they were coming to participate in some capacity. Since they were all pasty white kids who probably sport hefty trust funds, I can gather that they are hoping for some kinda riot. Whoo hoo. Nothin like breaking the windows at a Starbucks or two to really get the circulation feeling happy. Idiots.

Otherwise, a nothing kinda day. Really. Nothing.

Walmart Coda

Yeah- I'm still whining about the Walmart visit yesterday.

Sight that will live forever in the pantheon of things witnessed at the Walmart Store- the woman in the SUPER-sized Rascal who probably weighed over 700 lbs...wearing a blanket...buying bags of candy. That pretty much sums it all up for me.

And no- I'm not one of those "I hate poor people- they make me uneasy" types. I am one of those poor people who makes others uneasy types on occasion. Depends on the median income of the place I'm living. Helena- not poor. Bozeman- borderline, tilting towards poor. Seattle- poor as hell, with no hope of redemption. It's all in the way you look at it, right?

I just have an issue with the company as a whole. Not that they are hurting US businesses or anything by bringing in cheap Chinese crap to dump on the market- fuck that. It's the way they treat their legions of employees that makes me cold inside. The stereotypical Walmart checker in my experience is a hard-bitten, 40ish woman with deep frown lines etched on the sides of her mouth, permanent vertical smokers lines on her lips, and a raspy voice. She might call you "hon," or not, depending on how much shit she's had to cope with today. On a weekend, pretty much no "hons" get handed out. Fuck that. She gets paid far too little to deal with the place, and her benefits suck. Her feet hurt. And if she's unlucky enough, she works at one of the Walmarts that offers overtime off the clock or lose your job benefits. Pisses me off every time. Workers of the world UNITE!! We shall overcome!!! (practicing for the big rally tomorrow downtown, near where I work- oughta blow the commute home out of my ass and good.)

In a STATE, I tell ya.

Today Kenga made me go to the Walmarts. In the hood. Renton, if you must know. I hates me the Walmarts. Hates it. We used to live very near whilst in Bozeman, and I would do anything- anything to not go there on a weekend in particular. I would go to the KMart. I would go to the Target (don't call it Targeeyy like you're French, I know you come from Butte, sunshine.) But still, he would drag me to the Walmarts. Against my will, I proclaim! On our last trip to MT, we HAD to stop at the Walmarts in Missoula. Twice. Both ways. It about killed me.

It's not the teeming masses. It's not the sad truisms sung by poor Chris Isaaks on the sound system (IIIIII Don't wanna fall in love....with you). It's not the cheap, shoddy merchandise. It's the lack of home. Abandon all hope, ye who trod the cheaply made floors of the Walmarts. You will always feel alone, despite the nearness of your compatriots in the towering aisles. You will always avert your eyes from theirs and avoid making contact, because you will see yourself hiding inside. Cowering away from the light. Stuffing that bag of Reese's Peanut-butter Cups miniatures in the cart. Despite your professed aversion to carbs. (does peanut butter count as a carb? Or is it more of a protein?)

What a time...

So the job probably ends tomorrow. Which is fine- rather than stage a colossal slow-down, it's time to put the baby to bed. I've been able to read about 10 chapters of a friend's manuscript on the clock, and apply for several jobs, arrange an interview, and do numerous other non-work related things on the clock, so I'm not complaining.

And then there's the anxiety and agony of decision time. So. I've basically tortured myself with indecision enough. I made a choice. It was difficult as hell. Didn't sleep much night before last. Didn't sleep much more last night. Tormented myself today. I will not be going to Penn State. Too bloody expensive, for one. The financial aid package didn't cover half of it. Too stressful to deal with a move. Don't want to cope with it so soon. Don't want to live apart from Kenga for 5 months while we wait for our lease here to play out (can't leave the deployed friend in the lurch and steal her cat...just can't). Don't want to deal with so very much stress at this point in my life. Not like that.

Fall back and punt position, then. Still waiting for Seattle U to make up their minds about the wait list. And then there's always next year if I need to try again.

So there. And after the decision was made, and the letter was sent, the very nice admissions lady called me. She was great. And I felt guilty as hell. But still- I made the decision based on what I really felt, and for all of the right reasons, and with all of the major players giving input that I considered fully. But I still had to torment myself a little more. Because making well-considered decisions based on logic, and not just on intuition isn't something I have a lot of practice at. I just sometimes wish that someone would just tell me what to do, so I could blame them if it goes awry. Or so that I wouldn't be burdened with this kind of process. But then I remember that I'm not 12. So I shut the hell up and do what I gots to do.

And the wheel goes round

The temp job is certainly just that. A temp job. Nice people, who I won't get to know very well. Forgettable job. I'll not even remember it in a year. Or them. It'll all fade away.

Playing with Powerpoint, Visio and Excell all day long...reading legal contracts...clockwatching.

Nothing certain on the horizon, either. I think that it's time to just plain quit fighting it. Time to keep on with the attempt, but quit fighting. Just flow. Just roll. Those are easy, gravity-friendly movements.

In the meantime, I'll keep in my cubicle in the area of the office that's abandoned (they moved to the new building), without a phone, or anyone to talk to...all by myself...gonna eat some worms...

I found out that you never told your children your stories. They asked, and you evaded.

Funny, though, that you would take the 6 year old me as your confidant, and spend hours telling me everything. You made it seem like a fairy tale. You also spent so much time and energy keeping me occupied and making me happy- did you have this much to give your own children?

I have your picture on my wall. The one with the sad 6 year old's face. It was my favorite of you when I was little. I saw something familiar in the eyes.

Now that your mind has splintered, and only some parts remain with us, I wish that I remembered more of your stories.

New job

Yeah- I'll be lucky if I can bleed this one for 2 full weeks. It's pretty simple. And pretty short-term. The very good news is the pay. Loverly. And being downtown in my favorite area is a plus- yesterday was Specialties Bakery lunch day. Today maybe the Vietnamese place with the world's best sandwiches. Or maybe the soup place with the mac and cheese. Or maybe I'll just get a smoothie and hit the Ross and look for some more pants to fit my bum. Or maybe I'll go to Borders and look at books. Or maybe I'll go to Pike St. Market and hit the newsstand. I think I've gotten my point across. Lovely.

Aside to Allison- Chapter 1 looks smashing, dear girl! I'm looking forward to Chapter 2 and maybe 3 tonight!!!

Rhetorical question du jour

Yes, the wine has blunted all pain. And the question remains:

Why did I just watch Herbie, Fully Loaded with Kenga?

Damn. That was 2 hours lost forever...

Eternal road trip

We rolled in a few hours ago from our whirlwind tour of Montana. Actually it wasn't much of a tour- only a couple of towns. But we do have a new car, and donated the Grand Am to a battered women's shelter. It was going to a woman who really needed it, and whose story was full of very grim realities. I hope that our anonymous gift makes a difference. If she looks hard, she'll find the Sailor Moon card, the Helena parking ticket, and the Kenga business card in one of the compartments, neatly hidden away. Just to show her that the car has a long, beloved history, to which she now belongs.

When we returned home, it was through a wicked storm, which I have no doubt will turn to snow in the Cascades tonight. We missed that, and I'm glad. We did, however enjoy about 24 solid hours of podcasts on the computer and GPS tracking via the same computer (Kenga rigged up a system so we can do this all via the car).

