Buh-Bye Brain Cells

I can feel them popping like popcorn in the microwave. I am studying my head right off!

I feel like a really low-grade computer. I am trying to cram in so much information that my brain overloads and just shuts off so I can't stay awake. Not only am I studying for 7.5 hours out of my work day, but then I get home, pack up the computer and I'm off again and don't get in till way past my bedtime. It feels like there are clouds IN MY BRAIN.

So far I like the company and I hope I make it through the exams so's I can keep my job. The group is really diverse through all levels of operation, which is way better than I can say for some of the other jobs I've had. I don't exactly fit the white suburban corporate mold, so I look around and am encouraged to think there might be some other folks who think like me. Every office I've ever worked in, the women have mashed potatoes for brains and the men are snotty a-holes. I do not spend my out of work time shopping or sitting around TGI Friday's, so I've never made any lasting connections at those jobs. God forbid I should want to talk politics with other women!

If it's not obvious, I am way procrastinating on the studying I need to get done tonight for a big test tomorrow.

Wouldn't Ya Know It?

Of course the company I just started with still employs my least fave ex-boyfriend. We decided to be "just friends" but he trampled all over my boundaries and picked petty arguments with me just like when we were dating, so I told him I didn't want to be friends anymore. He had a dismaying inability to grasp that concept. His argument was that "we didn't talk about it" and that he didn't agree with my decision. Uh, ok. I don't need your permission to move on, BUD.

I've been walking around the building with my antennae up just in case, but then it got annoying so I asked security and they confirmed. Ack! I hope I never see him, but I don't have that kind of good Karma.

Today is My Last Day!

Last day as a temp. The company I'm working for threw me a going away breakfast of gourmet bagels. Pretty nice. But I think they just wanted an excuse to have some free breakfast.

But seriously folks, this day is just dragging on and on. Normally my work day down time is filled with blogging, surfing, emailing, Bookworm, and Tetris, but my successor temp has been here since yesterday. He was fully trained for this job by, oh, 10am yesterday! So instead of doing my usual screwing-off routine, I am wandering around looking for things to do. Today my job is to go through the entire catalogue section of the library (this is an advertising agency, so you can just imagine) and toss out everything older than spring of '05.

Here's me: flip, flip, toss. Flip, flip, toss... Skim, skim, "Hmm, I should get me one of those..." toss.

I feel sorry for the poor fucker that has to try to lift the recycling bag out of THAT bin. It'll be 300 pounds by the time I'm done. The catalogue library is looking pretty skeletal already. But, I should add, I DON'T CARE. HAHA HAHA!

I think I will go online today and sign them up for a crapload of catalogues. The first one that comes to mind is "Good Vibrations." Then maybe I'll charge some susbscriptions to the company account like "Adbusters."

For the past two days some General Mills suits have been having secret meetings in our conference room--shhh you didn't hear it from me--and by the looks of it, they must think they're a bunch of rock stars at the fuckin' Las Vegas Hilton. They completely trashed a perfectly nice conference room.

There's so much junk food in there I'm surprised no one's gone into a diabetic coma. Cookies, donuts, croissants, cinnamon rolls, bowls of candy, candy bars, chocolate-dipped pretzels, malted milk balls, soda-pop, chex mix, salted pretzels, potato chips! Jeezis! The fruit and veggie trays were virtually untouched, and they barely picked at their box lunches. Aren't they supposed to be pushing WHOLE GRAINS? They obviously know fuck-all about nutrition, so I'm not buying their shit anymore.

Letgo My Ankle!!

Everything I have ever suspected about Twiggy has proven true. I already knew that she thrives on conflict and gets off on animosity more than artists get off on ennui (although I’m sure her home life is littered with ennui). But now since I put in my notice, I noticed she’s the kind of person who does the old “emotional transference” trick. Most people, when confronted with strong feelings of dislike for another will generally disconnect once they hear that the other is leaving. No big deal, no harm, no foul. But this lady is one of those who seems to like to just re-file Feeling A into the Feeling B drawer. Now that I’m getting the H-E-double hockey sticks out of here, she has suddenly become all gushy and overly friendly. I understand she’s probably excited I’m leaving, but now all those strong feelings are making her want to try to be my little buddy. Eeew.

I had a boss like that once. THAT crazy bitch would ride my ass and micro-manage every move I made, from how I bagged up groceries to how fast I counted down my drawer. Sometime she’d get frustrated and would just grab things out of my hand. She would even charge into the bathroom to call us out of the stalls if we were taking too long (i.e. going #2). I would stand up to her all the time, but none of the other chickenshit cashiers would ever back me up. Anyway, the point is, she was the same way. She had to terminate me for missing a mandatory work meeting and she bawled over it and was hugging me goodbye and telling me to keep in touch. Coo-coo! Coo-coo!

And that’s pretty much my life story. I was blessed with a “big personality” to go along with my big butt, and people sometimes respond strongly. At every point along the way there has been some kind of high- strung ankle-biter figure viciously snarling and salivating, trying to bring me down. When I decide to move on, they turn it around and want to be best friends forever. What’s a girl to do? People are fuckin’ crazy.

P.S. Get a load of that guy's package!

Is that a baseball in your pocket, or are you just flattered someone took your photo??

A Letter to My Friend Eric

They're baaack!

You thought mullets were gone for good, well, I believe they're making a comeback! In fact, I'm so convinced of this that I am launching a campaign, maybe even a pledge drive, to persuade you to grow out your Camaro Mullet! I am sure you’ve toyed with the idea already, maybe even made a couple half-assed attempts by “putting off” your next haircut, only to have finally succumbed to the familial pressure to “Get a haircut! Jesus…” I’m here to tell you that the time is RIPE to revive the “party in the back!” Don’t let anyone convince you that at your age you need to start looking more professional! Don’t sell out! Realize that this coiffure will actually be good for your auto shop’s business because GEARHEADS LOVE THE MULLET! And once it’s fully grown, you can incorporate the image of your silhouetted profile with its flowing rear-locks into your shop’s logo. Whattaya say…? Do it for the chicks!

Your Friend,
Cristini P

Ha!! You'll Never Guess!

Woo Yeah! I got a job! As of December 11, I will be a professional in the financial sector of a major metropolitan city. How fucking cool is that?! I'm going to be a grown-up. With a grown-up job. And a grown-up salary. What's even better is that I won't be a freakin' secretary, I actually scored a position with some growth potential.

I am required to get some licensure as well, so my first couple months will be spent studying my ass off and getting paid for it. Guess what happens after I pass my exams... I get a raise. Guess what happens six months later...I get another raise. I never wanted to be a drone in a hive, but the mega-corporation that hired me seems to really have their shit together as far as total compensation is concerned, so I think I can live with it.

I think I'll work as far up as I can go and then venture out and work for myself or a smaller firm when i'm like 40. In the mean time, I'll buy myself some nice suits, pay down some of my student loans, start a retirement plan, have a couple babies, maybe even save up for a down payment on a house. Right ON!

Hubby's really feeling the heat now--the pressure's on for him to hurry up and get a better job. Ten an hour working retail loss prevention is not a hot job. I think his parents are like, "Uh, buddy? You gonna let your wife be the head of household? You better figure it out--and fast!"

On the Up-Side...

I have another job interview. Unfortunately I'm only lukewarm about working in a call center answering questions about securities... *Sigh* Well, at least the pay is good and there are benefits.

Oh, p.s. I didn't get the editing job. Sad.

WARNING: May be Unsuitable for Some Readers!

I have had THE most ridiculous week of my life and I am GLAD it is almost over!

WEDNESDAY, NOV. 8: I went to the dentist for my first cleaning and exam in like 15 years (I’ve been to the dentist more recently for a broken tooth, but was turned away because they wouldn’t touch me until my wisdoms were out and I had no insurance). I learned that I have about 8 cavities—not bad, considering. But what pissed me off was all the “tsk-tsk”-ing even though I went to a dentist who was advertised as specializing in working with “underserved communities,” i.e. poor people—me. I was quickly shuffled out of the exam area back to the front desk and was told by the receptionist that I couldn’t schedule any appointments for my fillings! Are you kidding me? “She thinks you should see a sedation dentist because she felt you were too anxious,” –even though this same receptionist assured me when I called to make the appointment that the dentist was patient and gentle with nervous people. My insurance will only cover one exam every six months! I called back a couple days later and told them the situation and asked if I could just make the appointments with them, and she said NO, and that they would not be accepting appointments from me in the future—ever! I’ve been fucking blackballed for clenching my fists and yelping in pain as a reaction to a sharp instrument being jabbed into my exposed root! Now I have to pay another $61 out-of-pocket because no dentist office will accept me without an exam!

My gynecologist put me on the pill last month after determining that I was not ovulating, which is what was causing my sporadically occurring and traumatically heavy and painful periods. After taking the three week course of hormone pills, I started the “blanks” to have my period, which began picking up momentum on Thursday, which brings me to….

FRIDAY, NOV. 10: About 7:30 in the morning I’m getting ready for work and I start having BLINDing cramps so I decided to just have a sit on the throne for a few minutes. I felt something weird, so I looked down, and I have never seen anything so horrifying as what I saw in the bowl that morning! I had to grab Hubby to witness it because I thought no one would ever believe me. I passed a clot the size of a golf ball! It flopped open and revealed itself to be this flat mass the size of the palm of my hand! AND THIS WAS JUST THE BEGINNING! I spent the whole weekend on the couch crying and panting like a woman giving birth, I was out of my mind with pain! I wasn’t so much bleeding as I was passing solid matter continuously for four days straight.

