Thanks for the Heads Up

A minute ago, an email popped up on my BlackBerry. It was from an organization that I interviewed with in early November. The email thanked me for recently interviewing with them.

Since they had told me at the time of my interview that second round interviews would take place in mid-November and then no one called me, I used my finely honed logic to deduce that I was not a finalist for the job. It wouldn't bother me if they had just sent an email two months later thanking me for coming in and informing me that I didn't get the job but for the fact that it said "recently." Two months ago - not recent. Either send a timely rejection, or don't bother. Yeesh.

Incidentally, I accepted my current job once I left that interview. All's well that ends well.

The Eyes Don't Have It

Decrepitude at the age of 33 (almost 34, and yes, I got my age right this time) is not good. In the few months that I was at my previous job earlier this year, vision in my left eye declined. It turns out that staring at a computer screen for hours a day made my eyeballs and their components really angry. The left eye went on partial strike.

My left eye continued to bother me after I left my hob, even though I no longer spent all day staring at a monitor. I had to get a stronger prescription lens. This fixed the situation. I could see! Hurray!

Now that I am staring at a computer screen all day again, my left eye has decided it is back to partial strike. I'm faster at responding to its demands, though. Lots of eye drops and a much more concerted attempt to look at other things every 15 minutes or so. And I bought computer glasses. Supposedly these will help because the coated lenses will reduce glare, and like reading glasses, they have a slight power. Unlike reading glasses (which made me ill when I tried them at my last job because they don't come in powers below 1.00), these new babies are only 0.25.

My fingers are crossed. I doubt disability insurance covers this type of problem...

Venting

The air circulation in my new office is not very good. For the two days I've been there, I've used my special ugly office sweater* in the morning, and sweltered in the afternoon. Weirdly, this was also how it was at the job I left in 2006. I was just cold all the time at other jobs.

The reason I was always cold at my various places of employment is because I am inevitably seated directly under or just to the side of the air condition vent. Today I was pleased to think about how this new job was different in that respect. Then I craned my head all the way back and looked at the ceiling. Yep, I'm under the vent. It's gonna be a cold summer. (And winter, if like at my other jobs, the building blasts the heat so high that each office runs the air condition to counter balance the inferno. Yeah, energy efficiency at its finest.)

*At every job I've ever had, I've left a cardigan on the back of my chair in case I get cold. Since the sweater lives at the office, I don't want to waste a nice one, so I bring the ugliest sweater I own. This job's ugly office sweater is the one I obtained for free at this summer's BlogHer conference. Hideous, especially in navy & "Aztec gold."

More Butt Humor, Butt (ha!) Not Gross

While Dr. P was in Vermont with her family, she noticed a product at a general store called "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder." We watched two hilarious ads on YouTube for this excellent product, which I thought I would share:

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Jogger

Anti-Monkey Butt Powder: The Biker (as in motorcyclist, which is even better than bicyclist)

I hoped to embed the short videos in CUSS, but no codes for embedding were available. Boo. Well worth clicking on, and safe for work!

Speaking on work, my first day at my new job is tomorrow. I'm nervous, but excited. I wish I had not down enormous quantities of Indian food last night, though, as my stomach doth protest. I need to quash the rebellion ASAP if I want to continue to have a job after my first day. No one wants to work with a gas bag.

Third Time x Third Time = Triple the Charm

As a kid, I hated math. Hated, hated, hated it. I was often absent from school due to illness (in the early years, asthma; in the later years, depression), and so the lessons I missed created a big gap for me to overcome. My junior year of high school, I explained to my math teacher that "I'm going to be a lawyer, so I don't need math."

Fast forwarding to the day I dropped out of law school and decided to get a public policy degree... Shit, all the public service programs have stats and econ in their curricula. But I suck at math. Oy vey iz mir! Much hand wringing.

Fast forward to my second job after college, which required me to use Excel for lots of number crunching, which was something I rather liked during a college internship but dismissed...Math is fun!

Ok, now that I am completely off topic, the point of my little subject line formula is to ponder whether the adage, "The third time's the charm," is truer if you multiply the third time by three. All of this comes up because, the 9th organization that interviewed me for a job offered me a position! And I accepted. So I'm very excited.

As long as I brought up numbers, here's the rest of my job search in digits:

• Number of resumes sent: over 60


• Number of organizations that interviewed me: 11 (12 if you count the place that called last night)


• Number of interviews: 15 (some were two step processes)


• Number of offers: 1


• Number of places that contacted me to request more info (like salary request or writing samples) and then never contacted me again: 2


• Number of times I freaked out and got a manicure: 1


• Amount of money spent on "respectable interview watch:" $40 at Filene's Basement
  Amount of money spent on lipstick: $1.99, when I realized that I forgot to put it in my bag and bring it with me, so ran to Duane Reade Pharmacy


• Level of anxiety about the whole situation: Immeasurable

So I'm very happy that I found a job in what I think will be a great place to work. My policy is to keep work out of my blog, so I'll just say that it is a position that requires writing and the organization works to increase economic and social justice in disenfranchised American communities. I'm psyched. Now I'm off to clean my bathroom...

Notes on the Economic "Recovery"

Several times in recent weeks, I read blurbs in newspapers about how the economy is recovering. It's not like economists are all gung-ho about it, but there are supposedly glimmers of a happy smiley sun peeking through the rain clouds of economic woe. Let's take a moment to sing:

Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
It's been gone for such a long time
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!
Now it's back and things'll be fine
Hey la, hey la Wall Street's back!

Didn't that feel good? No? Well, there's good reason for that. As the 99.9% of the time right on NY Times columnist Bob Herbert wrote last week, Wall Street may be be on the rise again, but so is unemployment.

When I resigned from my job at a nonprofit organization in May, I joined the ranks of jobseekers. I knew that the economy was bad when I decided to leave, but there were other considerations that were stronger. It was a scary and tough decision, but I noticed that the various places that advertised jobs in my field offered lots of interesting opportunities.

I saw many positions that interested me, and I cast my net far and wide. I went to interviews. I took consulting jobs. I worked on my thesis for my master's degree. It was difficult, but busy. Then mid-August hit. No one ever advertises on mid-August, so I only worried a little bit. Things did not pick up after Labor Day. I worried a lot. Classes started again, so I went to school and continued writing. I worried more.

I'm far luckier than most unemployed people - Husband works and we can live comfortably on his income. Still, I thought I'd contribute my anecdotal evidence that the overall economic situation is getting worse in some parts, not better.

Hey na, hey na - bring the job market back.

