How lame am I, updating my blog when there's only thirty minutes left to go in 2008? Pretty lame. But I've never been a big New Year's Eve celebrater--it's midnight, after all, and we old folks have got to go to bed early. I did go out for curry with a couple friends here, and then introduced "That Hamilton Woman" to Kismet, although he was sleeping when Nelson uttered his most relevant line. Damn that beagle anyway.
I clicked back on "January 2007" to try to figure out what the hell I should write about. It didn't help much. Reading that was a lil' slice of badness that I'm glad to be over with. 2008 was a pretty good year for me, but January of that year was not. Cold, dark Chicago days, running around temping, no friends, wondering if I'd ever find permanency... The one bright spark I had to laugh at: Me, casually tossing out that I'd applied for a CW technician position on January 14th. Three months later I'd be in Williamsburg...
2008 has been a good year. It wasn't perfect, but unlike 2007 I finally feel like I've got a solid base underneath me to branch out and try new things, like acting, like writing, like performing, like interpreting. Things could change tomorrow, of course, but for right now I'm pretty content. I'm feeling more in control, and more like I can make decisions that will affect my life positively instead of reflexively reacting to whatever happens to me. That sounds like so much psychobabble, and maybe it is--but it's the calm honest truth, not the slightly giddy desperate tone that was used last January.
It's been a good year. A long year. I guess I'm ready for the next one. No bells, no champagne, just high-thread count sheets, a sleepy beagle and some naval literature. Bring it on 2009. I'm ready.
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Leaving Chicago
I left the apartment for the last time by the back door...I had to get my bike off the back porch, so I walked through the empty space--empty of my stuff, that is--and down the back doors, out through the alley and I was gone. I thought I would feel more upset, more something, but I mostly feel tired. It's like someone who has long been sick has died--this is a sadness that you were anticipating, a sadness that needs to be got through Dune-style, passing through and around and over me and when it is gone, I remain, different, stronger.
And it doesn't stop you from crying or rending your clothes or being really upset because this. bloody. sucks.
Dad and Peter rented a trailer and hauled away my belongings and me as easily as picking up a dropped book and we made Green Bay by five pm. I thanked them both about a hundred times--not only for the physical exertion of hauling my precious books down three flights of stairs, but also because I couldn't explain how I was feeling. I wanted to apologise for not trying harder, for not making it work out, for missing London so much, for always being so sad. And they said "don't worry about it" and "that's what family is for" when I explained that I sent an email out to some people I know here asking for help moving--no one responded--and I assumed by that I have no friends in Chicago. I'm sorry. Thank you. And they said "don't worry about it" which I understand to mean "stop it. We love you." And when I got home Mom had cooked two chickens and an entire bag of green beans (which are my favourite) and I understood that to mean "don't worry about not getting into Madison, I still love you." And Brenda showed me paint chips for baby's bedroom and told me to come play with her dogs.
So I ate too much chicken and tried not to worry too much about putting my brother in the hospital with a herniated disk and smiled gamely when dad railed on about different actresses at the Oscars.
I feel so pathetic.
But I am loved.
And it doesn't stop you from crying or rending your clothes or being really upset because this. bloody. sucks.
Dad and Peter rented a trailer and hauled away my belongings and me as easily as picking up a dropped book and we made Green Bay by five pm. I thanked them both about a hundred times--not only for the physical exertion of hauling my precious books down three flights of stairs, but also because I couldn't explain how I was feeling. I wanted to apologise for not trying harder, for not making it work out, for missing London so much, for always being so sad. And they said "don't worry about it" and "that's what family is for" when I explained that I sent an email out to some people I know here asking for help moving--no one responded--and I assumed by that I have no friends in Chicago. I'm sorry. Thank you. And they said "don't worry about it" which I understand to mean "stop it. We love you." And when I got home Mom had cooked two chickens and an entire bag of green beans (which are my favourite) and I understood that to mean "don't worry about not getting into Madison, I still love you." And Brenda showed me paint chips for baby's bedroom and told me to come play with her dogs.
So I ate too much chicken and tried not to worry too much about putting my brother in the hospital with a herniated disk and smiled gamely when dad railed on about different actresses at the Oscars.