By MONDAY, NOV. 13: I was exhausted and dehydrated, but I went to work anyway because the cramps had eased up. That is, until after lunch. Then they got so bad again, I was sitting in the restroom crying, and just said, “fuck this.” I told the office manager I had to go home, I called Hubby and asked him to pick me up, and I called the clinic and asked if they could take me that afternoon. Hubby and I were on our way to my appointment when my gynecologist told me to go to the ER where they would do blood tests, and an ultrasound to find out the problem. But of course not: after waiting like three hours for a doctor, this guy came in and said they were going to hook me up to an IV and do a pelvic. To which I said, “Oh no you’re not.” The room was filthy (hair in the sink, biohazard container reading “full,” garbage full, and a URINE SAMPLE sitting out on top of the goddam paper towel dispenser!), and the doctors and nurses were all men with no people skills. As I may have mentioned, I am poor, which is to say that I am not going to pay 800 times more for the exact services I was scheduled for at the clinic appointment that day—which, by this time, I had missed—and have said services performed in an unsanitary facility by uncaring pricks! I called my clinic but my gynecologist was gone, and the woman I spoke to wouldn’t reschedule me because she thought it important for me to stay there and submit to their tests. Uh, no. I haggled with the doctors over the ultrasound, but they wouldn’t budge because I wasn’t pregnant and my life was not in danger. So I told them to shove it. Finally some other doctor guy came in and agreed with me that this was not the best use of their services and my time, and referred me to a different clinic and sent me on my way. The next morning I got a call from my gynecologist and she was pissed at me until I filled in the details, and agreed to have me come in. I finally have a referral for the ultrasound to see if I have any damn fibroids of cysts. And the reason I need the ultrasound? “Unable to assess [uterus]: BMI 47.” In other words, because I am a fat ass!

Buttheads and Dickwads and Assholes, Oh My

What the fuck is the deal with people? Why are people so personally invested in what they do for money? I have reached my limit for being treated like I am a lower species in this fucking office. Just because I am a TEMP and answer the phone and shuffle some papers doesn’t mean that that is ALL I AM CAPABLE OF. And if you tell me something in person, YOU DO NOT NEED TO SEND ME AN EMAIL RESTATING EVERYTHING YOU JUST SAID. I am trembling mad right now.

I got just as pissed yesterday. Someone brought me three estimates that had gotten lost in the print room from the middle of last week. There were so many requests I could hardly keep up, most of them needed to be revised in some way, and I didn’t even realize that a couple of them did not make it back to me. Of course the first thing I did was hand them out so that the account exec could sign it, get approval and get it back to me to send out ASAP. A very short time later this angry exec came marching up to my desk with steam coming out of her ears—we’ll call her Ms. Muffet because I’m sure she would hate that. “Did you realize these were supposed to go out last week?”

“Yes, I didn’t realize they didn’t. The accountant just brought them out to me from the print room.”
“Well, these need to go out the same day!”
“I understand these need to go out the same day, and they usually do. I apologize for losing track of these and it won’t happen again.”

She seemed satisfied enough to turn away and start back toward her office, but after about five paces, she turned back around and started in again! Let it go Ms. Muffet, I left my time machine at home this morning so I can’t help you.

This made me a little cranky, if only partly because I made such a stupid mistake and proved their assumptions of me correct. I wasn’t done being cranky yet when I had a run–in with Twiggy so I actually snapped at her. Some random guy came in looking for one of the creatives so I paged him. One second later my phone rang and I saw it was Twiggy. “Oh hi, D__. I was trying to get S__.” She totally jumped down my throat with, “Why are you paging ME to find S__? HOW am I supposed to know where he is?!!” So I was totally snarky back, and I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it this morning, “I DIDN’T page you, D__, I paged S__. WHY would I page you looking for him?”

But I suppose that is why she’s being so fucking patronizing today with this email she sent me right after we spoke about not letting employees’ guests take themselves to their host’s office. I posted before about her freaking out about that dude just waltzing in, but today it was some guy’s wife and she’s here like twice a week! So not only did I have to hear that same spiel about potential thievery, but she also had to put it in writing for me because I am obviously an idiot.

Fuck this place. I wish they’d hurry up and fucking hire themselves a goddam receptionist, preferably one who IS an idiot so they’ll know a non-idiot when they see one. Not that it matters, most (thankfully not all) of these people are dicks, they have to have the last word and get all their digs in. I am really surprised no one has ended a conversation with me by saying, “Oh yeah, you’re fat, too!”

Someone Gimme Some Damn Candy

Well, folks, it looks like I’m bombing out again. It is 2:25 in the p.m. with less than three hours until the end of the day and still no call from the woman who has the power to dramatically change my life.

I am beginning to lose hope that I will be offered the job I interviewed for last week, inside connections or not. I bet it’s because I forgot to send a thank-you card. Shit, shit. I’m pretty sure that if I was the first pick for the job, I would have gotten a call yesterday or first thing this the morning. Somewhere in town someone else probably got that call. There is some lucky person making giddy phone calls and gleefully planning their celebration dinner. Fuck.

The interviewer has probably been procrastinating on making all the “thank-you-for-your-interest-but-we-found-someone-for-the-position” calls. No one likes to make an assload of those calls, so she’ll probably put it off until Monday. Or worse yet, I bet she offered someone the job who is like, “Hmmm, maybe, let me get back to you after I receive this other job offer I’m waiting on.” Some days I wonder why I even bother.

Know what would cheer me up? A job. Know what else? Cheesecake. Or pumpkin pie, I’m not picky. I’m a big time emotional eater, and I’ve been doing so well for the past two weeks I don’t want to bum out and go on some pizza-ice cream-cheezy poof binge. The little Cartman inside of me is shrieking “Beefcake!” and “Respect my author-a-tie!”

I Can Draw!

Dudes! I am hooked on this website where you draw and post pictures. I have submitted five drawings—and subsequently signed away all rights to them. Even so, it’s a hoot, and people are actually voting for my drawings! They are on www.youdraw.com, numbers 421093, 421098, 421104, 421188, and 421196. If I wasn’t so broke that I have to return some shoes I’ve been wearing for two weeks to make the rent, I’d buy their posters for sale. They’re publishing a book! Think I’ll be in it?? OMG. I am as excited right now as I was when the manager of Jimmy John’s in Uptown said he was sending all the drawings I sent him from my fax orders to the HEAD JIMMY of Jimmy John’s! There was some funny shit in there….

I love to draw. If I could get paid for it, that would be a dream come true but I have no professional training or materials. I was accepted to a tech school that teaches design, but because I already have a bachelor’s I don’t qualify for loans or grants. Did I mention I HAVE NO MONEY? G’aw! …sucks… Stupid dumb crappy.

I’m so broke that I had a whole bag of baby carrots and half a burnt 10” frozen pizza for dinner last night. Tonight will be better, though, because Hubby had the wherewithal to take some damn chicken out of the freezer. The man can’t cook for shit (how do you burn a damn frozen pizza?!), and left to his own devices he’ll plan meals comprised of spaghetti sauce with noodles and a side of maple baked beans. No sense whatsoever of how to make food taste good, but at least he knows that if he wants me to cook up some meat, it has to be taken out of the freezer. When I come home I poke around in the fridge to see what he thawed and try to pull something together with what’s in the cupboard. Good thing he’s easy to please.

There’s a saying about how the best things in life are free, but I gotta say that Hubby and I are running out of things to do for entertainment. You can only chase each other around the apartment trying to poke each other in the butthole for so long before it’s not funny anymore. It will probably be stale by this weekend, and it’ll be a few more weeks before it will be cold and dry enough to skid around the place and electrocute each other with static, so what to do until then? Hmm.

A Watched Pot Never Boils

Waiting to hear back about this job is the PITS. I feel like I am never going to get a real “career” job. Government jobs are SO competitive, and I can't believe I even interviewed, and now I am doubting myself. I've convinced myself I bombed out in some major aspect of the interview because the interviewer asked me if I WANTED to continue on to the writing test, which, retrospectively sounds like “if you want to you can, but it won't improve your chances.” But the interview without the writing test was nearly two hours-if I failed half way through, wouldn't she have sent me on my way? Ugh I hate waiting! Guess I'll send out a few more resumes in the meantime.

Crazy Little Twig Monster

Arg! That tiny little bitch-face is driving me crazy!

At the end of last week she decided she wanted me to be her best friend. When she’s trying to be nice, she talks a mile a minute and is all fluttery and I can’t get a word in edgewise. I just sit there looking quizzically at her nodding and saying “uh-huh” a lot, then she flits away. I had to put up with a whole day of this, it was ridiculous.

Then Monday came and she was running hot-and-cold, and it’s lasted all week. It’s totally throwing me off. She’s either artificial saccharine-sweet or the fucking ice queen. I don’t know how she manages to have so much going on inside of her teeny bird brain to swing her moods around so dramatically. I bet she’s a Gemini—no, that can’t be right because I always click well with Geminis. Oooh, I bet she’s a nasty Scorpio… Anyway, why the fuck do I care, I’m not going to be sending HER a fucking birthday card.

I’m just bitching because about ten minutes ago some dude came in and said he was a friend of the company president and he just wanted to poke his head in her office. Before I really had time to stage an objection, he was down the hall. He peeked in, found out the pres is out and left. Not a minute later I hear a really quick-tempo clomp-clomp-clomping, and I look up to see little black scissor legs slicing up the corridor. Twiggy was in a total wide-eyed tizzy and was giving me the spiel about not letting people walk through the office, something could go missing and she’d be liable, the sky is falling, god is coming to strike you down. He nose was flared out and I noticed she had a tiny booger suspended in the hairs of her right nostril.

The bright side is that she is on vacation for the first three days of next week, and today I’m leaving early! One more hour and I will be free of that insufferable little sparrow-person until Thursday, mwah-ha-ha-ha!

