here's your gravy

It's time

2011-12-07T06:48:00.001-05:00

I'm going to take an official break from this blog.

I know -- given the infrequency with which I have posted, you weren't likely to notice until I'd been gone more than a month. Unless I know you in real life blah blah excusecakes something something.

I'm not deleting the blog. (Yet.) I've written a lot here that I'm proud of and obviously want to save.

I want to walk away because I have thought about doing so a lot over the past few years.

I want to walk away because I don't feel like I have any better handle on this blogging thing after six years at it. I think part of that is because I blog in secrecy. I no longer find this acceptable.

I purposely wrote this blog under a pseudonym so that I could talk about whatever I wanted with little fear of backlash. As a result, however, I've had to keep huge segments of my life off the blog for fear of "discovery." [cue visual of ET running from the scientists]

I don't want to write in secrecy anymore. I want to be able to give people the URL to my creative site and not talk about blogging in the past tense as though it's something I no longer do.

I want to save the bitching for my journal and create an online space where I can openly share my writing, drawings, and creative ventures that intrigue but also frighten me, like photography. I want to tell people about my life and my city. I want to be able to post pictures of silly things like the haircut I just got.

I don't have any logical conclusion to this entry, aside from saying that I know I'm making the right move because I feel free as I type this.

Thank you for visiting this space, for leaving comments, and for following me. It's been pretty great but it's time to get used to something different.

Every day is like Sunday

2011-12-04T09:20:00.001-05:00

Things I'm happy about:

-- I have the whole day to ~~clean up and do laundry and prepare for the work week~~ screw around and watch Netflix.

-- Remembered, as I contemplated breakfast, that I had eggs. HUZZAH!

-- I got to talk to my friends Vanessa and Luckdragon last night. Yay, impromptu phone calls!

-- Some of my bills are paid! Including the YMCA! Where I haven't been in months! They're going to have to name a wing after me eventually. I mean, it's only $33/month that has recently gone COMPLETELY to waste, so I'll have to start small and claim, like, a chair in the lobby (you can buy a decent chair for $132, right?). But I'll get that wing eventually. Or I could just cancel my membership. Or -- HA! -- go to the fucking gym.

-- I rewatched "The Truth About Cats and Dogs" last night and was glad I still liked it. Janeane Garofalo has denounced the film as being anti-feminist and I was afraid I was going to hate it some 15 years after seeing it in the theater. But I didn't. Might even buy a copy, if only for a glimpse at all the wonderful 90s-ness about it, including landlines, women wearing patterned skirts with dark tights and Docs, tiny backpack purses, and answering machines.

-- Being back on my thyroid medicine (avoiding the long and probably boring story that goes with being off it) if only because I can now look at people, widen my eyes ever so slightly, and say, "I'm back on my meds." And then smile like Herman Cain.

Things I'm not happy about, but mostly in a first-world-problem kind of way:

-- No one is here to make or bring me a vanilla latte. My life is hard.

-- I went to a fancy schmancy art exhibit that King V was a part of and had some fantabulous crab dip that has made my stomach hurt off and on since Friday fucking night. I had two little bread pieces with dip -- no more than a few tablespoons total -- and am still occasionally wincing and wondering when the alien is going to pop out of my stomach. Not fair, crab dip I avoided spreading all over my body and rolling around in -- NOT. FAIR. Selective lactose intolerance is just idiotic.

-- The cost of redoing yoga teacher training. I really like the idea of redoing the training (and ideally being better prepared for the emotional strain I felt the first time) and teaching a class for larger-size people but $2,500 might as well be a million. I don't know. I can't entirely decide if becoming a yoga teacher is a dream I'm putting off or something that just sounds kinda neat but I'll forget about by next Tuesday.

Things I am putting off doing:

-- Detangling my hair. It's just booooooooooring. The alternative is leaving the house ~~again~~ looking like I have drunk wrestling weasels on my head. Fine. Where'sthefuckingcombgodblessit.

-- Figuring out what to eat for breakfast (I have time for this, though, since I have to wait another 30 or so minutes for my thyroid medicine to finish kicking in or whatever it does in the hour I'm supposed to wait before eating. Maybe it does magic tricks. Although *poof* You can now stay awake throughout the day! *shazaam!* kinda sounds like a lame magic show. Like one that would take place at a convention for very literal people.)

-- Getting in touch with Buckethead at Vox and possibly picking up some writing assignments because I am one broke ho (although stumbling across this entry is aiding in my procrastination, as is the wrinkled, I-just-smelled-something-yucky face I made when remembering conversations with Ginger).

-- Finishing a blog post where I talk about A More Serious Issue. No hints. Don't hold your breath; it's slow going with that entry.

-- Taking a nap. I KNOW -- what's THAT about?? Procrastination is only good if it keeps yucky tasks at bay.

Good things

2011-11-30T22:51:00.001-05:00

1. My poor, 19-year-old car needed its CV joints replaced and finally got new ones on Monday. (The wheels made a POP!POP!POP! noise every time I turned and only got worse the longer I pretended I couldn't hear it happening.) The car also got an oil change, new front tires (one of those fun, surprise! the wheels are coming off! repairs), and fresh wiper blades. I essentially feel like I'm driving a new Camry because it's so quiet. My newold car came with a pre-cluttered backseat (sponsored, apparently, by Diet Coke), which I found quite thoughtful of the dealership.

2. King V and Queen S are doing well and headed for their six-week-snowbird vacation in Mexico in a little over a month. I get to housesit (although I haven't entirely worked out how that's going to work since I'm not subletting my apartment or hiring a petsitter). They have cable, TiVo, a slammin' kitchen, a king-size bed, and a stocked beer fridge. Who's going on vacation again?

3. Mack Daddy Smooth comes home in 20 days. CAN I get an amen-uh?!

4. Today was payday, which enabled me to begin repaying the Bank of Mom and Dad (a kind and forgiving financial institution) for financing the CV joint repair. I'd just paid for the tires and oil change and was a little tapped (read: I was a one broke motherfucker). Hmm. I wonder if I could get #UnoBroMoFo to start trending on Twitter. Would certainly be better than anything Kardashian.

5. Kata is great and nuts, as usual. I got nominated to be on the party planning committee. Coincidentally, we have our holiday party tomorrow night, complete with door prizes and alcohol. I say kill two birds with one stone and give out beer as a reward. Could really boost morale. I know a recent rough day gave me a better understanding of the three-martini lunch of yore.

6. Earlier, I was craving something sweet and was sad (in a very first-world-problem kind of way) that I didn't have any candy. Then I remembered I had a peppermint, but that seemed kind of lame when I would've preferred ~~a bag of~~ a couple Starburst. So I got sad again. But then... I remembered I had leftover birthday cake and all was right with the world again. A videotape of my reaction would probably do quite well on YouTube.

7. Speaking of YouTube...

I can't WAIT to see the new Muppet movie.

8. I fucking love the Internet. Something I was listening to earlier made me think of an amazing singer I had heard perform with James Taylor about a thousand years ago. I couldn't think of his name and very literally Googled "the black guy who sings with James Taylor." Just a bit to my surprise, I had my answer about 10 seconds later: Arnold McCuller. (His stuff is all OVER Spotify if you're interested.) Here is Taylor's band performing "Shower the People." McCuller has a solo (for which he is understandably quite well-known) that starts at the 3:20 mark. He appears in a fedora at the 1:02 mark. *hatswoon* I tried to the embed the video but YouTube is being a punk or I'm tired and I keep making the same mistake. Maybe a little of both.

Gotta get to bed (1) because it's after midnight and I told myself I was going to bed at 11:00 pm and (2) it's Betty Off Her Crocker's date night. (I wish that information wasn't seared on my memory.) I'd like to get to sleep -- or at least be earplugged -- when she and the Duke of Humpington begin, uh, balancing her checkbook. So far, so good -- they're wearing their cement-heeled shoes and apparently moving boulders. I only get nervous when it gets quiet. Well. Temporarily.

Drawing #3

2011-11-21T23:38:00.001-05:00

Continuing my draw-a-picture-in-15-minutes thing, here's my next installment:

Drawing #1. Drawing #2.

Truth be told, this took 45 minutes to do.

As you might guess, the drawing of El Popetino took about 10 minutes. Then I let my OCD take the wheel (Jesus needed a break) and start messing around with text alignment and thin-lined boxes and blah blah blah 15 minutes came, went, and sent a follow-up postcard. Anyway, I'm counting it since I was done drawing. Except for making the sparks sparkier. It is a magic wand, after all.

What a bitch...

2011-11-21T21:29:00.001-05:00

...in' day.

;)

I got a couple things fixed on my old-ass car on Friday, so it was much more pleasant to drive to work today. You know. Since the wheels are going to stay on now. SRSLY.

I actually started out the day pretty pissy for reasons I don't entirely remember. Probably a lack of sleep. Coffee helped. I mean, so would've a nap, but they frown on us curling up and sleeping under our desks. Pfft. "Hurts morale." "Makes it difficult for the cleaning crew to vacuum." Whatevs.

A bunch of us headed out for a training session during lunch and learned some tricks in Excel... that I've pretty much forgotten now. Hey, that's what taking notes is for. We scored a free lunch out of it. While I was waiting to load up on This Afternoon Coma Brought to You by Pasta, a male coworker stood and very seriously addressed the room. He mentioned something about proceeding with the following despite a violation of the fire code --

No... he's not going to suggest...

...blah blah blah something about a lot of candles --

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

"...we should sing Happy Birthday to Maxine."

omgomgomgomgomg

Dude. I was embarrassed but I freakin' loved it.

---

I surpassed my quota for the second Monday in a row -- and actually got a tiny jump on a sixth article before quitting time -- and drove home feeling pretty good about myself. It got better when I walked up on my porch and saw that Mack Daddy Smooth had sent me a package. Inside, a bunch of stuff from Hawaii, including macadamia nut candy, banana chips, an I <3 HAWAII journal, and a pen featuring a cartoon lady in a bikini.

Gotta say the kid knows his audience.

---

The birthday goodness will continue as I'm due to dine with different groups of friends over the next few weeks, folks who weren't able for one reason or another to make it to the birthday festivities. My plan is to stretch my birthday out as long as possible. A few years ago, I made it halfway through December. This year? I'm aiming for June.

Maybe my pony will finally arrive today.

2011-11-20T01:30:00.001-05:00

This is actually a wedding cake AND it's from Martha Stewart's site, so clearly my first birthday gift this year is a healthy dose of delusion, but I think it's beautiful and it's my birthday, so THHHHPPPT.

WOOHOO, 38! I plan to get all mature-like any day now. Any... day...

-----

Update:

I've had a really nice birthday. I went to brunch with my folks and a good friend and had a lovely time. Went back to King V and Queen S' and opened presents. I scored a teapot, a drawing pad and new markers (yessss), a coffee grinder, and other goodies. I was surprised with a trip to the movie theatre where we saw "Puss in Boots" (So freakin' cute!), the same place where King V messed with me by buying the tickets in secret and pretending to walk into the theatre where the new Twilight movie was playing.

(All together now: :O !!!)

I was tantalized by the trailer for the Muppets movie that opens in a few days; can't wait! After the movie, went back to the 'rents and had cake and ice cream. It was a pleasant, low-key day. I wish I could have celebrated with more friends, but a late invitation on my part, friends' prior obligations, and life in general got in the way. No worries, though; it's just a reason to extend my birthday celebrations well into December. Or next June. Whichever I can get away with.

Hope the rest of your Maxine Day goes well! I'm still not mature, in case you're keeping track.

They say it's (almost) your birthday...

2011-11-19T07:24:00.001-05:00

Howdy!

It's my last day as a 37-year-old person. I've been awake less than an hour and these are some of the thoughts I've had:

ZOMG! I GET PRESENTS TOMORROW!!1!

I should take myself out for tea and cake later. And write poetry and draw!

38. One step closer to 40! And death.

Presennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnntssssssssssssss!

So, you know. I'm conflicted. Mildly. Mostly in a "38? Really?! I feel 28!" kind of way. Therefore it's helpful that I have decided to reclaim my 20s and will be telling everyone at work on Monday that I turned 23 over the weekend. Most of them will know it to be a lie but I am kinda hoping I can trick at least one person. Hi, I'm Maxine and I have no other hobbies!

This has been a pretty amazing year. Last year at this time, I was in my seventh month of working for Vox, which had officially made me a professional writer. As that wrapped up three months later, I found my way back to permanent full-time work at Kata, which has been an amazing place to work. I've learned so much since April. I'm actually looking forward to work on Monday, in part because I made my weekly quota for the first time ever and floated out the door on a cloud of success and happy on Thursday evening.

I don't have huge plans tomorrow, mostly because I couldn't really think of anything to do that really flipped my switch. I considered bowling (regular and duckpin) but nixed the idea because neither seemed that thrilling. Case in point, I can go bowling each and every day of the week. I wanted to do something SPECIAL. So I'm going to brunch with King V, Queen S, and a few other friends. The hatches, you must batten them down before we all blow the fuck away.

My original plan was to go see strippers as I had done with Vox employees back in February (something my archives tell me I didn't blog about), but after finding out a Kata coworker has picked up a second job dancing at a local club, I lost interest. That's just a lot more information than I care to know about my fellow writers. I also wasn't so sure I wanted my friends to see me drunk and getting a lap dance. I mean, I'm going to be 38. That means I'm PRACTICALLY grown up. Time to crack down and be SERIOUS, you guyz.

Off to break some laws and get a few gals pregnant before I have to claim adulthood. Have a great Saturday!

Drawing #2

2011-11-18T16:11:00.001-05:00

Prompt = writing. I ran out of time to draw a bottle of ink because I'd forgotten to draw holes in the notebook paper. I think it's funny that I thought first of paper and pen for writing, even though I do 95% of my creative work on a computer.

Back to the drawing board

2011-11-18T06:41:00.001-05:00

I gave myself with a drawing task. I chose a word at random from abook and decided to draw it. I also gave myself a five-minute time limit.

My first choice was "Cairo." I thought about drawing Africa, but that seemed kind of hard to do in a short amount of time. Without drawing some African continental blob with an arrow pointing to Egypt.

The second word Isaw was "target." Also not exciting. Unless I draw the retail store,which could be interesting, I suppose. But again... not in five minutes.

The third word Isaw (picking at random from a book next to me) was "group."

Yes.

I drew most of the above in five minutes. Then I upped my limit to 10 minutes because I wanted to give Herbert Applebottom a bow tie. Ten minutes became 15 as I futzed with thehair on the ballerina (in the pink) and changed her skin tone from a weirdoyster color to Caucasian #4. I haven't decided on a name for her, but I'm circling around something in the "Kit" family.

Yeah, I give themnames. I've done so for drawings for as long as I can remember, which clearly(and inexplicably, if you ask me) bothered a long-ago coworker who, upon seeing drawings tacked up in my cubicle, assumed I had been drawing pictures of friends. I remember very well her 'cuckoo for cocoapuffs' look right before she walked away. Probably to buy something beige for her bland-ass life. But I'm bitter.

I haven't come up with names for therest yet. The green triangle lady is me, kinda, but she's also tall and thin, so she might be Helen Willis from the Jeffersons.

I like Herbert thebest. I did not draw him like Ernie from Sesame Street on purpose. It justhappened.

This might make a good feature because it was a lot of fun. I got away from regularly posting drawings here far too long ago.

I think the tall purple fellow should be Pez. He's a candy salesman.

Herbert manages a restaurant. Something like Big Boy.

What do you think? Can you help me come up with names and background info for the others?

Squeezy cheese, yes. Peas, no.

2011-11-11T06:45:00.001-05:00

Hey! I talk about my job a lot! Did I mention I'm obsessive? I didn't? I might be obsessive. Just a little. On Tuesdays. Hey, today is Tuesday! IT'S A GOOD DAY TO BE OBSESSIVE.

ahem

First, some stuff about work (O-B-S-E-S-S-I-V-E):

Last Thursday was a lot of fun at Kata. We started the day with a jam session -- the rallying/team spirit kind, not the Smuckers kind -- and it really made the rest of the day fun. At first, I was very 'Mornings suuuuck MOAR KOFFEY NAO,' but literal shouts of JAM! were infectious and did a lot to get us all amped for the last day of the work week. (It helped that we all uttered some form of JAM! throughout the day, generally in praise. Example: It's Thursday, which is our Friday. All: *cheers* JAM! JAM JAMMINESS! *applause*

Yeah, we're weird. I fit in pretty well there.

At the end of the meeting, we ~~gathered around the campfire~~ went around the room sharing nice statements about the company. Despite the sometimes-crater-deep issues that have plagued our six-month-old department, there are a number of nice things that can be said about Kata. I don't remember the Oscar-worthy speech I gave (and meant every word of), but it included the true statement I've shared here before: Kata is like the Army because it's the toughest job I've ever loved.

I'm writing almost exclusively for Cheese! now, which suits me just fine. I'm actually one article ahead this week. Wrote five articles on Monday almost like I'd always done it. I kept flipping back in my notes to look at the one article I'd completed the previous Monday and wondered how things could change so radically in a week.

Second, there's this:

I wish I liked peas, but I do not. It's too bad because they're fun to ~~flick at people~~ play with. It's a texture thing. I don't mind that they're small and round. I rather like that. I do have to say that peas and carrots mixed together bother me, but I can't really explain why. Something about the jarring colors, maybe. Or that I have to force myself to eat carrots because *pleh* Y U NO TASTE BETTER? That said, peas and onions is also disturbing. Okay, this is solely a peas issue. I should give peas a chance. HAHAHAHA. (Did I mention I stopped seeing my therapist?)

Betty Crocker found out that I can hear her doing the mattress mambo with her beau. Actually, she asked and I told her the truth. I assured her it was only, uh, right at the end but that didn't help. I decided to keep "Four times on Sunday? Well done, you!" to myself.

I have started my Chrismakwanzaakuh Yulexmastice planning and shopping. Before my birthday (SUNDAY!). Before Thanksgiving. BEFORE FUCKING DECEMBER. I don't know what all this "advance planning" and "spending money wisely" is about but I would like. it. to. stop. Showing signs of maturity -- pff!

I'm glad I get to spend Thanksgiving with my folks. I sure miss our big family gatherings that my late grandparents used to host. I'm glad to have the time with King V and Queen S, though, and especially glad that Mack Daddy Smooth arrives in just over a month for his annual visit.

Longtime readers of this blog may remember Prince Asshat, whom I tragically and inexplicably later referred to as Cecil. Newer readers, he was a coworker when I worked for King V. He drove me crazy ~~because apparently everything bothers me~~ but I grew to like him better. Anyway, he and his wife welcomed their first child yesterday. As King V remains close with PA/C, I emailed his highness and told him his proxy grandchild had been born. #thiswombisnotyourwomb

Third, some other crap:

I'm getting paid to tweet on Cheese!'s behalf. Well, I'm writing the tweets and I guess someone else will strategically post them. It's the closest to speech writing I've ever been. Well. Except for writing speeches in college. I guess that counts too.

My folks asked for my birthday/Xmas wish list the other day. It included a teapot (not this one, but only because I *der* just now thought to match said pot to my Fancy Adult Dishes™), memoirs, this t-shirt, and Queen Latifah. Yes, seriously. Never hurts to ask. (See also: Pony?!, Where is My.)

I'll try to be back with something interesting to say before I turn 38. No promises.

Want.

2011-11-09T22:37:00.000-05:00

&^%$(*&!!

2011-11-09T02:37:00.003-05:00

Someday I want to write a post where I don't bitch about my job.

Today is not that day.

Before one complaint slips past my fingertips, please know that I am still thrilled beyond belief, more than six months later, that I am finally employed full-time again and that that fucking U word is out of my vocabulary. I will always be grateful for Kata coming along in the nick of time (I was about two weeks from having to go on food stamps) and making me a full-time professional writer. Vox popped my pro writer cherry, albeit part-time. Which is a weird and uncomfortable visual. Okay, moving on!

I just got so giddy about getting paid to write that I forgot I was going to bitch. That's a nice feeling. Like sitting on an Alka Seltzer. I'm... not entirely sure what that means. I should probably mention that it's 12:43 a.m., my alarm goes off in six hours, and yesterday was stressful enough that I think I have PTSD. Read: Giving up even a second of my precious not-at-work time for something as insignificant* as sleep is not going to happen. Well, not for another 15 minutes or so. Or whenever I finish this entry. So... ~~3:00 a.m.~~ 2:37 a.m.

* I'm kidding, Goddess of Insomnia.

I was extremely frustrated on Monday because I was trying to write a technical article about cloud computing and the "false cloud," which is something you're just going to have to Google because looking up links to articles is likely to cause me to suffer flashbacks. I've written about cloud computing a few times but I'm still not entirely sure what the hell I'm saying. It's very much like how I learned Finite in college. I was able to cram enough information into my head that I aced the final (don't be too impressed -- I went into the final with an F in the class) but that knowledge all but fell out of my head within a few hours of completing the test. Every time I write about cloud computing, I sort of have to start over because 75% of the info has been evicted about my brain, likely in favor of thoughts about milk chocolate, a rash of neuroses, and fantasies about Queen Latifah.

Ahem.

Let's just say I'm glad most of the companies I write for aren't technology based. I'd much rather write personal stories for mommy blogs, which are usually about my husband and children and how much we love our lawnmower or whatever other keyword we're promoting.

Yep, I get paid to lie. They're not really bad lies. Today, I wrote as a straight wife and mother who was helping her husband organize the clutter in their garage by buying him a storage cabinet for his tools. If those people didn't exist, um, EVERYWHERE, then I'd feel bad. I'd also feel bad if I had a conscience. Shucks, fresh out.

Anyway, I spent the entire day trying to write the techie article. I should've given up but by the time my little sailboat was taking on water, I'd been rowing for too long to give up something something something STUBBORN. Also, and I think this might be my biggest phobia, I didn't want to look stupid by asking, yet again, for direction, even though that would've been wise. Note that I said direction. I can ask for directions. I'm quite good at it, actually.

Anyway, long story short, I finally started making sense of my data late in the evening and came in today and got the article in written in a couple hours. It took that much longer to get it all done, which is just depressing.

It got worse when I had to write a second techie article, this time about customer relationship management. It took me a good chunk of time but not nearly as long as the first article. In fact, I met quota today for the first time in weeks. We've been changing around teams and zones and there are different assignments everywhere and we've all changed seats again -- I'm on at least my 10th seat, if not 12th; gone forever is Maxine's Peninsula, and I once again sit across from the cutie who occasionally treats me to peeks of her lickable cleavage but drives me BATSHIT. INSANE. by playing with her hair all day long.

Over the right shoulder. flip

Over the left shoulder. flip

Scrape, scrape, stroke stroke.

Over the right shoulder. flip

Sweep, scrape, stroke.

Up in a bun. swirl

Bangs fall from behind ear. tuck

Bangs fall again. tuck, tuck

Bun loosens.

scrapey flippy further hair loosening gesture

Bun comes down.

Over the shoulder. flip

Let's pin in a barette! No, let's not after all.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

-------------------

Before entering techie hell, I witnessed, essentially, the slow gurgling death of a brainstorming initiative I started about six weeks ago. Basically, interested people could hang out on Monday morning and talk about writing ideas. The first session was great. People participated, there was a crackling kind of energy in the air, I felt brilliant and useful, and we made a lot of progress. I noticed the people who did and didn't participate. Our crowd was never huge but I always thought we deserved more respect than we got. That is, people wouldn't even stop typing to participate in the session, which I kind of took personally. It's difficult to break away from writing just to attend Another Fucking Meeting, I know, but it just felt increasingly ruder each week.

On Monday, our session lasted about seven minutes. It was pathetic and sad -- something I commented on that Petal seemed only too happy to confirm -- and I cancelled the series. Honestly, I'd been wanting to cancel it (and I had the permission of my manager who said we'd now be brainstorming each week within our special new groups). Any meetings before noon on a Monday are like a slice of death and trying to rally people was difficult. I'm not a morning person and even when I wake up, I'm not a cheerleader, so I had to enlist the help of a spazzy guy in the office who makes people with ADD look focused. I'm glad that's done. I'm sad that the series didn't last longer but at least I got it started.

-------------------

During and after techie hell, I was trying to help solve a problem with a client and running into difficulty with a coworker who is campaigning on the Idiocy ticket. (How can you tell? *ba dum bum*) None of the story will make sense unless you speak Jargon and anyway, I'm closing in on 2:00 a.m. and need to go the fuck to sleep already. Suffice it to say, there were emails flying back and forth, two Skype conversations, and a complete lack of help from Petal, who was of course involved.

-------------------

Ah, Petal. [insert theme song of doom here] I'm pretty sure I have a magnet in my ass that attracts her. She now sits at the table behind me -- oh yes, we changed rooms entirely and yet she's still within striking distance. I really do have to resist the urge to thwick her when I walk by. I actually did it the other day but then had to shrug it off like, "Oops, I had too much crack earlier and now I'm twitchy. Sorry!" Sometimes it just can't be helped. It's in passive-aggressive response to things like her following me into the break room the other day and asking to eat lunch with me.

I can't stand her and yet I can't seem to get away from her. Hmm. Sounds like my last relationship.

(All week. Here. Me.)

-------------------

Kata has recently picked up a new client -- a huge household name that we're going to pretend is a dairy retailer. Cheese! is a huge account. HOOOOGE. Tess, thankfully, thinks I'm awesome and put me on Team Cheese!, knowing that Cheese! could become even bigger, more opportunities, etc. Awesome and sugary sweet cool until a couple days ago when Team Cheese! found out that our workload essentially just tripled AND we're in a test phase / some kind of escape clause in the contract that frees Cheese! of all liability (heh, that was fun to type) something something contract we really have to impress them.

Team Cheese! has two writers. Me and Cardio, who happens to be a gay boy.

Cheese! wants us to write 50 articles a month, I think it is. So 25 a month per person, on top of writing for six other clients.

There's a little bit of stress at Kata.

Between trying to figure out false vs. real clouds and why anyone should give a fuck (this is a rhetorical statement; I need not hear any arguments from either the pro or con sides), I spent about half the day with my head literally in my hands. Well, actually, it was kind of like bracing my head against my left hand which was pushing my left eyebrow up all Spock-like as though physically stretching the skin on my head would make enough room for my brain to understand what the fuck I was trying to learn and the messes I was trying to help vacuum up.

-------------------

Towards the end of the day, I received a fourth rewrite request on an article that has haunted my last few weeks. The article was about how difficult it is to diagnose many types of cancer. I thought it was pretty good work. I researched a few different types of cancer and wrote an informative article.

It came back with a rewrite but no instructions for fixing the alleged problems. Helpful!

Turns out one of the editors called it "weak." I have not and probably will not forget that flake-and-a-half for that insult. I got your weak RIGHT FUCKING HERE.

Grubby, the editor who shared Flake's comments with me didn't happen to agree, thankfully, but also saw fit to pass on the "weak" comment, so I'm not a big fan of hers either.

I reworked the article, tried to make it more... more... I don't know what I was trying to do because there was nothing wrong with the original article GARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

It came back with another rewrite request.

Turns out Grubby accidentally hit the rewrite button. Tee hee!

The article remained lodged, if you will, in the system. Grubby told me not to worry about it, that it wouldn't need to be rewritten.

A week later she writes and essentially wants to know where my rewrite is.

Uh...

*rewinds tape*

We go through our entire conversation over, figuring out where we are in the process. I rewrite the article a second time.

It comes back a fourth time with comments from the client like "We don't treat that type of cancer."

This means that Grubby, the point person for the client, read my article multiple times and never, at one point, said, "Gosh, this isn't right. Let's fix it before we send it to the client, looking stupid as hell even though we have their printed materials all over this office."

Just seeing the word rewrite was enough to make me cry. I suggested that Grubby find someone else to write the article and she made the mistake of agreeing with me. She let me know that the rewrites weren't a reflection on my writing something something just stop talking.

That was Monday, which started out deceptively well. I got up after a great night's sleep and made it to the grocery for lunch fixins before work. I was at work early enough to make and eat breakfast before going to my desk. Unlike Cardio, I respect people's work space and desire to not listen to chewing and I take my meals in the break room.

AHEM.

Tuesday was better but this new explosion of business from Cheese! has everyone on edge. I am reminded each day when I don't make quota, a fact that practically makes me ill. I'm wildly conflicted when it comes to Kata. I'm being paid to write, yes, but I'm also netting less now that I did starting for King V back in 2005. I literally can't afford to lose any more money -- I'm down about $400/month from when I started with Kata as a contractor and didn't have any bennies to pay for or 401K to contribute to. The great news, of course, is that I have bennies and a retirement fund. The bad news is that I'm struggling, again, to catch up financially and the whole shebang is wearing me out to my core.

I shall shuffle off to bed now and claim a precious four-ish hours of sleep before starting my Wednesday. I've gone in prepared the last two mornings -- up early enough to plan and eat breakfast, shop for food, or vote so that I wouldn't have to worry about doing so after work -- so let's see what going in looking like refried ass does for my productivity. At least there's free coffee.

King of painful silences

2011-10-28T10:47:00.000-04:00

So. The guy whose daily M.O. is "say the most inappropriate things I can in a 10-hour span of time." Let's call him Jerry.

The Sultan of WTF Did He Just Say?! generally focuses his attention on one woman in the office. Let's call her Sprite.

Sprite is an undoubtable cutie. Brunette, runner, probably a size six, if not smaller. I'm not a very good judge of thin people's sizes. I would've guessed that Petal, for instance, was a size eight or so and, to my surprise, she occasionally wears size 14 jeans. Of course, she also lets everyone within earshot know that THEY ARE ABSOLUTELY FALLING DOWN OMG DID I MENTION THESE ARE A 14?!? CAN YOU *IMAGINE* SOMEONE WEARING PANTS THAT ARE SO, SO LARGE?? DID I MENTION THEY ARE JUST SPILLING OFF MY BODY? DID I?!?!?

Ahem. I'm just saying I've heard that speech one too many times.

Anyway, Sprite is thin without being sickly looking. She wears the occasional dress, but mostly average leggings and shirts, flowy shirts, jeans, cute flats. Shows just enough cleavage to make a gal a little warm. I sat across from her for about a month and my God, I'm surprised I turned in any articles at all.

Back to Prince Icky.

Imagine someone in training to become creepy as shit, just like Herman Cain's slow, nightmare-inducing "smile" at the end of that video. (I watched that ad in the morning before I'd even gotten out of bed to go to work and I experienced that maximum level of creepy IN THE DARK. Dude. It was like waking up to find Stephen King has been sitting at the edge of your bed all night, watching you sleep while he rubs a loaded gun against his naughty bits.)

I'll use something Jerry said to me because I ~~have blocked out~~ can't remember many things he's said to Sprite.

Last week, I was wearing something I used to wear to Verbose & Co. Pinstripe blouse, peekaboo tank underneath, black slacks, flats. More dressy than Kata requires but it doesn't kill a gal to look nicer than necessary every once in a while.

(I was also out of clean laundry.)

I was sitting in the break room and the Duke of OMG NO came in and started helping himself to the free lunch that Kata had provided. That's a nice bonus of working there. You can actually forget your lunch and three out of five times luck into some form of free food. It might be an apple or it might be Qdoba and all the fixins. You never know.

He's spooning something onto a plate and he says, "You look nice. As always."

Given that he has never complimented my outfit before, because I have been suspicious of boys since the third grade, and because he is the Despot of Duuuuuude, I snarked, "What do you want?" with a raised eyebrow and half-smile and went back to reading my magazine, glancing over my glasses for a response.