I feel so pathetic.
But I am loved.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
wasabi! also, ships
I'm sure many of my loyal readers have heard about what happened at the Lane Bryant in Tinley Park by now. If you haven't, the short version is that a gunman entered the store last Friday and shot five women dead. One woman survived to give a great description, but they haven't caught the murderer yet.
I work at Lane Bryant--not the same store where this happened, but the feeling is definitely more alert. Our security monitoring system gave us several "panic buttons" we can wear around our necks, and our security guard now stays until we leave, instead of taking off when the store closes. Even so, I nearly had a heart attack when someone knocked on the door and asked us if we were closed. It's incredible how quickly and easily this happened and it's scary thinking it could happen any time. After work, instead of hopping directly on the train I walked down to a Seven-11 for a gallon of milk (because not only have I drunk all my milk, I've drunk most of my roommate's). Several streetlights were off, and a sanitation truck was throwing some kind of haze into the air--I tried not think about what that was too much. The whole city was eerily lit and strangely empty. I can see why they filmed "Batman" here. It took me more than an hour to get home, the train packed with people when it's usually empty. For once, it felt good to be surrounded by people.
Instead of a McDonald's attack (my first option) I found a little pack of California sushi rolls at the Seven-11 for dinner, so now my nasal passages are on fire. Ah, wasabi. Even from a packet you are still good. Tomorrow I'm only working one job (yay) so I'm going to get to the library for the next book about Jack Aubrey. I can't get over how good these books are.
So I'm starting a new project. If you head over to www.bellhollee.blogspot.com you'll find a work in progress by Me, about a character that I've had rolling around in my head for quite awhile now. I think I've got the story worked out, but to induce me to keep writing, I'm going to publish it as I go along. The rules are: A, I must write every day even if it's only a line or two. B, No going back or erasing or revising, not yet. That's it. The story will involve some familiar faces later, so please don't make too much fun of me. There's plenty of historical lit to go around.
I work at Lane Bryant--not the same store where this happened, but the feeling is definitely more alert. Our security monitoring system gave us several "panic buttons" we can wear around our necks, and our security guard now stays until we leave, instead of taking off when the store closes. Even so, I nearly had a heart attack when someone knocked on the door and asked us if we were closed. It's incredible how quickly and easily this happened and it's scary thinking it could happen any time. After work, instead of hopping directly on the train I walked down to a Seven-11 for a gallon of milk (because not only have I drunk all my milk, I've drunk most of my roommate's). Several streetlights were off, and a sanitation truck was throwing some kind of haze into the air--I tried not think about what that was too much. The whole city was eerily lit and strangely empty. I can see why they filmed "Batman" here. It took me more than an hour to get home, the train packed with people when it's usually empty. For once, it felt good to be surrounded by people.
Instead of a McDonald's attack (my first option) I found a little pack of California sushi rolls at the Seven-11 for dinner, so now my nasal passages are on fire. Ah, wasabi. Even from a packet you are still good. Tomorrow I'm only working one job (yay) so I'm going to get to the library for the next book about Jack Aubrey. I can't get over how good these books are.
So I'm starting a new project. If you head over to www.bellhollee.blogspot.com you'll find a work in progress by Me, about a character that I've had rolling around in my head for quite awhile now. I think I've got the story worked out, but to induce me to keep writing, I'm going to publish it as I go along. The rules are: A, I must write every day even if it's only a line or two. B, No going back or erasing or revising, not yet. That's it. The story will involve some familiar faces later, so please don't make too much fun of me. There's plenty of historical lit to go around.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
This is the life: bohemia
My job, as I mentioned briefly yesterday, allows me to work from home for the next week or two, and let me tell you, with as crappy as the weather is, I'm totally grateful. Without being too specific, I will tell you that I spend a lot of time on the internet, looking up information from various college websites. I never realised how many colleges there are. And I never considered applying to more than one when I decided I wanted to do my PhD. I always figured I'd do it at Madison or not at all, so since I was already checking out college websites I hopped over to UWM to see if they've rejected my abysmal application yet. Aaaand--
Nothing. Still in transit. Okay. Meanwhile, I'm pulling out my hair here, frustrated with temping, the weather, the lack of usefulness in general and my dislike of Chicago in particular, so I've decided to leave. Pull up stakes and head out. Farewell and godspeed. I know I wouldn't be staying in Chicago anyway, whether it's Madison in September or somewhere else tomorrow, so I've decided to cut and run. She said petulantly.