I found the stack of mail then. And found out, that like Scobby, I have been rejected by the old Alma Mater. The fuckers. They'll heretofore never, never, never get one red farthing from me or my family again. Bastards. It was not what I expected, as it's not on the same level as Penn State. So I'm still waiting on the Seattle U wait list option. But I did send my check to Penn State to hold my place. And it looks like we might be making a kind of reverse pilgrimage. My ancestors worked in the Pennsylvania mines after coming over from Slovenia. Therefore, it's probably destined.

In the meantime, I start a 2 week temp job on Monday for the bank, paying pretty damned well. I didn't get the other job- rack up 18 interviews total. Only 1 with a job and it was temp. Interestingly, he stated that the reason I was turned down was that he didn't think I could handle a client on the project. Bummer- I don't get the opportunity to deal daily with an asshole who would probably make me wish I was dead. Gee. I think I'll be very thankful. Plus the guy was a Porsche guy. We're BMW types, ourselves. And if I had the lottery in my pocket, it would be a 53 Olds convertable. Metal flake blue. White leather interior. With a new Corvette engine hidden under the voluminous hood. BRWWWOOOOORRR!!! Anyway, gotta go swill some wine, work the kinks out of my back and watch some South Park on the Tivo.

Yesterday I spent the day telling the old stories with my mother. We laughed about the good times. And laughed harder about the bad ones.

Turned out that we were allies all along- only had fought solo battles for a while there.

The history is in my bones. The stories are written in the cartiledge. Ask me why my knee pops. There's a story there- stored in there. Deep. Behind the knee cap.

Then it was Kenga's turn to divulge the past. For the first time- he held center stage.

Many ghosts came out to play, and some of them were sent packing forever.

Dave Chapelle says that white people own everything. Sure wish I was one of those white people...

Yeah- I have a lot of stuff. Stored in my Mother's barn, in the closets, in the garage, on the shelves.

But I hardly think it qualifies as everything. And I suspect that he's referring to another brand of everything entirely. The kind of everything that no one in my family in all of the generations of mechanics, potato farmers, coal miners and serfs have had access to. The kind of everything on parade in the world's major art museums. The kind of everything that is basically stupid rich.

That's what I suspect he's talking about. The kind of everything that includes power. Because this pasty white chick certainly doesn't own a surplus of that.

Well, Goddam!!!!

Today I had the first of this series of job interviews. If I don't get it, I also have a job lined up for Monday (temp- 2 weeks), and things are popping. It's like I've been reborn as an actual qualified applicant, or something. I'm supposed to find out about the interview tomorrow. I expect that he is one of those decisive sorts, and will be quick. I hope so.

In the meantime- still waiting on schools. We have to take a quick trip to MT to get a car to replace the lovely Grand Am -She's going into retirement. So will not be online for a few days. But I'll be back. That's a promise that I may regret later, but I'll be back. So there.

Pass it on to the next generation

Yesterday we made our weekly pilgrimage to visit the cutest animal in the world. We were well rewarded for our efforts- we saw the cutest animal in the world and the Mrs. cutest animal in the world. We saw her eat her apple. Her little tongue was pink. She is pigeon-toed. So cute. It was breathtaking. I'm pretty sure that their poop is pink, shaped like hearts and smells like strawberries, and makes a cute little "plink" noise when it exits their cute little bottoms.

Funniest comment overheard- at the penguin tank, a little girl was walking away, and said, " I don't ever want to be a penguin!"

Funniest reaction- when we were in the dark bat house, a little boy took a look at the big bat in the window as it stretched out its wings. He had a total meltdown. He had to leave. Betcha he has nightmares for the rest of his life about bats, Marilyn Manson, and goth chicks.

We saw a disturbing example of blossoming girlhood. She was wearing a pink terry outfit that would've been more appropriate for her grandmother, and little black slides that would've been more appropriate for a Victoria's Secret shoot. She was about 12 or so- judging from her face and her relative height. But then comes the distressing part. Her body from the neck down. Let's say that she was blossoming in a very public way. And damned proud of it, from the way she was shoving them out there. Her bum was also getting that not very 12 year old look. It was scary. She looked like she had abandoned her teen years physically, and was chasing 40. And winning the race. She reminded me very much of the scariest girl in the 8th grade. She was more physically advanced than any of us. And strangely sexual. She was in the talent show- and did a solo dance. She was shaking her knockers all over the place, and if there had been a pole, would've probably hopped on board. The kids teased her mercilessly- having her rehearse her dance in the schoolyard at lunch.

Then came the day of the show. She did her dance. I wish I could remember the song. But it didn't matter. She was in a dress without underwear of any kind. No bra. No knickers. Just high kicking and shaking it for all of us to behold. Then she sat on her daddy's lap in the audience afterwards. I was stunned. Still am, actually. Not long after, she wasn't in school anymore. I have no idea where she went. Hopefully a better place. For very disturbed young things.

The little zoo girl had a distressingly similar vibe going on. I only hope that my perception was colored by proximity to the cutest animal in the world, and that I am wrong. It was strange, though...

Stormy weathuh

I've been ill the last couple of days. Today is not only sunny, with sinus clearing, but the headache has lifted. I repeat, the headache has lifted. Let's all give a sigh of relief in unison...sigh...there.

Interestingly, and probably unbeknownst to me, when I get sick, it's not only physical discomfort that takes over. My mind has to get involved, as well. We have a pretty rigorous program that we do together, my mind and I. It involves the following steps:

1. Guilt. I shouldn't be laying around. There are things to do. You are worthless, darling. Don't you see?

2. Let's re-live all of the horrible things I've done to others in the past, shall we! It'll be fun, and instructive. Yes, you are the worst human being on the planet. See all of the destruction you have wrought?

3. (this is my personal favorite) It's now time to cycle through relationships. Yes, all the boys you loved (and otherwise attached to) before. Yes, dear, you really did sleep with him. Now you should remember it all...including the messy breakup. That's why no one ought to love you.

4. And finally, it's time to discuss food, weight and the fact that I'm not built like I was when I was 24. See, if you hadn't eaten those peanuts, you would weight what you did in High School. Automatically. But you did, so you won't. Poor dear.

But as I said before, there is a light. And I'm there now. I can safely shut this particular Pandora's Box of treats, and not worry about it until I get sick again some day.

Bloodpressure rising....arrrg

CNN did it to me again. Always. Probably shouldn't watch the bloody news anymore. I saw a story about a little boy who called 911- his mom was in trouble. The dispatcher dismissed his call and told him not to make prank calls. His mom died. The family is suing the asses off of the city. Good. This kind of thing really raises my ire. I hate it when children are discouraged from telling the truth or asking for help.
The representative for the dispatcher's union said that she, "is a good operator." Bullshit, I say. Good operators don't ignore calls. It's not like doctors, where there is an expected percentage of lost patients. I don't give a rat's ass if it pisses off the police or fire department to respond to crank calls. Respond, dammit. Or look, people can die! Now that little boy gets to live with the knowledge that he failed to get help for his mom, and she died. He gets to live with the memory of watching her die, and being with her dead for 3 fucking hours before the police finally arrived. That doesn't indicate a good operator to me. Good thing I can't be on that jury. I'd probably award the largest damage award on record to the poor kid. I'd bankrupt the fucking city.