WWCRD: Salary Histories

Welcome to the latest edition of What Would CUSS Readers Do? Today, the royal we here at CUSS seek feedback on salary histories. The issue came up yesterday when I decided to apply for a job that required a salary history in order to consider the application complete.

My feeling (and Husband's) is that salary histories are bogus. An organization that seeks to hire someone has an idea of what the job is worth. If they find a candidate that they like, they should offer them that salary. What the person earned prior to that job is irrelevant, as they did not perform that job at that company. Further, it is no one's fucking business what I earned at other jobs. Until the search committee is prepared to tell me what they earn, I am not sure why it helps to know what I earned.

Yesterday, a friend argued with me, saying that she used the information to determine whether or not a person would even consider the job. Again, I think that is a strange way to determine one's interest in a job. Perhaps for a variety of reasons, a candidate would accept a different salary for doing a different job. How would a recruiter know that unless the candidate was asked directly? If a company does not want to waste their time with a candidate who would not be interested in the position based on salary, and they do not want to reveal in advance what that salary is, then why not just contact the person and ask, "Hey, what salary do you require?" instead of playing guessing games?

What do you think? Do salary histories help employer's find appropriate employees, or are they merely ways to (potentially under)pay people based on past jobs that may have no bearing on the job that is to be performed? (Yeah, loaded question, I know.)

So, What Do You Do?

"So, what do you do?"

It's a common question. I just no longer have a good answer for it. A few years ago, it was easy. I puffed up my chest and told people that I work at a nonprofit agency on public policy and programs.

Now I could also answer that I'm a writer, although I don't feel like a writer. Writers are people who write every day, whether or not they earn a living from it. Sometimes there are days when I don't write a word other than what is on my to do list. I was thinking about how much like a poser I feel when I tell people that I'm a writer, and then I realized that I was narrating what scene in my head. Maybe constantly thinking like a writer to qualifies me as a writer, even if I don't write daily?

The funny thing is that I still think of myself as a policy person even though I don't do anything policy related on a daily basis, either. But just as I narrate things in my head on an ongoing basis, I think about policy every day. I certainly don't feel like a pretentious douche (scent: Summer Rain) when I tell people that I'm currently unemployed and looking for a job in public policy or program management the way I do when I say, "I'm a writer."

The difference, I'm thinking now, is that being good at your job as a writer is a lot more subjective than as a policy person/program manager. In the latter, it is obvious if you understand what is going on in the world and whether you are good at it or not. Obviously, there's a baseline for writing, but it is a lot more subjective as to whether one is good at it.

Just thinking while suffering from insomnia for no discernible reason...

The Stressed Out Tante

Between the unexpected early arrival of my adorable nephew, school wrapping up for the year, and my job implosion, things have been rather hectic lately. While I am very happy that my nephew is here and healthy, the other things thrill me significantly less. I realized that the only thing worse than a job that goes awry is not having a job at all. I sort of figured this out last semester, but it is really hitting home now. I can't say that I like working in general, but I definitely enjoy being employed and feeling like a productive member of society. I forget how closely my sense of self-worth is tied to my work. Bah.

On a more positive note, I just love this picture of me and Marcus:


On Friday, I am flying into Chicago, seeing my friend, her partner, and their kids (an almost four year old and two month old twins), then my parents are picking me for for a roadtrip to Iowa with Bubbe. Fortunately, Dana's friend from high school will also be with us, so I think Bubbe will tone it down a bit.

The reason for the return trip to Iowa? Dana's baby shower is on Saturday, and Marcus will be the guest of honor. I can't wait!

Adoration and Resignation

Unexpectedly, I have an additional 35 hours a week that are now free since I left my job this week. (it wasn't a good fit for a variety of reasons.) The good news is that I already have an interview elsewhere on Monday, and I can use the time to fawn over photos of my nephew* now that I found our camera.

Here I am, the proud but exhausted tante (I only had a few hours of sleep the prior night), holding my nephew with the excited father behind me:


The happy grandparents holding their progeny's offspring:


Since Marcus was not due until June 9, my sister's co-workers had planned to hold a baby shower for her on May 16. Now Marcus will be the guest of honor! I already bought a plane ticket for the event, so I am pleased that I will get to see everyone again in less than two weeks. Of course, that assumes that I survive the four hour car ride from Chicago to Iowa with my parents and Bubbe. I think Bubbe will be on her best behavior, though, since my sister's friend will also be in the car with us.

Pictures from the Beaver Cam (aka My Blackberry)

As mentioned on Friday, I attended a conference at which Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke delivered the key note address. Although I was distracting from large portions of his speech by his security guard, who stood in the corner chomping gum in a way that made his '70s-style mustache fly up and down and mesmerized me, I followed the lead of my fellow conference attendees and tried to photograph Bernanke with my Blackberry. This blurry shot of his chest is the best I got:

If you squint, you can make out the podium, behind which is Bernanke's white shirt and blue tie.) None of my photos of the security guard came out at all, making me worry that I hallucinated his great 'stache.

After the conference, I had a terrible meeting on Capitol Hill. Then I stopped into the Postal Museum, which is run by the Smithsonian. It was awesome. I love mail. My Blackberry worked very well when I wanted to take a picture of what must be the coolest mailbox ever:


At the end of the day, Maria and I went to the National Zoo to see the beaver pond. This big, bushy beaver spread itself out on a rock for all to ogle, turning my Blackberry into a beaver cam:

The zoo also has a video camera pointed inside the beaver dam for live beaver action. I could not stop cracking up.

The rest of the weekend was delightful. This week is likely to be the exact opposite, with too much going on for the third or fourth week in a row. I'll try and focus on the beaver cam to get through it.

Three Cheers for Maurice

Frankly, I'm in deep shit. I think that working full-time, attending a full-time master's program in creative writing, drafting two posts a week for BlogHer, serving on the Board of a nonprofit child care center that has real estate issues, attempting healthy-ish lifestyle through exercise, and continuing to have relationships with friends and family (which I am failing at miserably in some cases) is maybe more than I can handle. For the last two weeks, I've been exhausted constantly.

It's not just me who needs a break. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, is on strike. At first I was mad at his furry ass for not keeping up, thus resulting in me making big mistakes like handing in the same story twice (written in two different ways, since I didn't remember writing it in the first place) or smaller errors like when I called Oedipus Odysseus in yesterday's blog post. Now I realize that the little dude is just overworked.

Maurice and I used to take breaks to read friends' blogs or watch mindless TV. These days, I need to think for more hours, whether to learn about the nuances of Obama's foreclosure prevention plan or to answer questions about a book I read for class, and poor little Maurice runs nonstop from when I wake up until I go to sleep. That's a lot for any brain hamster, let alone a 33 year old one. So I want to thank him publicly for hanging in there. (Thanks Maurice!)