Today Was the Big Day

Well, I had my interview this morning, and I think it went o.k. The woman who interviewed me was very friendly and kind, so I was comfortable. I hope I wasn't too much myself so as to be perceived as unprofessional. I feel like I bombed the writing test, but only because I was being very careful. I was to analyze three documents, write a summary, write a short 3-line description, and choose a few keyword topics the document could be searched by. I got the short description and half the summary of the first document completed. The interviewer noticed I looked worried and said that there was no reason to be concerned, the writing test was just to show my thought process. I hope they choose to offer the position to ME! I was so darned enthusiastic, and I couldn’t help it. If I were on the other side of the (beautiful 19th century pine) conference table, I would rather bring on someone who is excited about the job but has a few things to learn than hire someone who has all the essential skills and knowledge but has a lukewarm attitude toward the job. We’ll have to wait and see how it pans out. I should know in about a week either way.

Expired Tuesday

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re back in high school and you’re like 30 and not wearing a shirt and you’re supposed to be at work for an important meeting but the teacher won’t give you a hall pass? That’s pretty much what I’m feeling right now, except I’m awake.

You see, I went back to the mall for some part-time work to support my crack addiction (obviously, I must have been on crack to even consider it, right?). Just kidding, I just wanted the 40% discount off clothing and some spending money because every last penny I make is budgeted to be spent on one bill or another. And now, instead of being ahead, I’m behind! The extra hours of work and stress wore me down and I got sick right away and missed TWO DAYS at my day job, plus one shift at the mall—about which they had a complete case of the ass!

Tuesday was the final straw. I had to get to my day job an hour early, so my day was 8am-4:30pm, and I was scheduled later on at the mall. I got there at 5:30 and stopped in at work to grab my wallet that I forgot there in case I found something to wear during my one hour of shopping for my brother’s wedding this Saturday (I didn’t). My supers were like, “Hey, why don’t you punch in NOW?” I declined. I ran around looking at dresses and grabbed some dinner and headed back. After I punched in, they informed me that we were all staying late to finish the re-set and prepare for a major corporate visit in the morning.

All that was written on the schedule was 6:30 to close, which is 9:30 or 10. No one called me to get my permission to be scheduled late into the night. They just assumed jurisdiction over my person, deciding that once I punch in, they can just keep me working until their task is complete. As the night wore on I became more and more angry.

There was SO MUCH to do and we were getting nowhere. The store was supposed to be re-set completely on Sunday night, and two managers came in early Sunday to get a jump on it, then were back after closing to finish. Well, the problem was that they had over TWENTY boxes of shipment to process. Which means twenty 24”x24”x18” boxes stuffed full of clothes that are folded up in tissue paper and wrapped in plastic, some with chintzy plastic hangers. It takes about thirty minutes to process each box (multiply by 20 boxes=ten man hours) because you have to unwrap and sort, take out the crap hangers, hang the clothes per corporate guidelines, sort by size, and find somewhere to store it until it goes on the floor. We only have 5 eight-foot rolling racks, mind you. Plus, of course we get crappy little trinket-y accessories to unpack and put out too. Each pair of earrings or keychain or ring is wrapped in its own little plastic bag and taped shut, and they all go together inside of a larger plastic bag that is taped shut and comes inside of a box that is taped shut inside of the big shipment box. There’s a lot of trash to take out.

As if enormous shipment weren’t enough, they had to do markdowns, a huge undertaking in itself and can take as long as two days between a staff of six: find products listed, pull it all off the floor, count and record each garment, HAND WRITE new prices on each and every tag—they can’t spring for a goddam pricegun?!—and place all the clothes on the floor that will fit, otherwise pack up the rest in boxes and bring to the off-site storage room, which, in the Megamall, is literally a quarter of a mile away. And THEN, to prepare for the corporate visit, each and every rack, sidebar, standout, 4-way, and gondola of clothing had to be put in order by size; all the shelves of pants had to be refolded to corporate specification, perfectly stocked, and in size order; the whole store needed to be thoroughly cleaned—another two hours of work that is just a big waste of time because in a matter of hours everything would be covered in dust anyway.

The mall is one huge dust factory. The dust comes from the fibers of the MILLIONS of garments housed in the mall. They just circulate and re-circulate through the air ducts, clogging the ventilation system and dropping whole dust bunnies that pile up in every corner of the building. The result is a definite, yet unsubstantiated Mall of America Syndrome which keeps the full time shopkeeps all across the mall sick. They think they’re just getting virus after virus, but it’s the dust and dust mites. I digress.

So there I was at 9:30 doing the most recent shipment of clothes and I’m listening to the two managers talking across the store to each other. What I sussed out was that the two of them had been staying over night till 4am both Sunday night and Monday night and enlisting the assistant manager’s beau to help without being paid. While the two of them were remerchandising walls and dressing mannequins, the assistant manager called her boyfriend and begged him for a straight ten minutes to come in and help again—for free of course. He kept saying no (I was thinking, “That’s right, guy, put your fuckin’ foot down”), but she started getting pissed so he caved and came in to clean. I guess he knows not to piss off a fat lady.

When I finished the shipment, I had to refold and re-merchandize about twenty four DOZEN pairs of pants with the other associate. When we finished that shit I called it quits. It was fucking half past midnight, my husband had been waiting out in the parking for me for half an hour with a clear view of two idiots fucking in a car, and the store was nowhere NEAR done. Clearly, this is not worth $7.00 per hour—$5.46 per hour after taxes.

I am totally quitting. Again.

Mullets Are the Shit!

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a "fascination" with mullets. So I am taking it as a good omen for my impending interview that I have received a random "good luck" comment from a man with a fantastic mullet. Even better, he is pictured all sweaty wearing a soccer uniform. This. Is. A. Sign. (Please please let it be a sign...)

In my twenties I managed the bakery department of a natural foods store and my little crew obliged my mullet obsession. I had mullet pictures all over our communication log and taped to the freezer unit. One girl even brought me a picture of herself with her arm slung over the shoulders of a very tall man with an uber-mullet. She said when she saw, him she thought of me. When she put that picture up on the freezer unit, it was my proudest moment as their leader. We were rogues in chef coats (that is, until I was asked to step down from the Team Lead position—not mullet-related).

Thanks Random Mullet Guy!

You Won't Fucking Believe It!

I finally got an interview!! And lucky me, it's for the job I want the most!!! Whoo... what am I going to wear? OMG!

"Screw You Guys...I'm Goin' Home."

Only Eric Cartman can properly capture the sentiment that I would like to express to my co-workers at my present temp assignment. Although, many of the people who work here would be APALLED at my use of the term "CO-Worker" to describe my relationship to them, because that might just suggest I am “on their level,” which I’m pretty sure would insult them.

For instance, the executive assistant to the president and management team is especially pernicious. We are the same height; there all similarities END. She is at approximately 40% of my weight (soaking wet), and she’s nervous and high-strung enough that I bet if I snuck up and startled her she’d pee a little in her black knitted tights. She has a short, severe haircut that is black and spikey, and she wears trendy expensive cat-eye-frame glasses. And she slouches. She does not smile. Whenever I pass her I greet her and give a little grin, but she just glances over at me without smiling, then eyes forward and continues on her little quick march.

And dear lord, is she defensive!! Last week the office manager took a vaca-day on Friday, so I shot her and email saying, “Who’s coming in at 8?” (to cover the early a.m. reception desk time), and this was her response, which I have cut-and-pasted directly to this posting: “I guess I am...but it would be nice to know a couple days out, because let's say I have other plans or whatnot. I sometimes go to the gym during that time.” I was like, whatever! Did I imply that I wouldn’t do it? So I wrote back, “I didn't mean for that to sound like a passive suggestion. Would you prefer to cover the front desk for the morning hour, or the evening hour? Also, how does your afternoon look for break coverage?” Heaven forbid I should ask a direct question.

Did I mention that she is NOT HELPFUL? Jeezis Criminey, she will squirm and fuss her twiggy ass off to get out of doing anything for someone else. How she managed to be anyone’s “assistant” is completely beyond me. It’s probably a status thing; me being the junior admin assistant temp, it’s probably beneath her to do anything for me. Case in point: yesterday a contract employee called in from home asking me to grab some things from his office so a courier could pick them up right away. The office manager was out of the office smoking or something, so, as my last resort, I had to call her. I asked if she would go in the guy’s office and grab a couple things, or watch the desk so I could do it.

Twiggy: “Well, where’s T****?”
Ms. Piggy: “She’s stepped out, will you help me?”
Twiggy: “[Sigh] Yeah, quick”
Ms. Piggy: “Do you want to watch the desk, or run to M***’s office?”
Twiggy: “Just tell me what you need from his office.”
Ms. Piggy: “There is a FedEx bag of lab coats, and a box of videotapes that someone is coming to pick up.”
One minute later…[phone rings]
Twiggy: “I can’t find the box, which one are you talking about, I don’t know where it is.”
Ms. Piggy: “I don’t know what it looks like. It’s a box of video tapes and a bag with lab coats in it. I think he said the box is under his desk.”
Twiggy: “oh, here are the lab coats.” [pause] “I found the box. It’s too heavy for me, I’m not going to hurt myself bringing it out.”
Ms. Piggy: “I think there is a cart somewhere—“
Twiggy: “No, I’m not going to carry it out and hurt myself.”
Ms. Piggy: “I’m not asking you to carry it. I’m pretty sure there is a cart here somewhere.”
Twiggy: “Well, get T**** to do it, I can’t help you.”
[Click.]

