getting out -- part one

So last week I had to paint my room.

Why?

Because last fall when I wanted to paint the room in very saturated hues I promised my roommate (the lease-holder) that I would. And I'm not one to break a promise, as much as I would have loved too. Besides, he had my deposit and might not have given it back. It's funny the things we do when someone can decide on a whim whether or not to return hundreds of dollars to us, isn't it?

Anyway, I had to paint my room and I had to paint it white. I needed a lot of paint and I needed it cheap. So I went to K-Mart. Just as I spotted a gallon of flat white, a K-Mart employee approached to ask if I needed any help.

"Um, no," I felt like saying (but didn't). "Actually, I could have used your help a couple of weeks ago when I was wandering around looking for water filters for a half hour (which is how I knew that K-Mart even sold paint). But now -- no, I do not need your help." No I didn't say this out loud.

Instead I lifted the can and said, "Well, really I'm just looking for some white paint."

"Oh," he answered. "Are you sure you got the right kind? What are you painting?"

"Just my room. It's small."

"Mmm hmmm. OK. So, are you sure you want 'flat?' I mean, do you care what it looks like?"

Avoiding the obvious answer ("If I cared what it looked like would I be buying my paint at K-Mart?"), I smiled politely and said, "Not really."

"OK then, this will be fine."

"I know!" I wanted to yell, "Now go help some poor loser find the water filters!"

But I just nodded, muttered, "Great. Thanks," and got out.

Did the past week really happen? I don't think it did . . . I really don't. Why is it that January is always gruelingly slow while February starts and is over in what feels like 3 days? The only thing that's happened this month is that my roommate has developed some strange habits. The first being hiding out in his room any time he's not at work. He didn't used to do this, or at least not to the point that it seemed strange. And until yesterday I was doing my best not to take it personally.

What happened yesterday, you ask? He hid his pots and pans. This has certainly never happened before, and since I use them (with permission) way more than he does, I couldn't help but take it a little personally. Is he sending me a message? If so, what a strange way to communicate with your roommate. Couldn't he just tell me if something is wrong.

Oh well.

From December

story:

I gave my number to the photographer at an party-like event. I'm not sure why I did this because it's not something I do. In retrospect I blame peer pressure.
Anyway, a few days went by and he did not call me. I figured, "hey it's New York. I'll never see that guy again . . . "

I wish that were the end of the story.
Unfortunately, it's not:

I was in the back room of a cafe that I frequent, happily making progress on a final paper. I decided that I needed another coffee, so I went to the front room to get it.

Guess who was sitting near the register, looking right at me.

So I said, "Hey," in the sort of casual way you try to have toward someone you gave your number to and they didn't call you. And he was like, "Hi, how's it going?" in the way that you try to be cool when you see someone you hoped you wouldn't because you were never going to call them.

And I ordered my coffee and a scone trying hard not to be totally mortified and puke all over the place. Luckily, the barista dropped the scone on the floor which made me feel like less of a fool, or at least like I wasn't the only fool in the history of humanity. Don't worry, he got me a new scone.

Anyway, I get the coffee and realize I'm all freaking trembly -- I'm SHAKING -- and I can barely carry the effing coffee, I probably already had way too much anyway. And now I'm sitting here with this huge coffee I can't even drink and a huge scone I can't even eat, and a long paper that I can't even write.

I just found out that I'm not getting paid. I am trying not to let it upset me but it really does change everything. I always said I'd do the internship even if I didn't get paid, but that was before I took out smaller student loans because I thought I was getting paid. So now I don't have enough money to live in this city for three more months. Supposedly in three and a half months I will get more money. But, for reasons I won't go into here, I don't even know if that money is really coming or not. In short, I'm fucked. How did this happen? How could they not tell me that I wasn't going to get paid?