He smiled and I was soon happy that there were witnesses.

As he continues getting food, he said, "I want one night..."

"Stop." Not especially forceful but, I felt, said with enough WTF that he would get the hint.

Spoiler: Nope!

"Just to feel your breath in my..."

*strangled sound of disapproval and shut it now GROOOOSSSS that I cannot figure out how to spell*

He smiles. He walks away. Several people hear him say these icky, icky things but I think we've become desensitized to it because we certainly didn't huddle and have a Lifetime TV moment in which I got lots of hugs and therapy. We all shuffled back to our desks and went back to work. That happened last week and I'd still kind of like to shower off the feeling of uggghghuuhhhhh.

Whenever he compliments a woman -- and it's often -- it has this overlay of skeeze. I notice that at least one woman will say thanks without smiling, her voice curt as she walks away. So she knows.

The biggest problem, besides the fact that Jerry is so clearly violating company policy, is that his words appear, on paper, to be innocuous:

You look so nice today, Sprite. But you always look nice. You really, you know, dress with care and class. I like that blouse.

He may be the most brilliant man on Earth because what he says would read exactly like a compliment if, say, he were turned in for sexual harassment and there were transcripts of the proceedings.

*cough*

The delivery and tone make it into the kind of thing that many of us have chatted about on Skype. The problem is that the general reaction of everyone in the office is just Oh... that's Jerry. Shrug. Boys will be boys. Puppy dog tails and all that. Have you met your quota yet?

Even I haven't discussed what he said to me with anyone besides my peers because I'm not sure I know where I want this to go.

I want him to stop. For my sake, for Sprite's sake, for the sake of the other men in the office who might get the idea to start acting in kind, for the sake of women who need to be able to come to work and not see a coworker and shudder -- for all those reasons and more, I want to say something. I really want to say something now because Jerry is one of the younger people at the company and there is time to modify his behavior. He clearly thinks it's okay -- or doesn't give a fuck -- and I can only imagine what he'll be like in 20 and 40 years, perhaps as a high-level manager with several subordinates, at least one of whom who will not have a problem suing him for all he's worth.

I don't know if this means he would get written up. I don't want him to get fired. I don't want to have to be deposed or even say that it's me because, yes, I fear retribution -- as a woman, a fat woman, a gay woman, and as a whistle blower in general. Ugggh. Things at Kata can be tense enough without having to deal with some kind of backlash. I want Jerry to go back through the company's sexual harassment prevention PowerPoint (SRSLY) and to understand what the examples and quizzes were about, not use them as training manuals.

What would you do?

It's been a long time but I'm back in town...

2011-10-26T23:46:00.000-04:00

Hello, dear readers,

'Bout time! Where's a bitch been at, amirite?

Ahem.

Okay. I am kind of forcing myself to blog. About the last thing I want to do lately is write. I have, in fact, started many mornings lately by groaning, "God. Another fucking day of writing."

And then, despite my grumbling, I get ready right quick and bop out the door and find myself at work and I start writing.

BECAUSE I GET PAID TO FUCKING WRITE. WOOHOOO!!!!!

Ahhh. Had to get that out. I'm pretty sure Kata is actually the Army because this is the toughest job I've ever loved.

I haven't been wanting to blog and mostly it's because there is so much happening at Kata that I don't know where to begin. All I know is that I could write this entire post in caps and it still wouldn't convey the level of *amazing OMGWTFBBQ what the shit just happened wait, wait -- awesome!!!* that is the average week with this company.

Company is growing mad crazily. So much so that rumors are circulating that we're looking for a new office space. I hope that they wait until after the winter to move. I figure we're headed even further north and I'm already 25 minutes from the office. I'm having visions of it taking me three hours to get home during a snowstorm... and now I'm thinking I'm going to put a blanket and some cans of potted meat in my car tomorrow.

[meat-related segue]

I almost went to the office on our Halloween (beginning of the month for some team-building reason I can no longer remember) as Freud's psychosexual stages of development.

(#nerd)

At the moment, I can't remember what sparked the idea (believe it or not, I was sober) but I remember that I wanted to have a can of Vienna sausages represent the phallic stage.

[potted meat ---> Vienna sausages ---> Halloweenie]

(Okay, I totally just cracked myself up.)

I decided not to pursue the costume because I was probably going to land in the HR office. There was no way to convey most of the stages without making myself or others incredibly uncomfortable. That said, there is one guy who routinely sexually harasses women in the office and yet nothing happens, so I don't know what I was worried about. I'll talk more about him in a future post.

Sigh. There's so much going on. I'm trying to think of it all.

just start

About 10 days ago, I decided to find another seat in the office. Because we all work on laptops, we can go anywhere in the office, which is bliss. It can also result in people you don't like sitting at your table HI I'M RAINMAN AND I DO NOT LIKE CHANGE WAPNER WAPNER WAPN--

Ahem.

Basically, I'd had enough of Petal. Much like we all do, she spent the day reacting to things on her computer but every motion she made was so exaggerated. I frankly got really, really tired of observing it all day long. She also ate lunch at her desk a full 30 minutes before our normally scheduled lunch break and usually nommed something foodie and gourmetish and smelly as all get out, as in, "Your soup may indeed be delicious but I can only smell cumin and burning." The eating of full meals at our desks bugs the crap out of me. That's why we have a break room, people. Take your stinky stew and GOOOO THERE.

Petal also spent a good portion of the day chewing gum and she.would.crack.it and when she wasn't cracking it, I could see her chawing on it like cud. After weeks of witnessing her melodrama, ignoring her every time she reacted to something on her screen by saying "Wow!!" and then not explaining what she was seeing, being forced to be near her smelly food, seeing her nonstop gum chewing, and just being anywhere generally near her, I finally lit lightbulbed on the fact that I could... just... move. I felt it was wise to move before I snapped and lunged at her. Having your hands wrapped around your coworker's throat is probably not the sort of thing you can explain your way out of.

(I think it's pretty appropriate that Duncan Sheik's "Barely Breathing" just came on Spotify. Circumstances are different... but not that much.)

So I moved. I made the decision on a Tuesday night, I believe, and Wednesday morning, I strode into the office, pointedly not making eye contact with Petal and I moved my stuff.

Of course I had to make two trips, which prompted whining, questions, and Bambi eyes.

In case I haven't mentioned it, Petal is in her 30s. Just so... you know.

When I didn't respond to her plaintive look and plop my stuff back down, she said that her guilty look must not work on women.

Well. Certainly not this one. Generally when I look at you, Petal, I'm wondering just how many states away I can get before the police descend on me and I have to Thelma and Louise my way out of spending the rest of my life in jail for murdering you.

Also, one more time: Lesbians are not automatically attracted to all women on Earth. We would be very, very tired if that were the case. I do not find you attractive, mostly because you're a freakin' know-it-all. Please stop trying to make me like you by having me check you out and fishing for compliments. I will continue to look at your boobs but you must also know that I admire all the women's boobs. Because I can, Petal. Because I can. And also, hello?! Boobs!

Another big reason I moved is because I missed my view. The room had looked like this for a long time:

More or less. It took a really long time to draw that sonofabitch. I enjoyed it but I also had to stop adding details so I could finish writing this entry.

I loved it because I had my back to a wall and a gorgeous view of outside. Then we moved the tables for some big company meeting and the room ended up looking like this:

I used to sit across from Petal. First it was across from the guy who sits next to her, but he was also a gum chewer. ALL DAY, PEOPLE.

Anyway, I'm now at my own little table against the wall. I love it. I have my view back. Petal isn't even in my peripheral vision. She keeps whining about everyone being scattered to the winds, but I ignore her. I needed greenery. Every time I looked up to think, I would look smack dab at Petal and an expanse of white wall. I was also in another writer's 'thinking view' and I would look up multiple times a day to see him zoning out but also indirectly creepily staring directly at me. A couple times I smiled and waved and he would snap out of it. The rest of the time I just felt self-conscious.

That's about the most minor thing that's happened lately, but it's a start. I shall return soon and regale you with more stories of corporate life at Kata, which I have also taken to calling The Stockholm Institute.

Yes, as in "syndrome."

(DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUNNNNNN!)

Live blogging a monkey bath

2011-10-13T23:15:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I said it. Let's DO this. Also, if this video ever gets yanked offline, this post will not make any damn sense.

...

I am willing to take that risk.

:05 -- Hee hee, monkey ba -- OMG, that voice. Quit it!

:08 -- Ha! Dirty butt!

:14 -- Did the kid say something about the Wiggles?

:19 -- Don’t baby talk.

:21 -- We all smell like pee at one time or another. Don't fault the monkey, lady.

:27 -- WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS KID BABBLING ABOUT

:34 -- Is – where is that noise coming from?

*squeak!* *squeak!*

:35 -- omgitiscomingfromthemonkeyhowcuuuuuuuuuute

:46 -- HA! SPANK OUR MONKEY! HAAA!

:53 -- Why does she sound surprised? You put a video of a monkey bath on the Internet. Clearly you know the audience to whom you are pandering.

1:02 -- This woman is wasting crazy amounts of water. I want very badly to reach through my monitor and shut off that faucet.

1:09 -- STOP WITH THE VOICE. No wonder I can't understand your damn kid.

1:31 -- That monkey looks like a greaser. Hey, tiny Elvis!

1:37 -- I want a blue... is that a dog?

1:51 Thank God. She finally shut off that fucking faucet.

1:55 -- OMG THE TONGUE SO CUTE I’M DYING!

2:06 -- thatvoiceisfromhelllllllllllll

2:10 -- WELL HELLO, BOOBAGE.

2:13 -- Pan to the right! Pan to the right! Screw the monkey!

-fin-

Hey there

2011-10-12T23:58:00.001-04:00

Just popping in to say that I"m still around. The day before yesterday, I finished up a 10-day housesitting gig for a guy who apparently has no Internet connection at his home, which I am still struggling to understand. Let's just say there was a lot of activity on my mobile (which sounds vaguely and unintentionally naughty or maybe just kind of British) and I watched a bunch of DVDs, including "Beetlejuice," "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," and "Away We Go."

Anyway, the gig paid well, the guy's dogs were super sweet, albeit maniacally attentive (after being ignored by cats for years, this is welcome but also creepy), and I got to sleep on a Tempur Pedic mattress which takes some getting used to but is glorious in retrospect as I toss and turn on my Satan-sent bed that has never seemed so uncomfortable before holy hell.

While mostly offline, I realized I missed Netflix and Spotify, but that was about it. Facebook just... WTF. I started losing interest (probably about 5%, lest you think I'm some hipster, know-it-all who decided Facebook was uncool way back in, like, 2009) when I stopped devoting a huge chunk of my life to Farm Town. Yes, I mean Farm Town. It's a game. People who have corrected me and said, "I think you mean FarmVille," I would like you to fuck off. Once I stopped tending to my digitized corn and adding strangers to my friends' list just so I could buy more plots of pixelated land, Facebook was pretty dull. Status updates are great and I've gotten involved in other games but... IDK. It's just becoming kind of icky. I don't want to dump the account because I'm in touch with a lot of folks I don't get to see regularly but I hate that they keep changing the design and not listening to their users AT ALL. I also don't like that I have to opt out of stuff, like yanking back permissions from the Spotify app because it was blabbing about what I was listening to all day. I can see the benefit of it -- learn new bands, hear great new songs, blah la la -- but I've been going through a Christina Aguilera (What? She can SAANG!) phase and I don't need everyone to know that. Except for you. And, um, now the rest of the Internet. *facepalm*

It's going on midnight and I must go to bed even though tomorrow is the last day of my work week. Future fun topics include my multi-part Petalectomy (started just today, in fact, and already feels great) and how close I came to bailing on Kata because WTF this is no way to run a railroad. Seriously, things have been crazy fucked up at work. A couple people fairly suddenly quit, there's been a crazy amount of tension, and I began talking in terms of "If I'm here next year." But that is a post for another day.

Away, away I go (ha!) to bed. My lumpy, spring-crazy, 11-year-old bed that I can hopefully encourage Santa to replace in a couple months. I will also make sure to ask for a pony because asking for practical gifts? Laaaame. Useful but laaaame. Compare these sentences:

"Do you want to come see my new pony?"

"YES, of course! I shall feed it baby carrots and give it love and suggest names like Princess Fairie Glitter!"

"Do you want to come see my new mattress?"

"Security!"

Nomalicious

2011-09-27T22:41:00.000-04:00

Hannah Hart is just amazing. Check out "Show Me Where Ya Noms At" (featuring Songs To Wear Pants To) and follow her on Twitter at @harto.

So. Stinkin'. Cute.

On writing... and some other stuff

2011-09-22T23:19:00.000-04:00

Woohoo! It's my Friday! Which means it's Thursday! I've had alcohol! Let's blog!

It's like My Drunk Living Room. Which is not as exciting as My Drunk Kitchen because, well, my living room is a mess, Hannah Hart isn't here, and I'm actually not drunk. So... welcome to my living room! Where I'm sober! We'll be blogging about... um... let's see...

Okay, here's something. I am so solidly identified with being a writer -- a real, in the flesh, love to do it, do it often, let me tell ya a little sumthin about free verse and why it's awesome WRITER* -- that I am stunned I work with people who don't fervently claim the label as well.

* Imagine a lot of hyphens in that sentence. I'm lazy.

(As as writer, this post should be a lot more eloquent. As a writer who doesn't currently give a crap, it won't be.)

Being a writer is... it's what I do. If you asked me to label myself using three terms, the first ones that come to mind are writer, biracial, and gay. I don't claim other labels -- besides "sarcastic" -- as fiercely as I do these terms. They encompass who I am. They are the marrow of the bones that keep me standing.

(So. Deep.)

I guess I don't understand how someone can look at a job ad for writers and not get... I don't know... tingly? It's... well, it's like this. Despite my frustrations with Kata ~~and my desire to incite a coup if they try and bump our quota to five articles a day,~~, I am living a great dream.I am being paid to write. Paid to write stuff that I like, for the most part. (The articles about cloud computing? Not so much.) P.A.I.D.

I am so thrilled when my articles get published by blog owners that... I don't know. I reread them as though I hadn't written them. I relive the joy of research, learning something new, realizing I actually sound like I know what I'm talking about. I appreciate on a level I can't entirely explain that I have made a tangible contribution to Kata's success. It's like a new mom* who gets all misty over her baby as it learns to stand, walk, talk, feed itself, and eventually wreck her car. Wait.

* Mostly-brief tangent: Last night, one of my second cousins popped out a kid. Cuz is, like, 20. King V emailed me and said, "[Your uncles and aunts] are all great-grandparents. No pressure." I'm tempted to write back, "You're 67. That means you'll probably be dead soon. Been to Paris lately? No pressure." Seriously, it needs to stop. The best my folks are likely getting from me is grandcats. Look to thine son, King V. I'm sure Mack Daddy Smooth could snap his fingers and a woman dying to be impregnetated with his tadpole surprise would appear like that. What? That boy is a pimp.

I understand better now why other writers on the team are less affected than I am (at least they seem that way) when editors kick their articles back for rewrites. It's not personal and I know it's not but it feels that way. I dig into my work, write it, frame it, gild it -- whatever. It's mine and I'm proud. What do you mean you're only a writer between 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.? That's okay. That's fine. It's weird and against the laws of the universe, but you know... whatever.

I am learning to let go. As I mentioned in a previous rambletastic post, King V told me I need to care less and I ran with that this week. I still turned in articles I liked, but I told myself a few times to stop obsessing over something. Surprise -- my articles were still accepted by the editors, sent on to blog owners, and published. No tectonic plate shifting. No crying children. No fatal injuries because I took a breath and hit upload before I could spend half an hour unnecessarily changing words. It worked out pretty well.

Rewrites are often bullshit, by the way. I had one today because the blog owner wanted us to change the article title. Um. Do it. IT'S. YOUR. BLOG.

I'm kinda sorta trying to get one of the editors in trouble -- rightfully -- because he isn't doing his job. The rule is that if an editor can fix a problem in an article within 15 minutes that s/he is supposed to do it. If not, Rewrite. Earlier this week, the editor in question kicked one of my articles back for changes that took me five minutes to complete. I'm sure I spent 2.5 of them fuming.

I tattled. I made sure I told Tess that I wasn't trying to tattle or be a bitch but SERIOUSLY. Rewrites count against me. It's interesting that none of the editors I've spoken with seem to know that. Or, um, care.

Today I made some kind of semi-passive-aggressive comment to Mr. No-Fix-It about rewrites being like shards of glass in my eyeballs and he said, "I totally understand. If there is way for you (or any author...) to make a adjustments to a file once you uploaded without me (or an editor) having to hit rewrite, I'm totally up for it."

THERE IS. It's called Sk--

"I would gladly just Skype you and be like, "Hey, this little thing needs fixed, lemme know when you can get to it.."

Blood. Eyes. Shooting. Out.

The wheel. We keep reinventing it. It's round! It rolls! LET'S. MOVE. ON.

- - - - - - - - - -

Today I started learning about how to build a deck. Here's a tip: Hire someone to do it for you. Jesus Christ. I only made it through 1.5 videos sponsored-by-Lowes videos on YouTube before my brain was screaming, "THIS. INVOLVES. MATH. A LOT OF IT." There are levels and plum bobs (hee) and string and posts and permits and holy mother just go to someone else's house and stare at their pretty, pretty deck ~~that was probably professionally installed~~. I mean, my God.

If I'm feeling ~~batshit crazy~~ ambitious this weekend, I'm going to finish my deck-building research so I can pound that article out first thing Monday and inch a little closer to making my weekly quota. I did well this week with my 14 articles. I figured out that getting two articles done before lunch (four hours; totally doable) is the best bet. Coming back from an hour-long lunch knowing I have five hours to write two more articles? Pretty sweet. The letting go is pretty important too. (Metaphor! Metaphor!)

- - - - - - - - - -

I have nothing on tap this weekend, save working for King V tomorrow. Sorry -- I mean "working." I think I'm going to tell him that he needs to pay me less. He's paying me my old account director salary for doing office work. As in "prepare this invoice" or "put a stamp on this thing," not "write a press release" or "direct the design on that annual report." I feel guilty. I don't like feeling guilty. The extra money was great when I was working part-time at Vox and getting a little unemployment but now I have a Real Job and... well. I don't know. The part of me that's still catching up on some bills is like "Shut your crazy mouth." And then the guilt circles back around like a... a... guilt python. Oof. Tight.

I'll also be cleaning out my car at some point because my God think about the children I have offered to pick up The Other Lesbian on the way to work. Her car is apparently eight kinds of fucked and she's been hitching a ride with her sister, who lives far away from Kata. As I drive, literally, by TOL's house on the way, it seemed like a good solution. She's really nice, she's fun, and she's pretty cute. I'd shuttle her in even if I didn't occasionally fantasize about getting wit dat... but the cute doesn't hurt.

Updated list: Writer, gay, biracial, and concupiscent.

The one with all the rambling

2011-09-20T23:42:00.000-04:00

New template

Feels good. Needed a change. Long overdue.

The Netflix Update

Just watched all three available seasons of "Breaking Bad." It had been DVD only but switched over to instant. Loved. It. So. Hard. Can't wait for season four, which should be wrapping up soon on cable. That my parents still have. Hmm.

Kata

Work is good and crazy and supremely awesome and completely fucking nuts. Last Thursday, at the end of a week straight out of hell, one of the founders sent me a direct message on Twitter and thanked me for retweeting Kata news and stuff from our clients, etc. He said "the effort did not go unnoticed" and then asked if I was enjoying myself at Kata. I KNOW, RIGHT? It's like somebody just knew.

The latest crazy news is the rumor that the writers will become responsible for writing five articles a day. I can currently barely make it to the required daily four and the stress is consuming me. I lucked out today. I got two articles done before lunch, pounded out a third in the early afternoon, and snagged a fourth an hour before closing that was, oh yes, a 250-word review of "Breaking Bad." UH HUH. I snapped that shit up like a hungry turtle nomming on free lettuce. Point, click, IMDb.com, relive passion over devouring episodes, write, upload... forget to include something minor, leave editor a note, sprint away from office mentally crowing, "Four! Four! Quota! Quota!" I'm especially proud because we had a 30-minute meeting this morning and weren't able to access our article assignment website for something crazy like two hours HELLO I HAVE A QUOTA TO MEET AND SOMEHOW YOUR SOFTWARE UPDATE IS GOING TO BECOME MY PROBLEM.

Seriously. The quota? I hate it. If we were cellmates, there'd be some kind of ShawSHANK Redemption all right. King V, after listening to me bitch at length one day a couple weeks ago, basically told me that I have to care less. (It was said much nicer than that, but it was sound advice.) Interestingly enough, it's actually working. I'm finishing articles, giving them a quick scan for clarity and errors, and just letting it go. They can be flagged for rewrites or cancelled for any reason, even if I labored over them for literal hours, so there's no sense in getting into a twist over it.

I was especially happy that an article I chose to finish at home last night, an article that was pitched by The Mad Texter (I had to select it; there was nothing else available to write) was approved this morning. Without hesitation. I think I peed a little when I found out. Something was wet anyway.

Today we had an advice session from the writers who were named "top performers" at Kata last week.

With a measly 12 articles, I didn't even rank. People who had turned in 15 and 18 articles (who are also clearly part-robot and/or on meth) addressed the crowd.

There was glowering. Okay, it was me.

The good news is that I did pick up a couple tips, none of which I can remember now. The one that *I* came up with that I will share should I someday get named to The List of Special Persons Who Are Related to R2D2 is, "This article is not eligible for a Pulitzer. Let it go." I think, subconsciously, that got me through my day. Writing about air conditioners was also easier than trying to smoosh an encyclopedia's worth of information about health insurance into a few hundred words, which was one of the things that held me up yesterday.

There was also THE TALKING. The table of ChattyCathies behind me would NOT shut up -- I really can't believe they don't taketheir yammering on Skype; it's where THE REST OF US SPEND THE DAY TALKING --and a guy (and apparently part-bear) a table away who kept eating chips as thoughhe'd found them unattended and hadn't had a trans fat in a while and MMMM HULK HUNGRY GAR SMASH SOUR CREAM AND ONION I'm a little scared for my safety could you slow down?

The C4-looking-for-some-nice-blasting-caps level of fevered rage in my brain is making it difficult to come up with a way to ask the Chatties to STFU without, well, telling them to STFU.

Hey, sometime let me tell you about how I can sometimes be melodramatic. Shocking, I know.

The talking is enough that I passive-aggressively changed my Skype status this morning to something about a complete lack of silence in the world nowadays. Maybe they saw it. Maybe they didn't. Fuck it, it was quiet.

OH OH OH.

One of the women who sits at the chatty table (two women, two men) talks incessantly about the most inane shit on the planet. Yesterday she thought she had broken her toe. Did she examine her toe? Did she tape it? No, she talked about it, including getting into a half-argument with one of the guys at the table about the difference in pain levels between sprained and broken toes and said it hurt to walk but then seemed to scoot around the office with no problem and that probably means it's not broken and OH MY FUCKING GOD I'M GOING TO BREAK IT FOR REAL IF YOU DON'T SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Today, thankfully, the table was blissfully quiet for a solid hour, if not 90 minutes. I was able to just. write. and sink into music from Marc Cohn, Stevie Wonder, and Enya. My God it was bliss. At some point in the afternoon, the talking ramped back up but I'd had a hormonal shift since yesterday or I was high on the success of two articles done before noon -- whatever -- and didn't care as much. That said, something was subliminally sparked. The authors were looking for articles to write and Madame Sore Toe said she could hand over an article that she had taken that was about Brazil. Everyone kind of looked at each other and there was mumbling about what was available and MST said again, "This article I have, it's about Brazil" and then more murmured chaos and "There's, like, this article? Brazil?" and I snapped, "WHAT'S IT ABOUT? YOU'VE SAID BRAZIL THREE TIMES."

Petal. Cracked. UP.

I got a secret Skype message from The Fervent Nosher (who shares my frustration with the talking) and said, "Let that one slip, did ya?"

Halfway through Madame Sore Toe's stammered explanation, I realized I was laughing because WOW that seriously just slipped out and I openly called myself an asshole and meanwhile Petal is still laughing, Fervent is laughing, people at MST's table are laughing... and MST doesn't appear to realize, even for a second, what's going on.

I still don't know what that fucking article is about. Barcelona?

New tunes

I stumbled across Tori Amos' Night of Hunters on Spotify tonight and HOLY CRAP. I have not immediately liked an album as quickly as this in some time. Like, I need to go to a music store tomorrow and buy a CD. No, I don't like MP3s or MP4s or digital bit byte download what-the-iFuck-ever. Gimme a CD! Also, some petunias and a cane to shake at whippersnappers with their hipster haircuts and fancy music. Brats. They probably talk a lot and like Brazil. HMMPH.

Going through the change

2011-09-15T22:43:00.004-04:00

Not that you can tell, but I'm giving Blogger's new interface a try. At first (all of five minutes ago), I didn't like it because the New Post screen now takes up a considerable portion of the page. I can see now, though, that it looks a little like typing a document in Word. I guess that would really come in handy if you wanted to stealth blog from work. As I now use a Kata-owned computer and am paranoid about saving even my Skype history, I won't be traversing that path. But thanks, Blogger, for giving the world something else to focus on at work besides, ugh, work!

The neat thing about the updated interface is that I can now see what search terms have brought people to this blog. I'm happy to report that the following highly-intellectual, thought-provoking, and lifesaving terms gained me a few page views:

jennifer aniston boots
sexy boots
minnie driver
jennifer tilly
sandra oh hot
jennifer aniston
jennifer aniston black dress
jennifer aniston sexy
alyssa milano legs

Boom. Cancer solved.

I'm okay with being a 'hot woman' destination, especially for Jennifer Aniston. I had the WORST crush on her during her original Rachel haircut years. Yow. Za. I suppose it would be nice to rank for things like "fantastically amazing writing" or "where witty goes for its inspiration," but for now, can I show you some sexy boots?

* * * * * * * * * *

Again, I've no logical end to this post, so I thought I would share this video of Kirsten Price being all sexy and amazing. This song, "Magic Tree" is new to me and appears on one of The L Word soundtrack CDs that I have yet to purchase. This video is essentially soft core pr0n, which I personally approve of. Your boss might feel differently.

The best blogging happens in the middle of the night. But maybe not here.

2011-09-03T02:40:00.002-04:00

Whee! Let's blog about a bunch of random shit! Ready? Go!

-- Pictures of things that can be seen from space freak my shit out. I can't even explain it.

-- I love this business card from The Bloggess' Zazzle store. Do you read The Bloggess? You must. Must. And not just because she also sells this T-shirt, which must become mine. Even if it'll be out of date in 3.5 months.

-- By the way, I am tickled as FUCK that I have some regular readers and that my follower count has increased. That's awesome and it makes me feel special and famous. I'm so serious, you don't even know. So thanks. :)

-- Androids suck. I had an iPhone. My bill was late. My service got disconnected. I still didn't have any money. AT&T cancelled my account and required a $750 deposit to reconnect it. SRSLY. I went to T-Mobile. Nice folks, $50 deposit, cheaper phone. But it sucks. I understand how deeply a #firstworldproblem this is. Some people don't even HAVE cell phones!

-- I know I've linked to 37 Days in the past, but it bears repeating: The author, Patti Digh, writes some really fabulous stuff. She has blogs, books, and more. Very honest and healing stuff. I've had the chance to meet her a couple times, which was pretty great.

I normally don't like bookshelves with their contents arranged by color but this is pretty nice:

Except for the pug. Not a fan of pugs.

-- I used to own A-Ha's Hunting High and Low on tape (oh yes) and have rediscovered its joy on Spotify. Gotta buy that album again.

-- Hannah Hart of My Drunk Kitchen fame is so awesome. There were too many great lines in this short video, so I just decided to post the whole thing:

-- And here's one of Anderson Cooper giggling, which cracked my shit up:

-- I'm experiencing one of the weirdest feelings I've felt in a while. I finally have a permanent full-time job... and all I can think about is moving out of state. I know that it's partially because Mack Daddy Smooth moved to Hawaii a few months ago after living in the desert for more than 10 years. It was a major move that included selling his car. I'm proud he did and did it so smoothly (as far as I could tell) and I think about harnessing that kind of freedom and finding A Whole Bunch of New. For the time being, I'm cultivating the idea of moving to a new apartment, perhaps something close to Kata, and continuing to repair my finances so I can do some damn traveling. I have friends in St. Louis and Chicago, especially, that I would really love to see. I would also love to make it to the west coast and out to Hawaii because seeing my brother once a year? For about a week? BLOWS.

-- King V and Queen S get back from a vacation tomorrow. On their way out of town, for the first time ever, King V texted me. You guys. MY DAD. Texted. Me. They visited the Maritimes. I think my favorite text simply said, "Halifax yeaaa."

-- I don't have an ending for this post (shocker!), so here's a picture of a pony:

Happy weekend!

That's why God invented washing machines

2011-08-31T22:08:00.000-04:00

Dear Crate and Barrel,

I want you.

I want you in every room in my house.

I want to touch everything you are.

Even this weird red/grey bowl that I loved, albeit briefly, with a passion I normally reserve for k.d. lang in her "Constant Craving" video. (None of that was on purpose but it's awesome and I am running with it.) Now I feel about it the way I do about lang's video for "Sexuality": so, so hot with spikes of WTF?!? Okay, I admit that was a bad analogy. But that video is HOT... mostly.

I even like this bed, even though it makes me think of beds from the '50s. Like those found in psych wards.

I want to do naughty, naughty things on this bed with those linens. Like nap for three hours after delicious, hot fudge, whips-n-chains sex with a thick-hipped woman whose kisses and mischievous intentions make me beg for ~~mercy~~ more. Wait. What was I talking about?

This bed frame (Porto) used to be my favorite. When I would see it online or in a catalog, I would literally gasp. I loved it that much. I wanted to save for it and pay the outrageous shipping (this was years ago before River City got a C&B, I'm pretty sure) but I never did. I looked at that bed a couple days ago and felt no rush. No love. The only thing I could think was that it looked unstable. ("So's your mom!" *rimshot*) It's not so much about its role in The Boudoir Olympics but more about the fact that I am a big girl and do not want to look upon my bed with any level of distrust.
...

It's still pretty, though.

Annnd... tangent.

I fantasize about housewares. (Don't worry; I also watch real porn.) I remember being about 18 when the dreamy dreams began. They're not sexual, although I'm sure there's a 12-step group for that, but I do feel... well, a little giddy when I think about a living in a home that looks like it shit a catalog. One week, I wanted purses and makeup from Target and the next, I had my eye on some dishtowels. For the kitchen I did not have.

Things that didn't help with my fixation:

1. Generally being my obsessive self
2. Working for a company that sold household goods
3. Generally being my obsessive self
4. Lack of impulse control

And recently:

5. Someone I recently met ~~and made the mistake of inviting over~~ told me I have a "stoner's apartment"

I'm sure part of my current fascination is because I don't feel established, furnitureally. I have one armchair, one lamp (that I use), and a near-absent lack of cohesive home-osity (don't ask; even I barely know what I mean but this is where the stoner-ness comes in), despite living in this apartment for more than five years. Part of that (Jesus, onion -- layers much?) is because I got rid of everything that I didn't love before I moved from my last apartment. I was desperate to shed negative energy and shed I did. The Goodwill couch that was broken when it came to me went in the dumpster. The TV stand from an ex-friend (whose departure from my life, while violently unpleasant, was probably a blessing) went to Goodwill. Etc., etc. The great news is that I got rid of a lot of emotional weight and I moved into this apartment feeling new and kind of bare but ready to be amazing. Problem is ztttzttt five years have passed and I still don't own a living room rug.