I need to take a hard look at everything that's on my plate. I know what I want to cut, but Husband is not on board with that plan. If only I could write a book and sell it for six-figures, like, say fucking Meghan McCain,* that would solve everything. Uh, right....

*Love Jossip's suggested title about Ann Coulter, as does Maurice.

On the Radio, Part II

I think I have a voice for silent movies, but whatever - I was very excited to do my first live radio interview yesterday! In the event that anyone has a fleeting interest in foreclosure prevention and New York City, I think this is the link to the podcast. I come on halfway through the two hour program, and my colleague and I engage in conversation for 50 minutes.

When I entered the studio and saw the microphones and headsets, I thought I might throw up. My heart battered my rib cage. Fortunately, the host was an excellent facilitator with great questions, and my colleague was a pro at live shows. I quickly relaxed and had fun. I like radio better than TV (not that I've been on TV), as I did not have to worry about how my hair appeared.

Of course, the first person to call into the show was a raving lunatic conspiracy theorist type. Somehow, that struck me as appropriate. The rest of the show was great, and afterward, the host invited me to come back and talk about my book! Very exciting!

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Sloganeeringhat

Once again proving that by the time you read something in a mainstream newspaper, it's probably too late to be of use, today's New York Times has an article about people scamming troubled homeowners by charging money to "fix" the loans, then disappearing.* The Times notes this is a growing scam, but it has actually been a huge problem for at least a year now. (One deputy attorney general in California said that dealing with the swindlers has been all she's done, with 300 calls received in the past year.) Perhaps reporting on the issue six months ago may have alerted people to the scams and helped them avoid them, but whatever. The media just reports what's happening; it's not there to help people make informed decisions or anything. Bah.

Anyway, one of the things I've been tasked with at my new job is to come up with a clever marketing slogan to alert people to the presence of mortgage "fixing" scams and let them know that there is free, government-approved housing counseling available. The best I've come up with thus far is:

In trouble with your home loan?
Stop getting fucked up the ass!
FREE housing counseling is available.
Call blah blah blah and stop the bleeding.

Although it is to the point and accurate, this is probably not going to fly for a variety of reasons. If anyone has any other suggestions (legitimate or not), I'm all ears. I promise to give you credit if I use it.

*As a random side rant (or as my brother-in-law would say, rantom), the fact that people can go up to someone who is about to lose his or her home, promise her that they can save it, and then steal whatever cash that the homeowner may have used to actually save the home, blows my mind. How can the goniff sleep at night, knowing that they've made others homeless? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with people? How did some manage to become such fucking assholes?

The Haircut Double Entendre

I never thought about haircuts as anything but the things I get every two months that make me look extra dyke-y (or, when done well, like Jane Wiedlin). On Monday, I wrote about the latest brouhaha over women who get short haircuts on BlogHer. (It seems that some guy in London whose wife cut her hair short sparked a debate over whether that women with short hair are signaling that they are no longer interested in sex because they are making themselves unattractive through their new haircuts.) Then yesterday I learned that there is something called a haircut in the securities market.

My new favorite online dictionary,* Investopedia, explains that a haircut is:

1. The difference between prices at which a market maker can buy and sell a security.

2. The percentage by which an asset's market value is reduced for the purpose of calculating capital requirement, margin and collateral levels.

One could extrapolate and say that a man whose wife cuts her hair short has a reduced market value in the eyes of society, but that would be silly, wouldn't it?

*I still do love Urban Dictionary for all my slang research, though. It seems that a third definition of haircut there is:

a drinking act involving:
- two people
- alchohol
- energy drink or gatorade

one person tilts their head back and closes their throat. the other person then pours small amount of energy drink, large amount of alchohol, and small amount of energy drink in that order. the drinker then tilts their head up and swallows the drink simultaneously. this is done for two reasons: you dont feel it going down no matter the alchohol percent and it gets you very drunk very fast.

Now I feel complete before I go to off to work, which this post is making me late to. Hope it added to the educational value of your day as well.

The Grass is Always Greener When You're Born a Ramblin' Man

As usual, I'm behind. I promised people who submitted essays for the potential anthology COngratulations, You're a Woman Now! that they would hear back about their work by the end of 2008. I'm not even close to finished reading the submissions. (But I swear I will, and I apologize profusely.) I haven't read blogs in a few days, which makes me feel disconnected from the online community I so cherish. Yet I'm spazzing out about what to wear to work for the rest of the week, so I'm not going to make much progress on the things that I want to do. (And oh my god, I didn't realize how short my wardrobe falls for a 5 day a week job that requires more than cords and definitely is not jeans-friendly.... Panic.)

Of course, the last quarter of last year, I was pretty unhappy with my massively underemployed status. I felt useless, which made me anxious and depressed. Now that I'm overemployed (in the sense that I hoped to secure a 3 day per week job), I'm anxious and depressed because I'm worried about all the commitments I made and the things that I want to do that I no longer have time for. Argh! Is there no middle ground?

On another grass-related note, Husband and I are going to an Allman Brothers concert at the Beacon Theater this spring. Every year, the Allman Brothers plays approximately 15 dates at this smallish theater near my apartment. The streets fill with characters not usually seen on the streets of the Upper West Side, including hippies, trailer dwellers, and undercover cops poorly disguised as hippie trailer dwellers. Husband decided he wanted to see what the hoopla was all about, and I thought it would be fun to go along, although I fear the secondary high. (Yeah, I'm a big fucking nerd. I can't help it!)

I Made It!

This is probably the only time I'll write about work since I try hard to pretend that my "professional" life and my "writing" life are two very separate things, partly so that I may continue to have a "professional" life. Anyway, the first day was good, if a bit overwhelming. First days are always overwhelming, though.

The time flew (it helped that a co-worker's birthday was celebrated), and I learned many things and attempted to start many others. I only made two slightly inappropriate comments, and both were as we were leaving. (I said that I didn't care that a foundation that worked to preserve the "purity" of Judaism by discouraging interfaith marriages had to close its doors after Madoff - a Jew - scammed all their funds, then I made a nasty comment about the Hasidic people who own an electronic shop and refused to let my new co-worker return her brand new flat screen TV - still in the box - after she figured out that it was one inch too large for their entertainment unit.) The work will be very interesting once I really dig in. I'm excited. Still nervous and overwhelmed, but excited.

When I arrived back at my castle (ha ha) after slaving away all day, I was dismayed to see that the super was still in the process of soliciting bids to fix the hole in the wall in the bathroom. Fortunately, the shower was fixed, so it is now possible to bathe in relative comfort, with both cold and hot water in a pleasing combination that is more than a trickle. I shall prepare for work tomorrow (I'm still adjusting to the idea that I will go to a job five days this week, and next week, and on and on) by washing my hair with the ridiculously fancy mint oil shampoo that I absconded with from the ridiculously fancy hotel in San Francisco.