Throw back

We went to lunch the other day at Dad Watson's in Freemont. We like it there. While I was drinking lunch, and eating tater tots (which I regretted later- they make my tummy hurt badly), they were playing songs that I know the words to. Like the Police. And then they played the song. From when I was 15. It was the one I wore out on the record. Playing it over and over and over. It was one of the first ones I ripped on Napster back in the day. It is silly and stupid, and I know the words. Sentimental drivel, if you will. But it still takes me places.

Mandocello, by Cheap Trick- from their first album. Kenga thinks it's goofy. I gotta agree from this vantage point. It was probably their effort at getting laid a lot. Betcha it was successful.

I actually met Robin Zander in person once. They were in Missoula for a concert. He was kinda a tool, I thought at the time. Still think that, but understand the mitigating circumstances that could make someone act like a dick. It certainly wasn't personal- he was probably bored, tired, depressed at playing in Missoula, and I wasn't the chippy he wanted to talk to. He wanted to bang my friend. Admittedly, she was fucking gorgeous. She was also not impressed by a 40ish rock star. She had the something, something for the concert promoter. Who was an even bigger tool. I also had a boyfriend. The up to that date love of my life. And I never heard the end of it from him for going to the bar to meet Robin Zander. Even though I had chaperones- including a couple of his friends. Even though I invited him along. Shoulda seen trouble coming right then.

Ah but to be 15 again- in my room- listening to that song- hoping that love would be like that- hoping that I would find hearts and rainbows some day. Right. Well, I think I retract that right here and now. Nope. Wouldn't go back to being that kind of dumbass again. Not for love, money or patriotic duty. Stupid bar Ipod.

Some days breathing is difficult. Not just because of asthma. But because of the weight pressing on my chest. And no, it's not a cat. It's something else.

Moving is slow on those days. Like crawling. And it's so hard. Very hard. All I want to do is crawl back in bed and try to sleep it away. I can lay there and fantasize about a better reality. I can place myself anywhere in the world, doing anything I want. And it's never right here, right now.

On good days, I can't make myself sleep- and I can't conjure up preferable realities. So, I guess this isn't exactly a good day. But I do have the hope that it might turn out all right anyway, and that tomorrow might be good.

And that's why I keep getting out of bed in the morning. That and the stupid cat that jumps on me when I sleep in. It bothers him. Maybe he's smarter than I am on those occasions.

My questions fly furiously from my mouth
I watch them leave, and wonder who is talking

I figure the best thing to do is sit back and watch the show- she seems to have things under control here- nothing for me to do to contribute

I have to say, I'm kind of surprised by her eloquence, and her passion

Because all I can feel is numb detachment. Or maybe it's all just the psychotic break I've been courting all these years. Or else I'm just lazy enough to let someone else do the talking for me.

Ya takes your lumps

And not in tea, my dear.

I've been in a full-on pout since Monday. Kenga got laid off. Still has the job when the company is back on its feet, but still. It's not the first time they've done this- but it has to be the last time he has to be treated this way. It really breaks me in half. I want him to be happy, and to have a fun job. But it kills me to see him treated this way. And I know that the bosses are decent people- just crappy businesspeople. Who seem desperate to make the wrong decisions consistently. It just makes me crabby. So now we're both at home on the job hunt. My tongue is bloody from biting it. And Kenga is playing with the cats using the flying feather toy. And watching Michael, starring my least favorite actor, John Travolta. I am hoping that he can take the time and restore some sense of where he really wants to go in life. And then can reach out and make it happen. Like I hope that I can do the same.

In the meantime, I'm taking more care to cook on the cheap, and make it good. I'm taking more walks. And spending more time with Kenga- just being. And watching movies. Movies, movies, movies. (Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!) I've discovered one called The Americanization of Emily that is a must-see. It stars James Garner and Julie Andrews, and was probably the funniest war commentary short of Dr. Strangelove. Even funnier in a way, as it doesn't lean so heavily on the talents of Peter Sellers (who isn't one of my favorites, either). The writing was sharp, and the plot was killer. What's not to love, eh?

Now I've gotta go and email my resume to a friend who's out there spreading the word about my fabulousness.

He feeds the cat a peanut. The cat sits and thinks about the peanut for a while. Then drops it on the bed.

The old man gently, gently soaps the little dog's back. The little dog shivers in the water. The old man's hands are gnarled like very old trees.

The man deftly puts the worm on the hook for the little girl. His hands are split and weather-beaten. He has used them to conquer the elements and build new worlds.

The man touches his daughter on the cheek, and kisses her hello. His long, elegant fingers are warm. His eyes- her eyes- smile.

The cat with the peanut makes a funny chirp. He smiles and laughs, and says, "kit-tens." And I smile with all my heart.

Did they want us to put our heads in an oven?

We were at the Pike St. Market this morning. It is lovely out- the flower vendors are specializing in daffodils. The new F1 magazine is not out yet. Life is so-so. There was a man singing Country Roads on the guitar by the fish show. I was singing along. It took me back.

For some very strange reason, in grade school we had all of these productions that we put on. There was the obligatory Christmas show. Then at different times there were other productions. In 3rd grade, we sang a bunch of songs from Bambi to our crying mothers. Drip, drip, drop was our favorite. It was a little twee, in retrospect. Our teacher was a spinster old lady, with owl-like glasses. She made us memorize psalms and proverbs. She was an ear pincher when boys were bad. Very much the old school. She had perfect penmanship. Just like the posters along the top of the blackboard.

Our music teacher later on was an odd woman. She wore peasant blouses with sweat stains in the armpits. She was a pear-shaped little dumpling of a woman who was far too sensitive for the likes of nasty little grade-school children. Seriously. We made her cry. We would groan and laugh at her when she tried to teach us the newest, latest, greatest ethnic songs. She accompanied us with the autoharp. It was twee as hell. The worst was when we learned the Eerie Canal song. With the autoharp. I wanted, desparately, to lodge a bullet in my temple. The song is a downer to begin with- almost as bad as Sakura- another of her favorites. She probably got off on making us sing depressing songs- hoping for a mass suicide.

The apex was the city-wide show in 6th grade. We all filtered into the civic center, and sang one song. We sang Seasons in the Sun. I still really, really hate that song. Goodbye Michelle, it's hard to die...when all the birds are singing in the sky... ARRRRGGGG. Sentimental crap! I don't remember if my parents attended. I might've not told them on purpose- I hated those kinds of events. I loved actual theater, and performing on stage- but those kinds of choral festivals made me very unhappy. The Christmas shows were the worst- I hated having to appear happy and cute. And sing the songs from the Christmas TV specials. Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas...who the fuck was I supposed to be, an elf? Little tall. Little bitter.

We also had an international festival in 5th and 6th grade. They combined us and split the world between the classes. The 6th graders got the choice locations, like Europe. The 5th graders got the third world. In 5th grade, my report was on Egypt. In 6th grade, it was on Scotland (I was obsessed with the Bay City Rollers that year, and this was my homage.). We got to sing international songs, and do some dances (like the Mexican hat dance), to the delight of our assembled mothers. We provided international foods, and made international houses out of refrigerator boxes. It was fun, though. Silly too. Buncha white kids in costume doing the Mexican hat dance. Without falling down. Much. In the gym.