This is where my interest in Buddhism also comes into play. Maybe I have little furniture (or WEIRD furniture, like two desks -- seriously, what the hell?) because I think so highly of a life with no attachments, of drifting towards the sunset with nothing but the clothes on my back and, I don't know, a harmonica? Seems appropriate given that godawful cliche.

It's entirely possible that I'm stuck in "unemployment brain," the belief that I must hold onto every nickel because I don't know when the next one is coming in, but I think (more... fucking... layers...) I have commitment issues because I have no problem dropping $8 on breakfast at Starbucks a few times each week.

[tangent ending soon]

I also live in an old house and the foyer and doorway are shaped weirdly and are smaller than standard, respectively, and I feel like I should be in the place where I want to Be before I start having people try and move furniture in it. I can't Be in a place with such a ridiculous bathroom. I hardly need a potty that's the size of the average den with a shower that shoots water at me from 85 just-the-right-kind-of-warm-and-lightly-pulsating angles that... uh... I... man. Warm in here.

Look, pretty baskets!

I have no logical conclusion to this post except to say GIVE ME ALL THE CRATE AND BARREL. Also, I think it goes without saying that Crate and Barrel is welcome to send me free shit that I can write about. You know I'm serious; I had about six housewaregasms during this post alone and no one was paying me shit.

Remembering Aaliyah

2011-08-25T06:00:00.000-04:00

It's hard to believe it's been 10 years since R&B singer Aaliyah passed away. I only knew a few of her songs, but I liked her work. You can tell that she was really going places in her career.

Here's "Rock the Boat," the last video she worked on. (There are a couple of pop-up information boxes at the beginning but you can mouse over them and close them.)

It's not entirely NSFW but I still wouldn't watch it if your boss likes to drop in your office for little chats. It's sexy as hell.

Aaliyah, wherever you are, know that you are missed.

Mishy mash

2011-08-19T08:08:00.009-04:00

Um. This is super long. You might want to bring a snack.

I haven't done a random info kind of post for a while (uh, I don't think), so I thought I'd blog down that road today. First, six mishy mash items and then a little retelling of The Tuesday of Blearghthhptwtf.

1. This is one of my current favorite songs (and likely to stay that way forebber and ebber). I fell in love with Sara Bareilles on the bus. That finger wag, that shoulder shimmy: WOO! The whole video is great but -- full disclosure, you know -- I'm likely to say complimentary things when I want to have a snuggle with you. I'm also ~~usually~~ a nice person and will say nice things to you anyway, but I'll say them more when I want to see you naked. She's also pretty great on Twitter.

2. It really bothers me when I find out celebrities whose work I really like turn out to be right-wing conservatives. Enter: Kelsey Grammer. He sounds like a real douche and it's upsetting. I know that an actor/actress is not his/her body of work but separating Grammer from Frasier, one of my favorite TV shows ever, is difficult. This phenomenon is alleviated nicely by openly-gay David Hyde Pierce. He played Niles brilliantly. Never really understood the fascination with Daphne, but most of that had to do with her accent, which felt like someone was shoving shards of a My Fair Lady DVD in my ears. But let me tell you how I really feel. Anyway. I just want everyone I like to support the same things I do, like homos and pot legalization. And when they don't, it just makes me sad. Because everyone should like the stuff I do. I want good stuff for people. Like gay marriage in all 50 states. And the Give Maxine a Pony Foundation. Very important stuff there.

3. I can't wait to see the seventh season of Weeds. The show got WEIRD in the third season and kept getting weirder but I'm still watching.

4. I dropped half my Netflix services because of their price hike, which really pissed me off. Not enough to add a comment on their blog, but I think I tweeted about it. I really enjoy the instant queue feature and was reminded by King V that I could check DVDs out of the library, so woo! I still have what I want (mostly) and Netflix is getting less of my money. Point: Maxine.

5. I hate, with a passion I normally reserve for Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter, all Charmin toilet paper commercials. The 'bears shit in the woods' theme was just gross to start with and is played out. PLAYED OUT, CHARMIN. OUUUUUUUT. Sequester everyone who likes the commercials in an auditorium (or on a small island) so that I may mock them, fire your marketing department, and for the love of GOD, move on to a new campaign. I will still buy Cottonelle (Cute puppy alert! Annoying Zach Braff voiceover alert!) because I... will remember.

5a. It's probably a good thing that I got rid of my TV.

6. I find myself honestly wanting to make a difference at my job. Everyone is always so pumped. It seems like we're constantly celebrating one accomplishment or another. I'm glad that I still have plenty of frustrations (*cough* Petal *cough*) to keep me grounded. Otherwise, I'd probably sound like I joined a cult.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So today was weird.

I woke up half an hour before my alarm went off. I was happy it wasn't two minutes before the alarm was due to sound, as it has been in the past. Ughhhh, I HATE that! I got back to bed and I wanted to lie back down for a full half hour, so I reset my alarm. (Spoiler alert: I didn't oversleep. That would at least account for the weirdness of the day.) I ended up getting up about 20 minutes before I needed to leave, so I was in a tiny rush. I'd showered the night before, so I freshened up, found my favorite (but ugly, used-to-be-deep-charcoal-grey-and-have-faded-to-three-day-old-cigarette-ash) grey denim shorts and then dug in my closet for a shirt. I found one I'd actually forgotten about, a favorite dyke music festival shirt that I wore the shit out of in college.

*nostalgic moment*

I smelled it and got a good Goodwill sort of smell but fuck it I had to go maybe I have some scented lotion I can put damn where's my lotion okay I need to GO -- and I was out the door. In my flip flops with my giant marshmallow feet because my blood pressure medicine (Jesus, I sound so old) is also a diuretic (TMI!) and I'm out of the meds and haven't gotten through to the doctor and now my ankles look like they've swallowed tennis balls. It is tres sexy, let me just tell you.

Onward!

My drive was uneventful, except that none of the Stereophonics songs I was listening to, except for "Maybe Tomorrow" (swoon) sounded any good AND I kept getting blinded by the sun. Said blinding caused many a Frankenstein's monster grunt of displeasure, which is the only funny thing to come out of Oh Yeah Forgot to Tell You I Think Mornings Pretty Much Blow.

On the way to work, I realized I was frowning and... well, I'm not trying to Pollyanna this shit up but I needed to take a ride on the optimism train because I didn't want to be pissed off all day long. Being mad on purpose just takes too much work. So I started talking to myself and filling in the blanks of a lot of "I'm unhappy because..." sentences. It actually worked. I didn't walk into work whistling but I wasn't being followed by a little black cloud either.

Before I left the house, I noticed that my older-than-fuck T-shirt had rips under the armpits. I went ahead and left the house, a decision I regretted when I realized people could see my white, white bra from the side, peeking out from beneath my navy blue shirt.

fuck

So! What do we have...

cranky

blinded

hungry (forgot to mention that)

mothbally

bloaty

sonically displeased

holey

Awesome.

I don't really remember the morning, except that it took me nearly three hours to finish one article (should take two to make quota) and that the sound of Petal's nails clicking against her keyboard drive me batshit insane. I am also horribly distracted by the Blabbermouth Bunch, a table of four who sits behind me and chats the day away, yet somehow still write articles. They're all nice people, even though I'm irritated with the 22-year-old who still makes references to high school. There are two women and two guys and the woman who is not 22... my god can she talk. And she has a nasal-y kind of voice that's mixed with just enough whatever to keep her from sounding like Fran Drescher but still. My god. It's endless and it's always like, "Hey, so I was looking up pasta and I saw this recipe for noodles and I just loooove to cook noodles for my kids because they love them and noodles are easy to cook and my kids' dad lets them have Spaghetti-O's but I don't because I'm not that kind of parent even though my mother-in-law..."

AND ON AND ON AND ON AND ON.

I finally got my first article completed around 11:30 a.m. and started on a second one, knowing I wasn't going to take a typical lunch break at 12:00 p.m. for a couple reasons. One, I had no food with me (I was just going to wing it at our snackatorium) and two, I was due to donate blood at a blood drive at 12:30.

I started getting nervous a few minutes before, knowing I was probably going to get turned down because I'm anemic, or at least I was last time my iron levels were tested. (This seems to be of concern to Queen S, who gave me lots of ideas for including iron-rich foods in my future diet. I generally love any conversation that begins "Do you own a blender?")

(Smoothies with leafy greens blended in.)

I got out to the mobile and a mild claustrophobia immediately set in. I had to wait on the stairs of the bus while two other Kata employees were checked in. I gave my personal information while two employees I don't know were standing there waiting to be registered. I was hardly giving out trade secrets but it still felt icky.

I moved to a curtained area and filled out all the fun personal information about the number of drug-addicted, malaria-plagued, blood-thinner-taking, recently-tattooed, promiscuous bisexual men I've had sex with since I was four but while I was in the curtained area, I was sticking partway out of it (big girl is big!) and SOMEONE KEPT BRUSHING UP AGAINST ME. Roughly in a I'm-in-a-hurry way. Trust me, lady. I was coloring in those circles as fast as I could.

I moved to a waiting area and observed my coworkers getting stabbed. The claustrophobia was really increasing then and I say that because just typing about the experience is making me feel constricted again. Interestingly enough, I was perfectly fine when a male coworker sat next to me and had his post-donation cookies, but it's probably because he's old enough to be my dad and could compete in a King V contest. At least in the facial hair/glasses/little hair/funny guy/writer division. Which is... pretty much all of them. ANYWAY.

I got moved into a Very Tiny Booth where I was stabbed and tested for anemia or low blood cells or whatever hemoglobin something. The tech took blood from one finger (ow) and determined my hemoglobinosity was two-tenths of a point below what they could accept. He tried a finger on the other hand (OWW) and the number fell another two-tenths of a point. So thanks but no thanks get off our bus. I was offered conciliatory cookies but I did not accept them. I shall not nom on your pity Oreos. Good day, sir!

I finally got off the bus but I still didn't entirely feel like I could breathe. It actually took me crying a little in the bathroom (yeah, that was pretty surprising) and nearly 30 minutes of sitting outside to feel okay. It was especially weird because my claustrophobia is normally the immediate panic that one would think of. This had some dastardly slow build that lingers like a sore muscle. Do not want! Take back now!

The next couple hours were a blur of activity, aside from my plodding through my second article. I was thoroughly distracted by the babblers, Petal's clicky nails, Spotify's error that causes track upon track to not play (GRRRR), and... what is this?

Paychecks being passed out a day early? AWWWWWWWWWWWW YEAH.

Here's the thing with being broke. Oh, did I not mention I was mired in all of this because I was broke? Luckily it's because I've paid a fuck ton of back rent to my landlord but making a couple hundred bucks last two weeks with high gas prices and my love of avoiding all things grocery yay takeout? OY.

That was definitely a turning point in the day. As was getting to eat cupcakes in the afternoon when we had a little office party. We were celebrating something with numbers. I wasn't really paying attention because I was staring at a selection of rainbow-iced cupcakes, had been given a free T-shirt IN MY SIZE*, and also a backpack with Kata's logo on it. Awww yeah, take TWO.

* I ignored the shirts that the marketing team was passing out because I thought I heard someone say they'd ordered XLs. I guess that doesn't make sense, given how many tiny people work at Kata, but anyway I heard what I heard. I happened to look through the selection and saw they had ordered 2Xs. I was pretty surprised. There aren't a lot of folks who appear to wear a size above large. I asked a couple people if there were any bigger shirts and the marketing lady was like, "I think there are -- hey, didn't we order you a [different Kata] shirt [before]?"

Yeah, the marketing folks ordered a Kata shirt in my size. (I guess I make it sound like they were outfitting Godzilla. It's just a 4X but considering the itty bittys who jog and hike and triathalon and omgkillmeiamonplanetstick, it feels gargantuan.) The shirt order was at my request but they still did it and even did so weeks before I was officially hired by the company. So, nice, right?

I answered the marketing lady affirmatively, touched that they had ordered me a shirt and also embarrassed because of the OMFGhuge. But yay, I had a shirt! It came in handy when we took a team photo later. I am peeking out from behind someone and smiling gloriously. Petal looks like she's had a stroke. Hey, she said it first. I'm just repeating it. (I know you can't verify this but it happened. Swearsies.)

I was in a pretty good mood after the party. I think payday really flipped a switch, even though our normal payday is tomorrow. (Erm... today.) Whatever the case, it kept me from murdering Petal, whose hipsteritis was off the chain. Insufferable, is word, yes?

I left right around 6:00 p.m. with my swag and went to dinner at King V's and Queen S' before they leave on vacation tomorrow. It was nice to have a proper meal (I essentially ate like a picky toddler today, what with my fruit cups and cupcakes) and I got to chat with Queen S at length. I look forward to having full reign of their house for 10 days, especially because they have a cool kitchen and a shower built for dancing.

I came home and heard a little about Betty's sexcapades (the phrase "rocked my world" was used more than once) and now here we are. From storm cloud to... sunshine? Except it's after midnight? And that's terribly cliched anyway? Fuck it. Bad mood, meet good mood. Good mood is gonna kick your --- ooh. Sorry about that. Want some ice?

The i-talics are there for emPHAsis!

2011-08-16T22:19:00.003-04:00

This describes Petal to a fucking T. It's almost frightening how accurate it is. I've mentioned before her need for validation. (Scroll about 3/4 down for that story.) Now there's more.

Yesterday was our first day at Kata. Huzzah huzzah Jesus Christ I once again have a full-time job I haven't yet put this into words I'M FUCKING EMPLOYED!!!!!!1!

Ahem.

So, it was our first day. Most of us show up looking decent but occasionally schlubby. We can -wear T-shirts and jeans if we want, which accounts for casual and slightly-dressier outfits with a dash of the wildly inappropriate. (One employee favors skinny jeans that must be a "size" 00 and leopard-print heels that are easily four inches high, if not higher.)

(Whooooore.)

(Just say no to leopard print!)

(*pretends not to own any leopard print undies that were, uh, definitely on sale mmhmm yep*)

Anyway.

I looked fine -- purple shirt with fancy buckle thingy, black slacks, and my omnipresent flip flops. (I've learned that I don't always pick up my feet when I walk. When I walk through the lobby, I hear flippityfloppityflippityfloppityflippityfloppity, which... seems less amusing and newsworthy than before I typed it.

...

Fuck it. YEAH FLIP FLOPS!)

Then there was Petal. MY GOD. She walked in wearing a black-and-cream V-neck dress with some black camisole dickie whatever. She had on makeup (I noted her sloppy attempts at creating a smoky eye, an ever-appropriate choice for daytime makeup wear *ahem*) and heels with ankle straps. She mentioned that she was wearing Spanx. When she got up to go get coffee, I'm surprised she didn't take anyone out with her sashay.

Now, she looked nice. I don't find her attractive -- the overwhelming urge to choke her at least once a day would've killed any feelings I had for her anyway -- but she did look nice. Knowing how she is, however, I ignored the fancy get-up and went to clock in.

She followed me.

Christ.

She pointed out that she dressed up.

Sigh.

I responded somehow, affirmatively. I noticed something something minor compliment.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzhooked!

She fished for a second compliment. I can't remember at the moment what she said, probably because I was too busy listening to blood pour out of my ears.

I mumbled something positive in return. Again, I was paying as little attention as possible because turning on the compliments fountain is a fucking mistake.

Petal and I got back to our table -- we're attending a week-long training for work and all the new hires are stationed in the main conference room -- and she stopped baiting me for compliments, but she began doing it to others.

Seriously?

Later in the morning, she turned to me out of the blue, LEANED FORWARD, lightly grasped the sides of her dress to accentuate her boobs, and innocently asked, "Is this dress too booby?"

DUDE! SHE DID IT AGAIN.

I mostly remember that I burst out laughing. She'd asked for another boob assessment, but this time there were witnesses. Unfortunately, I had followed her hands' movement and automatically looked down at her boobs but was saved by my incredulous laughter. I said, "It's a little late now!" as though she wouldn't haul down the street to her apartment and change into something less cleavagetastic. I know I said something about her looking fine, which, in Petalese, likely translated to "Yep. Maxine wants to do me."

*facepalm*

Wears me out, people. Wears. Me. OUT. But also gives me blog fodder. :D

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Training is going well. We're listening to lots of presentations from higher ups in the company. Lots of marketing terms. One of the guys today sounded like he had graduated from Jargon University with a dual degree in Acronyms and Internet Terminology. I can honestly say I followed about half of what he said. His talk, Marketing 101, was more like Marketing grad school. At one point, he went so far down the jargon rabbit hole that time lost all meaning and I tuned out because I felt I would only be able to communicate by banging rocks together. I'd fade back in and hear lots of words that sounded like English but were otherwise unrecognizable and I'd drift back out. There was math in his presentation. MATH!

Luckily, most of the presentations have been great learning opportunities. I'm soaking up a lot, still working on some articles (mostly already-written stuff that needs to be revisited for whatever reason), and just really enjoying all of it. I know I'm elated to have an actual full-time job again but it's more than that.

I've never been with a company I cared about. I cared about my dad's business, yes, but in more of a jealous/fiercely protective way that was just baby cub trying to protect papa cub at any cost. (See also: Issues I figured out on my own but miiiight want to bring up in therapy someday.)

Kata is different. I got the job on my own merit* and it's a good place to be. I can really see myself advancing through the ranks and I've never been able to envision that so positively with any other company. I say "positively" because I wanted to work towards store management when I was at my last and hopefully-final job in retail. I quickly realized, however, it meant I wouldn't be able to spend Christmas with my family because of needing to be present to run the store, etc. FAIL.

I never trusted any advancement or raise I received from King V. I took them (and sat through painfully-uncomfortable performance reviews in order to get them) but everything I did was tinged with my inner critic reminding me, "Yeah, but you're working for your dad." So, no winning there, no matter if the work I did was actually good. King V is my biggest cheerleader, which is great, of course. But... well. You know.

* My issue with being hired on my own merit dates back to when I was 19. I was friends with and a roommate to a hideous human-like creature named Damien. We applied at the same retail store on the same day. Within a week, she was hired. I never got a call or an interview. I took one of those 200-question personality tests that determine if you're going to, I don't know, take everyone in the store hostage if you don't get a mall employee discount on your frozen yogurt.

I went to the store about four months later to visit Damien on her break. The store manager recognized but couldn't place me. Damien allegedly told him who I was and they figured out I'd somehow failed the personality test. (No, there were no boundary issues between employees and management -- why do you ask?) She claimed she'd convinced them to, you know, give me a chance. I was called in for an interview and hired but Damien never let me forget that she had 'gotten me my job.' Positive performance reviews, awards... none of it mattered. I wouldn't have been there to receive them had it not been for her.

Sometimes I can't believe I'm not in jail for murder.

Even though I found out about the Kata job because of someone who still works for Vox, I am confident enough now and smart enough to know that I got the job on my own. Positive recommendations help, certainly, but I think I've been through enough interviews to say that outside influence was a side dish to my awesome instead of being the fucking entree. And that's only if Damien was telling the truth, which... you know. Wasn't likely.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I don't have an end for this post, so I'm just going to say that I smell potatoes. I guess Betty is making spud surprise for her boy toy. Oh, I didn't tell you about that? Yeah... a couple days after he didn't call or decided he had been dumb and should cling to an easy woman as long as he could, Betty let me know that Mr. Man would be coming over to knock boots. Actually, she coyly asked me if I wore earplugs when I slept. Ew, dude. You're, like, 33. Just... just go to your apartment and I'll go to mine. I'd like to get inside right now, actually, so I can find something sharp to shove through my skull.

About two days into The Return of Sex in Apartment #2B, Betty told me she'd written Fabio a poem. She said she'd written poetry before but hadn't shown it to anyone because it wasn't good.

Agreed, I thought.

But THIS poem is good, she said smugly.

No, it's not, I thought.

I had Kinkos print it out on special paper, she said.

DUDE.

Based on how well she took it (*cough*) when Mr. Humpy blew her off, I can only imagine what will happen when the fuckfest inevitably ends and she goes, uh, back to the deep end.

...

Did I mention that I'm going to start looking for another apartment?

No H8

2011-08-14T23:22:00.001-04:00

The story of a young woman and her two dads. Pretty awesome.

So...

2011-08-11T22:38:00.004-04:00

Kata hired me. :D

I get a $1/hour raise (less than I thought it would be but I will obviously take it) and some pretty sweet bennies, including a week of paid vacation for the winter holidays when the office will be closed, in addition to our other weeks of paid time off.

:D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D

I am already visualizing myself driving to and from Michfest next August. I will be able to stay in the overpriced motel where many festies stay. It is party hub central and I haven't been able to afford to stay there in years and I fucking miss it.

I have stayed at a nearby campground where a lot of festies also hunker down and it's only about $20 for the night (instead of, oh, $180 at the motel), but we leave for the festival so early on Monday morning that the last thing I want to be doing is looking for tent poles in the dark. So I sleep in the car, which is uncomfortable and hot (have to keep the windows closed or I'll get stabbed to death by mosquitoes) and it starts the week off on a less-than-pleasant note because I'm dirty from pre-camping and now I do not feel fresh and lovely and ready to meet the love of my life.

Sigh.

On the way out of festival, all attendees are filthy. (If you aren't filthy, you haven't done Michfest right.) We are all exhausted from breaking down our campsites, the exhilaration of the week, and many of us have long drives home. Mine is about six hours, 30 min of which is dedicated to getting back to the town the motel is in. I've heard of festies that stayed at the hotel on their way out of town and I've had a range of emotions, from disbelief (Whatever, home is only another five hours from here!!) to murderous jealousy. (Seriously, we're all pooped.)

My fantasy for next year is that I will finally be one of those 'nutters' who gets a room on the way home. I won't have to drive far immediately after leaving the festival. I will be able to take a small backpack into the hotel. I will be able to shower the first of eleventy billion layers of bug spray off my skin, which is also covered in sweat, dirt, body paint, sunblock, and a healthy amount of sun kisses. I will be able to watch brain-rotting television. I will get to sleep in a bed that I do not have to make in the morning. (Ha! Like I do this at home.) I will drink coffee in the morning. I will take another shower...

Okay. Tangent. And... go.

Michfest has showers but the sexy showers that follow Fest are just... mmm.

"Sexy showers?" you might be asking.

Mmhmm.

I've never felt more beautiful in my life than when I'm at Fest. The acceptance there is off the chain. There are no mirrors -- not as any kind of statement; there just aren't -- and I have a week off from obsessively wondering what I look like and how I'm being perceived and pondering fun questions like "How fat does sitting this way make me look?

In its place, I have a week of flirting and being flirted with and maybe just maybe some kisses with a beautiful woman (or ten), even if it's just a quick hello or goodbye or even a soft cheek kiss and oooo I'm just electric and buzzy and I *like* looking at myself in the mirror and I don't think the horrible, horrible thoughts that really bother me because I'm just so mean to myself. I suppose many of us are but... wow. Some of things my inner critic says actually make me gasp out loud, as though I'm not the person who created the thought. What the hell, I think. Why do even spend a millisecond of my day treating myself this way?

So I spend slow time in the shower, rinsing myself clean long after the soap has washed away. My hands are in my hair and I am decadent, I am rich, I am warm, a low current that hums just enough to be heard.

I'm washing away the festival, yes, but it is of course time to reintegrate into the 'real' world. I'm also exploring my new strength, the muscle I have begun to build after just a week of walking around (when my butt is not glued to a seat on the shuttle, of course) and climbing hills and pattering over uneven terrain. Maybe I'm washing away the last traces of a body-paint design and finding the sun has imprinted a kind of negative of the same swirls or spirals or goddesses on my shoulder or near my breast. Maybe I'm just lingering because I know how few and far between these moments are when I'm at home.

I do not take the time as often as I should to shower by candlelight while incense burns. In the dark, I can explore. I feel my hair curled on top of my head and I touch the goddess necklace I always wear. I moan softly when the hot water that will turn my skin rosy bright pink hits the back of my neck and I remember I have decorated myself with ink there. I run my hand over the design -- a Kanji symbol which means energy -- and then I visit my other art.

On my left arm, a goddess figure. Or maybe it's two women making love. Maybe a woman giving birth. Perhaps even a spider or a warrior.

On my right arm, more Kanji. A design that spells out creativity, all done in the colors of the rainbow.

Above my left ankle, a sunburst with a Scorpio symbol in the middle.

On my left forearm, the words is it written.

Near my left breast, the souvenir of my first foray into a colorful and addictive world: a moon, a cloud, and a shooting star, a design I am planning to build upon with more stars and a short phrase -- "so fierce, so bright..." -- from "Shooting Star" by Adrianne. (The tattoo is going to be one of the presents I give myself now that Kata has brought me on board permanently. Other gifts include a hot stone massage and a savings account.)

I linger in the shower, not wanting to move away from the feeling of the water rushing over me, comforting me with a waterfall lullaby.

Finally, I turn off the faucet. I stand in the dark with its flashes of candlelight, feeling the damp heat gathered behind the curtain. I know I will be cold when I leave this place, so I stall, pretending mostly that I am letting slow-moving rivulets make their way to the shower floor.

I dry off slowly, sometimes with a inexpensive towel to which I am inexplicably drawn. It leaves me feeling sunburned if I move too quickly, so perhaps forgoing the soft sunshine that are yellow towels I own is a reminder to take more time for myself.

I cover myself in a dusky lotion that smells of pomegranate. I feel supple and lithe. Sometimes I nestle into a soft, clean T-shirt and too-big sweatpants that make me feel small and protected at the same time. Other times I slide between sheet and comforter, naked as the day I was born.

This is how I feel immediately after Fest: strong, vibrant, energized. I look forward to being able to revel in the feeling, just as I can't wait to experience driving home clean, well-rested, and unhurried.

I will be able to find out what the long way home is like because Kata's benefits are quite generous.

As soon as I know the dates for the next Michfest, I am putting in my vacation request. (Okay, I also have to wait until I've been with the company for three months and now that I think about it I might actually have to wait until 2012 begins to start bugging HR. Hmm.)

Whatever. I'll request my dates off and if someone else has blocked those dates out for their vacation, they're getting shanked.

Dear sweet lord

2011-08-09T23:46:00.002-04:00

I should've gone to bed about three hours ago, but I wanted to keep folks posted about things at Kata.

I have completed my three interviews. Everyone is going to know about their updated job status on Thursday. My friend Heinz is receiving information from somewhere in the company -- I don't know who and I don't know how -- but somehow she knows that there are four people are who are not being kept on board.

Thankfully, I am not one of those people.

I am simply waiting for HR to tell me the good news and what I'm going to be paid and things about benefits OMG A REAL JOB. A real, live, permanent, little-bit-stressful-but-mostly-good job. That would pay better than 'you can survive on this.' I don't know what the salary range is but I have high hopes that it will be decent.

I can't wait until Thursday. I have bumped my confidence in being hired from 98% to 99.9%. partially because the HR lady asked me today, for a second time, what kind of computer I like to use.

Yeah, I think that's a good sign.

That said, I am still willing to perform sexual favors for a select number of employees if that would improve my chances. These fingers are good for more than just typing, you know.

"Maxine is a genius."

2011-08-05T13:53:00.002-04:00

That phrase was in response to someone on Facebook -- someone actually named Maxine. Though it doesn't actually apply to me, I still like it. Shocking, I know. Happy Friday!

Cross your fingers

2011-08-04T23:45:00.009-04:00

Great news!

Kata is bringing the writers in-house permanently.

However...

...we have to interview for our jobs.

Yep. The jobs we already have and have been doing since April.

Interviews will be on Monday and Tuesday. We'll meet with the HR lady (who thankfully likes me; I say that because she openly dislikes and possibly hates Petal), the editor-in-chief (I think), and an as-yet-unnamed third person.

I think I have a pretty good chance of being brought on board permanently:

-- I do good work (even if I don't always make quota, but I'm hardly the only one)
-- I work well with others
-- I'm well liked
-- I won one of Kata's writing awards
-- I was one of the people twice selected to interview for other permanent positions, even if I wasn't hired

I hope this works out. (DUH.) I like Kata, as frustrating as a day or a coworker can be. I think I'm in a good place and started thinking that about three days into my employment with the company. Kata is growing like crazy and the bigwigs are working with some well-respected folks that will help with our future.

Ours.

I honestly can't wait to go back on Monday. I mean, I'm obviously excited because I might be on the precipice of an actual, full-time, permanent job with benefits, but I also enjoy what I do.

Ours.

I'ma give that word a hug and think positive thoughts and get. that. job.

Note: I'm also willing to sleep with Kata's comptroller to secure a position with the company. It might not get me the job, but it sure would be fun to try. You know, just in case.

#ohhai

2011-08-03T01:57:00.001-04:00

#tinybitbackmachine

Now that the weekend is in sight (at least for me since tomorrow is *woot woot* Thurfriday), it's time to talk about LAST weekend. Yay, fun with Maxine! Let's go!

..........friday

I hung out at home until about 11:00 a.m. and then headed out for the day. I worked for King V for a couple hours. I was very proud when I was able to say I'd be back for my pay because I didn't need it. This moving-towards-financial-stability thing is almost as good as the feeling I get in my pants when I see pictures of Queen Latifah. (Should you choose to follow the link, you'll likely notice a bit of honestly unintentional themed phrasing.)

After bidding adieu to my folks, I went to Evelyn's swanky new downtown apartment and hung out for a couple hours. We had large mugs of coffee and soaked up the deliciousness that was air conditioning on a 95-degree day. We probably also talked about dirty stuff. We're like that.

After Evelyn's, I beat a hasty path to the north side so I could pay back a payday loan. I know, I know. They're terrible and I had known for some time that I was once again caught in the cyclical nightmare of borrowing against oneself, so I was weaning myself off slowly. A few weeks ago, I'd borrowed $300. The next payday, I dropped to $250. On Friday, I paid back my loan... and left.

I keep smiling. I'm FREE.*

Thankfully (vast understatement), I have never been so reliant on payday advances that I couldn't escape the cycle.** I'm generally only trapped for a couple paydays, but that still amounts to needless fees when I already don't have enough money. But next Wednesday, I get to keep MY WHOLE CHECK. Well, I mean, um, until I give it to other people who do mean things like rescind their services when I don't give them money. (The nerve!***) But none of it is going to Bob's Payday Advance Plaza Carnivalesque Moneytorium!****

* Five minutes after I wrote the above, I got my unintentional 'free' pun. Note to self: Stop blogging when tired.

** I offer my "but I'm a 'good' borrower!!" excuse because I was in line behind a woman who was borrowing the maximum ($550) and was paying back $622. She very casual and seemed pretty happy when she said she'd see the clerk in two weeks. I was horrified.

*** Seriously, go to bed, self.

**** Might be a pseudonym.

On Friday night, I hung out at home. Listened to Spotify, watched stuff on Netflix including "Camp," which was so very awesome that I need to watch it again.

I also watched a cute one with Henry Winkler called "Group Sex" (yeah, you'll want to take a second to let your mind wrap around that one)...

...and a weird movie called "Camille" with James Franco. I'm honestly surprised I made it all the way through it. It was compelling enough to keep watching but there's one key scene (that I can't tell you about just in case you decide to hand Netflix a couple hours of your life that you might be mad you can't then get back) that, uh, negated a major plot point. Just something I'm surprised no one mentioned during the editing process. It was a bit obvious, I thought, like, oh, a film scene in which a woman enters a room and asks aloud, "Is there a serial killer in here?" and hearing someone cheerfully answer, "Right behind the door!" I'm torn because I want to talk to someone about it but I'm already blocking out details and don't want to have to watch it again to hold up my end of a conversation.