She didn’t even grab the godamm lab coats while she was already in there looking at them! WTF? I got T**** to help me when she came back, and what she brought up to the desk was a 12”x12”x15” box that weighed as much as a bowling ball. You have GOT to be kidding me. Crazy bitch.

Then again, maybe it has something to do with her short hair. She’s so skinny, she probably can’t hold up a hair dryer long enough to style some long hair. And anyway, all that extra weight added to her disproportionately large head might crush her dainty little pencil neck. Me, I got no neck, and I’m pretty much built like a Sherman tank, so I forget that some of these dinky peanut-sized people are just for looks and have no function, like 7” spike heels or silicone breasts.

Too Big to Ignore

I was eating lunch in the employee kitchen today and there was an issue of Us Weekly on the table so I flipped though it. It was lamer than anticipated, but what caught my attention was a segment about which stars admire which other stars. On page 76 of the September 4, 2006 issue, Lisa Rinna reveals that she admires Madonna’s “buff bod.” I looked at their photos side by side, and they look like a pair of female impersonators, like skinny men in drag. Is that what our popular culture has come to? That the slightest hint of womanly softness and suppleness is fat and ugly? That the pinnacle of feminine beauty is to look like an underfed, strung out man in a dress? Seriously, Madonna practically has an adam’s apple, and Rinna’s jaw line looks like it could split logs. Even cleavage has been cast out of the spotlight because the image of breasts touching looks fat or flabby. Make no mistake, big boobs are still “in,” but now they appear as hard, separated floating orbs, leaving exposed lumpy, bony sternums in lingerie ads, on the red carpet, and all along Rodeo Drive.

Our sisters of the seventies strapped on combat boots and stomped their happy asses out of their kitchens and right out into the street talking all kinds of craziness that no one wanted to deal with in contemporary civil discourse. They quit shaving and flipped the bird at the rigid standards of beauty. Because of them, women in the West now have a lot more flexibility in their dress, conduct, and demeanor.

As a direct result, the subject of beauty standards has been deconstructed to death in the last thirty-some years, which begs the question, WHY are women still such slaves to representation? I know it’s tough to just get over it, but really, let’s do already! Forgive me for speaking such heresy in “post-feminist” America, but it seems to me this phenomenon might have something to do with the “male gaze.” But not a male gaze in the traditional sense….

Now it is women who hold positions of power in fashion design and marketing, magazines, TV, and even smut publications. Oddly enough, it seems like the women in power are usurping the male gaze and wielding it against their sisters. Our popular culture is once again embracing strict ideals, but this time with a definite pornographic sensibility. Somehow this imagery is validated by the fact that women are choosing to produce and sell the images.

Now, we take it for granted that we can refuse to be manipulated by male dominated media representations, but we are caught off guard and are more easily swayed when we feel the pressure coming from other women. We are accustomed to, and less threatened by, women telling us what to wear, what interests to have, how to dress to please a man. The women executives who stand to gain financially are exploiting the trust that we women have with each other in our boys vs. girls world. Ironically, our male counterparts that were also raised on basic feminist tenets (“women are people, not things,” etc.) are now less likely to be as invested in the typical standards of beauty as the men of previous eras; the joke is on us.

The more serious question to consider is this: How can we stand against The Man as sisters, when The Man is a sister? Oprah Winfrey, self/fat-hating richest woman in the world; Christine Hefner, CEO of Playboy Enterprises; Kate White, Editor in Chief of Cosmo; etc. Have we reduced ourselves to madams and hoes? Or can we literally, as well as figuratively, bounce these images from the nucleus of our pop culture?

I like to think so. I am encouraged by the new laws imposed on fashion shows in Madrid, Spain in regard to the health of their models. An article published online from the International Herald Tribune, Europe, explains that Milan is eager to follow suit. Those quoted in the piece as opposing the law are Modeling agency owner Ricardo Gay, and chairman of the Italian National Chamber of Fashion Mario Boselli. Gay is upset because these laws would mean that 80% (!) of his fashion models would be eliminated, and Boselli was quoted as saying that nowadays, anorexic models are virtually non-existent. It is common knowledge that the majority of models are underweight, but now we’re supposed to believe that it is not due to eating disorders. Should we also believe that the world is flat, or that women ARE less intelligent than men?

It seems to me we haven’t come so far in our recovery from male dominance. Many times, when a woman has been mistreated, she attempts to gain control of her pain by continuing to reproduce it. This is what I see happening with the male gaze; women are striving to prove they are in control of it by gaining mastery over their bodies, whether through food restriction rituals, surgical procedures, or cosmetics. Then, when we don't see the results we want, we often despise or punish ourselves for “failing.”

Second Wave feminists have been criticized heavily for crying victimhood at the hands of patriarchy, and third wave feminists have a point about how we should instead take credit for how far we really have come compared to more repressive times in Western culture. But psychologically speaking, we are still operating under a victim mentality by choosing to victimize ourselves and other women. Instead of celebrating the demise of patriarchy as we formerly knew it, we’re holding a place at the table for it, just in case it storms in hungry wanting dinner.

We need more women like the ones in Spain—women in powerful positions choosing to make their world more woman friendly, instead of taking advantage of their positions to profit from our insecurities. It is not enough that we have “tough” women in the three branches of government, on television, and in the corporate boardrooms because, unfortunately, most of them are working for their own agenda to achieve status, power, fame, and money. What we need are more women who are willing to take responsibility for how we live as women, and for the legacy we pass on to our younger sisters. I strive toward this goal in everything I do. I have a voice. And I am too big to ignore.

I am probably the only person who can't tell these two apart...

They should be cast in a movie together as twin sisters. That movie will be known as the only twin movie where it is not just one actor playing two roles, and the only movie where the unrelated characters actually look convincingly alike. That's my two cents. I normally don't think about hollyweird celebs, much less write about them, but...

I am so fucking BORED!

You can’t know how glad I am that it’s Friday, and fifteen minutes to the end of my day. I have the whole weekend to myself because Hubby is working. There is a good chance that I will actually have time to work on putting together the new apartment. Ha! We’ve been there a month, and we’re still not finished. Am I putting you to sleep yet?? *Yawn*

Chicken Soup for the Smartypants' Soul

I miss being an undergrad. I miss it so much that I’m crashing classroom web logs attempting to engage in some kind of intellectual discourse. I heard that either you use it or lose it, and I would rather be shot in the head than be caught sitting around with the office barbies chit-chatting about American Idol or gossiping about Tom Cruise’s weird-looking baby.

Today I crashed a poli-sci class site and responded to a student who thought we all ought to be weighed against the same measure:
“I wanted to pose an idea this week, apart from the discussions we currently have going regarding education. Jacks and I were discussing the trend of education the other day and how it seems to lack structure.

For example, some schools and institutions rely heavily on the idea of "higher thought"; grades do not matter-the ideas you have are what matters. Other schools emphasize testing and preparation for one main goal in which you receive a steep grade.

Before i continue, this is not a complaint about any experience thus far at school, it really is something that makes me concerned. Education is what it implies....education. You take a course to learn. I am taking this course, for example, to gain knowledge and perspective on world politics. And yet, somewhere in the process, many students fall into the track of learning for grades. It is merely a repercussion of the pressures to succeed in this generation.

The entire idea of learning to learn has somehow vanished and it is falling on this generation and those that follow us to determine how we perceive education and its uses. If we are teaching to simply receive a score or performance review, then maybe every person should attend a vocational school where they can perform tasks they are simply good at. But, if we want to go and learn things we are interested in and do not already contain knowledge for, we must figure out how to administer a general performance analysis. Does anyone have thoughts on this? I have just been thinking about it and it really interests me.”

So I said, “As good-natured as it may sound, developing and implementing one ‘general performance analysis’ is just another way of attempting to homogenize curricula and the process of learning. What you and your acquaintance noted is not a ‘lack’ of structure or anything else, but actually is the result of the diversification of education that encompasses different ways of teaching, thinking, and learning.

Redundant though it may sound, we are all different. We all have different motives in seeking an education, and we are motivated by different kinds of rewards.

To deconstruct your concept, you have said that ‘Education’ (with a capital E) has some specific set of implications, and that the term itself reflects those implications. Sort of a closed loop of coded language that becomes meaningless without context.

I think your suggestion is treading along dangerous waters, as is any suggestion that there should be but one way to experience a thing for consistency's sake or "the greater good."

Certainly none of us has experienced all that there is to see, feel, taste, hear, or touch, which is what makes life so rich. Maybe you don't like the sensation of chewing scrambled eggs, but surely you wouldn't campaign to keep others from enjoying their scrambles eggs. I'm sure you are sincere about your concerns for the state of ‘Education,’ but I think it wise to stick with creating and participating in your own educational experience, without sacrificing or diminishing the value of the educational experiences that others are fostering for themselves or for their students.”

A little rusty, but not too bad, I don’t think.

As many of you know, I like to write. I have been journaling and writing bad cathartic poetry and short non-fiction bits for years and years. One day I would like to be paid for it, but for now I am answering the phone at an advertising agency. My online journal is my only lifeline to myself right now. When I was at the University, I looked forward to graduating and the opportunities that were supposed to be waiting for me as a college graduate.

But alas, you all know the story. The mall, the temp service, the 200 jobs I applied for, the poverty level income, the one interview I went on. I recently read no less than three articles describing this phenomenon as a growing trend in the job market; the devaluation of the Bachelor of Liberal Arts degree. But as a graduate from the Women’s Studies department, I am determined to not let The Man keep me down. I WILL get a job where I can use my degree AND my intellect (before it evaporates like so much Chicken Soup for the Soul), mark my words!

Cha-ching You Long Time

Men are stupid. And selfish. I realize I’m generalizing, but I’m not very PC and you’ll get over it. What I’m trying to say is that my husband pisses me off. He can be sooo sweeeet—when he WANTS SOMETHING.