I know that I'm not very good with the long-term plans, and I tend to get antsy about, oh, anything requiring me to focus for more than five minutes together. I guess I just haven't found anything I'm passionate enough about to hang in here for. Yet. And I'm single, no kids, no dogs and only my student loans dragging me down--so now might be a very good time to be traveling about for awhile. I am making plans to head down to Camp Victor in Mississippi for a month or two and whither then, I cannot say. By that time I'll have heard back from Madison and will either be settling happily into an apartment in Mad-town or making huge, dramatic, sobby plans to move back to London and marry for a visa. Or something. I'll be back. You haven't seen the last of me.
I feel like I'm apologising for leaving. I don't mean to be. I don't want to feel like Chicago is driving me out, like I'm saying "oh yeah? well screw you, I quit!" because that's not how I see it at all. I feel like "Okay. This is not working. Next!" I'd rather not look back on Chicago at all. (and anyone who has had to listen to my rants about London will be relieved, I'm sure) I hear the anxious well-wishers asking if this is going to contribute tothe furthering of any sort of career, and I wonder the same thing. There's only so long one can go sopping up life experiences before you have to turn around and write. My resume is so piecemeal right now it hardly matters if I take two months off, and the money sitch is somewhat relaxed right now.
The question still remains: how does one begin to live? To make that transition from college to "real life?" I feel like this past year (past five months especially) I have been suspended in a not-really-living life. Were I working at a job I liked with coworkers I got along with, I might have gone out with them occasionally, swapped stories of friends back home and dates on the weekends. Instead I see a new set of coworkers every week, sometimes more often. Were I working in a theatre, I'd be surrounded by people who shared my common interest, heartily debating whether or not Shakespeare is still relevant. I should have taken those sailing lessons last summer--at least I could have embarassed myself the first time someone told me to tack to port and I tried to tell them it used to be "larboard" two hundred years ago while the boat tips over. But I did not...this isolation is of my own making. The becalmed state of my life is all of my own doing, and all because I do not feel like I belong here. Stubbornness brought me here, kept me here, and now I'm leaving--probably stubbornness again. Will I find a "life" down the road? Who can say? But at least I'll be looking instead of sitting around waiting.
Nothing. Still in transit. Okay. Meanwhile, I'm pulling out my hair here, frustrated with temping, the weather, the lack of usefulness in general and my dislike of Chicago in particular, so I've decided to leave. Pull up stakes and head out. Farewell and godspeed. I know I wouldn't be staying in Chicago anyway, whether it's Madison in September or somewhere else tomorrow, so I've decided to cut and run. She said petulantly.
I know that I'm not very good with the long-term plans, and I tend to get antsy about, oh, anything requiring me to focus for more than five minutes together. I guess I just haven't found anything I'm passionate enough about to hang in here for. Yet. And I'm single, no kids, no dogs and only my student loans dragging me down--so now might be a very good time to be traveling about for awhile. I am making plans to head down to Camp Victor in Mississippi for a month or two and whither then, I cannot say. By that time I'll have heard back from Madison and will either be settling happily into an apartment in Mad-town or making huge, dramatic, sobby plans to move back to London and marry for a visa. Or something. I'll be back. You haven't seen the last of me.
I feel like I'm apologising for leaving. I don't mean to be. I don't want to feel like Chicago is driving me out, like I'm saying "oh yeah? well screw you, I quit!" because that's not how I see it at all. I feel like "Okay. This is not working. Next!" I'd rather not look back on Chicago at all. (and anyone who has had to listen to my rants about London will be relieved, I'm sure) I hear the anxious well-wishers asking if this is going to contribute tothe furthering of any sort of career, and I wonder the same thing. There's only so long one can go sopping up life experiences before you have to turn around and write. My resume is so piecemeal right now it hardly matters if I take two months off, and the money sitch is somewhat relaxed right now.