We did make the music teacher cry that year. Then we had to write letters apologizing to her- she wouldn't come back unless we did. It was pretty bad. I still maintain that she was a bit sensitive to be dealing with grade school kids. She always was a tad fey for the likes of us little ruffians.

He is cute overlord of all he surveys. He is the undisputed cutest animal on the planet. Bow before him. And offer him some leafy greens. He owns you, beeitch.

I apologize for the blurry nature- will try again some other day for a more accurate portrayal of the elusive and sensitive desert fox. The official second cutest animal on the planet.

Spooky Mika was hiding one day. And we stole his soul.

I respectfully say to you, sir

You, sir, are wrong. The baby fox is cute. Yes. But you must bow down before the cute overlord that is the red panda. You just must. We made a pilgrimage yesterday, and were only able to see it sleeping in a tree. Our cute overlord kept us at a distance. I suppose it was because we hadn't made the proper sacrificial chicken blood ritual. Or it was sleepy. But seriously- see the pictures. Baby fox- cute. Red panda- the cutest animal IN THE WORLD.

We also saw the second cutest animal in the world. It is a kind of desert fox- not Rommel. But much, much cuter, and not German in the least. I forget the real name for him, but he was cute. And agitated by the small children who were waving things at him and shouting- despite it being a "quiet zone" at the zoo. I don't quite know who the misguided genius is who decides that there can ever be "quiet zones" at the zoo- what with the 700 small and medium sized children running rampant throughout the place- it was rife with them.

I'll also post a picture of the ghostly Mika. He was hiding under the sheer curtain, and was very dramatic. Scary, no? OOOOOOHHHHH- Mika's gonna get you!!! OOOOHHHHHHH!!!!! And if you saw him without the scrim, you would notice the alarming similarity between his dirty white fur and that of a Mountain Goat. Disgusting. Ratty little beast...who bitches when we clean him up.

More of a letdown

Today has been a little melancholy. Just a little. Being away from work doesn't have that vacation vibe anymore. Now the work of looking starts up again. That's all.
I think it's time to visit the zoo and the cutest animal on the planet- the red panda. Seriously- the cutest. No comparisons are available. If you try, your head will explode.

Rant du jour

For those of you under rocks, Seattle has been shaken up by the shootings last weekend. It doesn't help that the shooter was a good ol MT boy. Thanks, buddy- we need some more whack jobs from MT to make the place even more palatable.

Anyhew- what gets me is this. The girls who died. They were 14 and 15. What the fuck were they doing at that party in the first place? Hmmm? Why did the 14 year old have a 3AM curfew??? Damn. What were her parents thinking? The ages of the other victims indicate to me that they were significantly older than these girls. Why are young teenage girls partying with guys in their mid to late 20's? That's a rhetorical question- I have a pretty good idea of why. And it doesn't make me very happy. It's pretty fucked up.

When I was 14, I would've loved- LOVED to have partied with older guys at 3 AM. But my PARENTS wouldn't let me. At the time, it rankled. I knew girls who had more freedom- and I envied them. They seemed like such glamorous rebels. They were the Bad girls.

It took time, perspective, and growing up for me to see what was really going on. That the older guys who were with these little girls were preying on them. These guys were too big of losers to attract females their own age, so had to go out with the younguns. It pretty much grossed me out when I saw it for what it was. Then I was sad. I wonder where the girls I knew wound up. I knew that a couple of them were doing drugs- it scared me when I was young. Now I have a suspicion that it wasn't all fun and games for them- they probably have had a really rough ride of it since then. Most of them dropped out before graduation.

So when I see in the Seattle Times that these little girls were shot down, it makes me angry. Not just at the psychotic fuck who pulled the trigger- but also at their stupid, stupid parents for not making sure that these girls were home in bed at 7 AM after a night of who the fuck knows what kind of activities. Dammit. A friend of mine in the Fire Dept has been to plenty of those raves- basically dealing with sick kids. He scoffed when he saw that they are allegedly "drug free." Bullshit says he. So, that's part of the whole thing. Send your daughters off into the night with older guys and some nasty drugs. Sure, it'll end well. Right. Idiots. I'll admit at this late date that my parents, with all of their Rules, man- were pretty damned smart.

Things I learned from the firemen/women

After a refreshing nap, I am feeling much more human (didn't sleep well last night, thanks to KENGA!).

Here is a list of things I learned from the firemen and women:

-firemen never grow out of the attraction to icky things.

-firemen seem to like the color red a awful lot.

-I now know the difference between a corey and a galvin wrench. Ask me, and I'll show you.

-That's a Homaltro combi tool, silly! (we're talkin jaws of life here, people)

-when transporting you to the hospital, they will cut off every stitch of your clothes. So Mama was right about the underwear thing. And if you're hangin llama or going commando, the firemen WILL talk about it. Guaranfuckingteed.

-Most firemen and women who I met (and there were one hell of a lot of them) were among the nicest people I've ever had the fortune to meet. Only about 3 of them qualified as total dicks. Not a bad set of odds there.

-Firemen love to gossip. You think that women have some kind of patent, you gotta sit around a firehouse for a while- they are on 24 hour shifts, and I'm pretty sure have to come up with something interesting to talk about in that time.

-Also- if you have the misfortune of spending any significant time with a crew that doesn't get along, beware. It's hell on earth.

-They are great about explaining their jobs, what stuff on the trucks and engines are for, and are very proud of their vocations. If you get the chance, and it's not a serious emergency, ask- they'll tell you all about stuff. Also- if you show up at a station on a slow day, they might just give you a tour if you ask nicely. Cookies help. So does being a girl. And a redhead (see above).

-For some reason, they seem to have a penchant for The Sopranos. I went to several firehouses, and they were watching the DVDs. Must be a guy thing.

-And finally for today, DON'T TOUCH THE DAMNED BRASS!!! Friday is brass polishing day- and it pains them to have to clean the brass prior to then- it's stinky and not fun.

Free at last

And we're done. The Seattle Fire Department has all of their trucks, engines, aid cars, battalion vehicles, and specialty rigs inventoried. I touched approximately 90% of them. We laughed, we cried, and we grew together. It was like an after-school special. Only lacking Ben Affleck.

Now to find something different, better, and that pays more.

Weekend wrapup

Yesterday we undertook our new regimen- one day of doing something fun together. The following day is reserved for the other crap that normally fills up the entire weekend (tv, books, internet, movies, cleaning, projects, etc.). I just really want to maximise my time with Kenga before school starts, wherever I wind up.

So this weekend, we started with the Seattle Underground tour. Was pretty interesting, albeit a little spendy for what it delivered. I enjoyed the history quite a bit, but thought that it was pretty slender vis a vis actual sightseeing. But I'm glad we did it. And with lovely weather- couldn't be beat.

We followed up with a walk around the U of W campus (bastards who wouldn't accept me into either their Grad or Law programs). We were looking for the fountain that remains on campus from the Alaska Yukon Pacific Exhibition of 1909. It's still there. It's under construction. (according to Kenga- it was ready to roll in 1907, but competition from the St. Louis World's Fair (Meet me in St. Louis...Clang, clang, clang went the trolley- done in Judy Garland's voice) put it all on hold for a couple of years) Interestingly enough, you can still see where there was a cascading fountain on the side towards the lake. It's now flower beds- very much in the Olmstead tradition- and will re-open on April 30. So we'll go back. In the meantime, we found the boat arena, and plan on renting canoes sometime, went out on the football field at the stadium (surprisingly not locked, unlike ASU), and found medicinal botanical gardens starting to prepare for spring. I didn't know prior to yesterday that holly has little yellow flowers that smell nice.