..........saturday

I spent the day at home and got my only nap of the weekend, a delicious nearly-three-hour affair that I desperately wanted to continue. I needed, however, to get to Vanessa and Brenda's going-away party -- they're heading to California -- and it was closing in on 8:00 p.m. The party was nice. I had some chocolate fondue, talked to folks, helped feed a baby, and made plans to have dinner with V and B before they head out. The late evening was a combination of more Spotify and Netflix. (Sounds like the name of a wacky detective duo. #notetoselfcallcbs)

..........sunday

Sunday was my busiest day. I met a new friend and her daughter for coffee, went home and hung out for a couple hours (succeeding at not napping and ignoring that voice that told me I needed to do laundry), and then went and knit with some folks from Kata. We're participating in some kind of corporate knitting challenge and I thought, since I want them to hire me permanently, it was smart to show up at a work event, especially since it was on a voluntary basis. I also know how to knit, so win win. I learned how to cast on and I still knit weird square/trapezoid hybrids (SIGH. COUNTING IS HARD.), but I was there, damn it. And now I have about two inches of a scarf. Uh, 74" to go.

In the evening, I met my out-of-town friend Sasha for a beer. She was visiting her folks and had time for dinner before she headed out. It was really nice. I'm glad she took the time to hang out even though she had a four-hour drive home.

I'm sure the late evening was more Netflix and Spotify. Favorite things to do lately, clearly.

#thisweek

Saw my folks on Monday because I was ready for that money King V so generously gives me. Also talked to my dad at length about his gardening and landscaping efforts on the front lawn.

On Tuesday, I visited a friend in the hospital. She's okay; just having some tests run.

Tonight, I dined with some friends and will be having dinner with Vanessa and Brenda tomorrow evening. When it rains, it pours, I guess.

#whitegirlsatpianos

Today was a little rough at Kata. A black cloud seemed to have settled over part of the office. I was mad at an editor who twice kicked back my article with instructions to rewrite it when -- LITERALLY -- one word needed to be changed. While it was appropriate to let my supervisor know what was up, I still felt like I was tattling when I talked to Tess. The whole thing damn nearly turned into The Rewrite Debacle; I was emailing drafts of my original article to Tess who was passing them on to the editor-in-chief (a woman born, tragically, with no personality) and -- holy fuck. Let me just smack the editor upside the head while hissing, "Quit it!" He'll flinch whenever I walk by... but he'll remember.

So several people were in a mood. I think it's partly because of Mercury Retrograde. Our normally-buggy computer system was worse than usual. The Mad Texter (too tan, too skinny, might be romantically involved with her Blackberry) was clearly having some kind of text fight with someone who can tolerate her because she kept texting, sighing, and slamming her phone down. Petal, who is thankfully no longer my tablemate, was in a mood. She's already a bitch; today, I actually referred to her (privately) by the C-word. It was that bad.

I'm sure part of the reason Petal was shitty today was because I was teasing her yesterday afternoon and schadenfreudingly enjoying her frustration. She said something about "having trouble making writing this article" and I replied something like "It's probably taking longer since you're writing like that." I know, I was bitchy but oh it felt good to do something besides internalize her shit. Seriously, they're called therapists, there are lots of them. Go work through that anger instead of taking it out on everyone else. You could set a teacup in the chip on her shoulder.

One of the places where we oddly clash is over music. I may have mentioned at one point that I'd added a Sting station on Grooveshark (before I fell in love with Spotify) and she said something about not listening to him since 1995. She poo-pooed other artists I like with a hipster shrug while mentioning bands she probably invented. Here's the weird thing, though: For someone so in the know about music, she had no idea who I meant when I mentioned Owl City or Death Cab. I felt like I had won, but I didn't know what the prize was.

Today, however, took the cake. I mentioned that I was chair dancing to Sara Bareilles' "King of Anything" and she said, "What?" When I explained what it was, she said, "Oh. I had my fill of white-girls-at-pianos by the mid-90s."

I KNOW!!!

I don't understand. It doesn't matter what I say or do; she's got something shitty to say in return. In the afternoon, after the white girls debacle, a coworker shared a YouTube link for something called Vegan Metal Chef -- I think that's right. It's kind of a goth cooking show. In the 90 seconds I watched (of a 10-minute video), this guy death-metal-lyriced his way through cooking instructions (as in "PUT THE WASABI IN THE POT AHHHHHHHH!!!!") while loud music played in the background. It was silly and had been recommended by the coworker for people who like sushi. Petal is one of those people; I think she gets sushi a couple times a week. So I mentioned the link and all she said was, "10 minutes of death metal. I cannot." Not "Gosh, thanks for thanking of me even though I prove at every turn that I am a miserable human being and incapable of accepting any kind of gift without kicking it open to examine its innards, deeming them unacceptable, and then spitting on them."

Or something like that.

I hope tomorrow is better. There are quotas to meet (almost made it today; got about 75% done with my fourth article) and people to avoid punching.

Oh, I forgot to to mention that my final act of reciprocated passive-aggression (tonight, anyway) was to set up a Spotify playlist called "White Girls at Pianos." So far, I only have Sara Bareilles, Tori Amos, and Fiona Apple, but it's started. Petal, unfortunately, is on my Facebook friends list (one of my former tablemates was all "Hey, we should all friend each other !!1!" to which I wanted to scream, "OMGWTFBBQNO!"). The only good to come of that friending is that she can see my Spotify playlists. I hope she sees it please please please see it fuck it I don't care I enjoyed creating it so much it won't matter.

#andfinally

The powers at be at Kata allegedly had a meeting today to talk about the writers' future with the company. Here's hoping they have really good news for us tomorrow. If not, I've got some phone calls to make. Like to the Fake-Your-Own-Death-to-Avoid-Creditors Hotline.

As the blather machine powers down for the evening, I can only say, "I truly am my father's daughter." For those new to this blog, the V in King V stands for verbose. ;)

If I blew out my eardrums listening to Tori Amos' "Taxi Ride," Let the Rain," or "King of Anything" (the last two both by Sara Bareilles), it would be worth it. (White girls at pianos w00t!!!)

Displaced

2011-07-30T09:59:00.010-04:00

I know I've mentioned before that I've had some trouble getting along with my upstairs neighbor, Betty Off Her Crocker (first blog appearance, I believe, towards the end of this very-long-but-hopefully-still-entertaining post). She's lived here almost two years and we didn't get along for the first year. Finally, something started to give, although I can't remember any more what that was. If vague memory serves, I complimented her outfit or something. Whatever. We finally started talking, haltingly. I still thought she was crazy, so I didn't want to get too close. I mean, I've seen Single White Female.

Fast forward some number of months. Betty has taken up gardening and has, in the past, snapped at me (*cough* theme *cough*) for dumping dead birds outside my window. You know. At 3:00 a.m. When my only goal was to GET IT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT. (Indoor cat owners: Keep them that way. Seriously. George has practically become a serial killer.)

Betty is quite proud of her efforts and the yard really does look nice. Wildflowers and tomatoes and god knows what else. Every time she asks me if I've seen Name of Plant That She Has Cultivated from Seed to Bloom, I have learned to brightly say, "Yes!" and then start spewing compliments. And then run back to my apartment. I was honest a couple times about not paying much attention to the garden -- I leave for work at 7:30 a.m. and I'm not a morning person; I'm sorry I didn't notice your asterium celery rose thistle but I'm doing well to be standing upright -- and her face just fell. So now, no matter what, I say yes. I usually do notice something pretty and just forget to say something, so I'm really only telling little ecru lies.

About three weeks ago, Betty and I decided to have a cookout in the backyard. She secured the food and I just gave her some money, which was awesome. (Grocery stores make me anxious.) I came home to find that she'd put a really pretty tablecloth over my table, placed candles strategically in the grass, wrapped colored lights around a tree, had the coals already going, prepared strawberries and gouda (my favorite cheese) as an appetizer, and bought these white chocolate ice cream bars that were divine (and I'm not a fan of white chocolate). She cooked burgers and veggie skewers and we talked for more than two hours. It was great and about 7/8 a date. (1/8 was claimed by Betty's heterosexuality. Tragic. I hear she was born that way.)

Last Wednesday, we decided to do another cookout. About two days prior, Betty mentioned she'd met a guy she was really into. On Wednesday afternoon, she called me and left a rambling message asking permission to invite the guy -- Chuck -- over that evening. I didn't have a problem with it. I honestly thought she was blowing me off because he'd asked her out on a formal date. I mentioned the change of plans to a couple different friends who both asked me what I thought about being a third wheel. Both times, I replied something along the lines of, "He was the third wheel. It was our evening." (See also: Lesbian mama bear; grr.)

I got the idea that things weren't going to go well when I walked into the backyard on Wednesday night and you couldn't tell anything dinner-related was going to happen. The tree lights were lit and a few candles burning, but no people, no food, no visible fire. I waited outside 10 minutes and then went inside to call Betty. I'd gotten home early and heard her and Chuck thumping around, so I knew she was home. I was afraid she was going to blow me off so they could do the horizontal mambo but she answered the phone and assured me they would be down in five minutes.

Mmhmm.

Five-ish minutes later, I went back outside -- keep in mind that I hate heat, so being outside my igloo makes me irritable -- and saw that some foodstuffs had arrived but there were still no people. At this point, it was going on 9:00 p.m. and as it was a school night, I was starting to get concerned about the time. (Also, I was starving-ass hungry.) It's best that I go to bed around 10:30 p.m. If I go to bed later than that -- at, say, 1:30 a.m. like I did the other night -- it can be pretty hard to function the next day and I need mah brane to be awake so I can write. I am nearly 20 years past the age where cigarettes, a Big Slam of Mountain Dew, and a Snickers can get me through any tough morning. Now I'm whiny if I don't have time to stop and get a latte before work. (I know, right?) This, coupled with the fact that I think I'm going to have to start brushing with a sensitive-tooth toothpaste, makes me feel more than two-boxes-of-candles old. It's like I should be cast in a reprisal of thirtysomething.

Anyway.

The Wonderfuck Twins came downstairs a couple minutes after I arrived. You could tell how much Betty liked Chuck.

Uh oh, my brain whispered.

She was flustered and keep forgetting stuff, necessitating several runs up and down the stairs. Like I said, it was hot and she was in a long skirt and 3/4-sleeve blouse -- too much fabric, however gauzy, for a night where it's still 90 at 9:00 p.m. -- and she was tending an open flame, so she kept fanning herself with her skirt. As the evening progressed, the hem -- curiously enough! -- rested higher and higher across her thighs. It didn't get much higher than the average miniskirt, but she came outside looking Pentecostal and was campaigning to be the mayor of hoochietown an hour later.

"I washed my sheets this morning," she whisper-confessed to me when Chuck took care of grabbing a forgotten something from upstairs.

Uh oh.

During Betty's trips inside, I asked Chuck about himself. I found out he was 22 (Hmm. I think I'll plant a red flag right... here.) and that he worked at some technogeek store, which is where he met Betty. She needed a new charger for her phone and had met him and apparently asked him out. She's in her early 30s and knew he was young, but clearly hadn't guessed he was quite so new. When I was able to motion to her that he was 22 (she had asked me to find out), her eyes got uncomfortably wide for a second. I encouraged her to have fun with the situation. I believe my exact words were "Ride that train to its final destination." She just blushed. Okay, sheets washer. Pick an identity.

So we got through dinner -- same burgers and veggies as the first time -- but the energy was different. She was crazy nervous and she and Chuck were pretty much just talking to each other. He was nice enough but all I could smell was game. That said, I am automatically distrustful of boys -- too many painful interactions with them, most of them unrelated to The Gay -- and Betty is an adult, but I still had a feeling that things weren't going to end well.

Nearly everything Chuck said made me feel psychotically old -- like how a Green Day song that came out when I was 30 was something he'd danced to at his prom. I vowed to have a burger and then get inside so that the heterosexual mating dance/live taping of Wild Kingdom could continue without me. I held out long enough for S'Mores (not quite smorey enough considering they were essentially cooked on a piece of foil on the grill, but #fuckitmarshmallows, so whatever) and then got inside.

I'd only been outside an hour.

Chuck and Betty retired upstairs and proceeded to spend the next couple hours apparently dropping their shoes and throwing basketballs around. I have no idea what they were doing but it didn't seem like hookey dookey. I'd heard Betty, uh, entertain a guest once and it sounded different. I mean. I wasn't, like, um, listening or anything. I don't, um, do that. Much.

Whatever they were up to, Betty said it lasted until 6:00 a.m. I wasn't able to connect with her on Thursday to hear about the evening and our schedules didn't mesh during the day on Friday, so I texted her a few times throughout the day to find out when she was going to be around. Total texts: four. One of them was in reply to a text she sent me. One just said "OK." Four texts: not too many for one day.

(This is important.)

The final text I sent, a cheery "When are you going to be home? I want to hear about your date!" resulted in an immediate, angry phone call from Betty.

"Stop texting me!" she snapped. "Every time you do, I think it's him!"

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh nooooooooooooooo.

"I'll just see you when I get home and I think you can tell what kind of mood I'm in!" And she hung up.

I've rowed this boat before. Long-time readers of this blog might remember The Date, a woman I was head over heels into years ago. I asked her to dinner, we went out, the evening ended with some accidental-on-purpose knee touching... and then she apparently fell off the planet. That all happened five years ago and I'm still crushed. Suffice it to say, I understood that Betty's anger wasn't really directed at me (but she still hurt my feelings).

Betty texted me a couple times after yelling at me (#wtf) and said that Friday was Chuck's day off and he hadn't bothered to call and I felt bad for her but... he's 22. And you put out on your second date. I gotta say that 'surprise' isn't the first emotion I reached for.

I haven't talked to her about the whole shebang (#freudianslip) and I'm not going to bring it up. I hope that the friendship we were building hasn't been dashed; I was starting to really enjoy her company. Even though our cookouts only have a 50% success rate. I'd still like them to continue. I'll just post a No Trespassing sign so we can chase away future pests. Maybe I can just get George to take Chuck down. Today: bunnies. Tomorrow: frat boys. What? It's good to have goals.

Woe!

2011-07-30T02:56:00.003-04:00

My dear readers... all five of you...

I am remiss! I am forlorn! Woe, for I, normally a smidge quicker when even the hint of a whiff of the perfume of a potential pun dare pass into my periphery, have only now -- 17 DAYS LATER -- realized that my entry, "Popping in," which detailed, in part, a tragic tale of bunnycide, should have been called Hopping in.

Incredulously yours,

Maxine of Duh and IKnorite

Yay!

2011-07-29T10:33:00.002-04:00

Let's get some happy up in this mother!

---> It's Friday, which means I'm off work. YESSSS.

---> I'm on day three of using Spotify and really enjoying it. I'm discovering some new music -- big fan of Amos Lee's "Windows Are Rolled Down."

---> I'm going to do some work for King V today and get paaaiiiid for it. Always good.

---> Meeting a friend for coffee this afternoon.

---> Discovered this morning that a friend from Michfest is in town. Might get a chance to see her and meet her family -- squee!

---> An author I really like is near River City and might be able to meet for a cupcake on Sunday. Seriously.

---> I'm writing about a bunch of really interesting stuff at Kata. The amount of time I spend on research is killing my quota, but I can now offer you tips for hiring a landscaper if you live in Chicago, how to start a vegetable garden if you live in Washington, D.C., recommend ways to liven up a boring dorm room, or talk about substituting vegan ingredients in a recipe. It's fun. It's time-consuming and sometimes crazymaking beyond belief, but more often than not, I leave work feeling good. I likes all the lernins.

---> I look forward to hearing about my future with Kata. (File under: Understatement, vast.) As HR just custom-ordered a company shirt for me (their biggest size was an XL, to which I wanted to reply, "Okay, I just need about seven more shirts. And some thread."), I feel like good news is on the way. The writers' contract is technically up on August 18 but the guest blogging venture has been hugely successful. I hope they hire all of us. I think that's about 20 people. Not sure; Kata has added so much personnel that it's honestly getting difficult to keep track of everyone.

---> I keep reminding myself that I'm getting paid to write, so even when days are difficult it's still okay. (I think this reasoning belongs with the bad sex/bad pizza analogy: even when it's bad, it's still pretty good. Although that made more sense when I was 19 and apparently had no standards.)

---> I also contacted Buckethead at Vox and the chance to freelance for them is still an option. Lots of things have happened at Vox -- they started looking for an arts editor, their graphic designer quit (and I thought he'd be there forever), and Ginger is moving overseas. I wouldn't and probably couldn't ever go back to Vox as more than a freelance employee, but I like knowing the 'extra money' door is still open. I told Buckethead that I'd have to start with a small assignment. After writing all week, the last thing I generally want to do is write more. (Hence the ever-frequent updating on this blog.) We'll see what happens.

I feel good. Getting sleep certainly helps. So does payday. And S'Mores. Just throwing that last one out there in case you have some spare chocolate and marshmallows and felt like coming over to hang out.

Random, not-so-great news

2011-07-15T09:20:00.006-04:00

In unfortunate news, I found out a couple weeks ago that the first woman I dated was killed in a car accident. Her ex-husband found me on Twitter and sent a message saying I should call him. As I haven't spoken to him in probably 10 years (we were never friends... shocking, I know) and I hadn't spoken to her for at least four years, I figured he had bad news. (In fact, he didn't know if she and I were still friends, so there you go.) Just one of those tragic accidents. I guess some kids were joyriding and crashed into my friend and, of course, her husband of two months and killed them both. I hope she is at peace.

* * * * * * * * * *

From the Definite Improvement files: A bird that George and/or Gizmo dispatched to avian heaven was found on the welcome mat outside by my neighbor. Bad for the bird, bonus for me: (1) Neighbor found it (2) It was already O-U-T-S-I-D-E (3) We left it for the landlord to take care of when he came over to fix things. (Aren't we nice?) On my way out the door, I thanked George for the gift in a more sincere fashion than I intended. Maybe that's the key. Show appreciation; hide gross face. She can keep killing and I can walk through my home without finding corpses. Win win.

* * * * * * * * * *

I feel like the subject of this photo is not a performer but Kevin Kline after a few bad decisions:

Photo by Christopher Victorio. Snagged from here.

* * * * * * * * * *

Kata is stressing me the fuck out. The quota makes me feel nauseated. Not meeting the quota pushes me a little closer to insanity. I'm learning a lot, given that I have to research almost everything I write. I enjoy a challenge -- maybe I knew this, maybe I just started discovering it in April. I don't know; I've only been out of bed for 30 minutes and my brain is still quakeroaty. All I know is that the company needs to stop reinventing the wheel every two days and the article retrieval system they've been having us use needs to be further debugged. I can't go into a lot of detail because I honestly can't explain it but here's a good example: On Thursday, I wrote an article that was titled something like "Bob Smith Realtors are the best and here's why!" My instructions were to write about BS (hahahahahhahahahaa unintentional humor!) and tell the world how I'd discovered them and what I loved about them. The article was surprisingly hard to write, primarily because I was so fried by Thursday afternoon (our Friday) that I was doing well to sit upright unassisted.

I finally got the article done. I uploaded it. I went away for the weekend and slept. A lot.

Yesterday, I checked the system and my article had been kicked back by an editor with the deadly phrase NEEDS TO BE REWRITTEN next to it. The editor said something like, "We can't talk about how great BS (hee) is. We can only hint at their greatness. Please find 4-5 other realtors and talk about the benefits of each.

Long, frustrating day later, I wanted simply to say, "But I did what you asked me to." I was so very tempted to say something along those lines when I uploaded my rewrite, the blank comment box sitting on my screen taunting me, but I didn't. I just wanted someone to acknowledge that the fault lay with the employee who assigned the article and should know better. (She's been there months and months before I have.) The editor accepted my revisions without haste and even posted a comment along the lines of "Great job with the rewrite! You really did a great job reworking the article!" which was, yes, positive but also unnecessary. I don't know if any of that makes sense. I'm so frustrated that bursting into tears and/or having a nice, toddleresque meltdown in the middle of the office sounded pretty boss yesterday.

Anyway. I'm making myself go to work. I have no paid time off, after all. I think a mental health day would be great, but I can say the same about having $20s in my pocket on payday. Anyway, if I start calling in now instead of actually dealing with the problem, I'm going to Vox myself out the door. Meaning: I started working from home more when I couldn't deal with everything at Vox. Kata is the kind of company that listens to their employees. There are just some frighteningly-large gaps where I feel we fall through the cracks, but admittedly we are all testing a new system together and no one really knows what's happening. I feel like we're going to rocket to the moon once we figure out our shit and AGREE ON A FLIGHT PLAN. I just need to make through this ground shaking, knowing that it's an engine roaring to life and not an earthquake waiting to swallow me up.

Popping in

2011-07-12T22:15:00.006-04:00

Things are Kata are swooshing and changing and moving and kinda staying the same but also being altered. It's an exciting time. [Recipe calls for: smidge of sarcasm. *toss*]

About 10 days ago, right around 5:30 p.m., the HR rep came into the main office where most of the writers work and called out four names. She was brisk and assertive and I immediately guessed -- but did not want to believe -- those people were being fired. I was right. It was a swift cut. No explanation. (I'm Facebook friends with one of the women who was let go.) A fifth employee received the news of her dismissal over the weekend. The writers in question weren't turning in enough content -- we have a quota of four articles per day -- and/or the quality was poor. So... axe.

I am nervous. Even though I know I write better than the people who were fired and have been assured I'm doing a great job and I keep landing interviews, I about crapped my pants when Team Leader Tess and her male cohort came up to my table, gleefully, and said I would be changing teams the next day.

Male cohort's team has been writing for one client, a huge legal organization. There's been a lot of pressure for us to perform for them. They signed some kind of contract that allows them to dump our company in about six weeks if they aren't happy with the results we've produced. We've done a great job but I also think our goals are too lofty. We're trying to get something crazy like 120 articles posted every week. (We write blog posts that mention the client's keywords with the intent of improving their search engine ranking.)

I think we've generally published around 60 articles a week. The pressure is on, big time, to write articles, get them edited, approved by the legal folks' compliance department, and sent to blog owners. It's time-consuming and stressful and I am still pretty confused as to why HR (or whomever) decided to fire people and why Tess/male cohort moved me off the team prior to the client's 'escape' date. I am, to put it mildly, paranoid. Okay, I'm beyond paranoid. It's like Beyond Thunderdome except twitchier. And with far less Mel Gibson.

As a member of Tess' team, I am still expected to write four articles a day (generally at a minimum of 500 words each) but now I write for some of our other clients. Instead of smoothly working keywords like tort reform into articles, I now use more general phrases, like furniture polish and fuzzy yarn. It's not always easy, depending on the subject of the article, but a phrase like salad spinner fits into what I'm writing a lot easier than legalese.

Initially, I wasn't making quota. I just couldn't produce more than 2.5 articles a day. I had a pow-wow session with Tess and the editor-in-chief after I lost out on the editor job and was told I needed to bring up my productivity. They were very nice about it but I still felt kind of shitty. That day and for the next four days, I made quota every day. I was impressed -- I really wasn't sure I could make it happen but then I did. And then people got fired and I got moved and I dropped back down to not even cranking out three articles.

Rut roh.

Today I was able to start on a fourth article but ran out of time. Just gotta keep the wheel greased, I guess. Oh, and also add an encyclopedic chip to my brain so I can stop doing research for things I know jack shit about. This week, I've read about everything from buttermilk to Windows 7, which is great for making my brain gigantic and Jeopardy-ready, but the amount of research really cuts into writing time. Stressful. Do not liiiike. (But the writing is pretty boss.)

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Now it's time for a gross story because I didn't scar enough people on Twitter with it. If you are easily grossed out, eating any kind of food, or especially love bunnies, you probably want to skip the rest of this entry.

Still here? Okay. I warned you.

About 10 days ago, I came home from work and noticed a slight smell.

(I TOLD YOU.)

I bundled up some trash I'd accumulated from a takeout dinner the night before, surprised that whatever I'd thrown away was already so stinky, and ushered it outside. Dusted hands off, problem solved.

Ha. No.

Next day when I came home, smell was noticeable. Clearly, the trash had not been the issue. I talked to my upstairs neighbor and found out Landlord had snaked her drain (not a euphemism) the weekend before. Became convinced said snaking had shoved something into my kitchen sink pipes, which is where the smell was strongest.

I made sure nothing gross was living (or dying, rather) in the dishes I had yet to do. Nope.

I bought baking soda and poured it and boiling water down the sink. The smell dissipated for about 30 minutes. Huzzah!

But then it came back.

By the third day, I was beyond frustrated. My house has never been white-glove clean, but it doesn't smell. Maybe like dust and leftover incense, but it's not 'I should be profiled on Hoarders' stinky.

The longer it took to find the source, the more nervous I got.

I dreaded going home that third day. I did anyway because, well, I live here, but I promptly texted the guest who was coming to stay with me for the weekend that there was an odeur and we might be staying at my parents' house for part of her visit.

I called my landlord, who arrived about 30 minutes later with a plunger and all sorts of tools. He unclogged the sink and lightly chastised me for putting Tide down the drain but considering I thought it was a stinky drain problem... blah blah blah.

After he cleaned out the sink, he was like, "Do you still smell it?"

Um. Yeah.

He motioned towards my dishes and a pile of laundry I'd been ignoring and intimated that the smell would go away when they were taken care of.

Dude.

I didn't want to say, "Yeah... those have been here for a minute and MY GOD WHAT DO YOU THINK I DO IN MY CLOTHES?" but I thought it pretty loudly.

"Let's pull out the fridge," Landlord suggested.

I had pulled out the stove and found nothing, so I readily agreed.

Fridge out, we noticed a squirmy pile of black bugs on the ground that I couldn't identify. They were wriggling in some kind of liquid that was coming from the fridge. Even though I didn't have much food on hand, I figured something had leaked out the back and was rotting.

Then I looked down more closely and said five words that will probably haunt me the rest of my days.

"I think I see legs."

I stepped back about three feet and essentially started squealing. Somehow a bunny had gotten behind the fridge and oh-so-tragically died.

It was small but death clearly packs a wallop.

The only thing I can figure is that the cats brought it in -- as they have done with countless bugs, birds, field mice, and another unfortunate bunny that they eviscerated and left in MY BEDROOM -- and it crawled behind the fridge to escape or die an operatic death.

While I was squealing and hand flapping, my landlord just stared at The Gross.

You could have heard my feminist principles shatter on the ground as I tossed them out the window. I gestured in a manner I can only describe as "You're a boy -- YOU CLEAN IT UP."

Thankfully, he did. I mopped with fury... and a good dose of the heebies.

With the offensive item gone, my apartment started not smelling almost immediately. I don't know where Landlord put the bunny but I did not approach the dumpster out back for almost a week, fearful I would get another whiff of The Smell.

I was also worried that the bunny would spontaneously come back to life and lunge at me, screeching about murrrrrrrrrrrrderrrrrrrrrrrrr.

(I... have an active imagination.)

That I spent four days breathing in dead bunny fumes grosses me out so bad I can almost not stand it.

That Landlord said, "I think that was the cause" made me want to burst out laughing. Dude. Seriously. If the DEAD ANIMAL UNDER MY FRIDGE wasn't the cause, I need to move. Immediately.

The cats have wisely not brought me anything else since that incident. My scans for live, injured, or flat-out dead 'presents' now includes a peek behind the fridge. I have seriously earned my bravery badge for doing so.

If I ever look behind the fridge again and see legs, you can find me at the local bus station. I've heard good things about Mexico.

Not today

2011-06-27T20:54:00.003-04:00

I didn't get the editor job at Kata. I don't know yet who did. I just know that I got a crappy form letter via email which I thankfully didn't see until I was ready to pack up and leave for the day.

I also didn't get the arts job I applied for sometime at the beginning of May. I figured long ago that I hadn't gotten it but I've been waiting almost two months for a rejection letter. Which I haven't received. The company welcomed their new employee via Twitter. So that was fun to read.

I got the news about both in the space of 90 minutes. Right after I finished reading my form letter, completely stunned, one of the editors Skyped me and wanted me to tweak an article I wrote to better suit our client's needs. Three bad news bits in an hour and a half = inner critic rejectiongasm.

Someday -- SOMEDAY, DAMN IT -- someone is going to hire ME for a permanent, full-time job and it will be SOMEONE ELSE'S TURN to call her parents and cry like a four-year-old with a skinned knee.

Someday.

Support withdrawn

2011-06-24T08:51:00.005-04:00

Vox is hiring an arts-and-entertainment editor.

My initial reaction that I shared with my father? "Fuck them. Fuck them in their ear."

About two months after I started with the company, the then-A&E editor, Bob, resigned. Apparently he balked at all things technology and since Vox was launching a new website and promoting itself heavily on social media channels, he no longer fit in. I don't think I would've given up a job in our current economy, but maybe he shits money or has a trust fund from which he can suckle. If so, I need to find out if he's looking to adopt.

After Bob said adios, Vox inexplicably hired a news editor -- the Earl of Pandemonium. Ginger told me, more than once, that she had been against the decision. I thought it was a stupid idea but figured Vox had their reasons. I wouldn't learn for quite a while that Vox is just poorly managed.

In Bob's absence, Buckethead assumed the roles of managing editor AND arts editor. This, too, was a bad idea, especially when a certain underemployed writer who knew plenty about River City's art scene was sitting a few feet away. As you'll likely guess, Buckethead got even more overwhelmed. I got frustrated watching all of this unnecessary chaos unfold. Still, I held on. Maybe something will make eventually sense out of this mess.

Some time later, I found out that the EoP was resigning. In his place, Vox was hiring yet another news editor -- a woman who just HAPPENED to be Buckethead's friend. Skeletor, the intern I managed to resist pushing down the stairs on a daily basis, became the interim news editor. She was given writing opportunities and full-time hours and there I sat, in my cubicle, feeling invisible even though I scheduled meeting after meeting in which I all but begged for more hours and more responsibility.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of unemployment benefits and lived about a month on Vox's shitty part-time pay and the few dollars I was making working part-time for King V. Already behind on bills, I fell further behind and was on the verge of applying for rent assistance from the trustees. Apparently this also meant I was going to have to apply for food stamps. Despite my therapist's assertion that the help is there for people who need it, I balked at the idea. I'd carried and used my unemployment funds debit card for two years. I wanted to get a full-time job, not continue traversing a path of shame. Luckily, the job with Kata presented itself right as things were most dire and I Calgoned my way out of Vox. Buckethead was surprised I left Vox for a three-month contract position. Apparently "more hours and more money" don't translate into his first language.

A week ago today, a Facebook friend sent me an email with a link to Vox's job announcement.

I was livid. I walked into King V's office, swearing up a storm.

Over the next few days, however, I remembered a number of things:

Bad management. BAAAAAAD.
The job description said, in the first paragraph, something like, "This job is ideally suited for someone who cares more about journalism than a juicy paycheck." (Why hello, red flag!)
They treated me with such little consideration. Lie after lie when the truth would've been so much simpler. Instead of "We should be able to bring you on FT in three months... um... six months... next fall for sure!," they should've just said no. Flat out. Here's the truth: We have no money. You're awesome and talented but we're print media, so we're really suffering. There is no future for you here. Great! I'll find another opportunity. Thank you for turning me into a professional writer. SEE YA. No hurt feelings, no anger, no blocked accounts on Twitter.
Ginger didn't sign my goodbye card and couldn't be bothered to show up on my last day of work. From ally to enemy in 10 short months! It's like she sent away for an as-seen-on-TV, do-it-yourself kit.