We’ve been fighting a lot lately and we’re trying to get along, so I scratched his back for about a half hour while we were sitting around watching TV. When I was done, I asked for a foot rub and he squeezed each foot like you would squeeze a fruit quick to see if it’s ripe while hurrying through the fruit section at the grocer on the way home from work. Then he says, “I’m too tired, I’m going to bed.” That was three days ago, and still nothing. Since then I have given him money, cooked him food, bought us pizza, and cleaned. Do ya THINK he could have given back a little? No, he’s still too tired. He wanted to cuddle the last two nights, so I let him cuddle my knees and elbows until he finally gave up. Last night I even slept under a different blanket.

He hasn’t even kissed me for like a week or two, and next time we decide to be intimate, he’s going to whine that I don’t give him what he really wants. Well, that’s just too fuckin’ bad, isn’t it? Maybe you’ll think about that next time I ask for some affection, jerk. But he won’t. He has some kind of, like, relationship amnesia or something. He forgets why I’m pissed off, and is genuinely offended when I remind him why. You see, I’m supposed to just get over it and not hold a grudge; I’m being petty. He doesn’t understand that he makes me feel like an ATM with a glory hole!!!

Money Changes Everything: I Would Like Some

Ugh, what a rough weekend. I am a basket case, but that’s a subject for another blog…

I am at work on five hours of sleep and I am about to give Jimmy John my very last seven dollars. I am so tired of being broke.

My husband and I like to pretend that we have a different income than we actually do when it comes to necessities. We can’t afford his employer’s healthcare plan at a whopping $140.00 PER CHECK, but we’re signing up anyway. We also cannot afford to lease his parent’s minivan at $100.00 per month, or insure it and gas it at who-knows-how-much per month but we’re going to do that anyway too. So much for getting a land line phone or cable or internet. Thank goodness for hubby’s laptop and free wi-fi at the price of a cup of raunchy coffee!

Needless to say, we are both going to have to get second jobs, but at least we’ll finally have a vehicle to get us around. Well, kind of anyway—it’s tough to share a vehicle between two people who have a combined total of four jobs. I guess we’ll see how that goes. I have a feeling I will still be on metro transit’s shit hole on wheels.

Oop—there goes my last seven dollars. This sandwich better be good!

What. A. Bitch!

Want to hear something funny? A woman from a headhunting agency called me and I got her all riled up. She described a management trainee position to me, one that required two weeks’ training out of state. I asked what company it was with, and she refused to disclose the information. So then I asked her what kind of staffing agency it was, do the companies pay for the service, or the candidates? She replied that the agency was "full service" where some jobs are one way, some the other. But I have met with an agency like that before, and NONE of the jobs are paid by the companies--I mean, really, what company would, if given the choice?

After I told her that as a rule, I refuse to give anyone money to get a job, she told me that I've been out of school too long to start something new, and that the longer I am out of school, the less valuable my degree becomes. She said that there are no jobs in editing and writing, and that she bets that if she calls me in six months that I won't have landed a job in that field, but that she knows I won't admit it. She added that she wouldn't hire me anyway because it's clear that I lack direction (because I took 15 months to decide whether to go to grad school and what career track I want to pursue) and because I am not flexible (because I will not fork over--literally-- thousands of dollars to get a job that I might not even like)!

Huh. The minute I land a writing or editing position, I am going to send her my business card or a copy of a job-offer letter (Rule #1: get it in writing) with a note attached that says, "You. Were. Wrong."

Ugh, Monday.

It’s Monday again. It’s fucking cold and grimy and cranky outside. My weekend was real decent so I will make an attempt at thinking happy thoughts despite the shitty weather and it being Monday. I saw a great band on Friday night. Well, it was actually a soloist playing with a couple different groups. It was the CD release show for Javier Trejo.

See, way back this past May sometime, my man and I were like, “Whatever happened to Zack de la Roca?” (lead singer for Rage Against the Machine). So we Googled him and came up with a little bit of information about his whereabouts and his current projects, listened to some bites, and followed some links to other musicians. One of the musicians that we liked enough to jot down was Javier Trejo. We went looking for a CD a couple times, but came up with nothing. Obviously it wasn’t released yet.

It was Friday after work that I picked up a City Pages to see what was going on in town and noticed the ad for Javier Trejo, so I called the hubby right away and said, “Dude! We are totally going!” But upon closer inspection, I noticed that this Javier Trejo was being followed up by the Beads. Then it dawned on me that I know the guy! Not like best buds or anything, but he has been fronting the Beads for forever, and I used to see them every Monday (or was it Tuesday?) at the Terminal Bar during my wild years.

Anyway, the show was even better than I had anticipated. Each set was different, and it was all amazing. First up was Javier doing some quiet, lounge-y, Latin-flavored Grateful Dead-influenced blues, just he and his guitar. Very nice, I got the CD. Then he followed it playing with the New Primitives—hands-down my favorite part of the night because I am a percussion junkie. They are an Afro-Cuban group with a really full, tight sound.

After that, Javier was up there with 2 guys doing a sort of a country-western set, and for one of the songs he was doing a kind of Arlo Guthrie bit that was hilarious. There were some songs with Spanish lyrics, a guest vocalist, and the Beads played. There was so much going on that night that I can’t describe it all, but these were my favorite parts.

I hope to go see the New Primitives some Thursday night soon before their stint is up. They are playing every Thursday at the Cabooze through October, maybe longer, I didn’t look. I know it seems like a lot of opportunities to see them, but I’m not much for going out on weeknights, and neither is my husband. But I can see myself making a special exception or two in this case.

Can't Get Enough of These!

Romeo and Juliet

But, soft! what homeboy through yonder lazy bum lays around?
It is the jerk, and Juliet is the TV.
forget, fair booty, and piss and moan the bitchy dill hole,
Who is already a monkey and a flamer with the lawn jockey,
That thou her burnout art far more fried-out than she:
Be not her shit heap, since she is smarmy;
Her wee-taw-did ass-face is but funky-ass and bee-ahtch
And none but thugs do clock it; knock it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my block!
O, that she knew she were!
She hassles yet she gets on nothing: what of that?
Her pony ride discourses; I will dick around it.

I Am Going to Get You....

Mad Libs!

We The People...

We the assholes of the United States, in order to jam a more perfect heavy metal, establish rude boys, insure hep tranquility, provide for the common manglers, promote the general boot, and eighty six the blessings of hemorrhoids, to ourselves and our blaster rays, do ordain and be-bop this constitution for the United States of America.

Mad Libs!

Think different

Here’s to the creepy ones, the fuckers, the hairballs, the jerks.
The swampy pegs in the rank holes.
The ones who hump things differently.
They’re not fond of jumper cables, and they have no dickweed for the status quo.
You can ram them, vamp with them, gobble them, dunk or wipe them.
About the only thing you can't do is snort them.
Because they grunt hamburgers.
They erupt. They explode. They snog.
They flip. They urp. They bark.
They snoodle the noodle forward.
Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you launch at an empty lunch and see a work of frog?
Or sit in an oven mitt and mug an old bag that’s never been dashed?
Or leap at a red garbage and see a wad on wheels?
We make plums for these kinds of people.
While some may see them as the bananas, we see peach.
Because the ones who are spiney enough to change the fuzz, are the ones who smash.

Job Searching is a Full Time Job. Why Aren't I Getting Paid?!

I am thoroughly exhausted. I have been working on the same resume and cover letter for two full days. I have asked two different people to critique, and while it IS really helpful, I keep feeling like they are never going to be good enough to send out.

I thought I had tailored my resume enough, but I have not. My work experience is all in there, but I am learning how to make what I've done sound exactly like what the job description is asking for. Close is not good enough. If they want someone who knows how to TOW-MAY-TOW, you can't say that you know how to TOE-MAH-TOE. I thought I had a powerful cover letter, but it turns out that my language smacks of overcompensation.

There is no way to know what they want, either. The only way I learned what I was doing wrong this week is that I have 1.) an in-law who does the work I am trying to establish a career in, and 2.) a family friend who works for the entity that I am applying to. It’s kind of funny trying to satisfy both critiquers; there is one part of my cover letter that person number 2 keeps deleting that person number 1 insists I should leave in. I think I will take person number 2’s word as the last because she is the one who is working where I want to work.

Which leads into the importance of SUBTEXT. If I want to be an editor, I cannot, under any circumstances, have any errors in my resume or cover—they must be impeccable. And if I say I am organized, my formats must be visually and logically organized. My cover and resume must be mirrors of each other in terms of subject order and flow of ideas. I am under a lot of pressure here. When I do finally get a job, it had better be worth the effort!

Yum

Don't Quit Your Day Job

…that is, if you even have one.

Since I graduated from the university in May of 2005, I have applied for nearly 200 jobs and in return I got ONE interview and half a dozen post cards that stated, "Dear (Name): Thank you for your interest in our company...Unfortunately, your qualifications do not match our current needs...." Meanwhile, I have been temping for the last seven months since I left the mall.

My first assignment was temp-to-hire at a wealth planning firm that deals heavily in life insurance (getting the clients insured and then selling those policies for cash in the “secondary market” two years later). I was told I would be a receptionist, but I took on as many extra projects as possible because I just wanted to get hired somewhere—anywhere. I ended up tackling several major data entry projects and even going after reimbursements for the company.

I started there in the beginning of February and within 3 weeks, the rest of the staff wanted me to stay around. I was really flattered so I made a casual inquiry and was told by the independent contractor who was the liaison between the firm and my agency that I should submit my resume. I went one step farther and submitted my resume along with a letter of interest to the liaison, Mike, and the President/CEO of the firm. This was in late April. By August, I had followed up four times, having had to re-submit my resume because he lost it. Each time I was given the brush-off, “Uh yeah, you just let me know when you move. I don’t want to hire you until you’re settled because I want to make sure you can get here.”