Dinner was at Latona, with friends whom we haven't seen enough of lately. Too many crises in their lives, unfortunately. Hopefully we'll remedy this soon. (the time, we can't fix the crisis elements).

Good day. Today was much more prosaic. But the sun shone, no rain, and I had my Miata driving lesson, and didn't embarrass myself. Kenga was pleasantly surprised. Later I took a late-afternoon nap with the cats, and am now prepared to greet the final two days of the job. I'll probably debrief about the job later this week. There are lots of details. Suffice it to say, it's been quite an experience.

Who's my hero?

That would be Kenga. Today and every day. Ode to Kenga will be forthcoming. What did he do to earn this distinction? Well, first off, he fixed my car. So there Sean. It seems that it had a sticky lifter, and he added something to the oil that made it all better. It'll get me to MT in a couple of weeks, and then we can get something else. A plan is afoot, and now we can follow through.

Next up, home electronics. Yesterday, we were watching tv on the landlady's tv (she left it behind when she was deployed, and since it's huge, we use it) and the screen suddenly became covered with grey and white stripes. Shit, we thought. We have to buy her a new one...Then Kenga got creative. He went online (I love the internet) and found out that this model has this problem. He found a fix, went to Radio Shack (a Tandy corporation) and bought parts and then proceeded to solder some new guts to the innards of the tv, and voila- it works again. $14 fix. Love him, love him, love him. He is the smartest boy I know. And he loves me back. Mmmmm mmmm good.


Ode to Kenga:

Fixes everything- electronic, mechanical, emotional

Makes laughter spontaneously erupt- from me, strangers, cats

Endures allergies to love the pets

Does the vacuuming

Has a soft spot in his wonderful heart for the right movie moments

Takes me to the Locks when the day was bad to watch the boats and the fish

Confirms daily that I'm the luckiest girl on the planet.

Drum roll, please

The car might be in its death-throes. It started making an alarming noise when I started it up to come home this afternoon. Kenga is on the case, and might have provided the bandaid to stem the hemmorage, but it is probably terminal. I just need to get through tomorrow, and then Kenga has graciously allowed me to take lessons on hills and his car. Nervously, I approach that idea. I'll be probably driving the miata with the bullseye on the trunk. Until we go to MT next month- then I'll get a new car. Damn. The car now has 135K miles on it, and has been wonderfully brave. But the time swiftly approaches when it'll be the merciful thing to put a bullet in its head.

Otherwise, an unremarkable and relatively uneventful day. I was, however, successful in navigating the drive between a couple of unfamiliar fire stations without getting lost or confused- and did it faster than either of the other guys. Haha, I say!

Bite me chumpy

Co-worker was even more of a man-bitch today. I wouldn't have thought it possible. Seems that Johnny Underachiever has deciced that it's ok to take his frustration with the job out on me. Well, I says, guess again, Johnny Underachiever. I have a plan. I will take his attitude and reflect it right back at him- in the following way. He says crap to me that is borderline rude, but in a very nasty way. So I plan on calling him on the way he's speaking to me. I only have an estimated 3 days left. So nothing to lose. I don't plan on getting into a full-on discussion with him- just pointing out his crap. And that it's not nice. We'll see how he responds from there. He's a bully and a jerk, and I plan on saying a well-deserved goombyo at the end of this ordeal.

Another spin on it is that he could be pissy that I'm still around, and not like the fact that I do things like try to figure out how to fix problems, rather than sit around and let the others do it. I dunno. His idea of aiming high it to be a tow truck driver. THAT'S what I'm dealing with here. And he wears jeans that have the crotch around his knees. I thought that those were passe, but seems that he thinks not. I say, not horribly K-Momo of him.

(diversion- K-Momo 7 was a clothing store in East Phoenix in the late 90's- and we drove by it every time we went to our favorite Thai restaurant (Thai Rama)- which tended to be weekly. It became an inside joke. Well, that's not very K-momo of you...etc.)

There. Now I feel better. Time to drink some wine (Spanish Rioja with a little tiny plastic bull attached to the bottle- how delicious and cute at the same time) and sit down to Fellini's 8 1/2. Life will be just fine.

Entertainment

I did, however, watch a couple of Busby Berkely musicals this weekend. They both starred the amazing Joan Blondell. Dames (1934) was pretty cool. I made Kenga watch the production number at the end- some incredible special effects- especially when you realize that it's 19bloody34 (I don't know why I'm doing that tonight- annoying habit, I know. My blog, my rules.). I could live a long, happy life without Dick Powell, but was pleased by Joan. Also on the Tivo was Footlight Parade- also with Berkley dance numbers. And Joan. And Dick. But the real highlight for me was Jimmy Cagney- singing and dancing. I never really appreciated Cagney- he was good in White Heat (Made it, Ma! Top of the world!), but like I said- not that fond of him. Well, that changed. I couldn't take my eyes off of him when he was in a scene. I wasn't attracted in any particular way (like Cary Grant or William Powell, or even the young Jimmy Stewart or Gregory Peck), but he was arresting on camera and very fun to watch.
Anyhew, that's the movies that I can say are fun. Now I have some Fellini to dig through. And a Bergman. That one oughta be a pip. I'll have to save some 30's light comedies for after that.

No news.

Otherwise, nothing going newswise. Just waiting to hear from schools. The deadline for Penn State is looming- but I'll probably hold off as long as possible to commit. I have yet to get my aid package from them- so don't feel a huge compulsion to make any kind of committment. Also, like I said before, moving doesn't sound like a whole lotta fun. So just waiting. I'll look at the last year and a half's job situation as good practice at waiting. Without going batshit, that is. (though I might've gone batshit, and not realized it...not improbable.)

Bitchslapping the coworker

Would that I could- but he'd probably enjoy it too much. And if I'm going to start being a dominatrix, I had better be paid better.

He was a real dick today. Just a little bitch. Reminded me of an ex-boyfriend- we'll codename him Migi. Migi Carter. (got that Darrin?) Looks like him. Acts like him. Has that strange rich-boy love affair with the blue collar types. Wants to act tough. Not patient. Not even very nice. At least Migi was smart, and wanted to learn. Not coworker. Just wants to blow money, and be mean and snippy to me. Like it's my fault that we have to fix a bunch of mistakes that the computer and bar codes made. Well, I say fuck him. Not in a good way either.

That's about all I care to say about it- except that the eerie coincidence of it is that Migi and the coworker have birthdays 2 days apart. (different years though) Cue Twilight Zone music...

Bwah.....hah....haha......

I know that I keep reporting that the crap job will end this week. But then I find out that under each rock are a couple of dozen creepy little things that we're needed to attend to. Today I figured out why. Seems that some of our barcode tags were duplicates. About 200 of them. So approximately 200 items on some unknown apparatus/apparatii are have dubious descriptions. I found this while auditing a med car- I had some suspicions as the inventory I was working on was really strange looking, and had some huge gaps. Well, when we downloaded the data, I found that the lactated ringers in a drawer was in reality a 4' Pike pole. Hm. Made us start thinking.