The question still remains: how does one begin to live? To make that transition from college to "real life?" I feel like this past year (past five months especially) I have been suspended in a not-really-living life. Were I working at a job I liked with coworkers I got along with, I might have gone out with them occasionally, swapped stories of friends back home and dates on the weekends. Instead I see a new set of coworkers every week, sometimes more often. Were I working in a theatre, I'd be surrounded by people who shared my common interest, heartily debating whether or not Shakespeare is still relevant. I should have taken those sailing lessons last summer--at least I could have embarassed myself the first time someone told me to tack to port and I tried to tell them it used to be "larboard" two hundred years ago while the boat tips over. But I did not...this isolation is of my own making. The becalmed state of my life is all of my own doing, and all because I do not feel like I belong here. Stubbornness brought me here, kept me here, and now I'm leaving--probably stubbornness again. Will I find a "life" down the road? Who can say? But at least I'll be looking instead of sitting around waiting.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
busy...
The past couple days I've been temping, working my part-time job at LB and also helping out at 1776, which opens this weekend. And you should all come, because it's a damnfine show. I think I have a little crush on the actor who plays John Adams, but that may also be because a) he's playing John Adams or b) he wears breeches. And wears them very well, I should add.
That's what blogs are for, folks. Rather than saying embarassing things directly to people, I like to publish them online for everyone to see.
Also, Josiah Bartlett's wig looks like my real hair. Random.
I had another job interview yesterday. No, not for a theatre job, another receptionist job, but I haven't heard back. I'm quite tired of going on job interviews, but I suppose I'll have to until something comes up.
Tuesday I arrived home after rehearsal to learn that Heath Ledger had died. I'm not a particular fan of his, but nonetheless, the news affected me deeply. As I've said before, if people of that magnitude of talent die, then what can the rest of us do but soldier on in our mediocrity? And try to do our best. Heath, we hardly knew ye. Rest easy.
I wish I had more exciting news to end my blog update on, but that's pretty much it. Nothing extraordinary or dramatic at all. Blah.
That's what blogs are for, folks. Rather than saying embarassing things directly to people, I like to publish them online for everyone to see.
Also, Josiah Bartlett's wig looks like my real hair. Random.
I had another job interview yesterday. No, not for a theatre job, another receptionist job, but I haven't heard back. I'm quite tired of going on job interviews, but I suppose I'll have to until something comes up.
Tuesday I arrived home after rehearsal to learn that Heath Ledger had died. I'm not a particular fan of his, but nonetheless, the news affected me deeply. As I've said before, if people of that magnitude of talent die, then what can the rest of us do but soldier on in our mediocrity? And try to do our best. Heath, we hardly knew ye. Rest easy.
I wish I had more exciting news to end my blog update on, but that's pretty much it. Nothing extraordinary or dramatic at all. Blah.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Monday Morning Potluck
I was dreaming about valkyries last night when I realised my phone was ringing...which can mean only one thing...new assignment...I love temping with Office Team--I have five people looking for jobs for me which means, even though I'm not working full time, I'm working full time.
Ironically, I'm covering reception at the Chicago offices of T ishman S peyer today...there's only one person here though, so it's been very quiet...but the pictures on the wall are very familiar...
how about them Packers, eh? I watched the game last night with my non-football fan roommate, so inbetween screaming like a possessed woman we talked about theatre, politics and the upcoming season of the Venture Brothers...I'm sad that the Pack didn't make it to the Superbowl, but at least they fought like warriors of old...and they lost in GB which means they're among friends...plenty of commiserating going on last night I bet...
Speaking of TV, "The Boondocks" is one of the funniest and most socially relevant cartoons I've ever seen...watch it.
Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and I'm almost through my biography...I was mad when the Red Eye (pale imitation of the Metro, bastion of all knowledge) had as its front-cover story a story about abortion. Which I did not read, since I was putting my makeup on. But--on today of all days, let's get a little info about Dr. King, please. Just another way the Man keeps you down, I guess. The more I read about Dr. King, the more impressed by him I am, and the more proud I am to be an American, a part of a country that can produce such brave people...I don't know if I could have gone marching down those streets, facing dogs, chains, brickbats, rubber hoses wrapped in barbed wire...was this really America? I feel the same way I did when I realised I could ask Grandma about getting the vote, or dad about Vietnam...the civil rights movement is still well within living memory, and it's fascinating how little it affects every day life...yet, still pervasive...