I'm really, really trying to keep it together, which means I've been sitting at my desk for an hour and twenty minutes trying not to cry. That has been my sole task for the last 83 minutes and I don't even feel guilty about it because I'm not getting paid. The moneyed asses I have to watch while trying not to cry aren't really helping matters. I look and them and I think: they are getting paid to talk about how they'd like a martini and a cigarette -- how about I'd like to be able to buy food in December? They are asking me to run uptown to buy eight cookies for thirty dollars -- but they can't even give me a stipend. They send me to buy multiple copies of some stupid DVD for fifty-six dollars, but they can't give me minimum wage for a day. It's sad enough that a full day's labor at minimum wage would cost about the same as two copies of Baby Mama. But what's really heartbreaking is that my entire time here won't be worth as much -- I won't even get paid as much as the eight fucking cookies.

falling off

I am wearing a polka-dot shirtdress with straightleg jeans, a denim jacket, and black mary janes. It's nice, but all I can think of is heartburn -- mine, because I am hung over. So hung over, I'm almost falling off. All I remember is playing foos-ball and running around in the snow and slipping on the ice (I fell twice but I don't think I cared very much). And watching a YouTube video of Peter Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" song and XTC's "Senses Working Overtime."

This is why Coke is a bad thing. If it didn't exist I surely would have passed out at a reasonable hour. I might not have even made it out the door, I was so tired at 9 pm. But with a rum n' coke in the belly not only did I go out, I proceeded to drink more caffeine in various forms -- the most damaging probably being the jag-bomb. And that is probably what I'm feeling right now.

Rayne-ing on the Summer Parade

Just when you thought the yuppies couldn't make "organic" any more synonymous with "pretentious," in walks Summer Rayne Oakes, "eco-model."

Great. A pretty, tall, waif decides to model only organic or recycled clothing and everybody starts prostrating like she's Mother Theresa. I'm still trying to figure out why her whole deal bugs me so much, but I think it has more to do with the way everyone's jumping on the Summer Rayne Bandwagon of Promotion (as if she's an environment-saving solution in and of herself) than anything she is doing. Then again, you know there has to be some self-promotion behind it. New flash to the hippie press: she's not even on par with Angelina Jolie. In other words, she's not changing anything - she's just marketing herself through the green movement, and implying that we can consume our way out of the mess we're in as a byproduct.

And now S4 (substance, sexiness, style, and sustainability. a magazine)?!?!
I am going to throw up. All over Ms. Oakes and her posse of believers.

I don't think caring about the planet and sexiness are mutually exclusive, but I do wonder if whoever's getting off on Summer Rayne's hotness actually cares. Are they going to recycle the latest issue of E (graced by implied-naked, covered in mud you-know-who) after they're done masturbating to it?

pay no attention to the man behind the curtain

smoke and mirrors

a new job

Living off of some saved wages from Unspeakably Boring Corporate-type Job and the settlement from getting hit by a trucker only lasts so long, as wonderful as it is to feel independently wealthy. So, after paying my rent this month I realized that it was time for me to get a new job.

My job search consisted of me considering my options. Having been rejected from the one paying job I really wanted to do (in arts administration - maybe one day I'll be happy I didn't get it), I figured I really had only one option left: serving. So. There is the French Meadow, the Bryant Lake Bowl...and lots of other places that probably wouldn't want me either. And even to get those jobs I'd have to go in, charm someone a little bit, fill out an application (oh yeah, dusting off those resumes and bringing some along would probably be a good idea), and then wait. Probably have to follow up (yuck!). And even if I got X job, I'd have to train and blah blah blah.

So in the end my job search consisted of riding my bike past the French Meadow - which looked too busy to apply at right then - and past Soba's, where I waited tables until April. I couldn't help but notice that (having the high turnover that they do) the good old "Help Wanted' sign was in the window.

Well, I thought, they want help, I need money. I wouldn't have to train...hmmmmmmm. I guess I never hated it there.

You guessed it. I went in, talked to one of the owners, gave her my number. I didn't know if she would call, but she didn't keep me guessing for long. Within an hour I had a serving gig lined up for Sunday, baby. A little too soon, honestly, but servers can't be choosers...so I guess the search is over.