During this whole time, Mike continued to recruit, advertise the open position in college newspapers, and interview for the position that I expressed interest in. Each lawn jockey that came in for an interview was white, male, very young, wealthy, and conservative. I joked with the staff members that were in support of hiring me that maybe the qualifications for the job were that the ideal candidate must have a penis and vote republican, and clearly I was unqualified.

By now I was getting frustrated because my rate of pay was commensurate with sitting on my ass and answering phones while playing computer solitaire, and the work I was actually doing would normally be paid much more. I made one final push (more like a shove) to get him to take me seriously.

I asked Mike if he would be willing to meet with me to discuss the status of my application and to go over some expectations, and I forwarded the email to my contact at the temp agency as well. He never mentioned that he got my email, and I had to go to him once again and ask if he read my email, and if so, would he meet with me. He submitted to my request, but looked like someone who has been cornered at a party by a previous one night stand whose phone number he threw away.

I brought in my resume, and he sat down and looked it over as if for the first time. I was cordial of course, but I had to break it down for him. I told him that my impending move should not bear any importance because as it stood at the present time, I was spending two and a half hours on the bus each day to get there, and anywhere I move would be closer if I was offered a job. I explained to him that in the receptionist role, I was operating way below my capabilities and really wanted to do something more challenging and learn some new skills. I added that if I were offered a position as a receptionist, I would turn it down because I would not be able to meet my financial obligations at that rate of pay. He informed me that I was not qualified for the policy holder services position that he was recruiting for because I did not know enough about policy analysis and performance. I tried to push back with an assurance that I am a quick learner, and cited some of the nuances of the industry that I had already picked up, but I was stonewalled.

My last hope was the other open position for an underwriting assistant, but Mike said he wasn’t ready to move on it for another four to six weeks, and then he would begin recruiting and advertising for resume submissions and I would be included in the pool of candidates. I was roiling in disbelief! Apparently he is unfamiliar with the conventions of the “Temp-to-Hire” agreement, which is that the duration of time working serves as a probationary period in lieu of an interview, and that if the employee is adequate, the company hires said temp. He was suggesting that I still needed to measure up against all the graduates just coming out of school into the workforce. Mind you, I have a fucking degree, plus fifteen years of work experience with nine of those in supervisory and managerial positions! And I am not qualified to fill out insurance forms and fax medical record requests?

Mike concluded the meeting by calling me “hon.”

At that moment, I saw RED. Then my mind quietly closed the door on the idea of working there permanently with a soft, yet satisfying, CLICK. I called my home office to let them know that I was again brushed aside, and said that his calling me “hon” made it clear that he did not take me seriously, so I would like to pursue some other opportunity. This was a good hunch, because as it turned out, Mike began to remind me consistently to offer clients a beverage. He did this in the presence of each client, and not five seconds after I had already offered them something to drink. And in six months, I had never forgotten to do so in the first place.

I went back and forth with the temp agency trying to convince them that a job offer was not forthcoming, and they kept going back to Mike and hearing, "Oh we're just not ready yet, I can't make any promises, we're looking into it..." and they wouldn’t make a move. They kept telling me to be patient, sit tight, see what happens. But the end of our rental agreement was fast approaching.

On principle, I refused to look for an apartment close to this firm without a solid job offer because the distance between my husband's place of work and their office was nearly impossible to navigate. They are about 15 or 20 miles apart with inner-city spanning the entire stretch between. There is no express mass transit that goes the entire distance, and it ends up to be an hour and a half from one point to the other. It was either live by my work, or live by his because we are not willing to tolerate living in the neighborhoods at the half way mark.

So we decided, fuck it then. Let’s just find someplace cute and cheap in a decent neighborhood. The place we found was great: well maintained and affordable in a quiet area, but very close to the hubby’s work. Because of the hellish commute, I was finally able to convince the agency to put in my notice and find me a new assignment.

Coincidentally, as soon as my agency informed Mike that I was leaving, applications flooded in for the underwriting assistant position, and someone was hired for the policy services assistant. The gals in the office shared some of the resumes they received, and they were terrible! I mean BAD, as in how could these college grad applicants not know that they shouldn’t use “pedialyte@yahoo” for their professional email, or list as their experience two jobs that lasted less than a month each. And the person they actually hired? Male, 22, and out of school for 3 months—yet somehow is more qualified than I to provide service to policy holders. I was really glad at that point to be leaving, and taking my professional resume and outstanding work history with me.

Two people even sent me e-greetings on my last day, one of which said she would miss having a “personality” like mine around the office. At four o’clock that day, the President/CEO approached me in the copy room and told me that he just found out that it was my last day, and I had an unprofessional moment, “You have GOT to be kidding me!” Reproaching, I said, “I’m sorry, I am just surprised that Mike didn’t tell you.” He requested that I stay in touch, and said he was sorry it didn’t work out, maybe some future opportunities, blah blah. I told him I tried my best to get hired, but there wasn’t anything else I could do (except maybe beg and get low-balled, but I didn’t say so).

I had had such an aggravating experience there, and I couldn’t tell the CEO why I was really leaving because I don’t want to burn any bridges since that’s a real bad habit. But most of the staff knew why I was going. The CEO’s personal assistant knew how many times I applied and followed up. And the general counsel knew that I was not about to tolerate being referred to with the sarcastic term of endearment, “hon,” meant as a power play. In the end, I just blew smoke up Mike’s ass and told him I was leaving because, gee, our new apartment was just too far away, and it was too long of a commute to their office.

Loony At the Mall: An Exerpt from Real Life

[Curtain rises on a dark stage. Lights come up slowly revealing a small clothing shop in Anymall, U.S.A. At stage left stands a tired-looking young woman, stylishly dressed, behind a counter shuffling papers and running computer reports. The clock reads 8:00 p.m.

[Enter stage right, three people: an overweight seventeen year old girl dressed in a black velour track suit and scruffy, dirty hair. Next, her seventeen year old boyfriend wearing saggy jeans around his knees, long tee-shirt, and hair in braids poking off his head. Third, a frumpy woman in her early fifties, overweight, with short shaggy hair poorly dyed with highlights, giving the effect of a brindle-colored dog. She also has three days' growth of facial hair.]

Girl: [Flitting from rack to rack]...Yeah well it would be easier to shop if I weren't PREGNANT...[mumble, ad-lib]...y'know, 'cause I'm PREGNANT [blah blah] PREGNANT...
[Boy and Woman point out garments, give comments. Shopkeeper approaches.]
Shopkeeper: [Forced cheerfulness] Hi there! How are you all doing tonight?
Shoppers: [without looking at Shopkeeper] Fine, fine. We're looking...
Shopkeeper: Great, well if you need anything you just let me know.
Shoppers: Sure, ok.
[Shopkeeper resumes shuffling and organizing counter for a few moments. Girl is stage right, Boy and Woman stage left]
Woman: PSSST! [Urgent whisper] Hey, come over here I need your help. [Shopkeeper approaches.]
Shopkeeper: Yes, what can I do for you?
Woman: Quick, [Backing up into a display and knocking clothes off of their hangers.] I want to get this for my niece before she sees me. [Glances briefly at the mess without acknowledging it.] I want it to be a surprise.
[Shopkeeper bends down gathering sleep wear and begins to rehang.]
Shopkeeper: Oh, sure. What was it you wanted to get her?
Woman: This! [Pulls out a glitzy black negligee with red glitter hearts with matching sequined g-string panty.] What size does she wear?
Shopkeeper: Uh, I don't have any way of knowing--
Boy: [Interrupts] Forty two double "d." That's what she wears.
Woman: Oh yes, of course you would know. [To shopkeeper.] Ok, now bring it up to the register, I want to pay for it before she notices.
Shopkeeper: Ok, sure.
[Both walk to cash wrap counter, Boy goes over to distract Girl]
Woman: I'm buying this for my niece, that's my niece over there.
Shopkeeper: Oh?
Woman: Yeah, I met her once when she was three, and didn't see her again until TODAY. And I've never been to the Mall of America before either.
Shopkeeper: Oh, nice. Is she your brother's daughter, or your sister's?
Woman: No, she's my niece.
Shopkeeper: [Confused tone.] Yes...so is she your brother's daughter or your sister's?
Woman: Oh! She's my sister's, she sold her to some black people for heroin!
Shopkeeper: [Stunned silence.] Uhhhm, holy crap- [Discontinues eye contact.]
Woman: -Yeah, so I never saw her until today.
Shopkeeper: Uh, that'll be forty four dollars please.
[Woman presents a credit card.]
Shopkeeper: Can I see an ID?
Woman: Sure, here you go. [Passes over identification.]
Shopkeeper: [Studies identification, checks it against the credit card, and hands it back without looking at Woman.] Thanks. Ok, you're all set, would you like the receipt in the bag, or with you?
Woman: I'll take it.
Shopkeeper: Thanks, have a good night now. [Turns away and walks toward stage left.]
Woman: [Steps into Shopkeeper's path.] Didja see my watch?? [Hikes up coat sleeve to show the wristwatch.]
Shopkeeper: Nope, I didn't.
Woman: Isn't it nice?
Shopkeeper: Yeah, it's nice-
[Boy and Girl
Woman: I got it at Wal-Mart for nineteen ninety nine. It was supposed to be fifty two dollars but they marked it wrong and they had to give it to me for nineteen ninety nine because that's what it was marked as.
Shopkeeper: [Obviously annoyed] Good deal. Well, you guys have a nice night now.
[Woman, Girl, and Boy exit stage right. Lights go down.]
END.