Kata, in one month, moved faster than Vox did in almost a year. I was chosen for my first interview and though I didn't get the job, I felt recognized and important and vital and didn't have fears that I would eventually be living in my car. Two months in, I've interviewed for this second position and have the same good feeling. Even if I don't get chosen, though it feels like it could possibly-maybe-hopehopehope-knock-on-wood happen*, I know another opportunity will present itself.

* I am Tess' number-one pick for the job. She has mentioned this more than once to me AND to the editor-in-chief who is apparently making the final decision. Squee!

At the very least, I have my current job until the middle of August. I don't think Kata will get rid of our writing group -- well, they might dump a couple people -- but I really do feel that they're doing their best to find us all permanent jobs with the company. It's an exciting time. Let's all get tattoos to commemorate this occasion. How do you feel about skulls?

::insert pithy title here::

2011-06-23T19:04:00.004-04:00

Posting quickly because I am tired, it is my Friday night, and I am getting ready to hunker down in front of some Nurse Jackie episodes. Brain? Off.

-- Kata extended the writers' contracts until the middle of August, so I have a full-time job until at least then.

-- I was one of nine people (out of more than 30!) chosen for an interview for an editorial position. It's a permanent job and would involve working closely with our biggest client. I should hear something in about a week.

-- Doing a maddening amount of writing (quota = 2,000 words/day), which is awesome and also exhausting. Learning who the bad writers are. I don't know how they got jobs. Apparently one of them writes articles that are so bad that at least one was outright trashed. I am seriously sharing air with this person. She also sits at my table now. To make workflow easier, Heinz changed tables. Even though she's only about six feet away, we still miss her.

Anyway, I have to turn my brain off and also take ibuprofen for a headache that has been banging around in my skull for far too long. In my near future, I see jammies, a cool drink of water, and a lot of slack-jawed gazing at my computer. Minus the jammies, that's pretty much a typical workday. (Thank you and good night!)

Yet another unintentional marathon post

2011-06-09T22:41:00.005-04:00

Just locked George out of the house for the night. Two nights ago, she brought me a dead bird, which I discovered at 6:30 a.m. when I got up for work. The thought that it may have been mere feet away from me when I went to the bathroom around 4:00 a.m. without my Flashlight of Apartment Inspection continues to squick me out.

Last night, I discovered a dead field mouse RIGHT NEXT TO MY BED around 2:00 a.m. And didn't notice it until after I'd gotten out of bed, which means my feet were millimeters away from it. GROSSGROSSGROSS.

A short while ago, George came inside yowling her returned-from-the-hunt battle cry that announces, "I've killed yet another backyard creature and since I *clearly* don't comprehend Anxiety, Panic, Human, or English motherfucker do you speak it?!, I KEEP BRINGING THIS SHIT TO YOU," at which point I grabbed the broom and dustpan, hoped the creature wasn't still alive (dead is gross but alive is hard to catch), and swept up another dead bird. I'd been dumping them directly out the window and into the yard -- out of house, out of mind -- but Betty Off Her Crocker has taken up gardening and has surrounded the house with chicken wire and greenery and potting soil and doesn't appreciate dead birds in her little plots of... something. (I don't know. I don't really pay attention when she's talking about it, for lo, I care not.)

So here's the deal, George: Great. You are a mighty and valiant hunter and I have made a crucial mistake in letting you be an indoor/outdoor cat just so I could forgo the scooping of a litter box. You are a killer and the parade of death in my apartment is making me want to sell you on Craiglist. FREE: One terribly skittish yet scrappy cat who thinks she lives next door with the Republicans. Known to kill everything from field mice to small bunnies, which she will leave in your bedroom to forever haunt you. Prefers Meow Mix. Loves catnip and snuggling (but usually only if she initiates it). CALL TODAY.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Remember Deck II? I thought it started in late July. Apparently it starts June 20! I mightmightmight have a forever job in a couple weeks! Tess, the team leader who has been secretly Skyping me and saying great things about making me a Real Live Employee, told my team that she's having some big meeting with Very Important People on Tuesday and then we'll find out her giant news on Wednesday. I think we're all secretly hoping that they'll say, "We're hiring all of you!" At this point, I'd throw a couple employees under the bus if they only wanted to hire me. Oh, I'm sorry... was I standing on you? Here, *kick*, let me remedy that.

In great news, Kata announced a writing initiative that paid $50 for writing a blog post that mentioned the company four times, including the title. Piece of cake. I pick up my money on Monday. Sadly, the post went up last Tuesday and there were a couple times this week when I really could've really used that money, but the partner/CEO who announced the whole shebang is going to pay out next week. FINALLY.

I'm still scraping by a bit but now it's because i can afford to give huge chunks of money to my landlord and a couple other incredibly patient creditors. Financial solvency is beginning to happen but I want to get there quicker. I have out-of-town friends I want to visit and I'd really like to buy myself a bed. And an armchair. (And a pony!!1!) Luckily, tomorrow = Verbose & Co. payday. Weekend = no plans. (Read: YAAAAAY! Also: cheap!) Monday = $50! Tuesday = The Big Meeting and Maybe Some Secret Skype Hints from Tess. Wednesday = Paycheck! Also: Job?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There's more to say, including my continuing bewilderment at how many of my straight coworkers are going to Pride later this month. They all seem shocked that I'm not going. I know, it may seem weird, but I never have a good time. Here are some reasons why:

1. It's either blisteringly hot or there's a monsoon -- or, if I'm lucky, BOTH -- which means I sit around all day either sweating to death or drowning in humidity as my soaked clothes dry and the day heats back up. FUN.
2. I don't enjoy getting drunk at 10:00 a.m.
3. There's never anything to do, really -- I don't care to go to any booths because I don't need or want insurance pamphlets, realtor contact information, key chains, grab bags, or condoms, and I DON'T need to own anything else with rainbows. (I came out almost 20 years ago. The novelty has worn off.)
4. The scenery has been a mixture of gay boys in Speedos (ew), idiot protestors with GOD HATES SHRIMP signs, and my exes (yep, all two of them). The last time I went to Pride, this woman had essentially stalked me there and made things Very, Very Awkward for me and my friends. And my butt. (See? Now you HAVE to follow the link!)
5. I'm plenty gay the other 364 days of the year. That will simply have to do.

As my know-it-all coworker tablemate, who is descending on Pride to be with "her gays" pointed out, I could go with different people and have a different experience. (REALLY? MY GOD, YOU'RE BRILLIANT. I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT.) What I really wanted to say was, "Stay your straight ass at home. I know that gay culture is faaaaabulous (*sparkle!*) but lately there are more straight people at gay events and in gay bars than there are homos. I appreciate the support but GET. OUT." I know that sounds harsh and maybe even unfair but Jesus Christ. The gays in River City have about three bars, at least one of which is a good place to (a) get picked up for a husband/wife threesome and (b) get into a fight in the parking lot. The last time I went to The Good Bar, about 3/4 of the room cheered when the drag emcee asked how many str8s were in the house. Please. It's not support; it's co-opting.

Here's the other thing: Know-It-All, formerly referred to as The Other Black Girl and now known as Petal, might be a repressed lesbo. She mentions gays and gay everything a LOT. So much so that I chat often about it on Skype with Heinz (formerly known as Ketchup Girl). Of-ten. I'm not sure if she's holding some kind of secret contest to see who among us is gayer, but as long as you're identifying as straight and I am openly and fiercely gay*, I'M WINNING.

* I may have hungrily growled yesterday when Petal, Heinz, and I were talking about Aisha Tyler. May have. Probably did. Definitely did. Enough that Petal said, "Down, girl!"

Okay, so the repressed lesbo thing? Today, Petal strolled into the break room at lunch ~~where I was hiding so I could take a damn break from her~~ and she mentioned that her t-shirt was a size large. She's pretty small -- I'd guess a size 10? Maybe smaller. IDK. I don't speak thin. -- but she's got pretty big boobs (D's or maybe DD's). Because she irritates me so much and because I'm not attracted to her, I haven't paid attention. Yes, even though there are boobs nearby. I said something to the effect of the shirt clearly running small and she said she wasn't sure if she was going to wear it because she was afraid that her boobs would -- and with this she made motions as though they were so large and out of control that they were about to burst forth from their cotton prison -- and then asked what I thought.

Oh my god. Are you serious? Do you need external validation THAT badly? I like compliments but Jesus, lady. You're getting fishing wire tangled in my hair.

I offered, somewhat haltingly, something about having never looked at her boobs before -- I seriously hadn't paid attention because when I look at her, I'm generally wondering how many states away I can get before the police arrest me for murder -- and then I dipped my eyes quickly from her face to her boobs and back up and said her shirt looked fine. Yes, it's a snug shirt but not inappropriately so. It's just a good Boobie Shirt and yes, your breasts are large -- congratulations! Can I finish my sandwich now?

There's so much more I can say about Petal, but I need to go to bed. Just imagine basically anything I say being dismissed with "That's so... random." Music I like? She stopped listening to it in the '90s. Reach for a cookie? Get the full-body scan and "Well, I'm watching my weight" as a reply. (Srsly. MURDER.) I have generally never heard of the bands she's listening to, which only makes her hipsteritis worse. I mentioned how much I like James Ingram and Patti Austin singing "Baby, Come to Me" and how I've often thought about dancing to it at my someday wedding and heard, "Oh, that was my favorite song... when I was 10." I know she's speaking from a place of great insecurity -- why else do you pointedly ask a lesbian to check you out? -- but the snobbery that goes along with everything she says... well, let's just say that even if I decided to try Pride a seventh or fifth or tenth time, I would skip it knowing I might have to interact with her. I only get three days off work and I need all the rest I can get.

Fuck her. I'm still dancing to it. Yoohoo, future girlfriendpartnerwife! C'mere! Your shirt looks... snug.

It's Tues-day, Tues-day, gotta get down on Tues-day...

2011-06-07T07:55:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was a little rough. The new people started their fancy permanent jobs. I was INCREDIBLY mature and broke eye contact twice with He Who is Without Personality or Boundaries (Welcome aboard!), a.k.a., the guy who was promoted from my team. He was walking back and forth with one of the team leaders and the new employee who was hired from outside Kata. While I'm sure they're thrilled to be on board, I could've done without the parade.

The whole day was sort of a wreck of frustration, if you will. It was Monday (bad enough) and I was fresh out of enthusiasm for the job. What started out with fire and bang has slowed down. While plateaus are to be expected, I need a good zoom-zoom day to get back in the swing of things. There's a lot to keep track of, including spreadsheets for days and about 12 email accounts. The team leaders also like to say things like, "Oh, by the way, we're doing A and B completely differently than we did yesterday." Not exaggeration; this happens often.

I don't mind the rapid changes; I rather like them. Things at Kata have moved faster in six weeks than Vox did in a YEAR. But I still, duh, want a permanent job. The great news is that the team leader who is pushing for me to come on board permanently said she wants that to happen when we move to Deck II in late July. (We are, duh, currently in Deck I, a three-month contract period that began in April.) Ideally, I will seamlessly transition from my current role as an author to a new job as an editor. Stay tuned!

MEH

2011-06-02T17:17:00.003-04:00

I didn't get the permanent position at Kata. Found out yesterday. The longer it took to hear anything, the less I believed I was the Chosen One, but I still held onto my ~~denial~~ hope. I was even more hopeful about this opportunity than I have been about others, probably because the interviews went so well, I felt I'd answered questions appropriately, I know the team and the work, etcetera, etcetera. What made things worse about the rejection were (1) having to prompt one of the team leaders I'd interviewed with about the position and who it went to (2) getting the 'sorry, we like someone better' email about 20 minutes later (3) having to sit down with the team leaders and get what amounted to a "cheer up, little buckaroo!" pep talk. (It wasn't just me; apparently everyone had this come-down-from-the-ledge chat.)

It was nice, to be sure, to be reassured me I was doing a great job and that Kata wants to bring me on board permanently but you know what? I've been listening to that song for a while and I would like to change stations. I do believe that Kata is a good place to be and I was thrilled to find out, via secret Skype message, that one of the team leaders is apparently really pushing for me to come on board permanently. I'm still pretty disappointed, though. The news came at the end of a weird-ass week that I'll talk about soon. So, I guess, uh, time heals all wounds or some other cliched Hallmark card bullshit that will keep me out of the mental ward accolade something something.

In extreme YAY! news, my cable gets reconnected tomorrow morning. Internet at home, I have missed you dearly. Let's be besties again, k?

She's alllllllllive

2011-05-27T16:01:00.002-04:00

Hello, my faithful four readers! I am back from ~~the dead~~ ~~Kansas~~ ~~the store~~ the abyss that is getting used to a full-time job. Let's see if I can break the last six weeks into something cohesive and brief. Ish.

I started at Kata on April 19. It's been pretty great. I write guest blog posts on behalf of our clients in order to improve their search engine rankings and we have some big companies on board. Think, like, Coca-Cola big. Blogging here has been difficult after writing for Kata all day. I am also sans Internet at home for another week or so. Full-time paychecks means bills are getting caught up, but I think my landlord would like me to finish paying rent before I get my cable reconnected so I can see Glee on Hulu. Just a guess.

I work four days a week and close to 10 hours each day. I have Fridays off (awesome) and spent my first two weekends off either napping at a coma-like level or sitting, exhausted and dazed, in front of Netflix. I'm still adjusting, but it's getting easier.

So! Some of the people at Kata. I like giving people nicknames. It's fun. In no particular order:

The Guy Who Broke My Computer. One of the techie guys who's always hooking something up and running cords and talking about our wireless came through one day and unplugged my computer while I was working and messed up my email. Although another tech guy fixed it about 30 minutes later AND I know computer breaker's real name, the label shall persist.

The Bald Guy. A short African-American guy with a shaved head who is often seen authoritatively cruising around the office with a cup of coffee. As of yesterday, his new name is Pocket Negro.

Michael Scott. Director of the writers, of which I am one. I mean, everyone at the company writes. Some of us *cough* just do it better than others. He's adorkable -- the kind of guy who is So Very White and terribly cute when he tries to be cool. We keep trying to get him to say, as formally as it's written, "Holler at your boy," but he won't do it. He's a goober extreme and one of my favorite people in the company.

Accounting Babe. Self-explanatory. Wears Estee Lauder's Beautiful and smells fantastic. Terribly nice. Has caught The Other Lesbian checking her out and apparently likes the attention. She deserves it for She Is Hotness.

The Other Lesbian. One of the other writers. Sporty dyke. Extremely nice. A little slow like maybe she's killed a few too many brain cells while partying. Very fun. We sat at the same table together when I first started.

The Other Black Girl. One of my tablemates. Can be pretty negative but apparently thinks she shits rainbows and sunshine. (Not. True.) About a week ago, Kata posted info about a permanent position. I think all of the writers (about 12 people) applied. I was invited in for an interview annnnnnnnnnnd she wasn't. It was tense at our table this week.

Ketchup Girl. Tablemate #2. One of the other interviewees. Very nice. Very nerdy. Was incredibly stoked when I watched some leaked video for something about Resident Evil and actually enjoyed it. I think I set off a nerdgasm, actually. Really, really likes ketchup. REALLY. LIKES.

Sarcasmo. Third and final tablemate. Great sense of humor but sometimes the sarcasm is a litttttle hurtful. I prefer fun sarcasm even though The Office Hippie (seriously -- she dressed like Stevie Nicks yesterday) said that all sarcasm is a cover for anger. (She's very I'm OK, You're OK / self-help maven. It's good but the Therapist Talk wears a little thin sometimes.)

The Guy with All the Pressure: One of the CEOs. Before I realized this, I thought he was just some random guy telling the team our productivity levels needed to be higher. Considering I'd been at the company for about four days when that happened, he will forever be The Source of Stress.

There are other people to mention as the company is essentially growing exponentially but none with terribly fun nicknames yet.

So... the workdays are long but generally pretty good. We do a lot of writing, some searching for guest blogging opportunities, we have meetings, we write some more. I'm really enjoying it and have seen about six of my blog posts published by different site owners.

I think I have a pretty good shot at the permanent position. There are two slots open and, as far as I can tell, I was one of 10-15 in-house applicants. Being selected for an interview when others weren't has been both wonderful and super tense. The great news is that I was interviewed because I am one of the top five content producers -- quantity AND quality, I was told. The bad news is that Kata outright told everyone about that top five fact. Instead of fostering friendly competition and nudging people towards success and more success, Kata laid the groundwork for some real bitterness. Case in point: The Other Black Girl has been peppering her conversation with phrases like, "Well, I wasn't interviewed because HR thinks I'm negative, but whatever" and there's just nothing I can do with that. So I've just been ignoring her, for the most part. Some time after Ketchup Girl and I interviewed on Tuesday, TOBG had a clandestine meeting with one of the editors to whine, basically, that she hadn't been interviewed and somehow found out that HR didn't want her on the interview list. Hence... bittttter.

I'm not faulting TOBG at all -- I'd be pretty upset if I hadn't been picked -- but I was picked and I'm not going to apologize for being successful and a (mostly) nice person. Getting laid off in 2009 did a number on me, as has been chronicled ad nauseum on this blog. Scraping my way back to full-time has taken some serious effort. Now that employment permanence is in sight, with its W2s and taxes taken out of checks and my own desk and a title and maybe even business cards, I'm pretty stoked. It's my turn, damn it.

Paroled

2011-04-15T01:52:00.004-04:00

I had a really good day:

1. Yesterday, while looking for Tori Amos CDs to burn for my dad, I discovered the Stereophonics CD I thought I had lost about a year ago, which I really enjoyed and not just because of Maybe Tomorrow, was on the shelf with the disc inside. See?? THIS IS WHY I DON'T PUT THINGS AWAY. So I got to listen to a bunch of favorite songs today while I was at Vox. Squee!

2. Wore a cute black outfit with my lightish-blue denim jacket, sleeves pushed up to show off 1/6 of my tattoos, cute silver earrings. Hope all of that distracted folks from the hot mess I'm sporting on my head. Time to detangle!

3. Accepted a full-time job with an Internet marketing firm known henceforth as Kata. Starts Tuesday.

4. Talked to my mom today at length, which is generally how I start my workafternoons for King V. Come in, talk to the Queen for half an hour, and then mosey downstairs. It's a good gig and one he wants me to keep doing.

5. Made plans to go shoe shopping. Mama needs some black sandals that aren't her pool flip-flops, which came from the dollar store and boy howdy do they look like it. When they get wet? They emit a tiny squealy noise as air escapes. Picture me leaving the Y after water aerobics and hearing the squish-squash of soddenness and the alien death scream from my sandals. Ah, exercise.

6. Had a mocha frappuccino at Starbucks earlier. Evelyn turned me on to them and I am forever grateful. Shakegasm!

There's more good but my brain is fried and the rational part of my self wants to know why I feel such an urge to blog right before I go to bed. Let's talk quickly about #3, shall we? About time, right?

Two nights ago, I applied for a writing job at Kata. One of Vox's freelancers had tweeted a link about the company needing bloggers, so I went for it. About 12 hours after I applied, I got a call and was invited in for an interview. Which was yesterday and went really well. They said they'd let me know Thursday morning. I was starting to worry when it got to be about 10:30, but then I made a connection with the woman who called me in in the first place, and she offered me the job. I accepted gladly, went back to my desk, wrote my resignation letter, and spent the next hour grinning and stopping myself from grinning and then grinning some more. Printed out my note (oh yes -- I used Vox's toner to write my SUCK IT letter) and then met with Buckethead and Ginger. Buckethead was shocked. (I enjoyed it just a tiny bit.) Ginger was all "I'm your friend and happy for you but noooooooooooo what are we going to do?" blah blah blah. Don't care. At the end of business on April 29, my luscious ass is out of here.

So I'm finishing out my calendar duties at night the next two weeks, except for a few days when I'm off work from Kata (they work 10-hour days so they can have Fridays off every week), training the new person, and that's about it. I'll still write for Vox but I get to say goodbye to everything I hate: Skeletor and everything about her; my $9/hour paychecks; Ginger and her... ugh, everything; Buckethead's mixed messages; a never-empty inbox; all the stress and strain of being responsible for promoting EVERYTHING IN RIVER CITY. Believe me when I say I have thoroughly enjoyed feeling the pulse of this place I've called home for so long. I'm going to subscribe to a bunch of the newsletters I get at Vox so that I can stay in the loop about art shows and all that. I bet I'll actually start reading Vox now that I won't be working on issues as directly.

Ginger had originally said last September that her goal was to have me on staff full-time by the first of the year. Around the middle of February and getting close to running out of unemployment funds, I approached her about FT. She was nice but said there was no way they could bring me on FT until at least the fall. So that's one year from her initial wish/lie that kept me working for them. Today she said, "When we met a few weeks ago, I had mentioned that we wouldn't be able to bring you on for a year at the earliest..." and I was kind of incredulous. It was never going to happen, I thought. I was going to work that full-time job squished into part-time hours and take home my step-above-poverty paychecks and hope, wishing and waiting and praying and whatever, that they would hire me FT. Recently, though, I reminded myself that even FT at $9/hour was going to be hard. I worked a FT job for $10/hour once and always had to choose between shit like paying rent and buying groceries. It was never like, "Hmmm, I wonder if I should wear diamonds or eat foie gras."

Kata, thankfully, pays better. Not stellar, but definitely better. Double digits is a good start when it comes to hourly wage.

It's a three-month contract position and then bloggers can do the job on their own and get paid from Kata on a per-project basis. I am going to keep looking for a FT job since we all know how long the process takes and in my cover letters say something about my contract position and its end date in July and blah blah blah we'll see what happens. King V and I are very optimistic and quite possibly blinded by ~~denial~~ the glittery gold of this opportunity and Queen S is a little frowny and "What happens in three months?" At the moment, I don't know. Can we PLEASE just focus on the good news today?

I've already experienced so much joy over this. I feel valid. I feel responsible. I feel like I'm going to get my credit score out of the shitter. I've decided to celebrate with all kinds of stuff (all purchased in good time obviously since I'm still catching up on bills thank GOD my landlord is a nice guy and easy to work with). Some of those items include new ink (it's been more than two years, which is criminal when it comes to getting tattooed), sushi, new glasses, a living room rug, and, of course, blow and strippers.

Two years, one month, and eight days. Let's Shawshank this bitch and get busy livin'.

Alphabetically speaking: my day in sixes

2011-04-12T00:55:00.003-04:00

Avenue -- returned clothes; store credit, baby!

Books -- sold five; $3 in cash

Car -- sounds baaaad; pondering public transpo

Dad -- He's driving me batshit crazy.

Everything is going to be okay.

Fantasizing about going to bed soon.

Guacamole and corn chips: must buy.

Hermione keeps going through my head.

I can't believe it's April 12.

Just had a birthday, didn't I?

Kitchen: I am scared of it.

Learned that Aldi closes at 8.

Mouse: George caught one; ew gross.

Nice plum lipstick rarely gets worn.

Overwhelmed OFF TURN BRAIN OFF TURN

Power down. Restart? No, not yet.

Queer? Yep, still am. And you?

Sleep: can't. Clowns will eat me.

Thinking about dumping iPhone, trying Evo.

U should tell friends about me.

Very close, smart, rich friends, okay?

Water: Drank lots. Is very delicious.

X = the spot. "Oh!!" = G spot. *

You're my favorite reader ever. Honest.

Zzz zzz zzz zzz zzz zzz.

------------------------

* Okay, I phoned this one in, but it's X, for god's sake. Stupid alphabet. *kicks pebble*

Sounds like a sign to me

2011-04-10T21:54:00.003-04:00

This is not meant to be super deep or meaningful in any way. I just believe in signs wherever they pop up. The lyrics are from Madonna's Jump.

There’s only so much you can learn in one place

The more that I wait, the more time that I waste...

...it’s time to make my way

I’m not afraid of what I’ll face

but I’m afraid to stay. *

You should watch the video. It's like Carol Channing took up gymnastic ninja street fighting. With a little parkour thrown in.

-------------------------

* related to my current dissatisfaction with Vox

So... this is different.

2011-04-09T01:22:00.005-04:00

I've mentioned two or four thousand times that I have issues with Skeletor. A LOT OF ISSUES. Enough to stock the average-size newsstand.

Because I am not entirely sober (always a good time to blog), I am going to talk about things -- at least one thing -- that makes me reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally uncomfortable. It's okay. My brain is distracted by the fuzzy softness it has become.

So I've mentioned that Skeletor is really skinny. What I meanly call gross skinny but what I believe is disordered eating skinny. That is, anorexic or bulimic or both. Perhaps in recovery. I don't know. It's not something you walk up to someone and ask. "Hey, you look near death -- are you getting help with that?"

This is where I get uncomfortable.

Though I've always been at the complete other end of the spectrum -- of the "don't tease her or she'll sit on you" and "don't you think you've had enough to eat?" and "you're visibly fatter" variety -- I believe that the thinking behind disordered eating is similar for all three ... categories? Definitions? IDK. Not going to Google anything. Otherwise this entry, which I will take a three-hour break from writing so I can follow every eating disorder link known to man, will go on forevvvver.

This is where issues I have with food and relying so heavily (pun unintentional) on it for so long gets kind of muddy in my head because I still don't understand a lot of it, even though I've been there for all of it.

I went to Overeaters Anonymous for about a year. (Let's skip past the 'how anonymous is it if you tell us' thing, okay?) Some of it was really helpful and some of it confuses me to this day -- namely being invited out to eat after my first meeting. I seriously thought it was a trick and I hesitated to answer. I think I went along but was wary. I spent a chunk of my life treating food like a reward and not long after I recognized I was doing it and trying to fix it... dinner invitation. I remember at least one dinner feeling very fake. Everyone ordered some kind of salad. I got a burger and fries. If it was a trick, I was going out in a blaze of glory.

Despite the problems I had with the group, I did experience some healing. It was pretty odd to be in a room with so many people who echoed some or all of what I thought about food, ~~whether we were roughly the same size or if they were painfully thin.~~ Added: What I should have said was that we all felt similarly about food and we were all different body shapes and sizes. I was most intrigued by the "normal" (read: thin) people who felt the way I did/do. I honestly thought, "Pff! Skinny people don't have issues with food!" I know now that's wrong. Wronnnng.

So... I guess I'm worried about Skeletor. I get uncomfortable looking at her. We rarely speak; our first few interactions just fell flat and I think we stopped trying. Can't be friends with everyone.

After the Earl left his post, Vox gave Skeletor his job. It pissed me off pretty bad, especially since I was the last to find out and I am allegedly a member of the editorial team. It also made me mad since I kept approaching them about full-time work. I wasn't looking to become a news editor but I am interested in continuing to live indoors.

I'm basically a prisoner of the calendar job. I'm not allowed to work more than 25 hours a week and I have a full-time amount of work to do. Several things lately have fallen through the cracks and Ginger has been sending me emails about missing events. Fun, fun emails whose hostile tones don't match the bubbly way she greets me whenever she sees me. Today I found out I'd referring to a venue by the wrong name and apparently pissing off the guy who has been sending us stuff. He's a concert promoter or Ticketmaster's bitch -- I don't know, never met him -- and Ginger claimed she got an email full of cussing about Vox never getting his shit right and blah blah blah eventually Ginger just said, "We [YOU, MAXINE. I MEAN YOU.] can't mess up another one of Bob's events for a long time or we stand to lose thousands of ad dollars."

Ladies and gentlemen... responsible for the collapse of Western civilization... she's bountiful... she's charming... she's fucking insane... MAXINE DANGEROUS!! *crowd roars*

I don't think Bob or Ginger are being fair. This is the first time I've heard of this in the 10 months I've been working for Vox and anyway, Bob's venue? Used to be called Bob's Place. After all the corporations bought everything, it's become, like, Pepsi Taco Bell Bob's Place Now Featuring Pizza Hut. I was calling it some hybrid (Prius) of both names, like Taco Bell Bob's Place. Fucked up explanation more fucked up, IT DOESN'T MATTER. I had the address right. If people got to the concert hall and couldn't figure out what floor their concert was on (GO TOWARDS THE NOISE), then they're too stupid to exist outside the home.

At some point I was talking about Skeletor. So Skeletor now has a full-time job until she leaves for grad school in mid-July. Hopefully I will no longer be working for Vox then -- I'll stay on as a writer but they can eat me if they think I'm staying on as calendar editor any longer than I have to -- but if I'm still there, I'll be the one smiling all through her goodbye party. Partially because there might be cake.

Skeletor has completely made herself at home. She's brought in fanciful magazine holders and a corkboard and god knows what else. Every day she drinks her coffee from an orange travel mug that she rinses out with about three gallons of water. In the mid-morning, she gets her cup of ice.

Groan.

I'd been listening to her crunch ice for a couple weeks. Every day for, I don't know, an hour? It was hard to see the clock with all the blood shooting out of my eyes. So the other day, with witnesses, I hear her start crunching and I decided to say something. It was along the lines of just fucking quit it with a very clear "It's kind of irritating." Ginger, who sits next to Skeletor, was dead quiet. I wonder if she was silently cheering me on or swimming in her mucky schadenfreude when Skeletor...

...looked at me with this HUGE deer-in-headlights look. And explained that she had to drink these protein shakes every day and blah blah blah something about their consistency... so I have to...

Chew ice? Really? Because I love doing it (acknowledging its link to anemia and sexual frustration (wives' tale?)), but I also save it for when I'm alone because I know it sounds like rocks and death.

So she finished chewing her ice. But the next day and for the past two days, she has gone to another room in the office, firmly shut the door, and enjoyed munching on her boulders in private (dirty!). It was a nice gesture but I can also hear her thinking Bitch when she gathers her stuff and disappears down the hall.

I guess she's drinking the shake as a way to gain back some weight, but maybe not. Maybe it's to balance out her veganism. She eats chickpeas a lot. A huge Tupperware full of them every day. IDK. I'm worried at the same time that I'm mildly irritated and totally pissed off. It was that wide-eyed look, as though she'd been caught doing something, in which I only saw sick and scared.

But I could be projecting.

---------------------------

Lightly edited by the light of day.

Alphabetically speaking: begin

2011-04-05T23:00:00.003-04:00

Apples are expensive.

BDSM: Now exploring.

Carmen Sandiego: lost?

Dingo ate baby.

Elephants can't jump.

Fahrvergnügen beep beep!

GO TO BED.

Hawaii. Mack moved.

Indigo = best color.

Jewelry is shiny.

King V: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Lesbian dinosaur joke.

My sanity: wavering.

Nutella: yum yum.

Orgasms: big fan.

Pink: so hot.

Queen S: GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Rocketeer. MOAR PLZ.

Stamps: self-adhesive.

Twitter: Love it.

Umbrella dance, Revelations.

Vox: Getting pissed.

Wax on. Off.

X-Box: none.

Yes, we can!

Zihuatanejo. Andy. Red.

Social media addict says what?

2011-04-05T02:36:00.003-04:00

Or This Is How I Unintentionally End Up Going to Bed at 5:00 a.m. or Squirrel Frenzy in My Brain

10:35 p.m.
Express a heartfelt desire to go to bed. Continue playing online.

11:24 p.m.

A fleeting thought, like a tickle of the mind. Bed?, as though it's the title of an existentialist play where an insomniac waxes philosophical about duvets while a woman beats him with a pillow.

11:59 p.m.

Big yawn. Glances at clock but doesn't think bed. Thinks Facebooktwitteryoutubetumblrgasm.

12:08 a.m.

Oh hey, I need to write that cover letter for that one job.