Speaking of things historical, exactly one year from now, Jan 21, 2009, will be the first day of President Not George W. Bush's first term in office. 365 days...let the countdown begin. Are YOU registered to vote?!
Oh, coffee.
Ironically, I'm covering reception at the Chicago offices of T ishman S peyer today...there's only one person here though, so it's been very quiet...but the pictures on the wall are very familiar...
how about them Packers, eh? I watched the game last night with my non-football fan roommate, so inbetween screaming like a possessed woman we talked about theatre, politics and the upcoming season of the Venture Brothers...I'm sad that the Pack didn't make it to the Superbowl, but at least they fought like warriors of old...and they lost in GB which means they're among friends...plenty of commiserating going on last night I bet...
Speaking of TV, "The Boondocks" is one of the funniest and most socially relevant cartoons I've ever seen...watch it.
Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and I'm almost through my biography...I was mad when the Red Eye (pale imitation of the Metro, bastion of all knowledge) had as its front-cover story a story about abortion. Which I did not read, since I was putting my makeup on. But--on today of all days, let's get a little info about Dr. King, please. Just another way the Man keeps you down, I guess. The more I read about Dr. King, the more impressed by him I am, and the more proud I am to be an American, a part of a country that can produce such brave people...I don't know if I could have gone marching down those streets, facing dogs, chains, brickbats, rubber hoses wrapped in barbed wire...was this really America? I feel the same way I did when I realised I could ask Grandma about getting the vote, or dad about Vietnam...the civil rights movement is still well within living memory, and it's fascinating how little it affects every day life...yet, still pervasive...
Speaking of things historical, exactly one year from now, Jan 21, 2009, will be the first day of President Not George W. Bush's first term in office. 365 days...let the countdown begin. Are YOU registered to vote?!
Oh, coffee.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
1430 Hours
About twenty minutes before I left work, a woman came up to me and said, "I need a brown bra, not padded, without wires. Size 42D." I handed her one of the few brown bras we have in the store. "This one doesn't have a wire, I said." "And what else did I say?" she responded. I was pretty sure I hadn't heard what I had just heard so I stared at her. No one is that rude. "I said I want one with no wire and no padding," she confirmed. "Uh," I said, casting my thoughts over the racks of bras I had been meticulously re-arranging all week, "we don't have any brown bras that don't have...the only wireless, unpadded bras we have are these and these and these, but they're not brown."
The woman made a beeline for our sporty cotton bras. "Yes, these come in brown. I'd like one please." "No, we don't have any brown in the store." "but I SAW THEM." "Ma'am, it's possible they were a fall or winter color, but we're getting rid of those colors and we don't..." The woman proceeds to pull a printout out of her bag and thrusts it into my hands. "I also saw these bras online. Do you have these?" "Yes, but not in the brown you want." "Well, what DO you have?!" "Well, I can check and see if we can order it online, and then it will be shipped to you in three to five business days." "Fine."
By this point I'm only being minimally helpful. I check to see if the bra is available online. It is. I take her order without pointing out the three or four sales/coupons we have available which would take her total down, oh, fifteen dollars or so, and see her to the door. I know it's cold. The heat doesn't work too well in the part of the store where I work, so I had spent all morning either blowing on my fingers, or holding them next to the nice warm register. I know you're cranky and in a hurry. But I am twenty minutes away from going home, and it is not my fault that you didn't plan ahead for your special event that requires a brown bra.
Ladies: Please for the Love of God, if you have a special outfit that requires a strapless bra or an otherwise special purchase, unless you are a 36C, plan ahead. I can guarantee that stopping by the only plus-sized store in the Loop on your way to your party will only result in fail.
In other news, it is minus five here. The windchill broke the thermometer. I am huddled into daddy's old Packer fleece, which has lots of room for extra layers, simmering chili in the next room. There is just nothing to do but bundle up and thank God that I have a warm place to be tonight to watch South Carolina returns.