Yeee-Haw!!!

I'm FREE!!! I no longer work full-time in the mall!!! The temp agency hooked me up with a full-time gig as a receptionist at a consulting firm that starts on Monday, which also means that I won't be out of work at all. I'll be 9-5, m-f, and I'll get to wear my new suits. I am so excited I could PEE! Picture me as a fat little Yorkshire Terrier and that's pretty much me right this moment. Today was my last shift as a manager and I have all weekend off, plus I wasn't scheduled at all next week (because it's going to take a bit for HQ to sort out my pay-rate change) so my boss bought me a cookie that was decorated like a little slice of cake and two of my favorite little dark chocolate raspberry jelly candies. I am JUBILANT! --Or just high on sugar, but either way...

Just When I Thought I Couldn't Take Any More

This week I felt like I just couldn't make it one more day. Every day felt like it took all my effort to get through and by the end of my shifts I was completely beat and physically sore as if I had been pushing a Volkswagon uphill. Then I came in to work Tuesday morning and of course the first thing I managed to do was break a goddamned mirror. Ironically enough, instead of feeling dread, I felt released. I thought, really, things couldn't get much worse--what with Pat being unemployed and me having put in my notice on a gamble with a temp agency and having just three and a half weeks to completely catch up on the rent or face eviction. It felt like the spell was broken in that moment, and I just might have seven years of good luck instead.

Wednesday I spoke with the landlord who is normally a raving diamond-studded bitch, but I must have caught her in an understanding mood because she didn't eat my face off through the phone from Boston, Mass. Maybe her personal assistant finally found the little man in the boat--whatever the case, I still live INdoors. Then at eight thirty this morning, my day off, a call came through from the staffing service to tell me they lined something up for me for this Monday. Magically, a few hours later, Pat was offered a job as well. We might make it after all!

As far as the mall is concerned, I have just ONE MORE shift as assistant manager, and I am praying I don't go out in a rain of fire.

Keep Counting

FIVE. MORE. DAYS. God help me...

I have had heartburn for several days running and antacids aren't helping. I have been having nightmares about work. For the past two days I have been feeling lightheaded at work and sick to my stomach like I'm in an elevator going up and down and up and down. Am I going to pass out?... No, not yet...whoo, uh-oh. Jeez, I think I'm anemic again. Every minute I am hoping that the universe will see fit to deliver me from this evil into a quiet office setting where I can function autonomously. Tomorrow I start harassing the agency to place me. Wish me luck.

The Countdown Continues

Oh god, I don't want to go to work tomorrow! Eight more days, eight more days....

one of the worst books I've ever read

One day last week I walked into Barnes and Nobles' "Women's Studies" section in search of some insightful reading to occupy my rides to and fro on the train, and I was having a difficult time choosing something. The bulk of the section is made up of schlocky woman-feely sister crap written by educated, white, upper-middle class women who tell other women how to connect to their woman-ness and talk about running with wolves and how the world used to be ruled by goddesses of peace or something. There are a few second-wave feminist gems, but I've read them, and mostly they are about body-image issues or are anti-porn (which I used to be, until I realized that I like some of it--unfortunately for me, this realization occurred while I was writing my anti-porn senior thesis at the university). I saw "Listen up! Voices From the Next Feminist Generation" but I've read bits of it, and mostly it is made up of coming to consciousness stories, and I just don't have that kind of patience.

The I saw a little blue book with an orange flower on the cover that would fit nicely into my tote to travel back and forth to work, and it had a title that would most likely ward off unwanted small talk from men AND women: "Cunt" by Inga Muscio. Cool! I flipped through it quick because I was running late getting back from lunch. I can pretty much tell you now that I am 50 pages in that it's a major disappointment. Already she has described each of her three abortions in graphic detail, the third one being of the "kinder, gentler" variety in which she explains that all she had to do was take certain herbs, get massaged by some woman who is not actually licensed to put her hands on people, and think about miscarrying every waking moment, or as she calls it, "imaging." Apparently this worked for her, and she was pleased to notice her embryo on the bathroom floor after eight days: "Me and my women friends did magic" (p.50). This actually made me ill and I'm pro-choice. Although, I guess when I argue that women should have the right to choose whether to carry a pregnancy to term, I am presuming that the getting pregnant part was a one-time accident. I also presumed that if medical abortions are what they are made out to be, that subsequently post-abortive women will then use greater precautions, not be so careless as to get pregnant and abort two more times!

Before that point Muscio went on and on about how great her menstrual blood is: we should save up our blood to feed to our house plants or use it to paint with. And we should all use sea sponges and keepers and cotton rags instead of giving our money to the man. I'm as eager to take down the man as anyone, but let's be realistic. I have actually used a keeper-type device and they're not at all what they're cracked up to be, and contrary to the little anecdote Muscio provides, coming out of a bathroom stall with a handful of some bloody device to wash off in the sink does NOT result in women bonding about being women together! And no, I am not ashamed about my menstrual fluids--I think being a woman this time of the month is pretty fuckin cool--for me it's a privacy thing. My menses is no one's fuckin business. Well, I guess it is NOW, isn't it? But at least I didn't paint with it.

Lastly (and probably leastly after all that) is the fact that she is an white upper-middle class college educated woman who has had opportunities in life. She has enough leisure time and money to live off of to write a book before she's even 30 (suggesting to me that she is not obligated to be paying back any student loans), and then somehow get it published. Then she uses this opportunity to make a mockery of herself! She continually uses hokey pseudo-urban slang like you would hear on bad primetime WB white melodramas in combination with intentionally poor grammar. It's a sad display all around.

But I guess her objectives are consistent with other feminists of her caliber, who are always looking for ways to be more "woman-identified," and on getting in touch with themselves as "women": looking at their vaginas in the mirror, pretending to be moon-worshipping lesbian pagans running with wolves and saving their periods up in mason jars for arts and crafts day. She and her cohorts needn't sully themselves with the gritty issues of race, class, gender, sexuality, globalization, and the "third-worldization" of America. They worry more about interjecting the most politically correct turns of phrase into conversations with each other over margaritas than about Ronaldo in the kitchen who has to scrub their lipstick off the rims of their glasses after they leave. Wealthy white feminists are concerned with the glass ceiling, but don't consider that their prestige granted them access in the first place. Self-exploration and woman-y bonding crap might be acceptable feminist exercises in some future society where no one is hungry, uneducated, un- or under-employed, and uninsured. But as it stands right this minute, my priorities lie in fighting my way out of this shit hole and bringing as many pissed off women with me as I can.

Final Countdown

I am in the final countdown to the end of my full-time employment HELL at the mall. 11 days to go, and then I will work 8-5 with weekends off temping around the city. I have acquired quite a taste for short-term gigs so adapting to new environments every couple of months is appealing. I will certainly be making more money--dare I say a living wage? In addition to this full-time venture I am going to keep my mall job and put in just 8 hours a week. This income will be spent solely on clothes until I have an adequate business wardrobe. Not a bad plan, if I do say so myself!

Surgical Anorexia

With much chagrin, I admit that I watch a lot of daytime television, but every once in a (very long) while, I find a little seedling of something interesting mucked in with the manure of Hollywood gossip and "baby daddy" DNA dramas. Dramatic weight loss bios on talk shows have always piqued my interest just because I am fascinated with the idea of "shedding" (the favorite term) the weight equivalent of two grown adults from a single skeletal structure. Mostly I am curious about logistical concepts like where do all the excess muscle tissue and blood vessels go? The human lymphatic and endocrine systems are amazing.

Anyway, in the past year or two, these stories have revolved less around the sheer triumph of the human will, and have focused instead on a horrifying quick fix: surgery! Gastric bypass is fast becoming a drive-through fix for fast-food consumers. I have seen many evening news programs with interviewees talking about having nearly died from this procedure. Mostly these people had submitted to the knife only because they were so morbidly obese that their health was failing, or their quality of life was miserable due to their inability to engage in even simple activities. In other words, their weight had taken them to the point of disability and near-death.

Gastric bypass surgery is a procedure that REMOVES most of the stomach as a way to restrict caloric intake and force the body to burn its stored reserves. Successful patients are committed to life-long strict dietary management, and any mistake or trouble healing can be life threatening, resulting in serious problems.

I have lately been astonished and horrified at some womens’ flippant attitude toward this procedure. I recently worked in plus-size women's retail and the atmosphere there is very young, hip, and fat-positive. The associates and management are “fat fashionistas,” and many of the store employees are even cuter than the corporate models and did their best to try to pump up the clientele as well.

However, some people cannot be reached. I was helping a woman in the store one day who I presumed to be a complete stranger, until I was running her credit card. She turned out to be an old friend of my mom's who had lost a significant amount of weight--160 pounds. I exclaimed, "Holy shit, how did you do it!?" Her response: "Oh, I got that surgery. It's great!" It did not look great ladies and gentlemen. Her skin was hanging in deflated flaps from her chin, waist, and hips. I can only imagine what her arms and legs must have looked like.

A few days later a different woman returned a sweater. She changed her mind, which is sufficient reason, but people are generally driven to give too much information: "Yeah, because, well I'm going in to have that surgery so this won't fit me in a while anyhow." O.k., nice to know... But then I took a better look at her and this woman was smaller than me, and I'm a solid size 20! She was a plus size, sure, but nothing a committed exercise regimen can't cure. "Morbidly obese"? NO.

Then a few days after that, I had just about had it. I was talking with a candidate for a sales associate position and she mentioned she had been out of work for a while due to complications of having had gastric bypass. This woman was the same size as me. She gotten a septic infection from leakage and ended up IN A COMA. I wanted to ask, “Was it worth almost dying?”

I wonder who these hack doctors are that are letting just anyone undergo these procedures. They should have their licenses revoked. In the cases I am talking about, the risks of the surgery far outweighed the risks of the patients maintaining their current state of health. NONE of these women needed a little go-cart chair to get around the grocery store. All were perfectly capable of climbing a flight of stairs, and probably could fit comfortably into movie theater seats.

As far as I am concerned, the bypass is merely surgically induced anorexia. The patient is restricted to eating portions of only THREE OUNCES of food at a time. That’s like 1/4 cup of food! Caloric restriction on that scale puts the body into starvation mode, becoming more efficient by storing fat calories and burning muscle. What it going to happen to these women in the long run as their bodies try to become accustomed to so few calories?

No, forget about that. Because what this is about is what’s going through a woman’s mind when she’s sitting on the operating table in her hospital gown signing a waiver on her life: when it comes down to it, she--and millions of others across the country--WOULD RATHER DIE THAN LOOK LIKE ME. Call me narcissistic if you like, but there are times when my resistance is worn thin and I take it personally. I get pissed.

Obviously, I am no decathlon-er either, but someone like me can still get out and exercise—shit, I can even jog a 5K (albeit pretty slowly). I've got rolls where I'd rather not, legs like tree trunks, and stretch marks. BUT I LEAD A FULL LIFE. I surround myself with people who love me, and I respect myself. I cannot comprehend how someone in my weight class could gamble with their life over some extra fat. The very idea that so many women starve themselves, puke after every meal, take prescribed or illicit drugs that wreck their hearts, even go under the knife rather than look like me, is completely absurd. I just want to say, “You know what sister? Get over it.”

Life at the Mall

Holy shit, I work at the mall. I never thought this would happen to me. I worked my ass off supporting myself through college, with no help whatsoever, and so far my Bachelor's has earned me a lower-management job in a clothing store. And it's a bona-fide degree--I did not take a correspondence course or send money to a website or go to a tech school. I attended an accredited, top-ten university and my program was prestigious, even if my field of study wasn't that popular. I have applied to over 150 jobs, as I've mentioned before. I am not just a little disappointed, I am outright disillusioned. I am close to being bitter, but I am cursed with an irrational optimism that is the emotional equivalent to the little inflatable arm tubes kids use in the swimming pool. But that doesn't mean that I don't have days when I want to throw myself off the fourth floor balcony into the rotunda.

Women walk into my store every day and behave like complete assholes. They come in, and I greet them genuinely. They try to ignore me but my ego won't stand for it, so I make sure to get right into their space, make eye contact and beam out the warmest smile I can muster while trying to make some small talk (all this is actually required as stated in the training handbook). The reactions are mixed, some women really are just sleepwalking through the mall and are so sick of shopping that they don't even see who or what's in front of them. Other women get pissy and are uncomfortable with my lack of subordination. As far as I'm concerned, this is MY store; just like when you walk into someone's home, you acknowledge your host in a friendly manner.

I get herds of middle-aged white women that get shipped in from out-state, small towns who walk in and look around sneering the whole time. Instead of just getting the fuck out of my store and heading over to Sears and Roebuck to pick out a nice puff-paint-decorated sweatshirt and matching dickey, they travel around and around the store groaning and sneering while pulling the shit off the hangers and throwing it over the racks every two feet. It usually takes them 20-30 minutes to leave, during which time I follow them around cleaning up after them in the most obvious fashion possible without using the sigh-and-eye-roll routine. Instead I take the direct approach and tell them what great/flattering/fashionable pieces they are picking out (although they are actually just tossing things to and fro). Mind you, this did not just happen a couple of times, this is a legitimate phenomenon, and anytime any of us hears, "Oh yahhh, we came in together on the bus," we know we are in for a rough weekend. But I have to give them credit, at least for their hygiene...

A good percentage of the Super-Sized women who shop in my store just fucking REEK. I am not talking hippy-in-the-vw-vanagon funk. This smell is something otherworldly, yet consistent from person to person. Imagine a stinky twat mingled with long-unwashed feet shoved into a buttcrack and left to rot in a dark closet. Women walk into the fitting room, disrobe, and unleash HELL ON EARTH. You can almost see the fumes pouring out of the fitting room area, many of us have been forced to evacuate, sometimes gagging. One woman forced the evacuation of the entire store!!! People streamed straight out of the store exclaiming, "Oh MAN! What stinks?!" And, "Whoo, does it always smell this bad in here? What IS that??" The whole time we were apologizing profusely and trying to signal nonverbally what the origin of the stink was. Sometimes, though, a person comes along who doesn't even need to disrobe to emanate putrescense!

Then there are those shoppers who came out from under their rocks for their special trip to our store, lucky us. They trample in cussing and smacking at their crying, dirty children. Their husbands and boyfriends stare lecherously at our breasts and make inappropriate comments or requests. Sometimes when the women come to me for assistance I look at them frozen in horror at what is going on inside their mouths. They are often looking for "a sexy outfit for the club" but it seems to me that the obvious answer would be to NOT spend $150 on a new outfit and spend it instead getting those teeth fixed. "You're seriously complaining to me that I don't have jeans that exactly match this jacket, when half your teeth have rotted right out of your head?" Where are people's priorities??

I'm one to talk! I blow a good portion of my paycheck on things that are not necessities when I have bills to pay, and I haven't been to the dentist for like ten years. It is only by the grace of God that my teeth are in good condition--but for how long? I haven't gone because I can't afford it without insurance. My job only covers me for medical, barely. And what if my boyfriend knocks me up and then heads out of town and I think I can make it on my own so I decide against an abortion, only to find that my low-paying job does not have maternity leave. Then I got a baby, no job, and post-pregnancy calcium deficiency that wrecks my teeth. I'll be pissed off, maybe resent my child. I'll buy sexy outfits and hope to hook up with some dude to help pay the bills around my place. Is this how it happens? I think I am so strongly put-off by these people because I can see how easily it could be me. Shit, some of these people are fucking family.

So what to do? I've decided it's time to move on from the mall. I am headed off up the chain to the pink collar workforce where a whole new world of annoying adventures awaits me, but for a couple bucks more an hour and better benefits. It may be just a case of "out of the frying pan and into the fire" but I won't know until I try, right?

Regular

I never used to watch television. I had a really crappy TV so I would just go to friends' houses and watch movies, and at home I would read and listen to music or do some kind of crafty project. I would journal, go out for coffee in the afternoon, walk around aimlessly. At night I would go to the bar--sometimes with a friend, sometimes by myself. I would get shitfaced drunk and walk home through the alleys in case I had to pee. Sometimes I wouldn't go back to my home, sometimes I would go home, but not alone. Other times I would go home alone and then call someone for company. Mostly I was drunk and slutty.

Now I drink coffee in the morning before work, I read on the train, I listen to music while I do the dishes, I do crafts with my girlfriends, and walk to get myself around. If it is absolutely necessary, I pee at the gas station. I sleep in my own bed every night, make love only with my boyfriend. And I watch TV on my days off.

I never used to think I would be a regular person--the kind that just watches TV and has a regular boyfriend. I was pretty sure I would end up a barfly, hanging on men half my age. I would be a joke, but not funny. The crotch of my hosiery would sink down below the hem of my miniskirt by last call. I was off to a good start: I slept with friends of my ex-boyfriend, I slept with ex-boyfriends of my friends, I slept with guys who had girlfriends. During one year I even had dated three murderers. Being a regular person was completely outside the realm of possibility.

But at some point I got sick of seeing new people all the time and worrying that I'd forget their name. I got sick of going to work half drunk in the morning and dry heaving before breakfast. I was tired of feeling vaguely guilty every minute of the day, and of occasionally peeing down my leg. I really wanted to just be regular, even if it was boring. After a sort of twilight zone period between those days and these days, I've found that it's really kind of nice, being regular, middle-of-the-road. I'm not a corpse, but I'm not a joke that makes people sad. If I ever miss my old life, I can always just watch TV.

Back to the beginning.

I hate January. Our culture views this as a time to start fresh, make resolutions to become better people--or at least engage in some premeditated narcissism. I, on the other hand, hate it because I can't seem to stop myself from being optimistic, "This year will be better than last year; it just can't get any worse." But as the year grows stale and rancid, my hopes inevitably face a slow and painful demise.

I am trapped in this hideous cycle and I am powerless over the passage of time. Why do I always feel like time is running out? When is the deadline? And what exactly am I supposed to have accomplished? It's like being stuck in traffic, but as a permanent state. I have heartburn all the time. I'm not getting enough sleep.

Patrick is reassuring for the most part, but sometimes we feed off of each other and end up insulating ourselves in this cucoon of self-righteous indignation with our us-versus-them dialogue. Basically everyone sucks and it's not our fault. Sometimes we drive around the wealthy western suburbs (when we borrow his dad's truck) and peer in at the multi-million dollar estates and wonder about what one must have to do to make such an obscene amount of money. We can't fathom even earning a living wage from our perspective of a combined income of a meager $26,000 per year. I feel like I'm drowning slowly.

I was the first in my entire family to go to college. It took me ten years to finally graduate, and for what? I have applied to over 150 entry level jobs since May and had one interview. I had to settle for a part-time lower management position in a mall "for the time being" but each month I stay there I fall further and further behind on the rent and all my bills. My home phone was shut off because I couldn't pay the bill--I bought a blazer, slacks, dress shoes and a briefcase-looking bag for that interview instead.

When does it get easier? I have floated at the poverty level my whole life and I always heard that education is the key to gainful employment. So when do I stop struggling?

testes, testes...

One, two...three?