12:09 a.m.

Crap.

12:48 a.m.

*sobbing*

1:26 a.m.

Cover letter and resume sent!

1:26:04 a.m.

omgithinkihadatypo

1:26:05-1:26:59 a.m. (couldn't get email to open, of course)

*thinking* Nononononononononono!

1:27 a.m.

Whew.

1:29 a.m.

Pats self on back for writing dandy cover letter that includes some personality (believe it or not, this is a new venture and a bit of a risk -- there's creative and then there's flip -- but it feels like an okay leap. Spelled my name right. They should hire me.

1:29:07 a.m.

I hope they don’t write me tomorrow and say they’ve already stopped accepting applications.

1:29:30 a.m.

Hmm.

1:29:35 a.m.

Facebooktwitteryoutubetumblrgasm.

1:58 a.m.

Ooh, I should blog about not sleeping. That would be, as Buckethead says (and I hate), HIGH-larious!

1:59 a.m.

Did I just see a leprechaun?

2:04 a.m.

Realizes I've been staring off into space.

2:06 a.m.

Type type type zip What was that? Oh yeah. I'm definitely hallucinating. Type type type my mind is playing tricks on me lalallaalalalla.

2:36 a.m.

-publish- Finally! I can go to bed.

2:36:02 a.m.

Facebooktwitteryoutubetumblrgasm.

Yowza

2011-04-04T22:24:00.003-04:00

So, k.d. lang is awesome. Just saw the video for I Confess -- holy mother. I made my evening a little more delicious by looking up Constant Craving. (*cough* Irony!) If I get a chance to see lang in concert, I might just die. But I'll die happy. (Sorry for the links. I couldn't embed the videos. Sad face.)

Knee deep in the hoopla

2011-03-31T01:54:00.005-04:00

How about a serving of random Maxine facts? Mmmm, delishtimus!

* I like to put my hands on either side of my head and slowly slide my skin back and forth. I like feeling my skull beneath the softness. It probably sounds really weird (it was certainly weird to type with any semblance of clarity) and you're probably thinking I'm insane or a lizard or both, but it's only about an inch of movement and it’s meditative and relaxing, especially when I have a headache. You can also do it when you feel fine just to change your expression without trying. Related: I have a big head. Also related: I might need a hobby. Related thrice: I know you're trying it. It's okay. I won't tell.

I will say, however, that I hope you, dear reader, aren't new to this blog. That opening sentence is likely to generate many WTF?! faces as people hit their bookmarks on their way out the do', but hear me out: Stay. Welcome to the sepia side. We'll be serving cookies soon.

* I assign sound effects to a lot of things. You can generally tell when I’m in a really good mood because I make sound effects while I drive. The most recent effect I’ve come up with is “Poof poof!” to describe my down comforter, which is easily the best gift I’ve ever received. Okay, my parents paying for me to fuck around and eventually get booted out of college when I was 18 was nice too. FINE.

* I miss vintage Nelly Furtado (I’m like a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiird, I’ll only fly away…). I bought “Say It Right” and like it but “Promiscuous” makes me wince.

* I’m germinating a seed of an idea about starting a big women’s dance troupe – or, more likely, working with dancers who can help me start it and not immediately run it into the ground. I know similar troupes exist in other cities, like San Francisco and Boston, and it sounds fabulous.

This is probably a good time to mention the fact that I snap and make duck lips when I dance. I’ve gotten better about controlling the latter but I can’t stop the snapping. I’ve tried. I’m sorry. Related: I would like to learn how to shake it like J Lo, Rihanna, and Christina Aguilera. Very wiggly. Me likey.

* I recently discovered the awesome that is Grooveshark. Tonight I’ve listened to faves like J Lo’s On the Floor (loooooove) and now I’m on to vintage tunes like Madonna’s Open Your Heart and Queen Latifah’s U.N.I.T.Y. ("Who you callin' a bitch?!") Yesssss.

* I love this. Discovered it during my recent foray into the awesome that is YouTube: How to trick people into thinking you're good looking.

* “A bejeweled kitten heel clatters to a cold, cold floor” is one of the most fun things I’ve written recently, despite the sucky circumstance that prompted it.

* My left leg twitches like a mother when I'm tired. Like 'smacked in the knee with the tiny doctor's hammer' jerky. As it's almost 3:00 a.m. and I should've gone to bed ooooh three hours ago... well, let's just say I could've kicked a lot of low-to-the-ground ass. If you need any toddlers roughed up, I'm apparently your girl.

* I'm going to get back to making drawings for my blog again. A couple years ago, I had posted a bunch of pictures and then got it in my head that I should be a "serious" blogger (...because?) and I deleted all of them. Then, during a fit of computer-game-related anger (I was winning a difficult level and my laptop froze and I lost and I.got.mad.), I smacked my computer and killed it. Scratched something too expensive to attempt repairing (I could've spend around $500 to possibly retrieve data) and unintentionally deleted writing I hadn't printed out, poem ideas, letters, ALL the drawings I'd done, and god knows what else. So! Many of my drawings are gone and I want to rebuild. And saying that made Starship's We Built This City go through my head. I remember when that was easily my favorite song. I'm excused because I was 35 11. Starship's song reminds me of Martin Page, one of the co-writers of WBTC. Remember this?

I loved that song! Still think it's pretty great, actually. The baby at the end of the video is now old enough to vote. Why is it that the mid-90s don't seem that long ago? I know I'm occasionally delusional and... I just answered my own question. Next!

From my Twitter feed…

* Weeds' theme song makes me stabby. #LetMeTellYouWhatUCanDoWithYourDamnTickyTacky

* My cat and I just danced to Missy Elliott's Gossip Folks. (I led.) #probablytimeforagirlfriend

* I need a personal chef. Who is dating a housekeeper. Who is related to a mechanic. Who is besties w/ a chocolatier. Who digs me. And... go.

* Twitter math: Follow more people (who are actually interesting). Read their tweets. See interest in Twitter increase exponentially. DERRR.

* My OCD likes that the number of my followers + the number of people I'm following equals an even number. (Say number again!)

* Well, that's 87 minutes of my life that I'll never get back. #NotAllIndependentFilmsAreGood

* Catching up on #Glee. Why is Rachel dressed like Laura Ingalls?

* Early to bed, early to rise. I don't NEED to be awake before sunrise on a Saturday annnnnd yet here I am. What am I, a farmer?

* I have a special knack for getting in line behind crazymaking people at Subway. "More mayo... no, more... no, less than that..." DIIIIIIEEE.

* Was following a truck with both flammable and non-flammable gas signs. Yeaah, we're going to need you to go ahead and make a decision there. [I feel like I've posted this one before. If I have, just pretend this post is a rerun but you're too lazy to look for the remote so you just keep watching TV.]

* Bundled together: Wallet, headphones, pass for Matt Damon movie. Either I'm well prepared or I will very neatly leave all three things at home.

* Have tragic, unabated desire to watch Boys on the Side. Break out the Motrin, chocolate, and hysterical sobbing. Yaaay, womanhood. *cough*

* Bonus tweet from the desk of Wish I’d Written It: #ThatsWhyYourMyEx You don't know the difference between "your" and "you're."

Did I ever tell you the story behind my blog title? I don't believe I have. Years ago, I grabbed dinner from one of those rotisserie-chicken-with-the-fixins' restaurants. I had ordered mashed potatoes and as I began to drive away with my bag of poultry-related goodness, the employee leaned out the window, handed me a plastic ramekin of brown sludge, and said, "Here's your gravy." (Hand to God.) Regarding sludge: Not a fan of gravy anymore. Used to like it and loved how the cafeteria ladies at school would smoosh a ladle into spuds to make a gravy divot but I lost my affection for it some time ago. Just as well. This blog is all the gravy I need. (violins<3harps<3unicorns<3bliss)

Grace Potter, come to my house. And bring your friends.

2011-03-29T20:59:00.000-04:00

Dear sweet lord, how I love the wiggly women in this video. Kick-ass song too, which helps.

Just thought it would be nice to post an entry where I didn't bitch about anything. Also, HOTNESS!

It's only half past the point of no return

2011-03-28T20:47:00.004-04:00

Even though I think Pink is fierce and sexy and amazing and so wonderfully outspoken, I missed this performance when it originally aired on the Grammys because there are a lot of things I'd rather do than sit through awards shows, nekkid-lookin' awesome women aside. As you might guess, those activities generally involve scantily-clad sapphites and whipped cream. Really, though, I can think of few times in my life when those two things WOULDN'T come in handy. It would certainly make work more interesting.

Anyway, I've been enjoying the hell out of a 30-Day Song Challenge (post your favorite song, least favorite, etc.) that's making its way across Facebook and have thus been on YouTube a lot the past 10 or so days. I came across this performance and can't stop watching it. It's just so beautiful and I love how moved India Arie is at the end:

It's also a fun song to sing. I can only hope I sound as good as I feel when I sing that coffee/sugar line, which is just gorgeous. Anyway, I'm done stroking Pink. (See what I did there?)

Vox

Ugh. Last week I offered to help write a news story about weed -- no lie -- and was turned down. I think I've been pigeonholed as an arts writer. I'd certainly rather write about the arts than most news stories, but considering Ginger was asking for help, I wasn't really expecting to be turned down. Maybe it's because I haven't yet smoked out with Buckethead. Who has offered. Twice. Probably not. But maybe. Hmm.

I should really stop trying to figure Vox out. I've been blogging for them for about a year and will celebrate my one-year anniversary as their ~~data entry whore~~ calendar editor in June. I'm torn between thinking it's a pretty awesome place full of awesome people and feeling like Ginger and Buckethead are just telling me what I want to hear (We want to make you full-time! Someday! Honest!) just so they can continue to screw me.

I'm reaching a fever pitch with my frustration. Too many things lately have gone not exactly as I'd planned -- no full-time, no grant, no real idea if I'm driving on the interstate that loopsloopsloops around the city or if I'm actually on a road that's going somewhere -- and I find myself locking up, retreating, silencing myself. Brooding, thinking, probably pouting. Not dealing. I need to deal but I'm exhausted. I'm sick of thinking about money, about how to get through this day, that week, whether this company will accept a payment arrangement, what might get cut off next. I know -- I. KNOW. -- that this is temporary, that all the stupid shit that's occupying my brain, like how much I want to toss Skeletor down the stairs, will pass and that some day in the future, probably when I'm dictating my memoirs while having my diamond shoes polished, I will look back on this time, chuckle with just a soupçon of mirth, and... I don't know. Fire the gardener just for fun.

Dear Netflix

2011-03-27T11:43:00.003-04:00

After an estimated 108 unwatched days in my apartment, I have sealed and placed in my car one DVD of Slumdog Millionaire. Though it affected me so deeply that I saw it twice in the theatre, cheered through the Oscars every time it won, and tattooed on my person a line from the movie, I have not seen fit to rewatch it. I look forward to receiving The Joy Luck Club so that I may continue my training to become a hoarder.

Best!

Maxine

Spilling out of my head

2011-03-24T00:20:00.007-04:00

This is one of the most bizarre things I've ever seen. I've always loved this song. I feel... I feel... I still really like it but now I don't sit with my back to it.

So, here are some questions:

1. Why, LeVar?
2. Was that a codpiece?
3. Did you have to special order those shoulder pads?
4. Right when I thought it couldn't get worse, it did! How did you accomplish that?
5. How come the cops *I've* interacted with never ripped off their shirts and twirled away?
6. Will I need to discuss this with my therapist?

Sadly, I feel these inquiries shall go unanswered, primarily because the song is 25 years old (omgamsoold) and I am so late to the party that what's left of the onion dip has congealed against the side of the bowl and anyway it's warm and no one wants it but it sure went fast right when it came out of the fridge because Phil always makes the best dip. He told me once that it's because he always doubles the length of time something should marinate. I think that's a great idea but for the rest of the night I looked at that bowl and everyone crowding around it and thought, "But it's two days old -- gross." Of course I was conveniently forgetting that pizza I ate last Saturday morning after accidentally leaving it out Friday night and... um. Hey, I should probably get back to blogging. Ahem.

I sadly had to admit that I liked some of Ke$ha's music. I'd honestly written her off whenever she became popular because she seemed icky. Something something brushing teeth with Jack Daniels grody. Then I heard one of her songs on Glee (shut it) and really liked it and turns out I really like the original as well and I heard somewhere that Ke-dollar sign-ha can actually sing really well. Like someone heard her sing acoustically or something. Anyway, I'll just add this to my list of signs that the world is ending. Another sign: I no longer hate fresh spinach. When I was a kid, I feared and loathed spinach salads. I steadfastly refused to believe that iceberg lettuce had no nutritional value. It was salad! It's, like, automatically healthy. Iceberg schmiceberg, pass the Ranch! So glad some things change with age. Although I still like Ranch. Sorry, locally produced organic free range raspberry vinaigrette with orange zest* salad dressing purists.

* I totally made that up. I wonder if it would be any good. Maybe I'll ask Mack Daddy Smooth what he thinks.

I've been listening to a lot of Rihanna lately. Have you seen the video for S/M? Dear sweet lord. If I need to tell you the video is NSFW, you might need to go back to school.

Vox started their 21st year today. I went to an after-work party at a local brewery and had some decent beer. Chatted with coworkers and found out one of the editors is only 27. Someone had told me ... or I misunderstood ... that he was 32. I guess it made me feel better given the bountiful crop of maybe-19-year-old interns and various staff who are mature but still only 24. It's just freaky to work at a place where you could have babysat your coworkers.

A case of the Mondays

2011-03-22T01:04:00.003-04:00

(Pretend, since I haven't gone to bed yet, that it's still Monday and that this post title is still relevant. DO IT!!)

I didn't get that grant I applied for back in December. Three months of waiting for yay, more rejection! And a SUPER YAY that it happened the same day I found out that I couldn't get my tragically-disconnected-because-I'm-that-fucking-broke phone turned back on by making a partial payment at AT&T. It's been off for two weeks (iPaperweight!), a fact that hasn't bothered me for the most part, but all weekend long I thought of Monday as Happy Phone Day and when that fell through unexpectedly -- sort of like losing a grant I kind of thought I was a shoo-in for -- well, I was upset. Like Ugly Cry upset. It was unpleasant. And of course dramamartyrsobthiscrossisrealllyheavyyouguuuuys! this happens a week after finding out Vox can't bring me on full-time.

*dramatic sigh*

*flings self across nearby crushed-velvet chaise*

*moans piteously*

*a bejeweled kitten heel clatters to a cold, cold floor*

Clearly, I believe, I've had several hours to get used to this news and I'm going to be okay. Above all, not getting a grant doesn't mean much. (You know what I mean.) I apply for one of the million other grants that are available or I accept that it wasn't meant to be, or, my favorite, I remember what a friend posted on my Facebook: There must be a bigger door or window open... keep looking.

King V said he applied two or three times before he was given the same grant, which did make me feel better. I also like knowing that a Subway sandwich, when hurled to the ground in a post-rejection-letter fury, is still edible.

Further proof that I am King V's daughter

2011-03-20T22:51:00.004-04:00

So I just had a fucking amazing weekend. It was a totally unexpected cosmic do-over for Meh Friday and everything just went really well. In a skipping while wearing a gingham dress and pausing to pick yellow daisies kind of way. That last sentence should have a lot of hyphens but I'm tired, so fuck it. Okay, so this is what happened (DUN DUN DUUUUNNN!!)

Friday

Detangled hair. This is important. I have awesome hair. When it's all combed out, it's ringlet-y and pretty and fun to play with and soft and I just feel really pretty. So yay.
I found my makeup. I was so excited that I posted a note on Evelyn's Facebook page. She understood. Or at least she smiled and nodded while secretly adding a printout of my post to her Stack of Evidence That Will Eventually Get Me Committed.
I worked a couple hours at Vox, which I am liking more and more as time goes on, even though they can't bring me on full time. The only drawback to the afternoon was forgetting my headphones and having to listen to Skeletor finish her salad. She's a vegan and eats a huge Tupperware of crunchy, crunchy veggies everyday. It takes her forever because she apparently picks at it. I'm not kidding -- one time it took her 90 minutes to get through the thing. How do I know? She sits behind me, our cubicle wall isn't thick, and every time my iPod paused between songs, I COULD HEAR HER CHEWING. If you'll pardon the dip into third person, Maxine hates the sound of people eating. To the point of muting a TV program or movie featuring dialogue during a restaurant scene. Also known as "silently glaring at people and hoping their heads explode while simultaneously wanting desperately to hurl." So the last 15 or minutes or so of Salad Time (I didn't report to work until the afternoon), my world sounded a lot like SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE CHEW TWITCH CHEW CHEW HEADACHE SCRAPE SCRAPE TWITCH SCRAPE ANEURYSM. Then I discovered that the Earl of Pandemonium had left behind a pair of headphones. Oh YES he did! He also... well, kids, he's packed up and gone. He's officially moved on to New York. I worked from home on Thursday and apparently missed him removing every bit of personality from his desk. All that was left, besides the headphones I now own (muhaha), was a cardboard box. It was weird. He was so loud and arrogant and covered in hipster and now he's gone. I'll miss him, oddly enough, but I wish he'd taken Skeletor with him.
I worked for King V for a couple hours on Friday afternoon. I actually put in about ten hours working for him last week, which is more than I've worked for him during some months, so next Friday's paycheck will be nice. I get to spend time with my folks pretty much every day, which has been the biggest benefit to getting laid off and seeing my whole life change. I hung out with them for a bit before heading home to primp where I...
...PUT ON MAKEUP. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. It just feels weird to put on my goin' out clothes and still have a naked face. One of these things... is not like the other. I put on one of my favorite shirts, a purple tank with cleavage sparklies, cinched the bra a notch tighter (well hello, boobies meeting in the middle!), threw on a jeans jacket and black everything else, and sashayed to Evelyn's and then a burlesque show. After balking at a $10 parking fee (popular area of town), we lucked out and found a free parking space about half a block from the bar. (Hat tip to Evelyn's keen eye!) The show was pretty hot but c'mon -- 90 miunutes of women slowly taking off their clothes? And telling jokes between acts? AUTOMATIC WIN. I get to write about burlesque for a Vox feature. Best kind of research ever.

Saturday

After an early rise (7:00 a.m.) and a fitful wake/sleep/doze/procrastinating morning, I finally got my caboose up at 11:00 a.m. I had planned to sloth through the morning before heading out to a lecture in the afternoon, but King V found out about a minority job fair and as I might be one payment (which I get tomorrow) from being done completely with unemployment -- the state has been supporting me for more than two years, so I won't be surprised if we're all done now kthanxbai -- I need to find some supplemental income. (I've always needed to find the extra work. It's just more important now. I led myself to believe that Vox was going to be able to bring me on full-time finally and... well, anyway.) So I fixed up my resume, hit print for 25 copies and went to get ready. When I came back, I found one partially-printed page and 24 blank pieces of paper askew in the printer. Sigh. I hustled to the folks', chatted, printed, and dashed. The job fair was for area high schools and was actually for teaching positions. Surprisingly, most people I talked to were very receptive to my English degree, communications and editorial experience, and tutoring background. Everyone got a copy of my resume and I got a couple good leads on possibly becoming a substitute teacher. Who knows? I really enjoyed tutoring when I was an undergrad and spent about a month at the end of 2010 tutoring elementary age kids in reading. The fact that King V/Queen S were English teachers for years and years is apparently in my blood a little.
I went back to my folks' to talk about the fair. I had about half an hour to kill before heading to a museum to see a documentary about a biracial woman who was raised by her Navajo grandmother. The film and the talk that followed are part of a huge exhibit and the auditorium was packed. I arrived late and spent the next 90 minutes balancing on a tiiiiiiiny ledge that was In No Way A Proper Seat, pretending I wasn't uncomfortable as hell. (My butt isn't speaking to me today.) The film and Q&A were great; I like hearing other biracial people talk about their lives. Makes me feel less alone in my memories of racist shit that people have said to me. One lady during the Q&A absolutely killed me. In typical ignorant fashion, she asked the woman, irritated, why she tied back all her beautiful hair. It is indeed beautiful -- she's black and Navajo and my GOD. She's so pretty with this long, black, wavy hair. Turns out the cloth, whose name is pronounced something like "see-Ed," represents thunder and Navajo women's long hair represents the rain. It sounds so much better than "It's my hair and I don't want it in my face, so shut the hell up," doesn't it?
I went home for about an hour and changed clothes before heading back out. The star of the documentary performed in concert, so I got to go to the museum twice in one day. After the concert, I got a pass to get out of the garage for free (especially nice as I'm more than a little strapped lately) and I headed off to meet Vox people for a drink. (Noticing a pattern?) Though I had to drive around for about 15 minutes, I finally found a parking spot right across from the bar, which wasn't as frat party as it had been described. The Vox party was some VIP deal that one of my coworkers won, so we got a free bottle of Grey Goose and an unlimited supply of juice. It was a Cosmo kind of night! I lasted until 11:20 p.m. before crapping out and going home. It was a long, great day, but damn if I wasn't exhausted.

Today

Aside from a second morning of shitty sleep -- including, ugh, a dream about zombies AND people getting murdered around me -- the day started off well. I limped out to my car -- my legs have been killing me all day; apparently I'm not supposed to run all over the city in a pair of flats -- and begged my car, whose gas light has been on for a glowingly long time, to make it to the gas station. We made it and I rewarded one of us with doughnuts. Okay, that's a lie. I was going to buy them anyway. I also bought a $1 lottery ticket that resulted in a $1 prize, so I win gambling!
I bought lunch while I was out and admired a woman's boots while standing in line at Subway. They were this sort of crushed velvet looking, coral-y/salmon/deep rose with little spike heels -- definitely one of those things that I would never wear but will admire on others. I was glad I waited to put a note on the car that was haphazardly parked next to mine as it belonged to Boot Girl. I was going to write, "Hope you fuck better than you park!" and think "I love your boots!" sounds so much better, don't you?
I spent the afternoon writing reviews, editor's picks, and blogs for Vox. God, I love my job.
I also fell for the romantic comedy trap and watched some Hillary Duff movie. Jesus, I know. I'll never get those minutes of my life back. As I first became aware of Duff as her teenybopper/Disney self, what, ten years ago (?), I was pretty uncomfortable seeing her wear tight dresses, drink alcohol, and sleep with the mens. You know... like... an adult. Ew.
I had a brilliant idea earlier to buy Wendy's chili and a Taco Bell taco salad and have a meeting of the minds. I am awesome, it was delicious, and YOU are welcome.
I finally watched Precious. Loved it. I'd read the book and was quite pleased the movie followed the novel so well. Mo'Nique was outstanding!

So. Pretty nice. Incredibly active. I loved it. It's after midnight and the fun gets started again in about eight hours. Time to crank down the iTunes and shuffle my so-sore-I-should've-gotten-nookie-all-night thighs to bed. Be good or be good at it, kids.

Just a ~smidge~ of rambling

2011-03-16T23:16:00.007-04:00

So, last time we were here, I was getting ready to go to an art show that featured work by a woman I might still be in love with. (I can never really decide if I am Officially Over Her.) I did notice that I felt no joltsparkhuzzah! when I saw her at the show. Then again, being in the same room with her ~~and her fucking girlfriend diediedie~~ was making me anxious, so I didn't stay long. So many things went wrong with that evening, things that individually wouldn't suck, but piled together resulted in A Night of Suckassity. Let's review, shall we?

I couldn't find my makeup. I barely wear any and what little I wear I don't wear often, but I had been looking forward, literally all week, to sweeping some powder across my face and making myself look irresistible with my new purplish lipstick only to find out those two components had gotten separated from my makeup bag. I made do with putting lotion on while mimicking the motions of putting on powder (Jedi mind trick), pinched my cheeks, and put on a different lipstick, but it didn't help. I felt exposed and ugly. Not ugly because I didn't have makeup on -- I think it was just one of those days. Blaaaaaaaaaaaah.
The shirt that I had planned (again, all week) to wear fit differently than I remembered -- namely, it had a band that stretched RIGHT across my belly. I was already feeling Not So Hot. That beacon across my midsection almost made me faint. All night long, I tried to surreptitiously tug at the shirt, reminding myself that I was likely the only person even remotely concerned about my belly and all others could fuck the hell off (inhaaaaaale) but that didn't really work and all night I felt Ugly and Double Fat. Bllllllllaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
After hightailing it out of the art show, back to the car I feared was going to get towed (this totally counts as its own bullet point, BTW), I went to dinner with friends at my favorite Greek restaurant. Unfortunately, it was a Friday night, it was crowded, we were seated in a corner, I had my back to the room (haaaaaate), and I was at the end of the table, sticking into the aisle. We also had the waiter who likes to touch me. Nice guy and I'm 97% sure he's just being friendly, but he brings the menu and places a hand on my back. Here's your water... and my hand. Everything okay for you here? Good. Oh right, there's my hand again. All. Evening. Long. I don't want to say anything lest I find out he's violated some Bad Touch, Waiter! rule I don't know about and he gets fired. I can't relegate someone to part- or full-time unemployment. But I'm skeeved out and have made plans to sit across the table from him next time I go to the restaurant... which means I need to say something. Fuuuuuck.
I'd been planning to go to a Vox-sponsored event at my favorite gay bar with a friend but found out at dinner she wasn't going after all. Suuuuuuck.
I went to the bar but it was tragically early (8:30) and no one else from Vox was there. I knew that I could be there waiting for someone I recognized until midnight. I know you'll be shocked to find out I lasted about 20 minutes before I bolted.

See? Nothing tragically awful -- not hardly. No accidents, fights, crying jags, flat tires, or muggings. Just a series of mildly sucky events that toppled my fun good time evening like Pisa with a push when combined with everyone's favorite elixir, Anxiety Out of Motherfucking Control. Siiiiigh. /emo

Also from the last time we were here, I was finishing up Nip/Tuck. Finished it, liked it, moved on to Weeds. Zipped through the first five seasons so fast the show should be about coke and be called Blow. It was really easy to just.keep.watching.them because all the episodes are like 27 minutes long. Combine that with about four days of downtime after I was bested by a ridiculous cold that either found me slack-jawed and mouth breathing (yay, sinuses!) in front of Netflix or engaged in yet another coma-length nap. The only reason I haven't seen Season 6 yet is because I have to mail back the copy of Slumdog Millionaire that I've inexplicably been holding onto since December. In Netflix dollars, I've probably already purchased the film. Anyway, dragging that weighty little envelope alllll theeeeeee waaaaaaaaaaay to a post office will get the Weeds ball rolling once again. I'm probably also stalling because Season 7 has yet to finish, let alone hit DVD, so I'm prolonging the big (temporary) finish.

I talked to Ginger yesterday and was told Vox can't afford to bring me on full-time for at least six more months. I have to find out if I'm eligible for more unemployment funds; they're scheduled to end next week. After two years of support, I can't imagine they'll say yes, but I'll find out. I have a few writing assignments for Vox that pay a little and I reopened my Etsy shop (with a whopping five-item inventory!), so there are possibilities around. I'm also still doing a little work for King V. Ideally I'll pick up something reliable to fill in about 10 hours of spare time I have now but I don't know yet what that's going to be. Maybe I can get work as a lab rat. I like cheese and mazes.

Annnnnnnnnnnd from the land of Twitter:

Gua-ca-mo-le... *clap clap clapclapclap*
My mother has selected the woman she wants me to date. Unfortunately, said woman is already dating a friend of mine. Mom seems unconcerned.
Just found out there's an annual artichoke festival in CA. Highlights: Artichoke souvenirs & A PARADE. My post-visit blog is writing itself!
Reading a Mental Floss article abt Snooki led to Amazon recommending several Jersey Shore cast "books" I might enjoy. No & never DIEDIEDIE.
It's happened. I'm watching American Idol. The ppl who audition who CANNOT sing continue to floor me. I've been delusional b4, but... WOW.
I have 208 movies in my Netflix queue. I must be drunk.
The only thing that would've made that shower better would be personal bathers and a pulsating showerhead.
I bought a Frosty. Somewhere between my car & living room, I have lost said Frosty. Retraced steps, changed perspective, moved stuff. Nada. [I found it two weeks later under my armchair. It was caught on the edge of the chair, so every time I slid the chair out, Icecream McDisappears went with it. Something finally prompted me to lift the chair and that's when I finally saw it. Gross.]
I joined a 20-year reunion group on Facebook for my high school. Just the sight of some of my classmates' names is making my ass twitch. [Seriously, why do I keep going to these fucking reunions??]
Being wrapped in a down comforter is perhaps the best feeling ever. Such squishy wonderfulness! ::poof poof:: :D [It's like free therapy!]
I AM AT A WRITERS' GROUP STRAIGHT OUT OF HELL.
Fell back asleep and had a dream that I was oversleeping. Now that's just not fair.
In order to pay off $allie Mae, I would need to sell my soul, but it's nice to know I'm caught up on payments. Mmm, rice & beans. Protein-y.
[while at a wine-and-music festival last summer] I think the band just played a song about poached salmon. Or I heard wrong and need to drink more wine.
Dear iPod: You have 900 songs to choose from. Have I told you lately that I love that you play the same 25 songs OVER AND OVER AND OVER??
Doing laundry would be a lot easier if my basement didn't look like the place where Blair Witch's final scene was filmed. Run away! [I wish I was kidding.]
Working on an arts guide for Vox. Email: 'Enclosed pls find our season dates, ticket prices, & synapsizes [sic] of each play.' Hand to God.
Spent 10.5 hrs at studio working on 2nd spoken-word CD. Finished co-writing 1st track. It's SO good. :D I sang & LOVED it. I am STOKED. :D
Greatly looking forward to tomorrow morning's shower with my never-before-tried Dove CreamOil rosewood-and-cocoa-butter-scented body wash. [Fairly perfume-y, definitely musky and heady. Good for those days when I want to feel luscious and supple. Or lusciouser and suppler. ;)]
Every time I drop the remote, the channel switches to The Weather Channel. EVERY. TIME.

I really should change the name of this blog to Random Gravy

2011-03-04T15:21:00.003-05:00

I like being told which earholes my headphones go in.

I’ve been thinking a lot about getting my nipples re-pierced, which means I have reached a Charlie Sheen level of batshit crazy. I thought for years about getting it done and finally jumped in the deep end of the pool. It hurt A LOT (duuuuuh) but the results were nice. The biggest problems were (1) I'm not sure the piercings entirely healed during the year I had them and (2) I rarely sleep in clothes and waking up with a top sheet between oneself and a small metal bar is almost more painful than the piercing itself. Ergo, I must be out of my damn mind... but I keep thinking about it...

My iPhone, which I received as a gift just over two years ago, has decided that it's going to ring true (no pun intended) to its apparent 24-month shelf life. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I like to call "while my iPhone gently breaks." It doesn't break all at once or consistently. A couple weeks ago, it accessed my deleted contacts and added them to my phone list. I fixed that problem and then the phone started showing the wrong images with the songs on my iPod. For example, I was listening to Justin Bieber (shut up) but according to the picture, I was rocking out to Alannah Myles. All of the phone's errors are minor and oddly temporary/easily fixed, but still annoying. It's very #firstworldproblems. Let's move on, shall we?

I want to learn more about coffee, wine, and weed. Not all at once. That would be weird.

Some words I like: Quest, toque, curmudgeon, market.

My 2011 resolution was to take some acting/improv/voice/dance classes. Now that we're officially 1/3 of our way into the year, I might want to hop into action.

I've been watching Nip/Tuck on Netflix for more days than I can remember. I'm up to the sixth and final season and have another seven hours before I need to find another obsession.