So, given that this is one of the major problems that we're now finally discovering (after being told this morning that this was the last week) I'm beginning to think that this job might just go on for a little longer than planned (again). sigh.

Mrs. Peel, we're needed.

Gotta call it as I see it

The discussion this morning runs as follows:

"so, you're having breakfast cookies this morning."

"they're not cookies, they're cereal."


I maintain that Cracklin Oat Bran, while delicious, are oatmeal cookies, not cereal. Look at the ingredients and decide for yourself. Silly Kenga, cookies are for snacking, not for breakfast!

80's preoccupation

Did anyone else's parents buy a trash compacter in the 80's? It was THE appliance to get. My dad thought it was the best to blow up glass jars in there. My complaint was that eventually, someone (guess who?) had to haul the 75 lb bag of compressed crap to the alley. I tried a work-around one summer- I put the bag on the deck for a few days to see if it would go away on its own. But all I did was grow maggots underneath. It was probably one of the ickiest sights I can remember. So I didn't do it again. Even in winter- which was cold enough to put stuff like that outside and freeze it solid.

The other thing that was (and still is- really) fun was watching dad put turkey bones down the garbage disposal. It sounds like a mini wood chipper. Last time we were home, he got all but 3 bones down there. There was a man with a mission. Indeed.

Well. That's interesting.

I have a day off- our database guy is off, so we can't work. Which suits me just fine. The sun is out, and I have time to play.

Interesting thing. I have confirmation that kids definately can sense ill-will directed at them- and that those instincts are very good to have. I've learned that person I've known for a very long time has a serious problem with me. Not that I've done anything to earn the emnity- basically be born, I suspect. I always knew that this was the case- that I was hated from that direction- it bugged the hell out of me when I was younger. But then it just became kind of like background static. Just knew not to trust this individual. Not to turn my back. And it never really mattered. It still doesn't- just that now that this person has played their cards, so to speak, I am in the know. And it's kind of nice to know that I was right. Just call me the fucking Cassandra of the block. I do wish that things were different, but this person will probably always remain the victim of his/her own particular brand of pathological psychology. Lovely. While I should just write them off, I feel really sorry for them. It's downright out of Dickens the way they're behaving- and it's an embarrassment. For shame. To quote Joan Crawford's character out of Mommy Dearest, "Don't fuck with me, fellas. This ain't my first time at the rodeo."

Gotta go- it's sunny out for a brief moment- and I think I'll go for a walk down on Alki Beach- and look at the water/boats/skyline of Seattle. I'm trying to get as much face time with the city while I live here- as it might wind up that I move to fucking Pennsylvania...

Wrapping up

Allegedly my last day on the job is Friday. We've been through this before, however- and had a couple of extensions. Then it's a free-for-all when employers citywide discover that I'm free to be hired!

Yeah.

Anyhew, I was thinking about stuff. Cuz my job is anything but cerebral, doncha know. Scanning barcodes ain't what I use my schoolin on nohow. We watched the documentary about Henry Darger last night. Made me think. For those who are too lazy to look him up on Wikipedia, he was the obsessive/compulsive, possible nutcase who created tens of thousands of pages of an illustrated novel over the course of 60 years. His paintings were often over 10 feet long, on both sides of the paper. Impressive. We saw some similar stuff (in a way- which I'll explain) when we went to the Montreal modern art museum last summer. There's something universal about artists who have that kind of obsessive need to create - whether it's in paper and paint or it it's arranging bottle caps in a certain design, or cutting up puzzles to create new puzzles of amazing complexity and scale. It resonates with me- as I have a touch o the old ocd going on- thus am very good at my current job- counting and organizing data...yummy. But thing is, I get it. It makes me sad kinda when I see the Darger stuff- since it shows how very rich his internal life was, but how very impoverished his personal outside life was. I hope the other artists like him have it a little easier.

That's what I was thinking about today. That and my ongoing fantasy of driving the Nuhrburgring with Michael Schumacher in an Enzo Ferrarri. With his shirt off. Yummy. Indeed.

Ah dammit.

No job for me. Just found out Friday that they decided to, "keep the job internal." I could've predicted that when she told me that she was going to check with her IT guy. They are notorious in that organization for owning stuff. Then the wait occurred- waiting for an answer...that finally came.

So I am still counting things.

And waiting for an answer from schools across the land.

In the meantime, I have some delicious nuggets o' culture to share.

I watched an interesting documentary called Dig, about the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre (bands for those of you who aren't familiar). What was cool was that it offered a sometimes skewed, but interesting look into a couple of bands and their interactions. It led me to do some surfing online, and find some great music. I was familiar with the Dandys, but the Brians were a revelation. Lovely, lovely stuff.

I watched Cries and Whispers by Ingmar Bergman last week. Not for the faint of heart. There's one scene in particular that's pretty brutal/gruesome. But not without import...very moving and difficult movie. All about family dynamic between three sisters as one lies dying.

I read The Lost Painting- which is the tale of a lost Caravaggio being found. Good journalistic essay. It kind of got me fired up about art history again. But it did not, alas, kindle an interest in Caravaggio- never really got him. I can appreciate his work, like I can appreciate Rubens. But they are both such products of the Reformation, and all that that entails- very overblown and dramatic. I like art that's a little quieter- more reflective and contemplative. Unless you're talking about modern art- and that's a whole different kettle o fish. If we're discussing art prior to 1890, I have a penchant for Vermeer, if that clarifies things any. He's my favorite. In 1994 (? I think?) we flew across the country to DC for a Vermeer show- the first and perhaps only time that some of those paintings would ever be on loan- and braved a DC blizzard (they DO NOT know how to deal with snow removal) to see his stuff. I fell firmly in love. And am still there. The man was amazing.

Over time I have developed a strong appreciation for art that I considered clumsy and ill-executed back in the day. I love illuminated manuscripts and medieval painting, for example. Not quite the Romanesque- bit clunky- but the stuff from the High Middle Ages (i.e. Gothic). The color was exquisite, and the details are remarkable. They were such amazing witnesses of their surroundings- and captured these with such accuracy removed from the Renaissance preoccupation with scientific study of perspective and anatomy. Theirs was a more emotional filter, with less of a removal from the subject. I would argue that when perspective and other scientific areas of visual study came into the forefront, these became the focus for most artists, rather than the details. Not that this is a bad thing, exactly- just a shift in world view.

There. Now I've had my art history talk for a Sunday. The F1 season's first race is today- and I'm happy. I'll exit before I start expounding about F1 and Michael Schumacher's chances at winning another world championship- suffice it to say that Ferrari is back, motha fuckers!!!

Dicks at Dick's

We went to Dick's last night for dinner. For those of you who don't know Dick's- it is a drive in. With seriously wonderful fries, good shakes and yummy burgers. Cheap too.

We went to the Queen Anne location since it was yucky out, and thus didn't want to go to the drive in ones.

We got there, and a homeless-looking fellow was harassing the cashier because they didn't have any onions for his $1.10 burgers (told you it was tres cheap). He wouldn't leave it alone. He kept asking, "but why don't you have any onions?" When she replied, "because we didn't have time to prepare them yet." He got all irate. The other cashier tried to take our order over the commotion. Good thing she was paying attention- we did get what we ordered.