The woman made a beeline for our sporty cotton bras. "Yes, these come in brown. I'd like one please." "No, we don't have any brown in the store." "but I SAW THEM." "Ma'am, it's possible they were a fall or winter color, but we're getting rid of those colors and we don't..." The woman proceeds to pull a printout out of her bag and thrusts it into my hands. "I also saw these bras online. Do you have these?" "Yes, but not in the brown you want." "Well, what DO you have?!" "Well, I can check and see if we can order it online, and then it will be shipped to you in three to five business days." "Fine."
By this point I'm only being minimally helpful. I check to see if the bra is available online. It is. I take her order without pointing out the three or four sales/coupons we have available which would take her total down, oh, fifteen dollars or so, and see her to the door. I know it's cold. The heat doesn't work too well in the part of the store where I work, so I had spent all morning either blowing on my fingers, or holding them next to the nice warm register. I know you're cranky and in a hurry. But I am twenty minutes away from going home, and it is not my fault that you didn't plan ahead for your special event that requires a brown bra.
Ladies: Please for the Love of God, if you have a special outfit that requires a strapless bra or an otherwise special purchase, unless you are a 36C, plan ahead. I can guarantee that stopping by the only plus-sized store in the Loop on your way to your party will only result in fail.
In other news, it is minus five here. The windchill broke the thermometer. I am huddled into daddy's old Packer fleece, which has lots of room for extra layers, simmering chili in the next room. There is just nothing to do but bundle up and thank God that I have a warm place to be tonight to watch South Carolina returns.
Vanity Fair
I picked up a few hours temping today, and after work a friend called about going out for sushi. "I'll be ready in about an hour," he said. I said "I'll find something to kill the time."
So I wandered over to Bloomingdales, thinking maybe I could score some free moisturiser samples from a makeup counter. One of the women hooked me and reeled me in, explaining they had their "regional colour artist" at the store today and would I like some tips for freshening up my look? Sure! They plopped me down in a chair and started in. First, a cleanser. Then, a moisteriser. Then some eye serum. Then, finally, the war paint. In this order: highlight to banish under-eye shadows, facial primer, foundation, shimmer powder, then bronzer on my pale, dehydrated cheeks. Then the lady lit into my eyes. Starting with an oil-free base, then a blue eye pencil, purple eyeshadow, black eyeliner and finally, electric blue mascara. Just for the hell of it, she added some white shimmery stuff under my eyes to make them look bigger, and patted my eyebrows with "brow powder" so they'd match my red hair. (yes. there is such a thing as "brow powder.")Then--red lipstick and collagen-enhanced lip gloss.
I felt pretty. I felt saucy. I felt better than I had all week, a week spent largely inside lying in bed, agonizing about bills and money. Two pretty salesgirls swirled around me, patting my face and telling me how my skin was enjoying the moisturizing treatment. When I finally lifted the mirror, I looked like a model. My lips were the red you pictured 1930s movie icons wore, my eyes were greener than Scarlett O'Hara's. I thought, "yes, I just needed a little pampering!" Full of confidence and happy with my makeover, I ended up buying over a hundred dollars worth of makeup, and a handful of free samples. I felt so chic walking out of the store with that little "small brown bag" from Bloomingdales, wearing enough eyeshadow for a Moulin Rouge dancer. This isn't me, but oh--how fun!!!
When I walked outside, the wind hit me like a thousand tiny gnomes stabbing me all over my face with flash-frozen needles. My thighs felt like frozen pork steaks, nothing between them and the wind but a thin piece of polyester. I tucked my purse, canvas shoe bag and Bloomingdale's bag into the crook of my arm and set off down the four blocks to my friend's dorm. By the time I got there, I was crying from the cold, my nose a fountain, my vision blurry. I scurried into the bathroom to do damage control (still confident that the coeds were looking at fabulous me) and looked into the mirror.
My face was so numb I didn't realise I had tears running all the way down my face, but I could see the tracks they made, carved into the five layers of makeup. It looked like I was melting. Literally. I tried fixing the foundation, but the wind had sucked most of the moisterizer out of my cheeks and I ended up rubbing most of it off. My eyes were red from the combined cold and eye-makeup assault. I looked like I had been out partying most of the night, drinking heavily the whole time, and had had to fight off several unsuave suitors.