I updated my bio and picture for the not-as-new year. I enjoy taking pictures of my boobs. I've accepted this about myself. Certainly not the naughtiest body part to have been photographed with an iPhone. (I'm looking at you, Phoenix. ;))

I saw Serena at the gay film fest I went to about a month ago. She ignored me and my friend Em, another person she'd up and quit speaking to, twice and I decided to do something about it. Half expecting her to lose her shit and cause a scene, I tapped her on the shoulder anyway. Somehow automatically, we shook hands hello and then awkwardly laughed and haltingly hugged. We chatted for a few minutes -- work, school, pets -- and then I went back to my seat. When I got home, I unblocked her on Facebook even though we can really never be friends again. I haven't talked to her since.

In a couple hours, I'm going to an art show that features work, oddly enough, by King V and a woman I used to be desperately in love with. (There are a few other photographers in the show as well.) I'm going to support King V, of course, but I'm also going so I can see my former-I-guess friend. We were in The Wheel together and lost touch after the group splintered. I had to stop contacting her, even occasionally, because loving her hurt too much. I'm a masochist, but I still have limits. Luckily, I am dressing in my sauciest, going out to dinner with friends after the show, and then meeting up with some Vox people at a club after that, so even if the show sucks and my heart breaks from seeing Her, I'll have an outlet for my frustration. That is, I'll be kneeling at the altar of Damn I Look Good with a side of Greek Food and Many Beers. Ma-ny.

Tweet, tweet, tweedaleedyleet...

2011-02-16T07:50:00.003-05:00

I was going through my Twitter posts recently and selected a few tweets that made me re-smile:

Just read: "Fortunily [sic] I have both book and street smarts." Oh sweetie... no.

Wondering if anyone, mid-coitus w/ Sheryl Crow, has said, "You must be a realtor bc I'm in escrow!" Yeah, probably not.

Put. Down. iPhone. (Shiny pretty iPhone....) And. Go. Back. To. Bed. (Comma.) Self.

I am completely tickled that I am officially a professional blogger. It's like being the mayor of candy.

I am going to become a full-time artist. I might have to live in my fucking car, but I'm going to do it.

I've been retweeted! I -thought- I felt something tickling me earlier.

"America's Best" eyeglasses ctr is full of suck & morons. One employee told me that uncoated lenses "have no coating on there." WOW. Really?!

Evil cow laughter: Moo-hahahahaha! :D

Oh good. Another meeting. My life is complete.

[To the tune of Ice, Ice Baby] Iced, iced coffee, ding ding ding ding di-di ding ding (with ice cubes!), iced, iced coffee, ding ding ding ding di-di ding ding...

Made bill payment arrangement. At the end of the call, the employee said, "Have I resolved all of your issues?" Oh sweetie... if only u had.

Passed a church this morning whose upcoming sermon is called "Summer Fruit." I want to go back and add "and Summer Straight."

A bunch of randomitic randomosity

2011-01-31T09:21:00.011-05:00

I use my oven as an additional heating source.

I've enjoyed the first two episodes of Kathy Bates' new show, "Harry's Law." One of my favorite lines was "Maybe there’s a better world out there… one without people.” It spoke to my occasional misanthropy. UPDATE: Done watching. In the third episode, a guy Shawshanked his way out of prison with an all-too-predictable speech, which was on top of other predictable and LENGTHY speeches that I actually liked during the first two episodes but wore thin by episode three because platitude platitude platitude SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY. -inhaaaaaaaaaale-

Someone I know from Michfest posted this on her Facebook page the other day: "If I bring forth what is inside me, what I bring forth will save me." It's apparently from a fortune cookie, but I really like it.

I'll find out in March if I got that grant I applied for back in December. I knew this originally, but thought the notification period was the first week of March. Turns out it's the THIRD week. Woe! I am slain!

As soon as I read about Sam Kean's book, The Disappearing Spoon and Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World From the Periodic Table of the Elements, I felt there were more than a few geeks in my life who might like it as a gift.

One of the most beautiful poems I've ever read is "Woman" by Audre Lorde:

I dream of a place between your breasts
to build my house like a haven
where I plant crops
in your body
an endless harvest
where the commonest rock
is moonstone and ebony opal
giving milk to all of my hungers
and your night comes down upon me
like a nurturing rain.

Ever since I turned 37, the number has been popping up everywhere. I'm not sure yet if these are just freaky coincidences or if they all mean something to The Big Cosmic Cheeseburger in the Sky. I looked up numerology info but didn’t get many answers.

I frequently look at the clock when it is __:37. Day or night, doesn't matter.
I got back 37 cents on a purchase a couplefew days in a row.
A friend's Facebook status update had 37 comments.
A character in a movie announced she had 37 emails.
One of my favorite blogs is 37 Days.
I was zoning out while driving (Safety first!) and when I zzzzed back to myself, I was just passing 37th Street.
I sent a tweet to TBS about how often they bump Friends from their afternoon schedule, after which I had 37 characters left. On my hard days at Vox, I rely on Friends to cheer me up and when it's not on... well. ::REEREEREEstabstabstab:: I fully admit I have a problem. Saying that will hopefully prevent me from being committed to a nice, quiet facility with a name like Whispering Meadows, although a vacation WOULD be nice...
I noticed 37 written on several boxes at the food bank where I volunteered.
Though it thankfully doesn't apply to me, there's always this. Dialogue is NSFW. Unless you're self-employed or work in a brothel. It counts because Kevin Smith is one of my favorite directors and Clerks is A-W-E-S-O-M-E. "I'm not even supposed to BE here!"

I don’t know what Tumblr is and I don’t care enough to find out.

I want there to be a milk chocolate hall of fame.

When I was a kid, my parents would set the timer and we would engage in 10-minute clean-ups. I hated every second of it. Ten ENTIRE minutes! One night, when I surprisingly didn't get smacked for being such a smart ass (even though my parents only spanked), King V said we'd do a 10MCU when we were finished with dessert. I said something like "Well then I'm going to eat my cookie extra slowly." (Naughty!) It didn't go over too well. I just wanted to admit that my parents were right. I now engage in 10- or 15-minute clean-up sessions and it really helps ~~keep the Board of Health at bay~~. Now if I could just string a bunch of those minutes together and get everything clean at ONCE. It would help there be fewer "Clean ALL the things?" days.

I will warn you now: Don't grab a pink deodorant at the store and just assume it's some baby powdery scent. You too could end up with Coconut Lime Lady’s Choice gummed to your pits.

This video makes me want to be a backup singer:

Homo on the move

2011-01-27T15:25:00.002-05:00

I'm off to spend my weekend with lesbians. We're going to watch gay films, drink wine, eat good food, talk, laugh, and flirt. It's going to be AWESOME! :D See you Monday or thereabouts!

Douche no mo

2011-01-26T03:07:00.000-05:00

It is with great pleasure that I announce the undoucheing of a fellow human being. I am seriously happy about this.

This Earl of Pandemonium has proven he is A Nice Guy. I had to stop hating him shortly before Christmas and not even because I found out he was my Secret Santa. (Okay, I made that up.) Yesterday marked The Third Nice Thing He's Done and as such, he is being undouched. I have dedouched, however, that he will remain on probation for 90 days as his altruism could be related to our close proximity to the holidays and/or the amount of alcohol he has consumed in the past 24 hours.

Example the First

One afternoon at Vox, I was personing the phones. During my hour-long shifts at the front desk, the phone usually rings not at all. Maybe once. And my arrival means that everyone else can leave, so I get an hour of complete peace and quiet. After some of my noisier days at Vox, leaving the second floor for the first has been incredibly welcome. One of those days, the Earl came downstairs to check his mail and was surprised to see me still in the building. I explained the extra-three-hours-a-week, part-time-receptionist gig and then, morbidly curious about his apparently-four-month-long resignation process, I asked him about his impending move to New York City. Girrrrrl. He lit UP. He’s lived there before and loves it, so much so that he practically started vibrating as he was talking about neighborhoods and people and what it's like to go to the grocery store (survey says: exhilarating but also kind of a pain in the ass). I joked that I had been to NYC once – if being on a layover at La Guardia counts – and he said that I ever wanted to visit for real that I had a place to crash. I was really touched, even though chances are slim that I would stay with a future former coworker whom I spent months wanting to bludgeon to death with a stapler. I also have a number of contacts from Michfest in the NY area and the grrls win out. Staying with a festie versus a boy greatly increases my chances of seeing boobs. Multiple boobs. (Like a parade!) Anyway, the Earl made a really nice gesture. King V was suitably impressed and has told me twice now about what a generous offer it is because NY is so expensive. Der?

Example the Second

One morning, the Earl went out for coffee and he brought me back a cuppa even though I didn't have any money. I actually still need to pay him back.

Example the Third

During a recent editorial meeting, Buckethead wanted us to brainstorm about future Vox cover ideas. We were doing some story about local politics and planning to print a top 10 list of issues that legislators should pay attention to. Buckethead suggested a photo of the statehouse (YAWN) or a cartoon (MEH). For some reason, he's big on illustrated covers. I tossed out a supermarket/'ten items or fewer' kind of picture. I could see the conveyor belt running, a gallon jug of milk having left a wet streak on the rubbery surface, a scrap of lettuce riding around again and again and again. I could even hear the cash register BOOP as each item (issue) was scanned. The music editor seconded my notion and said he'd also thought of something like that. Buckethead barely nodded. Skeletor, the bony-ass intern I can't stand, started yammering about having the issues taped to ducks at one of those carnival shooting galleries and that became a discussion about gun-toting Republicans (the kind of sarcastic mocking we could freely engage in prior to the shootings in Arizona) and devolved into a discussion about where to play whack-a-mole. SRSLY. During all of this, Buckethead was lit up like a display of Earth-friendly swirly bulbs. A short while later, the meeting wrapped up. As Buckethead summarized the cover design ideas, he completely left out my grocery BOOP. The Earl said, "...and Maxine's idea." Buckethead, SWEAR TO GOD, looked around the table blankly and said, "I didn't mention it because I just couldn't visualize it." The Earl (for.the.win.) animatedly painted a visual of my idea which was frighteningly close to my vision of 10 items and booping. Buckethead just sort of grunted. We printed a cartoon on the cover.

So, Buckethead assholianness aside, the Earl has redeemed himself. He's still loud but I've gotten a lot more accustomed to it. He still talks with his mouth full, puts hot sauce on everything he eats (which results in jiggling, hooting, coughing, and/or sneezing), and springs out of his chair like there's a rocket in his ass, but he's A Nice Guy. It only took six months to get here.

One o' them oof marathon posts

2011-01-19T22:20:00.010-05:00

It needs to be said

Despite the fact that I can't stand Katy Perry or anything to do with her boobs and various accoutrements, that stupid California Gurls song gets stuck in my head at weird times and I freakin’ sing along. It’s damn catchy! Too bad the lyrics don’t always make sense. ::looks askance at Snoop Dogg:: I also like Teenage Dream, but the first time I heard the song, Blaine was singing to Kurt on Glee, so that’s my excuse. Related: I also can’t stand Russell Brand. I want to attack him with a comb. And maybe a hairnet.

Wearing the pantaloons of disgruntlement

A couple weeks ago, I met up with some Vox folks and volunteered at a local food bank for a few hours. It was actually forced volunteering. (So… work.) The effort was our annual gift to the big boss. I’ll be completely honest – despite the good cause-iness of it all, I was in no way looking forward to the task. I groused (to my folks) that I just wanted to buy the boss a sweater and call it good. Last year, Vox went to an animal shelter, had to be there at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and at least one person cleaned out animal cages. I’m thinking I lucked out with the food bank. Perhaps next year we can kneel in obeisance at the Home of Wayward Lesbians with Riding Crops. Just me? Well… if I must.

On the appointed morning of ~~forced labor~~ volunteering, I strapped on my frown and my grumpy boots and headed out. I was dressed in layers and prepared to work in a warehouse, based on information I’d been given by a friend who’d previously volunteered at the bank. I was mostly concerned that being out of shape was going to be a hindrance. I didn’t have to worry; I joined an assembly line of folks putting together food boxes for elderly people and time went quickly. Apparently the bank sends out 5,000 boxes a month. I had a few Lifetime movie/social worker moments thinking about hungry senior citizens but had to shoo those thoughts away. I was there! I was helping! No more hungry grandparents! EVER. In about 90 minutes, my group put together close to 300 boxes. I was in charge of canned green beans ::beam:: and only smashed my fingers with the surprisingly-injurious containers three times. OY.

The second half of our shift was spent sorting food. We separated dry goods from canned (Big bins of food. Big. Huge!) and I scored a little cube of wine that someone had donated. (I get the sentiment, but… really?) It’s good that most of my group was late and that we had a short orientation before we got started; our three-hour shift ended up being 2.5 hours and I. Was. BEAT. We all noticeably slowed down as time wore on. Except for the grabby church ladies who wouldn’t share the bins to be sorted with SOME people who were waiting for things to do. Hmmph!

All in all, it wasn’t a bad gig. Vox is a big social justice kind of place and we’re to do another day of service this year, but I think we get paid for that one. I’m going to pick somewhere super gay – I’m not lying – and see what sort of white collar trouble I can get myself into. I’m thinking gay youth nonprofit and some light clerical work. I’m not a warehouse dyke and I’m perfectly okay with that. Related: I'm making friends with a Vox employee who is pinging on my gaydar. She's got the swagger *swoon* and a healthy butchness to her and would ~~look great in nothing but cover-alls~~ make an excellent warehouse dyke. We'll see what, if anything, happens with that.

Vox

It took a while to meet with Buckethead and Ginger, but I finally got to talk to them about working on the calendar and blogging. The calendar is a full-time job and I’ve been clocking about 15 hours/week working on it. Needless to say, the stress of getting all the events entered has been building, especially after taking off some time at the holidays and with a new year starting, etc. Luckily, as of today, I’ve been given carte blanche to add hours as necessary. (I half-yelled, "40!" and tossed up my yahoo arms, but I was the only person laughing.) Buckethead was kind enough to offer a semi-condescending “I thought it was clear you could add as many hours as needed.” No, douche, your doubletalk speakyspoke wasn’t clear. You said I could add eight hours to my weekly tally and the next day, you dropped the number to four. “Or maybe five.” Pardon me for not entirely knowing WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON. Frustrations aside, it looks like I’ll turn in around 25 hours for this week. It’s still bupkes but every little bit counts.

Full-time work might come my way after the Earl of Pandemonium leaves. His last day is apparently in April, but he’s allegedly trying to leave sooner. I don’t know what to think. I sit in on editorial meetings but I’m underutilized as an editor. I help write up special events occasionally. I haven’t proofread a thing in weeks. Things were going so well just a few months ago with the extra writing and the editorial tasks and now I just feel like a data entry monkey. The calendar is allegedly our biggest website draw, so I feel kind of important, but when Buckethead starts lobbing questions at me in accusatory tones, often for calendar events I did not enter, I get pretty upset. (We get crops of interns every semester and they are allowed to enter events. Unfortunately, they often do it wrong, so I’m doing my job and also cleaning up mistakes. It's fun like Twister. Without the bright colors and inappropriate touching.) During the meeting, I specifically said I needed more control of the calendar. Eventually someone will actually hear me.

I took a month off from blogging. I don’t want to go back to it but I’m not in a position to throw away the money it pays, even though $50/week doesn’t buy crack and hookers the way it used to. My parents noticed I'd stopped. It started as a holiday break and just continued. Ginger knew I wasn't blogging and I didn't cash the paychecks I automatically received but it still feels weird. I resume my duties this weekend. I'm half-tempted to write, as King V did halfway through a lengthy college term paper, "are you actually reading this," but I only have to write 300-word entries. I think someone would notice.

Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

I feel my general sense of malaise will be cured by the arrival of spring, some new capri pants, the purchase of some saucy sandals, and niblets of milk chocolate. If that doesn’t cheer me up, perhaps a wayward lesbian with some extra time on her hands can make a house call. Oh look – I’m feeling better already!

It was worth it; I feel brilliant!

2011-01-13T22:06:00.003-05:00

Before tonight, I'd never heard of this series. I am now viewing just about every video possible on YouTube. My GOD, I love the Internet!

I've spent most of the past hour laughing hysterically, mostly at the Alan! Steve! segments, but the sharks and the Missy Elliott are also winning me over. A nice ending to a long few days.

I'm not sure...

2011-01-05T22:36:00.002-05:00

...how to spell the sound that came out of my mouth when I saw this picture, but it's something like "tchohhhh." Accompanied by copious amounts of slow, reverent head shaking.

Happy 2011! Now get out of my damn petunias.

2011-01-02T11:38:00.002-05:00

Made my resolution back in November. Hasn't changed. Not sure yet what to sign up for. I have 300-ish days to figure it out. Okay, 250. Gotta leave time ~~to procrastinate~~ to take said class.

Hey, guess who's been wearing makeup? I know! What I long figured would be a sign of the apocalypse has become a fun experiment in trying a little harder -- that is, not always leaving the house looking like ass. And now I get to buy stuff, like concealers and eye shadows in pretty palettes. And unguents. (Okay, not really, but MAN that's a fun word.) I'm wearing very little -- eyes and lips mostly -- but adding more stuff. I still refuse to clamp the ~~cousin of the speculum~~ eyelash curler onto my head but if I immediately embraced EVERYTHING my coiffed-and-dusted friend Evelyn has suggested, we'd run out of things to try by June.

I'm cranky and dancing around topics I need to process (so.gay.) but don't want to get into, like my frustration with the unemployment office (bennies got reinstated two weeks ago and cut off again once we crossed into 2011... nope, don't know why). I'm also irritated with the way things are going at Vox. Let's leave it at that. I don't feel like barfing up my journal online. For once.

In another news:

Mack Daddy Smooth was home for a little over a week and we had a great visit. There was only one day that I didn't see him. He just turned 35 and seems to be a pretty nice human being. The night before he left, we all went out to dinner. As I walked out to my parents' car, MDS pointed out some ice on the street and walked in front of me slowly, looking over his shoulder to make sure I was okay. It was a very nice moment.

Hung out with Sterling and Steele and a couple of their friends on New Year's Eve, playing board games and watching TV. I squeezed in my last viewing of Friends for the year and marveled along with the other late-30/early-40-somethings in the room about how much the Backblocknewstreetkids had aged as they tried to prepubescently sing and dance in the 40-degree air.

A fairly uninspired post, but I mentioned the mood. Moreover, I've a desire to step away from the computer. Spent a chunk of the day catching up on Vox calendar emails and will be doing the same the next two days. I'm going to listen to some music and keep cleaning my apartment. I've given myself no deadline to finish; the license to putter seems to be working well. And anyway, since housework never.damn.ends, now I can clean... until I... die.

Hmm.

Christmas Day

2010-12-25T21:35:00.007-05:00

Giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirl.

I cleaned UP.

From the top:

Celestial-themed wooden box.
"Time to Pretend" by MGMT, a band I know nothing about except that I've heard them on Pandora and like them.
Carole King, "Tapestry."
The Weepies, "Be My Thrill."
Look at this F*cking Hipster, a very funny picture book of hipsters in their natural environments.
Season One of "Modern Family," which I forgot I asked for, so it was a lovely surprise.
I Don't Care About Your Band: What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux-Sensitive Hipsters, and Other Guys I've Dated, a book I freely admit I added to my wish list because of the title.
The Other Side of Paradise, Stacyann Chin's memoir, which Queen S bought for me because SC is biracial, gay, a poet, and because QS knows memoirs are my favorite type of books. *sniff
Inner Excavation: Exploring Your Self Through Photography, Poetry and Mixed Media, which is proving to be VERY cool at just a glance.

Not pictured:

A GORGEOUS, blue, long-sleeved dress shirt from Land's End. Haven't tried it on yet, but hoping it fits. Had no idea LE sold plus sizes.
THE KNIFE my parents got me. I opened it up, saw a huge butcher knife, and immediately said, "I think this is Mack Daddy Smooth's." I was assured it was mine because I had made the mistake of mentioning out loud that I want to get more confident in my cooking abilities. I thanked them for the weapon and moved on.
Three bottles of Bath and Body Works' Cool Citrus Basil body cream. I love B&BW and I loooove body cream, but that's my mother's scent. She's worn it for years and fairly regularly buys the stuff on eBay because the scent has been discontinued. It was a weird and transparent moment in which Queen S didn't entirely deny the fact that she had bought herself a gift in my name. Oooooooooo... kay! p.s. I'm totally reselling it.
Her Highness is forgiven, however, of the above transgression (which is so very minor anyway and mostly laughable although a teensy bit twilightzoney) because I also got a laptop. A laptop I didn't ask for. Mack got one and *poof* so did I. Hells YEEUH!

I got up at 7:30 this morning because I had to potty. Once I was up, I just didn't go back to bed. I burned a couple CDs, watched some comedy, puttered a bit, and vowed to let my family sleep until 10:00 a.m. Luckily, MDS made an appearance at 9:52 and the folks followed soon after. We scratched our lottery tickets, which is a family Xmas Day tradition. For the first time in years, we all won a little something. I got $3, which I'll probably spend on another ticket. Perhaps free money will beget more free money.

MDS cooked up some eggs for breakfast and the next few hours slid by in cleaning up prior to the arrival of my aunts and uncles, getting ready, and watching MDS cook.

He's rubbing basil all over a piece of lamb. He served it with rice that had small chunks of sweet potato in it and a side of roasted veggies. Today was the first time in probably 30 years that I had red beets. I didn't like them when I was a kid but made myself try it. I didn't hate it. Some of the veggies were thickly coated in olive oil and it was a little much for me -- OO tastes pretty icky to me, something that became very noticeable during the past two years -- but all that was easily forgotten as I sipped multiple glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon.

The immediate fam and two aunts and two uncles retired to the living room after nomming on a combination of pound cake (Grandma S' recipe that Queen S has made for as long as I can remember), cookies, and banana pudding. I started passing out almost immediately and finally excused myself almost an hour later. I am now in my robe and slippers, comfy comfy, and watching Beyonce slowly take over the world via my television set. She's a fierce little minx, that one.

Tomorrow I petsit for Sterling and Steele and I'm thinking about going to see Black Swan again. I saw it Thursday and I'm SERIOUSLY obsessing about it. Like I'm wanting to bring it up in conversation and ask people what they thought and I'm marveling at the fact that Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis did their own dancing (aided at times for more difficult footwork) and I'm marveling most at their dedication, that Portman for one had to begin training a year before filming began. How that film must have been in her marrow by the time they actually began capturing the dark, fucked-up, erotic story. I hope that she gets an Oscar. It will be WELL deserved.

I guess that's it. If you celebrate Xmas, I hope you had a great day. I also wish you a happy post-Hanukkah, post-Yule, now-mostly-over-but-the-sentiment-is-still-real Saturday.

Mold and dolls and bitches, oh my!

2010-12-23T00:55:00.003-05:00

Christmas preparations (or maybe some post-menopausal set of quirks I don't know about yet) are making Queen S cranky.

Mack Daddy Smooth arrived home yesterday and I've had dinner with my fam the past two nights. (Lovely. :)) Tonight, QS was making homemade ravioli stuffed with feta, black olives, and thyme. NOOOOOOOOM! MDS offered to make a pesto cream sauce and took a jar of pesto out of the fridge. Or it was smooshed-up basil. I don't know; I don't cook. He popped the lid off and, as with other things that we occasionally find in my parents' fridge, there was mold on top. (Until just a couple years ago, I was convinced my mother was storing a jar of capers in her fridge that had been packed and moved with us from the desert some 26 years ago. Allegedly she wasn't but I'm still skeptical.)

Mold grosses me out in a bad way, especially after I found out it has tentacles or something and spreads its moldiness through food. But Queen S took the jar and started scraping away. MDS and I made faces at each other over her bent shoulder and a couple minutes later she handed back the now-half-full jar with a slight harumph, announcing this was the last of her basil from her summer garden and she wasn't about to toss it out. MDS made a pesto cream sauce that I can only describe as divine. If there were moldy, tentacly bits in it, I don't care because I can die happy. The point is that during her scrapefest -- and having been a mother for the past 37 years -- I think she sensed we were making dramatic gag faces and was a little pissed. She even said she was getting cranky. I didn't think it was that big of a deal. You're the one harboring soon-to-be penicillin in your fridge; I think we have a right to be a little squeamish.

Later in the evening, after our smashing dinner and a viewing of Lynne Koplitz's stand-up special, King V was adding more ornaments to the Xmas tree and pulled the angel we've used the past several years out of a box. It's a stuffed doll, squishy and cute, a little African-American angel with a gold halo that Queen S got as a Secret Santa gift or something when she was still working. One year, I added it to the top of the tree but, as it's a doll, I had to basically tie it to the top branch. It didn't look good. Eventually we fixed it so that the doll was less of a candidate for help from Amnesty International but ever since that Xmas, she's been the S/M angel. (I called her the Bondage Angel tonight, which I happen to like better.) King V and Queen S recently went to Mexico and brought back some crappy angel statue thing that is standard and frankly pretty trite and QS added it to the tree this year, leaving Bondage Angel in a box. I was sad; BA is a tradition. King V said as much after I noticed New Crappy Angel had slipped from her perch. "See? God* is telling us that Bondage Angel belongs on the tree."

* Let me point out here my sarcasm (shocker!). We're not a religious family and my parents are atheists after growing up in families that went to church a lot -- three times a week for King V, the thought of which makes my eyeballs hurt. I'm hardly a nun or a churchgoer but I still believe in a Mystical Magical Being Who Is Probably Lucky Enough To Own a Pony Unlike SOME People and have decided that s/he/whatever was slyly booting that lame-ass angel back to Guadalajara.

Queen S must've been feeling frosty from The Basil Incident or, again, maybe she's mad about occasional vaginal dryness, and started getting cranky. She said as much. I said I noticed and quickly left the room. (It was a lucky coincidence that I needed to tinkle.) I made a hasty exit for my apartment when I came back but wonder what is stuck in her craw. I suppose there's a wealth of crap on her mind from finishing up her Xmas gift preparations to the family we're hosting this weekend. Still, I don't like Frosty the Snowmom. Here are the rules: Mold is gross and dolls tied to Christmas trees are AWESUM. The End.

Right on schedule (or The biweekly update)

2010-12-10T21:16:00.006-05:00

Vox: Have assumed responsibility for entering bands-in-bars events into the calendar, as well as the other stuff I handle. Prior to Friday, the bar band tasks were handled by the receptionist, a woman full to the brim of evil. The kind of person that scowled at you just for walking by her desk. Apparently she threatened, yet again, to quit and the big boss called her bluff. Her last day was a couple weeks ago. I do not miss her. I am not alone in this sentiment. In her absence, I'm no longer afraid to go downstairs for a soda or my mail, which means I am now thoroughly caffeinated and in the loop. It's a brand-new, fizzy day.

At a Vox meeting the other day, a few crazy things happened:

1. Ginger, a generally intelligent woman, was saying that we need a copy editor, that people on Twitter were making fun of Vox for being poorly edited. She said, and I quote, "I don't know if that means we need to hire a copy editor or what," at which point my eyes fell out of my head. A few moments later, I piped up. Hi! Me? Hire? Me? The gal who's only working part-time and has repeatedly let you know I'm available for more work? The same person who already edits for you? Ginger glanced over with this sort of "Hey, when did you get here?!" look on her face and something clicked. Or at least one thing sort of rubbed up drunkenly against another. She considered my suggestion and a few minutes later was talking very formally, like "Then Maxine will sign off on the issue before it goes to the design folks and again when it's laid out" and all kinds of other I-carry-the-red-pen-of-great-importance sorts of phrases. Nothing is official (SHOCKER!) but at least I'm closing in on becoming... Full Time. ::cape flaps in wind:: Or, and this is only because I feel like I drop acid, turn my head backwards, and then talk to my bosses using a combination of pantomime and shadow puppet hand tricks, I'll still be squawking about being part-time a few weeks from now as poorly-edited issues of Vox continue to hit the streets.

2. While Ginger mulled over my idea (though I don't know why she even had to consider anything, aside from, perhaps, the budget that Vox apparently doesn't have), Buckethead looked at me very seriously and said, "This might change your schedule and increase your hours," as though I had suggested stepping in poop and then walking around the office. I said, no lie, "Darn!" The sarcasm was wasted. The Vox editors mention, often, that they like to smoke the pot. So do I, but I can still stitch together a rational thought. Um, usually.

3. The Earl of Pandemonium is resigning. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. He's moving out of state. Buckethead said we were all sad and we were going to miss him. (Lies!) I asked if I could have the Earl's desk. Everyone laughed and I quipped, "You think I'm kidding." They laughed harder. I'm totally taking his desk. HE doesn't sit in a cubby, even if it is all modern with lime-green, semi-see-through walls. I'll need to Lysol everything. Get rid of all the boy cooties and hot sauce remnants. There's a whole Lysol/he's a douche joke in here, but I'm too tired to go looking for it.

I'm tired primarily because I spent many, many hours this week (especially yesterday, holy hell) pulling together a grant proposal for an arts fellowship. The purpose of the grant is for artists to blow out the cobwebs and get really excited about their art again. It's how King V got the money for his play a few years ago. I proposed traveling around the country to various writing workshops that would normally be too expensive and/or far away to attend. I want to soak up the culture of places like Portland, OR, and commune with writers and see what develops in my work. (And my S*O*U*L ::heartsflowerspuppiesintrigue!::) When I get back, I'll publish a book of essays and poems that I create while I'm on the road. I'm envisioning rented cars and train rides and chatting with artists and reading at open mics and selling CDs and it's all VERY exciting. Today was the deadline. I'll find out in March if I got it. I know. March. I think I can hold my breath until then. The great news is that former Vox employees have been awarded the same fellowship and Vox worked around their schedules without too much hassle. I don't know yet where I'll be going or when -- at the earliest, if I was given the fellowship, I wouldn't leave for eight months, so I have a smidge of time to do some research. It's very exciting and I keep envisioning the reading I'll host when I get back (a public presentation being a requirement of the grant). In all my fantasies, my hair looks FANTASTIC.

Speaking of hair, I have a consultation scheduled tomorrow with my former stylist, the woman I faithfully went to in my early 20s for a biweekly wash-and-set. I also got my nails done regularly. They were sculptured (fake), long enough that I had to use my keys to open up cans of Diet Coke, and, at least once, painted hot pink. Twould be a vast understatement to say I'm no longer that girl. So vast it's like she's on one side of the Grand Canyon and I'm in the gift shop asking if anyone has seen Thelma and Louise.

I got a down comforter for my birthday. It is full of air and squish and awesome and I love it.

Mack Daddy Smooth will be home in just over a week. WOO!

I joined Netflix about a month ago and love it, so much so that I'm going to dump cable. I'll miss watching Frasier reruns in the morning before work but that's hardly a reason to keep paying $50+/month for a mechanism that mostly delivers shows I need not watch, like Intervention and Hoarders. And anyway, I can probably get them all online. ;) The cable rep didn't even try to get me to stay. Granted, I'm a cable customer until I hoof the cable box and remote back to the company, but that'll probably be Monday. (I'm highly motivated by words like "refund" and "pro-rated.")

As I've been putting off sleep since ~~Sunday~~ 8:00 p.m. and it's now two hours later, I am going to shuffle into the darkness and steal my new blanket away from George, who loves to lie both in my space AND squarely on top of the covers. As she doesn't pay rent or clean anything besides herself, maniacally so, she shall be moved from my sage-green pluff of wonderment so that I may nestle among the softitude of cottony goodness. Screw Vox. I'm going to go write catalog descriptions for The Company Store.