While this was going on, the beleagered cashier ignored the irate man and asked to help someone else. A guy stepped forward and ordered, pissing off the guy behind me who was on the phone. Words were exchanged-

"I was in line."

"I thought you were on the phone."

"No, I was in line...hold on, I'll call you back...I was in line."

"I'll have a Deluxe...."

"Go to hell."

By the time our food came, I was getting ready to see blows exchange.

Must've been something in the water.

Awards schmwards

Just watched the Academy's. Love, love, love Jon Stewart. Despite his somewhat tepid reception- I thought he was wonderful.

I didn't see most of the movies. I really don't even know why I care- I just wanted to see Jon be funny.

There is one lasting mystery about the night, however. Why did Tom Hanks look so totally pissed off when he strode out to announce the best director award? He didn't banter, or even crack a smile. And that was after his goofy thing earlier in the night. What happened? Is he a secret dick, wearing his smiles as a mask to inner dickiness? Or did someone really jerk him around just prior to going onstage? Wha happened?

In another life, I want Hillary Swank's body to be my own. But not her face. It kind of scares me.

Or Salma Hyack's body.

Despite my love for him in many movies, I suspect that Philip Seymor Hoffman is a closet jerk. Something about him seems a tad precious. I dunno. It's just a sixth sense that I have for that kind of thing.

Is there a plan afoot for another Speed movie? If not, then why did Sandra and Keanu show up together? I'm very confused. I didn't think that anything spontaneous happened at the Oscars. Much less careless dating. Very mysterious.

That's about all I really have to say about the 4 or so hours of my life that won't come back again. Except that during that time I wrote my second of two personal statements for U of MT Law school. And got my application in an envelope and ready to post tomorrow. And I ate some good cheese on mediocre crackers. And drank a sip or two of wine. And folded a couple of loads of laundry. And watched the kitties play with their new toy- a laser pointer. Endless hours of entertainment there.

Resuming holding pattern

Still waiting to hear about the banking gig. Interview went very well, I thought.
Basically, true to form, no one in this stupid town can make up their minds in a timely manner, and communicate the decision quickly.

Firemen won't let go...

I keep expecting to have my last day, and find out that it has been extended. I went in for what I thought was 2 hours of debriefing this morning. Got home at 4, after a full day. They want me back tomorrow.

I have an interview at the bank tomorrow. I'll still go to that. If the firemen want me badly enough, they'll pay me what the bank is offering. Then I'll stay. Happily. Otherwise, if I get this new job, I'm outa there.

No other big news- just gonna go sit on couch. And be kittenlike. Like the name.

Stoopid firemen

Gave me the flu.

Seriously. And they weren't even around. We were at a station on Friday that was basically empty. Everyone but those on shift (ie., recruits, and trainees) were sent home because of the flu. And now I have it. All weekend. Headache, bodyache, fever, icky throat...

Got to do some movie watching though. Saw a couple of really good ones. Peeping Tom, The 400 Blows, and Ordet were among the highlights. Plenty of Criterion Classics from the library for me to delve into.

We also watched the closing ceremonies yesterday on the Canadian TV channel. They showed it all live, rather than waiting for NBC to show it all very late at night.

What extreme, expensive silliness. The basic carnival premise was good. I liked that ok. But then they got all creative and whacky. Like they were French, or something, no? I understand the Fellini allegory, too- but some of this went a bit beyond Fedrico, and was firmly entrenched in odd.

There was some kind of allegorical development of heaven and hell going on. Angels sang. Then little devil children sang. Then a sinister man with what appeared to be a red tail played a fiery dragon harp. And the devil children gathered around him. Then pyrotechnics. Then some more stuff. Then came what I thought was the goofiest part- and I really didn't get the symbolism at all. There were 300+ brides who came out. I was expecting a possible mass ceremony, a la Rev. Moon. But no. They came out, some Italian pop star with a nasty tat makeuped out on her chest sang some Italian pop song, and the brides shuffeled into various shapes, kind of like a slow-moving and not horribly graceful Busby Berkely production (look him up on IMDB if you need to know). It was odd. Without the mass ceremony, I thought that maybe they represented the only virgins remaining in Turin. And that they were the spoils of war, so to speak, for the Olympians to enjoy later. Or maybe they were just getting married later that evening. Confused the hell out of me.

Then there were more things, and it was finally over. Even the Canadian commentators were getting a little overwhelmed by it all. One of them sighed, "look, there's more..." at one point.

Then they showed the skaters in their little production show after the games. I guess it's kind of a working audition for Stars on Ice. Nice. But kinda boring. I was feeling tired, and went to take a nap. Without Johnny Weir, I didn't care. I love him. He is wonderful. He uses words like, "princessy" whilst talking to the press. This makes me happy. He refuses to answer the gay question, stating, and rightfully so, that it doesn't matter to his skating career. I love him.

And now it's time to retire to the bed again. I have a lovely bio of Jean Harlow from the library to read if I feel like it. I like her. She was good. It's shaping up to be a pretty sad story, but interesting.

Partly cloudy- with chance of sun

Things are looking up.

I got accepted to Penn State.

Now I need to decide if we want to move to Pennsylvania- what will Kenga do? Where will we live? etc.

It depends on the package that they offer. Haven't received the paper copy yet- just got an email this morning.

Also, 6 days of the job left. I'm keeping definate count this time. I think that we'll be done, and nothing will be left to count. And just in time too- my feet are beginning to feel the effects of hours on concrete, despite good shoes.

Well, we'll pick up and try again

Strike one at the empire.

Seems that in my 15 minute interview, the fellow at the empire decided that I lacked passion for the business. I'm not sure how he determined this, since it usually takes longer for me to check out at the grocery store than he spent interviewing me, but oh well.

I'm being put in for another position.

Guess I will be with the current job for the remainder of my 9 days.

Getting the crap kicked out of me

From the inside out.

Something about the Ethiopian food last night was unsettling me pretty badly. So in the middle of the night, I was awake. And as is always the cast, things look very bad in the middle of the night. I was pondering the whole job/law school/ reality thing.

I am pretty convinced that I didn't get the job. It's just a feeling. Hopefully I'll find out tomorrow, and can then try for another one. There has to be more than one opening at the empire.

I got a letter from Seattle U that I'm on the waitlist for law school. Better than turned down cold, but that still might be the outcome. I'll have to see if there's anything that I can do to improve my chances. It's looking not so good, though. At least from the 3:00 AM sick tummy standpoint.

Went to coffee and donuts with Kenga this morning. It was nice. There was a homeless man outside bellowing for coffee. I gave him a couple of dollars. Mind you, all of my money is blood money in a way. I have worked my ass off for all of it. So it was a considered action. Why? Well, I think that he is having a worse day than I'll ever have. Hope he got his coffee. I had a pink, twirly donut. It was yummy. But my tummy hurts again, so it wasn't necessarily a good idea. Either that or it's a tumor. That's the mood of the day. Lucky Kenga. I'll just bury myself in some movies or something. Definately good sometimes to hibernate.

I am getting tired of the ass kicking that I am receiving though. The novelty has worn off. And now it's just getting to the point where I am wondering what kind of lesson I'm supposed to learn from it all. If there is actually a lesson to learn. Or if it's just the reality for the rest of my life. Also ran. Second best. B+ student. I contemplate that all with some amount of humor (oh- the self pity of it all...) but also with some amount of chagrin. Can't deny that it's been a rotten situation on many levels.