I Want to Wake Up in a City that Never Sleeps

While I very much loved my trip and all the fabulous people that I saw that I want to see more often, I am glad to be home. The (free) luxury hotels (and yurt)were nice, but sinking my head into my deformed pillow when I arrived at my apartment this morning was like snuggling up with an old friend. Plus, speaking of old friends, sleeping with Theo (my teddy bear) only reminded me how merely adequate my well intentioned travel stuffed dog companion is.

Still, being home is not all rainbows and butterflies. I brought back an unintentional souvenir of a cold. There is a long line of gutted tile running along my bathroom wall, and everything that was in the bathroom is now cluttering the dining room. The shower is supposed to work, but doesn't. The workmen are coming back to patch things up tomorrow, and thankfully Rebecca will be here to remind them that they didn't really fix the shower.

Where will I be tomorrow? Downtown, starting my new job. I'm scared shitless. At least the toilet flushes better than it has in years.

Today in Review

Between being offered a job and straining my right calf muscle while killing a roach, I forgot to blog today. Lame, I know, but there was a lot of excitement and squealing in my apartment, so I forgive myself.

First, the job. I was offered the position that I interviewed for back in October. Any confusion is understandable, as my blog post regarding that first interview covered the hot chocolate dilemma that the potential job posed. (Quick review: the shop on the ground floor of the building in which the office is located sells hot chocolate made from Leonidas chocolates melted in hot milk. This is a potential dangerous addiction, both in terms of the effect of my wallet and my waistline, which is sadly the reverse of what I would like to happen because my wallet will be thinner and my waistline thicker.) I am very excited to work again, although very nervous that working full time will not leave enough time for school. But it's a cool job, and worth the risk.

Onto the injury. I saw a six legged beast on its back, legs kicking in the air, next to a crack between the wall and the kitchen sink. Of course, I screamed. Then I attempted to squash it, but not too hard, as I did not want its guts smooshing out onto the sole of my slipper. In attempting to strike the proper balance, I managed to strain my calf muscle. What can I say? This is possibly the most pathetic way to injure a muscle known to humankind. It could be worse. At least the evil six legged critter is dead.

Hot (Chocolate) Job!

When I stepped out of the subway station for my job interview yesterday morning, I felt a rush of excitement. The job is located downtown, which is easy to get to, and full of interesting places to grab a bite. One of the things I miss about my last job is being downtown. (OK, this is the only thing that I miss except for the people.)

Hence I already was tingling when I noticed the cafe next door to the potential job's office building. I stopped. "Oh, I can't take this job no matter what," I sighed. A sandwich board announced that hot chocolate made with Leonidas Belgian chocolates is the house specialty. To make it, they pour steamed milk over the chocolates in the "traditional" manner. Several flavors, like chocolate mint, chocolate orange peel, cinnamon, and chocolate raspberry, are on the menu. At $4.50 for a small, and god knows how many calories (as if melted chocolate in whole milk is not unhealthy enough, each purchase comes with a piece of chocolate, perhaps to help people justify the price to themselves), I can't afford to deal with such temptation four or five days per week.

Gathering my resolve, I went upstairs and had what I think was a good interview. As I left, I mentioned that I might treat myself to a hot chocolate downstairs. "Oh, those are amazing," the receptionist swooned. "Expensive, but worth it as a treat." She had tried the plain chocolate, but was curious about the chocolate mint. I said I would try it, and promised to email her with my thoughts. Minutes later, I was $4.88 poorer and burning my tongue on the creamiest, mintiest hot chocolate that I'd ever ingested.

Oh, I so hope that I get this job.

Does Anybody Really KNow What Time It Is?

Does anybody really care? As I was walking down the street one day, a man came up to me and asked me what of day it was... Wait. That's a song. Sorry.

Last night, as I prepared for several hours of restful (ha, if only) slumber, my alarm clock, which receives signals from outer space (via satellite) to keep the most accurate time possible, read Su 11:15. Right before Husband snuffed the light, I noticed that it said Tu 3:14 AM. Hmmmm... time warp or satellite malfunction? I pressed the reboot button.

While the clock decided if I missed a day or if it was telling me the wrong time, I looked at my watch. It's a blue Flik Flak with little pictures of a witch with pink hair and black cat flying on a broom stick on the band. Not only that, but the hands glow in the dark. (Every time I look at the glowing hands, I cannot help but grin.) Unfortunately, it seemed to indicate that it was after 1:00 AM, which I was pretty sure it was not. Then again, I'm not good at reading watches without numbers, and the digits on the watch do not glow.

Now that it is today, Monday, at 8:35 AM according to my computer (but 8:37 as per Flik Flak), I am relieved. I am heading to an interview for a potentially exciting job in 40 minutes. If the cow howls at the moon on the third Thursday and it is 62 degrees and a leap year, everything will work out great, and I shall be in school, writing a second book about New York, blogging for BlogHer, and gainfully employed with a flex schedule. Probably it will be helpful if my clock gives me an extra hour each day.

The Fisher Poet's Wisdom

Instead of producing work for my consulting contract, I spent my day thus far: researching Sen. Evan Bayh's voting record on abortion (mostly pro-choice, but voted for that stupid "partial birth abortion ban," which bans a procedure that does not exist and instead endangers the lives of pregnant women who need a late term abortion to save their own lives); answering and generating email; pondering why the fuck I listened to that stupid doctor and agreed to get another MMR vaccine (rather than have my blood drawn and examined for anti-bodies) when I knew damn well that it is a two round deal and one would not suffice and now have to go back and get another one in September unless I can prove that I was vaccinated 32 years ago; exploring how to extract my medical records from previous institutions of learning (NYU said no way; Columbia has a form to fill out and will send my immunization documents to New School - yay!) so that I don't have to get another useless vaccine; attempting to pay my tuition at New School, which is harder than it sounds since they have yet to bill me; and writing a post for BlogHer on whether penises are heat seeking missiles which explains why people think men are unable to not cheat on their partners (answer: no). In addition to this important work, I read some blogs.

On The Cowboy Chronicles, Shonda mentions that fishing is an important part of her hubby's country life. She shared this brilliant bons mots:

To quote one of these angling poets, "I told my son noodling is just like dating. If you stick your hand in a dark hole, it might come out smelling a little fishy."

Once I stopped guffawing, I thought it was a good reminder that no matter how little I want to think about the longevity of charter school facilities, I could be doing far less appetizing tasks. No more dilly-dallying.