Two, two days in a row

2010-11-22T18:38:00.002-05:00

--I’ve been blogging almost five years and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Type words in pretty white box. Click 'publish' because it gives you a little shiver. Cringe later.

--I hate it when the film trivia on IMDB is boring. “Filmed in New York.” WHO GIVES A FUCK?! Tell me about the barely-sober actress and the director she slept with and how the two haven't spoken since 1977 even though the movie won an Academy Award and the movie revolutionized the industry something something interesting. Go with something quirky, even, like the supporting cast wearing green socks every day of filming. "Title A was his film debut"? YAWN.

--I don’t think I can make fun of King V any longer for being longwinded. I read some of my old entries – hell, some of my newest entries – and all I can see is WORDS SO MANY WORDS. Princess Verbose, atcher service. ::curtsy::

--I recently tried a cocktail called a Sidecar. I only remember it had Grand Marnier and made me think I am much funnier than I am.

--On a recent rerun of Law & Order: SVU, Olivia Benson is trying to trick a foot fetishist into confessing a crime. She wears a short black skirt, black hose, black heels, and did this whole sloooow leg crossing thing which did not work for the perp, but made me want to confess to many things.

--A few weeks ago, I saw Colin Firth in A Single Man. Absolutely stunning. Beautiful and tragic. Must read the book.

--Vox is possibly going to give me eight more hours a week. Still waiting for the official word. Closing in on 30 hours a week… :D

--King V and Queen S bought me another cat sculpture. It had been years – YEARS! – since the last feline monstrosity and I made the mistake of assuming I was safe. The second cat, which I cannot find, possibly because minions from the underworld have spirited it away to their dark master, isn’t as scary as cat #1 but it’s still cat art. ::shudder:: I know I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth or some other stop-being-such-a-neverending-bucket-of-greed wisdom-enhanced idiom, but I… well, I’m already outnumbered with two LIVE cats. I just don’t want the drawbridge to being a crazy cat lady lowered any more than it has been.

--Because the holidays are upon us and because I can hold it in no longer, a few words about green bean casserole: OH MY GOD GROSS GET THAT CASSEROLE DISH OF SLIME OFF THE TABLE AND TAKE THE DISEASED-LOOKING, CURLY, DRY-ASS ONION TOPPING WITH YOU.

*ahem* As you were.

Fewer words, shorter entry... interesting how that works.

2010-11-22T00:33:00.005-05:00

I read through some of my archives during the past few days and decided to post some context-free tidbits from various entries because I'm.just.so.damned.amusing.

Me cavewoman. Me also modest.
Mmmm, $528 briefbag. I want your organizational pockets, zip compartment, and two tall outside stash pockets in tobacco leather with brass hardware or black with nickel.
Mmmm, fake lesbians. So shiny and sexy and supple. And so unbelievably skinny.
It's been a woot woot chugga chugga ride on the hummus train.
So far, I've come up with good bread and dress shoes.
"I like it!" he says. "But what if you also add Q, 12, 75, some squirrels, a bottle of lemon juice, 14 cars, Tony Danza, and a helium balloon from Paraguay?"
Technically, shouldn't it be downercase?
My money tree done failed to sprout, despite all the nickels I threw into the dirt in the backyard.
It's like a fun social experiment where I say yes to things and hope they don't blow up in my face.
I commented aloud that it felt like we were driving into a Stephen King novel.
Facebook wears me OUT.
…getting sperm could potentially be a lot easier.
The viewing and funeral for Dangerous’ undying (three-week) devotion to raw, unsalted almonds and baby carrots was limited to immediate family.
I think it'll be fun, especially if I hop on one of those skiing or snowboarding games and let the quarters fly.
Did you know my packing list includes clothesline and erotica? Yep!
Yeah, I should probably find those screws.
Large Black Woman Beats Innocent Bystander to Death Over Duvet; News at 11.
I swears. On Bibles. With pudding!
I go to jail for NO VUN.
Muscle, I flex thee.
I’m a tool; rent me!
Am I getting old if I'm actually looking forward to mopping the floor?
I can't say my push-some-papers-aside-and-flip-over-a-box-lid detective mission was all that thorough.
I forgot to mention I was SURROUNDED BY RAPIDLY-ADVANCING ALLIGATORS AND SCORPIONS AND BUSY PUNCHING CHUCK NORRIS IN THE FACE THE WHOLE TIME I WAS READING.
Judging by his taste in couture (yes, he went to a thrift store and picked out the dress himself AND SHOES TOO), he's kind of a tramp.
Rent is due EVERY month. God!

I also have "accoutrements multicolored sushi" written down but now, all of two days later, I have NO idea what the hell that relates to. If I crack the code, I'll let you know. In the meantime, don't drink and blog.

Stop It

2010-11-17T23:47:00.003-05:00

God love Mental Floss -- this is one of the best things I've ever watched on the Internet. It's a spoof of "Intervention," which I also like, train wreck though it is.

THIRTY. SEVEN.

2010-11-16T22:57:00.007-05:00

Woohoo -- it's almost been two weeks! My unintentional-but-downright-rhythmic bimonthly blogging plan is working -- WORRRRRRRRRRRRKING muhahahahahahaha!

*ahem* Sorry 'bout that. I get carried away when I'm talking to myself and an assorted group of friends, real and Internet. :D (I don't care if emoticons are blasé or passé or any other French word. My blog, my rules.)

Things that make me sad: Kathy Griffin shilling for Arby's.

I could watch Friends reruns every day, multiple times a day. I may have said this before. I just had to say it again. Love me, love my obsession.

The first few minutes of "Monsters, Inc." kill me every single time I see the movie.

I don't get a lot of feedback on Twitter and therefore essentially talk to myself. I'm surprisingly okay with this.

I turn 37 on Saturday. (THIRTY. SEVEN. WHAT?!?) I'm making plans for fun things to do all day. So far I've come up with:

Brunch with assorted lesbians (Mix and match or buy the complete set!) and my folks at my favorite breakfast place which has awesome, healthy, hearty breakfasts served by some of the nicest people on the planet. So. Fucking. Stoked.
Go to a drugstore and buy some mostly-like-chapstick lip balm with a hint of color so I can sort of pretend I wear makeup without actually having to wear it. If I'm considerably hopped up on caffeine, I might consider buying other makeup like items. Definitely some false eyelashes.
Go to a cosmetology school and get a discount facial or something else that will make me feel pretty for around, oh, $20. Or go to the nearby pedicure place and get my triflin' toes taken care of.
Maybe see a movie. I wish "Love and Other Drugs" opened up in time. Might see "Morning Glory" since "Easy A" seems to have hightailed it out of theatres already. Or maybe go to a nice little cafe that specializes in tea and sit and have a cuppa while I write.
Go to dinner with Vanessa and Brenda. Sushi + much booze likely. W-I-N.
If not too drunk, broke, or tired, go to one of the previously-mentioned movies.

I recently started doing yoga with a friend. We follow a yoga DVD hosted by Megan Garcia -- it's a Just My Size program. It's pretty good. Most of the postures are doable and the ones that aren't, I can modify. The ability to modify poses, the reminder in doing so that yoga is for every body, and the fact that you don't need props, special clothing, or ANY clothing (well, unless you're in public) to do yoga are the things that I love best about the practice. I'm noticing the tiniest of differences the day or two afterwards -- mostly the hint of a growing strength -- and would like to get into the practice every day. Keep that shit going. I also want to swim laps but Jesus GOD I need to find a gym that isn't 25 minutes away from me.

I may have mentioned, sometime around the time that I started this blog, probably, that I did yoga teacher training several years ago. I signed up for a semester-long program that killed me financially, even after I got a scholarship, and learned a lot about yoga and myself. The part that was toughest was learning more about myself. I felt like I had so much to prove; I outweighed everyone in the class by a cool 200 pounds and was standing up for every person who has ever thought fat people were lazy, didn't exercise, blah la la issues 1, 2, 3, and 400, coming right up. Doing yoga moves around energy and even though I was seeing a therapist at the time, getting through the classes proved to be difficult; there were nights I just couldn't go. I never made up my absences and therefore couldn't get certified. I have fantasies/thoughts about doing the training again at a different school (I had some issues with the teachers at the old school and also, hello, do-over!) and getting certified so I could teach a class specifically for big people. I won't officially add 'pursue training' to my list of resolutions for 2011 because, well, I looked up training at my ideal school and it's going to cost around $2,500. It's okay if the idea is cost-prohibitive right now; I'm okay with saving towards my goal, paying off some other bills, and getting myself back into a more active shape. I've got cores to strengthen and quads to squeeze... or something. I've got a sciatic nerve issue that is really hampering my getting around and it's only going to get worse if I sit in a chair and atrophy. I'm currently allowing the Y to take $30/month out of my account for a gym membership I'm not using, but if I cancel it then I DEFINITELY won't go (and signing up anew is a pain in the butt). Everything happens for a reason, though. I'm just not sure what this one is yet, but I'm not worried.

I can't get a clear answer from Vox about being hired full-time. They're allegedly talking about it and seeing if/how they can get me more hours. A full-time receptionist position is opening up and I asked about it, but they don't want me to go for it. Apparently, they (the editors) will "never get me back," whatever that means. From the first floor? Back to editing? Or are they worried I'll fall into a complacent coma and live out my days answering the switchboard and taking 50 cents from every person who wants a soda from the staff fridge? The Good Editor told me I didn't want the job and I wanted to say, "Of COURSE I don't. I've been a receptionist. It blows. BUT. IT'S. FULL. TIME." There is an urgency that they are clearly not feeling and I need to ratchet up the, I don't know, clear visual of me hightailing it out the door in a couple months. I don't want to leave Vox -- I like the work and the writing is great fun -- but I'm doing SO much for SO little money. Like 'I can't afford rent AND a car payment' little, not 'I can't install gold floors on my yacht' little. Also, the unemployment that I'm still half-on will run out in roughly four months (okay, that's longer than I thought) but when it's gone, I'm done. I very clearly said that to Good Ed -- I believe the exact phrase was "I don't make enough here to survive" -- and she still didn't seem that concerned. We have a staff meeting tomorrow -- which is generally a lot like a tennis match as a conversation unfolds between two editors, neither of whom is me -- and I will have both Good Ed and Micromanager Ed in the same room. Then... I pounce.

Somewhat inexplicably, three of the blogs I read are technically mommy blogs: Amalah, Dooce, and All & Sundry. I don't remember who I found first, but I found the others in fairly rapid succession because I think they're all friends and/or know each other from conferences like BlogHer. Anyway, I read Sundry's post tonight and wanted to share my own take on it since I am also soon-to-be-37. (THIRTY. SEVEN!)

Here you are, 36-almost-37, suddenly slow and achy and creaky when the temperature drops, left wondering when cold traded 'nuisance' for 'enemy.' You fancy housewares and want nothing more than a down comforter for your birthday. There was a time when you wore ripped jeans, let your hair fall into your face after you applied take-no-prisoners red lipstick, and smoked cigarettes like you were about to stand in front of a firing squad. Now, you make plans to go shopping for a good pair of walking shoes and wonder just when you became one of those people who should probably start taking a sweater with her everywhere.

There is a rhythm here, a pulse, something you understand as you progress towards wisdom: you haven't turned into this person, this 'real adult' overnight, but the days of being 24 and dancing in a club past midnight are faint in the memory like a story you can't quite remember.

Gone too, though, is the deep anger, all that you knew before hard work and tears. You have traded parties full of superficial friends for Friday morning coffee with one good listener. It's good -- great, even -- this assurance, this inherent knowledge that things are unfolding how they should. Even though you sometimes play that game where you're an entirely different person -- a business woman in Prada and Louboutins, clicking her way through an airport, maybe -- there is a comfort in knowing this is how things are really supposed to be. Sometimes you miss the wild and crazy ways you loved all those people who were so desperately wrong for you but you tuck those pencil-scratch stories into your pocket and let the next chapter unfold.

New Year's Resolution

2010-11-05T14:17:00.002-04:00

I'm early, I know -- possibly the first time in my life I've been early for something -- but I made this short list yesterday and wanted to post it. My resolution for 2011 will be to pursue ONE of the following classes:

American Sign Language
Voice
Acting and/or improv
Movement

Reasoning (should explanation be necessary):

I've long wanted to learn ASL -- learning how to say "slutty lesbian biker bitch" at a Denny's when I was 19 (hand to God, I'm serious) hasn't come in handy nearly as often as one might think.

I love to sing. I want to do it better.

I think working on my timing and delivery and whatever else acting and/or improv would teach would be invaluable, both for helping me feel more comfortable in my skin and for my presence on stage when I read/perform my writing.

I heard about movement classes during some sitcom a few days ago and thought it would be fun, basically for the reasons listed directly above. More comfort, control, appearance. I'm interested in writing a one-woman show and don't want to be a big bundle of awkward on stage. I've also taken a few authentic movement workshops and really liked them. I can only imagine movement classes would be something like that.

I'm consciously working on ridding myself of some old energy, something that I've willingly held onto for years even though it's made me feel guilty and sad and a number of other negative emotions. It's time to put it down, even though it was once good, and embrace the positive.

And with that, I shall burst into a berjillion shiny little stars of light, happiness, and kittens as angels sing hallelujah behind me. Huz-zah.

p.s. Two posts in two days -- I know, right?!

Let's talk about something happy

2010-11-04T01:14:00.003-04:00

A thousand years ago -- okay, 15 years -- I was dating a woman who was 37 to my 21. I know. I wish I'd not believed that she was the only woman who was ever going to like me blah blah blah self-esteem juice drink more, Max. I was still trembling my way between bi and gay and Whoa, I like women? What is THAT about? and because I honestly didn't know any other lesbians, I gravitated towards the only semi-gay I knew. A woman who should've known better. I'm almost 37 (17 days!) and can't even fathom dating a 21-year-old. What was she THINKING?

Suffice it to say, I would have saved a lot of time and avoided all the stresses that come from dating someone old enough to have been my teenage momma. Madame Cradle Robber was on her third husband, who revealed after years of marriage his own bisexuality and confessed to unprotected sex with his lovers while he was still coming home and banging her. Awesome, right? I learned that news after MCR tracked me down at Pride a few years ago, having decided in her new singledom to find me and take me back to her place for some sapphic lovins. Except that I wasn't interested in going with her no matter how many times her hands grazed my butt "accidentally" and she finally left, pissed. We went back to our not speaking (which was more about just having lost touch instead of malice) and a few months ago she sent me a friend request on Facebook, which I ignored. You're now 52. Move on.

(I've gotta start writing this shit down. There's a character sketch in there that's richer than those venti breve chai tea lattes at Starbucks that I can only drink about four times a year because all the half-and-half makes my pants not fit. As you might guess, there are far more Cradle Robber and Baby Dyke adventures but I don't want to dredge them up lest I give myself nightmares.)

So! Because she was an adult adult (compared to my new adultness) and had adult problems (*cough* Say adult again!), she spent part of one phone conversation running down a list of all the things that were going wrong in her life, things I knew nothing about like mortgages and raising children. As her rant wore down, I changed the subject by saying, "Let's talk about something happy." She never let me live it down. Seriously, though: 21-year-old me lived with my parents, was struggling to make it through even one semester of college without dropping out because I wasn't ready to be there, likely working a clerical temp job during the years of Not Realizing My Potential, and had no bills. Maybe credit cards that I foolishly kept accepting when the pretty came in the mail. But no rent, no kids. Suggesting we focus on sunshine and puppies made sense to me. Baggage aside, 'happy' is the phrase I thought of when beginning this post as a way of saying I'm gonna write a few (or 50) posts, none of which are going to be about death. Ta da.

* * * * * * * * * *

On Tuesday, I found myself having a great day. I'm housesitting for King V and Queen S while they're celebrating their 40th (!) wedding anniversary in Mexico and I stayed at their house Monday night. I slept in their gigantic king-size Crate & Barrel touch-me-it's-so-pretty bed and then had a delicious shower. They may have no water pressure but there's room to dance. I'll accept the trade-off. I borrowed my mom's after-shower oil and spent the day smelling almond-y, I started a gig as a reading tutor to fourth and fifth graders and LOVED it, I found a $20 in my jacket pocket, I voted, and I paid a bunch of bills. All of that happened before 1:00 p.m. I spent a half-day at Vox and then hung out at the folks', making stabby little freewriting attempts at NaNo while listening to The Weepies. The other part of the evening I spent texting friends about a condo I'd found online (after four years I'm finally making serious attempts to move).

The condo? Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl.

It's too good to be true. There's no way around it. It's furnished, less money than I pay now (and I already have cheap rent, especially considering I'm close to downtown River City), has ridiculous shit like a garden tub, a washer/dryer in the unit, a big-screen TV, and the utilities are included. Turns out the owner is allegedly in England and only she has the keys, so a contract would have to be signed and payment delivered before she could hand them over. RIGHT. I thanked her for her reply and let her know that a tour would be mandatory before anything was signed or paid for. Wouldn't you know it -- she hasn't replied. And her posting has been flagged for removal from Craigslist (likely my first mistake). Huh! I sure hope she's okay. Maybe she's just busy riding her magical pony around the Land of Gumdrops and Scams.

Today (it's technically Thursday but I haven't slept so it's still Wednesday), I had a much different day. Even though I slept in the big bed and got in the big kids' shower again, I put some of Queen S' coconut oil in my hair (hey, it was in the bathroom) and was unfortunately tired of smelling coconut after about 15 minutes. I got terrible coffee from McD's, though I still drank it. I suffered painful muscle spasms after I twisted the wrong way this afternoon and then I went on a crappy tour of a not-as-pretty-offline apartment. In addition to The Condo of Deception, I had looked at a place that was billed as an artists' colony. Oh, kids. The visions that went through my head. Natural light and me at my writing desk or easel, admiring the unobstructed view of downtown, other artists spilling in and out of my space... sigh.

The floor plans looked cute, the location was good, the price good, etc. Turns out the building is being renovated -- as in "about five apartments are ready and the rest look like death" -- and we had to step around a bevy of mask-wearing workers straight out of a Benetton ad (minus the white people). The smell of varnish or black molasses death goo that was being spread on the floors was so strong we had to hold our breath to make it through the tour. That went well. I saw three apartments, two of which were too small even though I know I'm going to downsize when I move. The only one that was large enough was more than I want to pay. I have learned not to settle (*cough* see earlier girlfriend story) and I was already a little pissed. I had called the office and made an immediate appointment. When I arrived 10 minutes later, I was informed that the office had JUST received a walk-in and the new prospective tenants took priority over me.

Um. What?

The leasing agent volunteered to take the new people and then come back for me -- or hey! Let's go on the tour together! Despite the icky, I went for the latter idea because I had to get back to work. (Ding! Things I Love to Say.) Being bumped down the list REALLY rubbed me the wrong way. I'm glad the place wasn't what I'd been dreaming it would be. The agent needed a shave and didn't have any business cards on him, so he wasn't going to win any professionalism points. Also, the building was referred to as being historic, but that apparently just meant old and gross, based on one of the admittedly-pre-renovation bathrooms. Also, none of the apartments had fridges and that was just weird. I also found out when we got outside (*deep inhale*) that we had to supply our own air conditioners. Oh, HELL no. The same company has other properties that I'll probably check out. They're on a side of town known for its artists, freaks, hippies, and liberal straight couples who drink soy milk and carry their Himalayan whistle children in handmade hemp slings. If the apartments aren't any good, at least the scenery will be entertaining.

After the tour, I went back to Vox which I had escaped when the Earl of Pandemonium and the frighteningly-skinny girl who sits behind me went on their lunch breaks at the same time. The Earl likes to talk with his mouth open, lick his fingers (making the sucky poppy sound with every one), and liberally applies his omnipresent hot sauce to most things he eats. And then he bangs the bottle down on his desk like he does every.thing.else. Just to tamp down my own hypersensitive-crazy-sounding-ness, the Good Editor? Who wants to bring me on full-time in a couple months? Who normally sits next to Noisy McStuffit? WORKS IN ANOTHER ROOM OF THE OFFICE BECAUSE THE EARL IS SO LOUD. The stick girl spends, no lie, 90 minutes every day munching her way through a gigantic salad and then, apparently, the world's largest apple. There are also days when she crunches ice! I wear headphones while I work but I can still hear them both endlessly chewing which means it's time to surrender my ears. Or, less drastically, I need to start taking my own laptop to the office and working in another room. I'll keep the ear donation idea on the back burner though.

I finally made it through the rest of the workday and then headed home. I had sudden inspiration to go to Qdoba and, despite living in River City for 25 years, turned the wrong way onto a one-way street with traffic approaching (panic is fun!) and then got stuck behind an accident and watched as car after car didn't let me over. In summary: WOW. That was a different day than Tuesday. Jeez.

During this morning's staff meeting, Stick Girl squealed when someone mentioned some day in December that is apparently her birthday. I'd been wondering how old she was. I figured she was young but probably around 28 given her next professional gig, which is apparently an internship or something with NPR (!). I dunno -- it just seems like such an adult job. So today when she said she would soon be turning 23, blood shot out of my eyes. What do you MEAN I was in high school when you were born? That... I just... it... WHAT? Sigh. Geritol. Cane. Medicare.

Things were fine once I got home, luckily. I hung out with a very cool biracial plus-size lesbian I know (*ahem*) and, because I'm cracked out on them, I'm listening to The Weepies again. Okay, okay, I won't sell my ears. Fine.

Disjointed

2010-10-21T00:33:00.002-04:00

This is one of the only times -- perhaps the first in the years I've been writing this blog -- that I titled a post before I typed even one word. I'm fond, for some reason, of writing posts when I am over-tired and need to go the hell to bed, but those times are often when something is weighing on my mind and writing about it before trying to sleep is just a damn good idea.

Okay. First. Unrelated to what I just said: It's cold as fuck in my apartment. Maybe it would help if I put on pants or turned on the heat. Pfft.

I went to Katie's memorial last Saturday. It went a little better than I expected, I guess, i.e., I didn't sob through it like I thought I might. I had to push my tongue against my teeth HARD a couple times to stop from crying at what I felt were inappropriate moments, like when I met my super-queer second cousin (Katie's nephew) for the first time in his 16-year-old life, but I had just walked by a huge picture of Katie posed with her son and reality just smacked me in the face again. Never going to see her again. NEVER.

The service was HYPER religious; I must've heard the preacher say 'God' at least 100 times. I don't care how many times we prayed or how uncomfortable I felt while everyone around me recited the 23rd Psalm. (I never had to learn it, so I just sat there waiting for them to get to the part that I knew. Turns out I was thinking of a different psalm entirely.) What I cared about was the fact that the service didn't represent Katie at all. I think half my family are atheists, so I have no idea who arranged the service. It wouldn't have mattered if the preacher juggled and told jokes; it was still a damn funeral.

There's so much more about this that I need to understand. I won't know everything, obviously, since there's no transcript of Katie's thoughts that I can read, but I just need to know more.

Though Katie was neither a teenager nor gay, I thought a lot about her yesterday during Spirit Day. Though I don't really know who reads this blog, I wanted to address the notion of bullying a bit. Even if no gay teens ever see this, I feel it needs to be said, especially because a lot of the messages from the It Gets Better campaign have really impacted me, including the one from Dave Holmes, and I'm closing in on 20 years outside of adolescence.

I got bullied in elementary school, junior high, and high school for being fat. I was good friends with a girl in high school who came out as bi and suffered the wrath of our classmates who already didn't like her for being "weird." I could've used some good 'it gets better' messages then because I didn't believe it would. Junior high was the worst: I attracted the attention of a group of hideous girls who wouldn't leave me alone. They made fun of me, pulled my hair, taunted me, teased me. I don't remember saying much in return and ignoring them certainly didn't help. I'm very glad I had no idea I was gay until I got to college; I can only imagine how much worse things could've been had I been out. The teasing tapered off after I got to high school. Rather than go to the public high school where most of my junior high classmates probably went, I went to a private school. I got to redefine who I was and although I was teased well into sophomore year for my weight, I was eventually left alone. Maybe we all just got old enough or maybe the comments were just said behind my back. I certainly gained enough weight in high school to attract scorn all the way to graduation day. The comments had to have been behind my back, now that I think about it. At the massive graduation/pool party thrown by the boy I thought I was in love with (I actually fell in love with a boy the next year and could easily tell the difference), some guy found my dry clothes in a bag near the pool and, to his great amusement, pulled out my bra and undies and modeled them for his friends. I suppose I could've let it go but I marched across the lawn, yanked my stuff away, and left the party minutes later. (It was 4:00 a.m. It was okay.) The best part of that scenario was watching one of the guys back away from me in fear. I should've shoved the main jerk in the pool. The point in saying all of that is that I'm glad my parents insisted I go to the private school. Some time after I left junior high, I acknowledged that I probably would've killed myself if I'd gone to school another four years with the girls who targeted me. I remember the notion of suicide being a very matter-of-fact solution, so I'd like to think I understand, if only in the tiniest way, what some of the kids who've killed themselves were going through prior to their deaths. I'm glad that my size and being biracial (in a school full of lily-white kids) eclipsed whatever tiny feelings I'd begun acknowledging towards women. Had I been my bullied classmate, who was openly and viciously teased no matter how hard she fought back, I might not be here today. I'm hardly the first person to say this, but it's so very simple for adults to say 'it gets better' and to wear purple and be thankful that we're here and not there. This, then, is my small gesture to anyone, teen or not, who needs to hear it. If you're not a teen, consider it a refresher course to push through a unfavorable situation: You can do this. You can get through. It may be dark and sticky and hateful right now but it really is going to get better. You'll find your voice and some true friends who like you for who you are. You will find your tribe, your place, and you will blossom. Know that all the hate and vitriol coming your way is not about you. It's about the other person's issues (fear, self-loathing, etc.). Don't buy into the negative things that other people say about you. You are made of awesome, they are jealous, and someday, hopefully soon, you'll never have to see them again. Unless you pay $40 to attend a really boring reunion, during which time everyone around you laughs about their kids' poopy diapers while you drink a lot of beer. Ahem. Joking aside, there are resources like The Trevor Project and Hopeline (1-800-SUICIDE) that can help. Know how many people are pulling for you, people who know some or all of what you've gone through, people who are now (relatively) well-adjusted and free of torment. We're your family, we're your allies, and we're pulling for you.

Five for Friday

2010-10-15T14:19:00.004-04:00

1. I've been pretty bummed the last couple weeks, but the malaise is thankfully moving on. Some of that meh is because tomorrow is Katie's memorial. King V had a mini-meltdown earlier in the week because his color printer, which was chugging out the program for said memorial, ran out of magenta toner and wouldn't work. I ordered him some new cartridges and had them shipped here super fast, not panicking like he was because we had a week to get the things printed out. He was flipping out and groaning about how much it was going to cost to run the programs off at Kinko's, as though there were no color printers anywhere else in the world, including three feet away from the one that wasn't working. I didn't say anything because (a) the fam is understandably super tense about tomorrow and (b) I'm used to him overreacting. Printer is out of ink? THE WORLD IS ENDING. At least I know who I get my occasional doomsdayness from. (Read: I have a headache. OMG IT'S A TUMAH.)

2. I'm reading poetry tomorrow night (yes, hours after the memorial -- that's just how the scheduling worked out) and need to get my poems together. Years ago, I developed a reputation for being a "sex poet" since I wrote primarily erotic poetry. I'm not sure it's a label I'm ever going to shed. The organizer of tomorrow's event called me this afternoon and, with a half-giggle, said something about looking forward to me reading stuff that would make everyone blush. Certainly, there are worse labels I could have. I guess it just feels a little limiting, especially if I want to read something non-sexy. Hang on. I'm complaining about turning on lesbians. Never mind.

3. I went to a mandatory class at the unemployment office yesterday because I have exhausted my benefits and needed to apply for an extension. The 75 minutes I spent there could've been reduced to about 10; the time was chewed up by waiting in a long line and then sitting through what was essentially a long commercial for the office's optional resume writing, job skills, and interviewing techniques workshops. Helpful, I'm sure, but I have a job that I want, one that I'm just waiting on to go full time. Somehow, several people in my class missed the part about the workshops being optional. One lady asked when she had to show up for the classes because she had a time conflict and one guy said, "So, these mandatory classes you mentioned..." and just.kept.talking. I tried to keep my incredulity dialed down. We'd already heard from one woman who haughtily said she had a B.S. in Accounting and acted like she was too good to be one of the cattle lowing at the unemployment office representative. I wanted to tell her that I've been that smarmy college graduate who thinks she shouldn't have to be here in steerage and that all it does is make you look like a dick. At least my visit to the office is done with, my form is turned in, and now I just wait. Thankfully, I have paychecks from Vox to help get me through the up-to-21-days-for-processing waiting period. I received a check today, so you know I've already been to the dollar store...

4. ...where I got hit on. The manager of the store held the door open for me, complimented me on the way I'd shoved my purchases into a reusable grocery bag as I walked around the store ("I don't think I'll be able to pack this again as neatly as you did, but I'll try!"), and called me 'love' before I left. It's probably good he was a boy. Had a girl done that, they'd probably still be mopping me off the floor.

5. I am very happily cracked out on Passion Pit's "To Kingdom Come." It's a happy-making song. Here's hoping the video doesn't get yanked off YouTube like so many others I've posted have been:

Happy weekend, kids.

Pink!

2010-10-01T22:16:00.002-04:00

Pink for October. Or until I get tired of this design and find something else pink to use.

Pass this on

2010-10-01T22:13:00.000-04:00

here's your gravy

It's time

Every day is like Sunday

Good things

Drawing #3

What a bitch...

Maybe my pony will finally arrive today.

They say it's (almost) your birthday...

Drawing #2

Back to the drawing board

Squeezy cheese, yes. Peas, no.

Want.

&^%$(*&!!

King of painful silences

It's been a long time but I'm back in town...

Live blogging a monkey bath

Hey there

Nomalicious

On writing... and some other stuff

The one with all the rambling

Going through the change

The best blogging happens in the middle of the night. But maybe not here.

That's why God invented washing machines

Remembering Aaliyah

Mishy mash

The i-talics are there for emPHAsis!

No H8

So...

Dear sweet lord

"Maxine is a genius."

Cross your fingers

#ohhai

Displaced

Woe!

Yay!

Random, not-so-great news

Popping in

Not today

Support withdrawn

::insert pithy title here::

Yet another unintentional marathon post

It's Tues-day, Tues-day, gotta get down on Tues-day...

MEH

She's alllllllllive

Paroled

Alphabetically speaking: my day in sixes

Sounds like a sign to me

So... this is different.

Alphabetically speaking: begin

Social media addict says what?

Yowza

Knee deep in the hoopla

Grace Potter, come to my house. And bring your friends.

It's only half past the point of no return

Dear Netflix

Spilling out of my head

A case of the Mondays

Further proof that I *am* King V's daughter

Just a ~smidge~ of rambling

I really should change the name of this blog to Random Gravy

Tweet, tweet, tweedaleedyleet...

A bunch of randomitic randomosity

Homo on the move

Douche no mo

One o' them *oof* marathon posts

It was worth it; I feel brilliant!

I'm not sure...

Happy 2011! Now get out of my damn petunias.

Christmas Day

Mold and dolls and bitches, oh my!

Right on schedule (or The biweekly update)

Two, two days in a row

Fewer words, shorter entry... interesting how that works.

Stop It

THIRTY. SEVEN.

New Year's Resolution

Let's talk about something happy

Disjointed

Five for Friday

Pink!

Further proof that I am King V's daughter

One o' them oof marathon posts