Gonna go watch some Lympics, I think. And try not to drown in my own sorrowful morass....poor me. To quote Nancy Kerrigan, "Why me???"

(apologize for the last part- it's pretty much a joke- I would never seriously quote Nancy Kerrigan. Never.)

Good with the bad

Well. I thought that I was over the whole crappy job thing. But it seems our contract has been extended another 2 weeks. ARRRRGGGGG!!!!!

Now we get to inventory the really difficult and specialty stuff. No more easy stuff for us. We're now pros. If I can keep the other two from killing eachother, it shouldn't be too horrible. But that will be an extreme challenge. I am hoping against hope that I will hear from the empire first, and be able to opt out. The inventory superiors know about the interview and possible jumping ship, so it isn't like I'll go to hell for abandoning the grand project. Then I can start re-growing the skin on my hands too. I scrape the hell out of them every day.

Now for something that I enjoyed. All week there has been a funny conversation on Slate about the Lympics. I thought that this paragraph was deeelightful.

Plushenko seems to split the difference with a Jekyll-and-Hyde approach. He looks quite comfortable making those huge spinning leaps, but then between his jumps he puts on an awkward "passion" mask and starts flitting his hands about, arching his back, and lowering his eyelids in rapture. It feels false and weirdly divorced from the world of sport. Imagine the half-pipe snowboarders pausing midway down their run, performing a series of half-assed, overwrought dance moves (replete with jazz hands), and then resuming their shredtastic tricks. This will never happen, with good reason.

This is why I love Slate. I want to work there. But they are in DC, and I don't want to live there. It just sums up the whole thing about figure skating that I think is particularly perplexing. Gay or not? You decide, because they just don't seem to be able to.

No news yet from the empire. The weekend approaches... I have Monday off, so maybe the call will come then...bated breath...(or is it merely belated breath?)

How'd it go?

I dunno. Just dunno. Was very quick- I just can't interpret the whole thing. Didn't have enough face time to really figure much out.

I'm supposed to find out "quickly". Now how they interpret quickly and how I interpret it hopefully are similar.

Went to work for a half day. More drama. Got one of the team members getting uppity. She's decided that she wants to take me down a notch. Silly girl. Doesn't know that she's up against a pro. And that I can see her petty nonsense from miles away. She totally telegraphs her moves. And I can head them off with little effort, all while keeping the smile on my face, and being as friendly to her as I was the day we met. She blanket sprayed the area with petty, but it really didn't last long. Then she pouted the rest of the afternoon. And I was perfectly content to let her. You just can't please some people. That's all I'm sayin.

Too damned tired

Been too tired to write much lately. It got blasted cold here, and it even snowed a touch this morning.

Which sucks.

Anyhew- 3 more days.

The team is getting a little ragged around the edges- two don't like one of the other members, and I find myself trying to soothe hurt feelings. It's stupid for a fucking temp job. But I gotta figure, each of us is a temp for our own special reason. Mine is...I'm a loser, baby. So why don't you kill me....

Got an interview on Thursday at the big company over the lake. Think happy thoughts- it would be really, really good.

Been watching the Lympics in a desultory fashion in the evenings- basically cuz I'm too lazy to fish the remote from between the couch cushions and change it. Also, it's too much of a committment to watch a movie.

I have decided that I want to slap all figure skating commentators silly. Make them cry like babies. They are too bitchy. They are so full of venom that it kills the enjoyment of the event for me. Is it too much to ask to have commentators who offer information without the nasty sidebars of how inferior each competitor is to them? After all, I don't remember ever seeing the nasty Dick Button, or the evil wench commentator on skates. I have a suspicion that if they were in the rink, the current athletes would drop kick them in to shameful silence. Wish it could actually happen. I miss little Scotty Hamilton. He was usually so nice and positive, and forthcoming with the joy of the event.

I have a really hard time, though with the combo of sequins and athletics. It just seems kinda silly.

I dig the snowboarders though. Funny, silly lot. One of the girls had her ipod on while competing. Won a medal too. They seem like the kinda people to do jello shots with, then go out and play in the snow. Who cares if you get hurt? You won't feel a damned thing.

Ah then there are the speed skaters. And their cameltoes. There was speculationat work that the guy who won the 500m event is batting for the other team. Just something about the gestures. I dunno. All I know is that the bare ankles bother me. Don't they get cold as hell?

That's all I want to say for today. I'm gonna go turn on the tv and sit on the couch. And watch others be all athletic.

Time slips

7 more days.

Damn I'm tired. Legs hurt. Too much standing on concrete.

I didn't realize until today that the Olympics start this weekend. Don't really care, though. Haven't cared since I was little and the cold war made it all interesting.

Didn't realize until today that Valentine's Day is next week. Don't really care, though- bad associations with the day. I've been dumped 3 times, by 3 different guys on that day. There is a special hell reserved for a boy who dumps a girl on Valentine's Day. It's a very bad place. With evil squirrels and boiling hot chocolate.

Kenga knows it's just not a big deal for me though. More than anything, I just want to feel like I'm not about to drop over from being sleepy. I probably have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. That's it. I'll say it's terminal. That's why I'm so bloody tired. Or I'm just not sleeping that well. Lately the kitties are deciding that it's fun to wake up earlier than normal. I think it has to do with the days getting longer. And me not being home in the day to keep them awake. So they start their hijinks in the bedroom around 5. Jumping on the bed- playing with stuff on the dresser.

Not much else going on- just counting days. 7.

The revelation moment

We were discussing why I hate this job so very much last night. Kenga made the point that it pushes almost all of my buttons- no fixed location, no space of my own, early mornings, non-demanding-no- almost mindless work, etc. So I was thinking about that some more. And had one of those revelations that can probably only occur after years of expensive therapy.

When I was 20 I had a really crappy job. Makes this look like cake walk. I was cleaning the dorms at the university. What made it really nasty was that it wasn't just one cleaning per dorm. No- they function as a hotel during the summer months. The worst were the football players, followed very closely by a group of elderly bikers. Nasty. The bathrooms were just discouraging.

The particular issue that I ran into was that we were using lots of industrial cleaners and chemicals with no protection, either gloves or respirators. The shit ate through the gloves. So what was the point was the logic. After weeks of that, I developed bronchitis. I got better, but then a week later got another bout of bronchitis.

When I returned, the fat fucker who was my boss (drove around in his pickup everywhere, and looked like a walking heart attack- pox on his home) called me aside. He fired me, saying that it made no difference if I was there or not. I went to the room I was working on, and called my mom. I had never been fired before. I was crying. She said to get the hell out of there. Just stop. Leave the rest of the room for everyone else. She seemed pissed.

Knowing what I know now, I probably should've chalked up my illness to chemical exposure and filed a work comp claim. I was a young dumbass.

The whole experience reigns as my worst job ever. And it really hurt, to boot. So I think that this current job, at least the physical side of it, reminds me of that one. Thus I think I'm tapping into some of that memorial hardship. And I have to just push on through. It'll all be ok- and it's not rocket science. On a really good note- I do get to deal with really wonderful people, and I don't have to bring the work home. Ever.

11 more days.