Getting the Work Done

At a (hopefully promising) job interview yesterday, I was unexpectedly presented with a case study. While I initially wanted to shit my pants* because I recently have not reviewed various underwriting procedures, I think I ultimately did fine.

As I told Steph about the interview today, she whistled. "That's brilliant!"

"What is?" I asked.

"Giving you a case to review so that they don't have to do the work themselves."

"Oh, it was an old application that was decided years ago already. I didn't do any of their current work, although that would be genius."

Hence I decided that if I am ever in a position to hire someone, Steph is right: this is a perfect way to unload work on someone else. I'll just bring different "case studies" to interviews, and if the work is done well, not only will I know that I found a good worker, but I'll be freed of whatever burdensome task I set before the applicant. Now, if only that would work at home, too...

*If the interview had been in the morning rather than afternoon, I suspect that I would have unloaded. I woke up after only 4 hours of sleep with horrific gas and crapped repeatedly over the course of the AM hours. Incidentally, I also burned my finger on a frying pan handle (why it was hot, I do not know), slammed my shin to a piece of furniture that resulted in a lovely purple bruise, and discovered that my only pair of pantyhose had a small hole in them. Given the early situation, I'm amazed that I was coherent at all.

Oh, Diarrhea on the Wall!

My friend's grandmother passed away on Sunday. In accordance with Jewish tradition, she was buried as soon as possible. The funeral was Monday, and then the family sat shiva, which is pronounced "shivva," not "sheeva" like the Hindu god, and is a lot like a Catholic wake, minus the body.

Yesterday afternoon I took the train to Connecticut to sit shiva with my friend. The nicest thing about sitting shiva is that people really do focus on helping the family through their grief, and so a shiva is usually very jolly. Lots of food and laughter are shared as people recall happier times. Thus it was only sort of completely inappropriate when my friend's brother told people a hilarious story about how he accidentally shit all over the wall of his parents' bathroom a few weeks ago during Passover. It seems that when his stomach rumbled, and he realized that an eruption of a geyser of crap was imminent. He ran for the toilet, but stopped to grab the newspaper on his way. This would have been fine had he just taken the whole paper, but instead paused for 15 seconds to find the business section. Unfortunately, those precious seconds cost him dearly. When he got to the bathroom, he barely pulled down his pants before a stream of liquid feces emanated from his angry ass, splattering all over the wall. "And that's how I got diarrhea all over the wall of my parents' bathroom," he concluded while beaming with pride.

After hearing this story, I decided that I must use the phrase, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" when something goes horribly awry. (This would also work in place of, "The shit hit the fan," I think.) Prior to attending the shiva, I experienced my own metaphorical diarrhea on the wall incident. After weeks of waiting, I learned that the grant that funds my 50% of my job was revoked by the issuing foundation. I am not surprised by this turn of events (and in fact had a first round job interview that morning which went very well, anyway), but I think I am entitled to say, "Oh, diarrhea on the wall!" in response to the news.

Re-Thinking My Incompetence, Or Other People Suck Much Worse Than Me

Every time I go to perform my glorified clerical duties at my newish job, I wonder what the hell happened to me.

In January 2002, I began a new job in which I planned a program to bring capital and technical assistance to community groups and early childhood programs around the City. When I was hired for that job, I wondered what the fuck the agency was thinking in bringing on a 25 year old to do this work. Then I remembered that I had three years of experience in that niche field, which was more or less three years more than any other likely candidate, so it made sense. Long story short, I fucked some shit up along the way, but mostly did a very good job developing and implementing the program before I burned out due to challenges to my sanity that were both internal (like money being stolen from my program and used for another, but I'm not still bitter or anything...) and external (like early childhood education is public priority #1,209,988, if that...) to the office.

In the olden days of my rough and tumble child care work, I often felt like an incompetent fool. Not the most incompetent fool around (I encountered enough people who made me wonder how they managed to tie their shoes, let alone do any work), but still a person who had a lot of things to learn. I tried to absorb as much as I could from mentors and colleagues. I also tried to acknowledge to myself that I was good at some stuff, although I semi-failed at that task.

Which brings me to the present day. As I sort through the clusterfuck of a mess of a data collection project, I realize that I may still make mistakes, but damn, compared to my predecessor, I am a model of competence, efficiency, and common sense. I even tell funny jokes (usually to myself, as I tend to work alone) while I fix shit. Go me and my non-profit management skill set! Now, if only that would help me get into an MFA program. (Still no word and hence, no Mars bar eating.)

April Fool's: One Day Late or Just a Shitty Morning?

I am supposed to be having a meeting this very second. However, the guy who is supposed to meet with me is not here. Where can he be?

The phone on my desk says, "Message for you." Perhaps he left me a message about the meeting? If that is the case, though, I'll not know, as no one in this office knows the voicemail password to my extension or how to reset it.

Maybe he emailed me. That would be rational, except that as of last week, I was still using my predecessor's email and that is what he would email me at. This week, the account was disabled, but I have no access to my email account because my computer, which appears to be circa 1999 (sorry Prince - no partying like it is), resets its setting every day, so until the guy who can put me back on the networks shows up, I can't check my email. Not that my meetee would email me there, anyway.

Also, it might be good that he isn't here. Since I lose my network settings every time I log off, I have no access to the shared drive, which is where the material we are to meet about is stored.

Happiness is a grassroots organization.

It's For the Best

As I re-read my blog post from yesterday, it occurred to me that whenever I was rejected by my top choice educational program, it always winds up being to my benefit in the long run. Had I attended NYU's law school, I likely would be a lawyer today. If I hadn't talked Columbia into taking me off the waitlist for the MPA program, I would've gone to NYU, had no debt from grad school (or very minimal debt), and been tapped into a much stronger and connected alumni network. So while my rejection from Hunter stings, I am looking at the positive side of it. It clearly was not meant to be.

Now we'll see if my tarot card reading was right. She strongly felt that I would be attending New School in the fall, and while I woulod be very overwhelmed at first, it would ultimately be a good fit for me. (Of course, she also thought I would get into Hunter, but the vibes from New School were stronger. We all know how Hunter worked out...) Hopefully, I'll get some notice yea or nay from them this week.

In the meantime, back to my exciting data entry and database management work. Thank goodness for mind-numbing repetitive tasks, right?

Not Baaad

While I'm at work learning if I still have a job after only 4 days (funding was cut while I was gone last week), enjoy my sheep's milk yogurt review over at Live Active Cultures. The review and the yogurt are way better than the pun.

Hippos Lurk, But So Does Happiness

After my trip to the Bung Hole wine bar yesterday, I figured that I was due for some good news today. Initially, I was disappointed. Returning to work, I discovered that my the grant that my new employer uses to fund my position was revoked while I was gone last week. There's a chance that the funder will be convinced to give it back to them, but I won't know until tomorrow or Thursday. Cool.

When I got home from work this evening, there was still no word from either graduate program that I applied to. However, my answering machine did contain the best news possible: Monkey Girl said that Count Mockula had her baby in the wee hours of the morning! Both mom and baby are doing well. (And MG: I can't find your number, so can you email it to me or call me back?) Yay!

My advice to Zadie is to stay away from hippos. Although they look very peaceful lying around in pools of mud, they can suddenly creep up and tip your canoe. Or at the very last, scare the crap out of you with their bad teeth, which makes me think of that hilarious shark from the Strange Wilderness commercial.

Again?

Wow, it just struck me that I have to go to the same job again today and tomorrow. The best thing about consulting was the variety of settings in which I worked and the different types of work. I'll miss that. The best thing about my former employer (possibly the only good thing) were my co-workers. Until they all quit, and then pretty much everything sucked for 8 months until I finally also left. Then the best thing was the location. The South Bronx is not such a fabulous location, although I do find it interesting. I don't know my co-workers enough yet to look forward to seeing anyone.

OK, so I just gotta get through the next nine hours, then tomorrow, then Friday I get to work for myself on the book. Not to mention sleep for another 40 minutes.

Hope everyone has a joyous day full of happiness, good news, and fun.

What Hit Me?

The first day of the new job was fine. It was about the same as any first day - full of awkwardness trying to figure things out, meeting people, etc. Given that the organization is so grassroots at this moment that they have no fax machine, I was not terribly surprised to learn that they also do not know how to change people's voice mail messages, and as a result people who haven't worked there in years are still on the voice mail. Needless to say, I have no computer log in or email yet. But hey! At least there is email! Once I started some real work, it was good.

Fortunately, I like the people with whom I will work, and the others seem very nice. I was cornered at the end of the day by a nutjob who told me all about how Gov. Spitzer was framed so that the real criminals will get away with their crimes while all the attention is on the sex scandal. Sadly, I found myself silently agreeing with his rant even as I looked around nervously for an escape and backed away.

As if a first day at a new job is not tiring enough, I also signed up to be part of a focus group about Fidelity Investments, which is where I rolled my 401k into an IRA when I left my last job. It paid $150 for two hours (8 pm - 10 pm), so it was hard to say no. I figured I could use the cash for my upcoming trip with my sister and brother-in-law. Let's just say that it was difficult to keep my eyes open at the end there. Still, I am $150 richer for sharing my uninformed opinions on Fidelity's services, so no complaints.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho

Today is the first day of my new job. Nervous.

30 Budgets in 30 Hours

When I agreed to teach a budgeting class at the local university grad center, I was informed that the maximum number of students they would allow to enroll was 15. As an adjunct lecturer, I would be paid for 15 hours of work. Although my scheduled time in the classroom was 14 hours, I felt OK about the one hour of pay for grading because there were only 15 students whose work I'd have to look at. Plus, I was paid separately to develop the curriculum, so although I put much more work into it as thing went along, it seemed fair enough.

Then the program allowed 30 students to enroll. Because it is a set contract amount for adjuncts, no additional pay was accorded for the 100% increase in students. However, this means that I also have a fuckload more budgets to look at and grade. It also means that my eyeballs may fall out from staring at so many numbers. If this is the case, I think I will try to get workers comp. (I don't know why that thought is causing me to laugh maniacally, but it is.)

Husband is leaving for a business trip to Europe (Paris, Rome, Milan, and London) on Sunday. On the 15th, I am going away with my sister and her husband to celebrate my sister's first spring break as a teacher. Husband could not join us due to work, so that sucks, but I am still looking forward to a fun 5 days with my sister. When I visited my parents in Chicago in December, Dana was not able to make it over there from Iowa due to weather conditions, so I have not seen my chicita since October. My hope is that I can finish all these stupid budgets before then, and retain my eyesight at the same time. I guess while Husband is gone, I can do a budget grading marathon. Oh fun times.

Miracles and Non-Miracles

Yesterday, I was offered a part-time program developer job at a small grassroots nonprofit organization in the Bronx! It occurred to me that although I have thus far spent nearly my entire career working with community-based organizations by providing technical assistance and training, I never worked at one. I think this is going to be very interesting. Just as important, the organization does not work in the child care field. Step one away from work that makes me miserable! Hurray!

After my interview, I headed further north in the Bronx to take some pictures of the Lourdes of America shrine for Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (Yes, a church built a replica of the miraculous healing grotto in Lourdes, France so that parishioners here can enjoy its superpowers. I love it.) Rain fell from the sky in buckets. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, I get that this is a metaphor.) I worried that I would not get a good shot, but lo and behold, the second I stepped into the church yard, the rain stopped. I snapped away, filled my empty Snapple bottle with miracle water (the same water source that serves all city residents), and went on my way. As I left the churchyard, it began raining like cats and dogs. (Yes, anonymous grammar hawk, this is a simile.)

Then last night Clinton took Texas and Ohio, giving her the ammo she needs to justify her continued ego trip - I mean, run for the presidential nomination - although it could destroy the Democrats' chance at winning the White House in November by inciting anger, resentment, and bad will all around. I'm not sure how many times I can say this, but damn, I miss Pat Schroeder. What a class act. The thought of a McCain presidency is overwhelmingly depressing, so I will try to not dwell on it.

Perhaps it is time to register for cheese making lessons. This way, I'll at least have some concept of how to fulfill my ridiculous plan B, which is to move to a sheep and goat farm in the UK if the US is subject to four more years of Republican rule. My anxiety is like a bull in a china shop mixing kashi with borscht.

Passing on the Stuffing

At a party yesterday, a friend explained how she passed the time at work by researching on the internet how paraplegic men have sex. (Seriously, how on earth did people kill time at work before the internet?) She learned that men with some blood flow to their penises can engage in a practice called stuffing. Stuffing is exactly what it sounds like: cram it in, and hope that there will be some reaction to the action. Sometimes this works; others, there's just some raw genitals at the end.

Before I even discovered stuffing had a name, I realized that I was metaphorically familiar with the practice. For the last few years, I've been trying to forge a career based on it. Each time a job came along that didn't really excite me, I tried to make the pieces fit and hoped that I'd get some satisfaction from it. There were times when he work made me satisfied, but generally I felt tired and sore from the effort.

Last week, the always insightful Maria Niles wrote a post on BlogHer about the benefits of closing doors. The post hit me. How long have I said that I didn't want to work on child care policy any more, only to take every job that came my way because I feared that I would never work again? Too long. If I was serious, I'd need to really close the door on my child care policy career. It would be scary, but it didn't have to be permanent; I could always walk through it again in the future. My skills won't go anywhere, but I'll never fully explore my other options until I move on.

Two days after I had my epiphany, I went to have my fortune read. The tarot card reader told me that I am surrounded by opportunity, but my biggest obstacle to success is myself.

"You like things to happen in a linear fashion," Katie noted, "and the way things are happening now makes you feel insecure. You have to let go to get ahead."

On Friday, when I got a call and email about a consulting job with the city, my first impulse was to take it. What else am I doing now except trying to get pictures for my book about unusual New York, writing an article for Just Cause, blogging at BlogHer, and finishing up an article about termination for an encyclopedia of sex? If I didn't take the job, I could be homeless, starving, and unloved because Husband would get mad that I didn't work. My heart raced. I was standing in front of the door. All I had to do was call the lady at the city back and make the arrangements.

That's when I decided that I didn't want to be stuffed any more. I took Katie's words to heart, and took a deep breath. Husband would not drop me because I said no to a job to which I had reservations. In my mind, I quietly shut the child care door. It felt good.

Happy March!

Just sayin'. I'm going into March like a very nervous lion with a lot of decisions to make (should I hunt now or later? go where the gazelles usually hang out, even though I hate that pasture, or try to find a new place to harvest gazelle meat? maybe I should forget about the gazelles altogether and focus on zebras?), so I hope that I end the month like a very content lamb, albeit not one that has no idea she is about to turn into lamb chops.

God, I love metaphors.

In Which I Get Crafty

Recently Husband asked me to be a bit more active in maintaining our apartment when I am not working. Initially, I resented this request because I hate feeling like an unemployed loser and I detest housework, but it is really only fair. If he's out earning 97% of our income*, I should contribute in other ways.

A few days ago, I vacuumed. Today, instead of spending my entire morning reading MFA blogs and unnecessarily stressing myself out about whether or not I will get into an MFA program, I decided to be productive. We bought some fabric for a new curtain for our kitchen window at Ikea a few weeks ago, and I thought I should work on getting it up.

This was a bad idea for several reasons. First, when I woke up, I discovered that I slept on my neck funny, and it has been hurting all day. Standing on a step ladder and holding up a ginormous ream of fabric to try and measure out what I need for the window only made it worse. Second, I had to meet someone for lunch to discuss a potential consulting project, so starting a big production an hour before I had to leave was asking for disaster. Fortunately, my lunch date moved our appointment back by 30 minutes, I didn't rush out with pins all over the kitchen.

Anyway, here's how it stands:

Normally there's more light in our kitchen in the afternoon, but it's a snowy-rainy day, so it's pretty dark outside in general. (In case you worried that I live in some sort of dungeon...) I'm pretty pleased with my initial work given that I can't cut or sew straight. OK, so it's not exactly sewn yet, just pinned up. (I don't have a machine, so I'll hand sew it up eventually.) Still, I'm proud of my new red and white hippopotamus curtains. I can't wait until Husband sees them.

*Although he will always out earn me, and he never, ever lords that over me. When I do work consistently, he does not ask me to do extra housework, and on top of that, he does the vast majority of our laundry, anyway. Of course, 97% of the laundry is his, but that's another story.

In Which I Spazz Out

There is both a lot going on here and nothing at all going on here. That combination drives me up the wall, stresses me out, and makes me extra bitchy to my parents, who I yelled at on the phone last night for no reason. (Honestly, I do not know why they put up with my crabby insolence.) Of course I felt horrible about it the second I hung up (as I do every time this happens), but I had a sinus headache and didn't feel like calling them back to apologize. Instead, I sat around feeling like an asshole and wondering why I can't be nicer to my parents, which made my headache worse.

The problem is that my work life is very uneven. I've got nothing to do for stretches of time, and then I suddenly have tons of jobs that need to be done in a short time. For example, on Tuesday I had lunch with a friend/colleague, then got better fitting bras. Wednesday was spent freaking out while perusing various blogs about MFA acceptances, then attending a bris. I played a lot of fake Scrabble on Facebook on both days, and also applied for some part-time jobs.

Last night I got a frantic call around 9 pm from the woman organizing the program that I touch in about things I should bring to my class this morning. Why people can't get their shit together in a timely fashion is beyond me. My class today, as it was last week and the Thursday prior to that, is from 9 am - 12:30 pm, which is a loooooong time to talk about budgeting. I'll drop off my headshots and "resume" to the agency, finally. (Since it was not ready before, I've made no progress with my quest to be a dead body on Law & Order. Hopefully submitting my materials will change that.) Then I have a meeting at 4:30 pm to talk about another round of training. Tomorrow, I'm meeting a friend/colleague for lunch to discuss a new consulting project that I hope will not pan out because it sucks, and then running over to my consulting gig to finally wrap that shit up since people finally decided to comply with my requests for information.

Next week? Nada. I am very much looking forward to meeting Mar on Tuesday and showing her and her mum around the city a bit. So, long story short, I am stressed and spazzing out.

Oh, the Glamor

My plan to get work as a dead body on Law & Order was temporarily set aside last week when I got a consulting job and also began teaching a course at the city university. I finally picked up my headshots on Thursday afternoon. I've never liked looking at pictures of myself, so I actually dreaded getting them. At the photographer's studio, I was given an envelope with a CD-ROM of all 36 pictures, an 8x10 sheet with all 36 pictures printed on them, and an 8x10 headshot which was selected for me as the best. This is it. It's not bad, although it does crack me up that my right eyebrow is a bushy mess. I'm probably the only woman who walked into that studio without getting her eyebrows waxed or threaded first. Shapely eyebrows are an obsession here.

The next step in the process is to bring ten copies of my headshot to the agency with a copy of my "acting resume" stapled onto the back of each one. I worked on my "acting resume" on Monday during my Amtrak ride from Sacramento to Richmond. It consists of the agency contact information; my name; my contact information; my height, weight, eye color, hair color, and clothing sizes; a list of skills that I have (like ice skating); and my education. Not it does not include any experience section, as I have none. I like the fact that my skills might enable me to play an ice skater in the background of a movie before I work my way up to dead body.

I'll probably drop the CD off at a photo shop this afternoon and hopefully take the materials in to the agency on Friday. Then I'm back to sitting around and waiting for calls to work. Sort of like with my quest for regular jobs, but this time also based on my looks. Fantastic.

Call Me the Morton Salt Girl

You know, when it rains, it pours? (Plus my language is certainly salty.) I went from worrying that I'd never have paid employment again to having more project offers that I can possibly calendar, but will anyway. Of course, some of the will likely fall by the wayside, so I likely won't be overbooked when the dust settles. And some of the things I hope will disappear, as they are for projects that drive me insane. (Those are the ones that I have to charge a lot for, as I need to build a legal defense fund in the event that I go batshit and throttle someone. Good lawyers cost a lot of money, although I suspect that any jury will grant me an insanity plea when they hear the details of some of this work.)

Yesterday, I went back to a due diligence gig from a few weeks ago. Mostly the work is boring financial analysis, so the hard parts are staying awake and getting all the data that I need. Gathering information from people is like removing a thorn from the paw of a lion. It only helps them in the end to let me extract what I need, but everyone acts like I'm asking them to sacrifice their first born. To make things easier, I even put together a chart for each organization in which they can just fill in the blanks. What is returned to me in nearly every case is a chart they designed that has different information in it. Yeah. If they don't have the info, they could save themselves hours by just telling me that instead of putting together of info that I won't use, which is why I didn't ask for it in the first place.

Today I had taught my first class at a university. It is a one credit, four week class at the City University about basic budgeting for child care businesses. I was very pleased. My goal is to help people learn this extremely boring shit in an entertaining way. I don't know if anyone learned anything this morning, but they were entertained, so I feel successful. Teaching is good. I should rustle up some other work like this in the future. The class ends at the end of the month.

Anyway, that's where my time has been going. Tomorrow I am over-the-top excited to go to Sacramento for Count Mockula's baby shower. I can't wait to see her and meet her family and friends. Since this exciting journey was brought to me by a voucher Husband had for a free flight, I will be flying in to San Francisco, taking BART to Richmond, then taking Amtrak to Sacramento. Weirdly, I find this more appealing than what I initially tried to book (but was denied by the airline), which was a flight to Dallas with a connection to Sacramento. Both methods require a full day of travel each way, which is sort of funny. The point is, I'm working a lot now, and I can't wait to play.

Working for a Living*

Since I quit my job in October 2006, I've been pretty busy with all the projects that I cobbled together. I consulted for several different agencies, including a big half year project for a city agency; I freelance wrote and my work appeared in several magazines; I sent out proposals for my book on unusual things to see and do in New York; and most importantly, I got a publishing contract for the book and finished writing it. These days, however, the work is drying up. I decided that I needed a consistent part-time job around which to anchor any new projects. (Plus, a part-time job would be good in the event that I am admitted to an MFA writing program in the fall...)

Last week, I had what seemed to be a fantastic interview. The salary sucked, but I liked the program enough to overlook it. I was feeling optimistic until yesterday at 5:00, when I received an abrupt email informing me that they are unable to offer me "a position at this time." As I left the interview, they told me they would call me back for a follow up with the agency poohbah, so I wonder what happened. I'm not gonna lie - I'm disappointed.

However, when one door closes, there's always a window to jump through in the event of a fire. Yesterday morning, I threw caution to the wind and gave in to the daily ad I saw on Craig's List for "PAID EXTRAS, TV & MOVIES, NO FEE, NO EXP, LICENSED AGENCY." I figured it was a crock of shit, but why not go to their open interview for kicks? I even gussied myself up with some make-up for it.

The whole "interview" took 42 seconds. A nice young woman called me into an office, asked me what I did ("I'm a public policy consultant," I told her. "Wow, that must be gratifying!" she replied. "Not really," I said cheerfully. "It's generally horribly frustrating."), then requested that I read a paragraph.

"Do you have acting experience?" she pleasantly asked me when I finished.

"Obviously not," I wanted to reply, but instead said, "Uhhhh... no."

"Well, that was very good," she said, and handed me a card. "Call this guy back tomorrow."

Long story medium, I called back before I began teaching a class on budgeting this morning, and was shocked that they asked me to come back with some headshots. My big hope here is that I can be cast as a dead body on one of the Law & Order series that are always taping around Manhattan. I'm practicing my "dead" look, just in case.

This is totally hilarious. I'm very curious to see what happens next, although I figure once my headshot is done (which I plan to use for my writing "career," too), there will be limited opportunities for a short, average weight, tired-looking Jewish hag. Still, the story I've gotten out of it so far is pretty good, so what's there to lose but my dignity and last remaining shreds of self-esteem?


*Sorry. I hope that you don't have the Huey Lewis and the New song stuck in your head now as I do.

Not the Job for Me

I saw this on Craig's List buried amongst the sales jobs and requests for "Women who look good in latex:"

Beautiful Manhattan townhouse needs housekeeper to live-in (5 days) from Wednesday to Monday.Must speak fluent English,be very well groomed,have a pleasing personality and charm .Share room with female part-time assistant. We have no children but have guests very often from US and other countries so you must be professional in every way.Your housekeeping skills must be outstanding,including organizing.Your duties will vary so you must be flexible with a gracious attiude.If you have recent,checkable references and you are non-smoker call(from 9AM-4PM only)

I'm not rejecting this opportunity because it is for a housekeeper; there is absolutely nothing wrong with making a living as a housekeeper. Nor is my problem stemming from the fact that the housekeeper is required to live there and share a room with a stranger, although I do find that almost as offensive as insisting that the hired help be "well groomed, have a pleasing personality and charm." That's a lot to ask from someone who you are compensating a measley 500 bucks a week. The big issue is that I highly doubt that I would be able to use my fluent English skills to be civil with the assholes who live in the beautiful townhouse. No, this would never work for me.

So Much for a Day Off...

OK, I admit that I spent a good portion of the morning/early afternoon fucking around and hanging out with Steph, who stayed with me this weekend. Seeing Steph always makes me happy. Here's hoping that she moves back to the City so I can see her more often, although I am not going to be greedy - as long as she doesn't go back to North Carolina, I'm pleased as punch because I get to see her at least once a month instead of once every six months.

However, once Steph jumped onto her bus back to the boonies, I settled down to finish some handouts for a workshop that I am conducting on Wednesday. My initial plan was to complete them last week, but I 86'd that when I got another gig. Of course, it was more complicated than I thought it would be and I was still sweating out how to make the numbers work (that's the beauty of budgeting - since it is as much an art as a science, you can play with shit a little bit and still not be cheating) when 7 pm rolled and Husband returned from work.

Yeah, Husband had to be at work all day. When his boss started up their firm last year, he decided that they should be open on all bank holidays. Husband almost convinced him to close on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day since, "after all, Reagan is the president who signed the holiday into federal law," but it wasn't good enough. I admired Husband's attempt, though.