I'm embarassed. This isn't me. I'm not the kind of person who wears several layers of makeup, I don't get a thrill out of shopping at Bloomingdale's--most of the time I feel downright superior to those women. I'm ashamed that I fell for the allure of pretty makeups and hiding my real face under a mask of chemicals. I'm mad at myself for being embarassed that my most faithful moisteriser these long months has been plain shea butter and trying to do better. And I firmly believe that that melting face in the mirror was God telling me that vanity doesn't suit me and I should probably save my money.
I'll take the makeup back tomorrow. I should have stopped long before the brow powder and stuck with the free samples.
So I wandered over to Bloomingdales, thinking maybe I could score some free moisturiser samples from a makeup counter. One of the women hooked me and reeled me in, explaining they had their "regional colour artist" at the store today and would I like some tips for freshening up my look? Sure! They plopped me down in a chair and started in. First, a cleanser. Then, a moisteriser. Then some eye serum. Then, finally, the war paint. In this order: highlight to banish under-eye shadows, facial primer, foundation, shimmer powder, then bronzer on my pale, dehydrated cheeks. Then the lady lit into my eyes. Starting with an oil-free base, then a blue eye pencil, purple eyeshadow, black eyeliner and finally, electric blue mascara. Just for the hell of it, she added some white shimmery stuff under my eyes to make them look bigger, and patted my eyebrows with "brow powder" so they'd match my red hair. (yes. there is such a thing as "brow powder.")Then--red lipstick and collagen-enhanced lip gloss.
I felt pretty. I felt saucy. I felt better than I had all week, a week spent largely inside lying in bed, agonizing about bills and money. Two pretty salesgirls swirled around me, patting my face and telling me how my skin was enjoying the moisturizing treatment. When I finally lifted the mirror, I looked like a model. My lips were the red you pictured 1930s movie icons wore, my eyes were greener than Scarlett O'Hara's. I thought, "yes, I just needed a little pampering!" Full of confidence and happy with my makeover, I ended up buying over a hundred dollars worth of makeup, and a handful of free samples. I felt so chic walking out of the store with that little "small brown bag" from Bloomingdales, wearing enough eyeshadow for a Moulin Rouge dancer. This isn't me, but oh--how fun!!!
When I walked outside, the wind hit me like a thousand tiny gnomes stabbing me all over my face with flash-frozen needles. My thighs felt like frozen pork steaks, nothing between them and the wind but a thin piece of polyester. I tucked my purse, canvas shoe bag and Bloomingdale's bag into the crook of my arm and set off down the four blocks to my friend's dorm. By the time I got there, I was crying from the cold, my nose a fountain, my vision blurry. I scurried into the bathroom to do damage control (still confident that the coeds were looking at fabulous me) and looked into the mirror.
My face was so numb I didn't realise I had tears running all the way down my face, but I could see the tracks they made, carved into the five layers of makeup. It looked like I was melting. Literally. I tried fixing the foundation, but the wind had sucked most of the moisterizer out of my cheeks and I ended up rubbing most of it off. My eyes were red from the combined cold and eye-makeup assault. I looked like I had been out partying most of the night, drinking heavily the whole time, and had had to fight off several unsuave suitors.
I'm embarassed. This isn't me. I'm not the kind of person who wears several layers of makeup, I don't get a thrill out of shopping at Bloomingdale's--most of the time I feel downright superior to those women. I'm ashamed that I fell for the allure of pretty makeups and hiding my real face under a mask of chemicals. I'm mad at myself for being embarassed that my most faithful moisteriser these long months has been plain shea butter and trying to do better. And I firmly believe that that melting face in the mirror was God telling me that vanity doesn't suit me and I should probably save my money.
I'll take the makeup back tomorrow. I should have stopped long before the brow powder and stuck with the free samples.
Friday, January 11, 2008
ballocks.
I arrived home after working last night to find an email from my boss at Job A saying that "due to budgetary constraints" Saturday was going to be my last day. Not fired--but this assignment is over. I hate temping. A call to my agency confirmed this ("yes, they called me last night" