Rock Haus

Always keep your stockings straight...

See in the last entry where I said with a fair amount of certainty that I would get hired at temp gig? Well THAT boys and girls, is what we call *jinxing*. Say it with me: JINX-ING. Not gonna happen, nope, friday I was jettisoned, no really good reason given, M, my boss over there was v. apologetic and said she wanted very much to hire me but that they had decided to halt the hiring process for that position to revisit the job description blah blah blah. She gave me her card and promised a shining reference. I hear from my agency today that aparently they wanted someone "more corporate". Frankly since I was there for so long, I think this smacks slightly of bullshit, but whatever, I can accept this, I'm not corporate, I can only fake it so much, and I'd be more offended if it was a comment on my ability to do the job, so it rolled right off  (although I *will* say I'd prefer they hadn't led me on for so goddam long) J. my chick at the temp agency however,  was PISSED (at them not me) and has vowed to have me back to work by next week. Thank god I found the one temp agency chick who rather than being another of the hundreds of Kate Spade bag toting trixies that one normally encounters at temp agencies, is instead a tattoo hiding art school ex-pat.

Moving on...

Have been spending my sudden windfall of free time ferrying stuff over to the new apartment. (Reader: you mean that new apartment that technically you can no longer afford?" Miss Lis: "yes, shut the fuck up") I have the movers coming on friday for the furniture and the stuff I deemed too heavy to move myself. I can't wait. My old apartment has become a chore to be in, messy and chaotic, full of boxes. I've been telling people my feelings for my apartment were similar to those one might have for a boyfriend that you know you're gonna break up with but you keep him around so you don't have to be single for the holidays...my feelings have now escalated to where I now thoroughly detest said boyfriend and can often be found standing over him  as he sleeps with a pillow poised over his face thinking "It would just be SO easy"*

So yeah, that's where I am now...had a fun weekend, Miss Sarah treated me to concilliatory "sorry your temp job fucked you" beers, I ended up being a dirty stayout, closing the bar and continuing the evening at a friends house...not generally my style but it was a cheap excuse to hang out with someone else for whom I foster an entirely inapropriate fondness. So I slept for an hour and then headed off to the saturday gig at The Mart. As a result of getting no sleep the rest of the day was a waste, and sunday was spent carting stuff over to the new place, and working, followed by drinkies at L&L.

OH! And on the way home from L&L I was propositioned!. I stayed out too late for the El and had to take the Clark bus, as I was walking home on Lawrence, I passed this old guy and as I passed him I *thought* I heard him say something about a date but just ignored it and kept on moving. I stopped at the Dunkins to grab a bagel and when I came out he was STANDING THERE WAITING FOR ME. As I came out he said "Baby you lookin for a date?". I muttered something tantamount to suggesting he could take care of things himself and went on my way. I know, I know, with my newly dire financial situation perhaps I shouldn't have been so capricious with my refusal, but I was tired.

Aside from that....well, after several weeks of having no internet access, Mr and Mrs Bridget unearthed a modem they weren't using, *hopefully* I can get that going tomorrow....

So that's all she wrote....

*I've never actually done this, and only a couple have actually made me consider it...if you'e reading this and thinking I might mean you, you're probably right...

To update

Living in a maze of boxes sucks ass. If I had more whimsy perhaps I could build a fort or something. But I don't. So it effing sucks.

Melatonin pills are the greatest thing on earth. Sominex can suck it (although I wouldn't say no to a vicodin if anybody's offering)

I went to a St. Pats party at the Fixx. Here are some pictures. I drank too much wine and was all about rubbing Matt's head and Corey's shoulders...then of course there were the Ron cuddles...but there are ALWAYS Ron cuddles (which by the way I highly reccomend, Ron smells *wonderful*) It would seem wine has the same touchy feely effect on me as tequilla, just not quite so slutty.

Remember this incident? Probably not, but I do. See where I say if that happens again I'll have to move? yeah. I'm more than a little disgusted with myself for being such a hopless simpering chick in the face of one hulking great big cockroach, but seriously, it was a big fucker. BIG. Glad I'm already moving.

I'm still working between 55 and 65 hours a week and it still blows goats but until such time that they see fit to hire me at this place, it's gonna be my life. Fortunately the night gig and satrday gig are tantamount to paid sitting, and require little thought or effort above and beyond the initial getting there on time. It looks like I WILL be hired, just gonna be another month before it happens, which really gets up my nose but I've invested this much time being an obsequious suck up, it would be foolish to bail now.

Above you see one of a series of angsty drawings (okay, to call them drawings is a bit grand, doodles then) I did them in 1993, the month or so after I was sprung from the hospital after suffering what they believed to be a minor stroke. Going through all my stuff as I pack to move I came across these and a bunch of other stuff from that time. I may do something with it...I may not, but for whatever reason I was compelled to share, so I did. Lucky you.

Aside from that, I really need to stop playing the "lets overthink every little fucking thing and and over analyzing every meaningless minutia" game and just fucking get over it. Seriously. Now. Just fucking stop it. Crazy bitch.

Anatomy of a nervous breakdown

There's 168 hours in a week.

Here's how my week breaks down:

dayjob - 37.5 hours
lunchbreaks - 2.5 hours (I could take a full hour but I'd rather have the cash)
night job - 24 hours (usually 21 but thanks to casino royale being so friggin long i'm working a half hour later every night this week)
saturday job - 5 hours
commuting to and from all 3 jobs - 14 hours
sleep - 45 hours (this is extremely generous and really is more representative of a split 38 hours of sleep/7 hours of laying in bed fretting about things I can't control at 1 in the morning)
time between jobs generally spent changng, taking a shower, making dinner, occasionally squeezing in a 20 minute power nap - 9
getting up and getting ready for work every day - 5 hours
post work wind down take shower make lunch sort out what i'm wearing the next day do dishes/clean something, and try to relax enough to go to bed time (mon-thurs) - 8 hours
weekend hooliganing/socializing - 6 hours
Time I should spend on sunday cleaning, packing, doing laundry etc (at a minimum) - 6 hours
Snuggles with wee tiny princess - 1 hour

Clocking in at a cumulative 163 hours, leaving me a whacking FIVE HOURS of *me* time.

Normally I would take a couple of nights off but I'm losing 3 nights next week due to shows.

Considering it's only Tuesday I should stop being such a friggin baby.

To update on the carbuncle situation,  it went just as quickly as it came - had I not slammed it in a door on saturday night I might have thought it was all a dream. Sort of a shame, I could have made some money with a second evil head, at  the very least I could have modelled for  Witkin (Miss Sarah because I love you I will note that this link is not for you).

Why you shouldn't cook in your underwear, and other life lessons.

My modem at home has gone tits up. Until such time I replace it, posting will be sporadic you're just gonna have to miss me a little.

So the other day I got home from work, stripped off the work clothes (the nicer grown up ones that you never see me in) and started making dinner. I'm just gonna let y'all imagine that me cooking in my scanties is a whole lot sexier than it actually is. Anyway. I was chopping some mushrooms to sautee with some tofu, using my big fuck off stab-you-in-the-shower-psycho-style kitchen knife, and I scooped them up using the blade of the knife and my hand, as I went to transfer them to the pan the knife slipped from my hand, mushrooms flew everywhere, and I instinctively jerked my knee up, thinking that the knife would land like a lawn dart in my foot. Instead, it landed in my upper thigh. Not as bad as it sounds, only got maybe half an inch in, but it bled like a stuck pig and in case there was any doubt before, I now know I never want to get shanked.

I spent the better part of the past week and a half with "I don't want your freedom" by Wham* stuck in my head. For the last couple of days I woke up and it would be gone and I'd think "hey! it's gone!" and there it would be again. Today it was finally replaced with "If You Need Me" by Wilson Pickett - Much better.

Part one of evil plan has been put into motion, I got approved for Mr and Mrs Kate's apartment, I move in at the end of the month. I am unbelievably psyched - a separate bedroom! studio space! North and West facing windows! Sunlight! 4 closets plus a pantry and a little broom cubby! a stove that works! living on the second floor so people can't just walk in through my window!! All for just a little over $100 more than I'm paying now.

Now if they would just hurry up and hire me at the temp gig so I could stop worrying about how I'm gonna make that extra $100 fly out of my butt...although I can get by on what i'm pulling right now, I'll just have to keep working three jobs in the interim (saturday gig at the mart has been extended indefinitely).

In other news -

My chin appears to be cultivating the biggest zit in the world...alternately, I may be sprouting a second head. I will keep you posted as to its progress...

I so can not wait to bake cookies in my new apartment. Since I enjoy the baking more than the eating, those of you who know me in the meat world can look forward to some baked goods coming your way.

The picture above is one of my Mum's, although she couldn't tell me who it was or what the fuck is going on. Nonetheless, I absolutely love this picture.

*not to be confused with Freedom, by George Michael, that would have been so much worse.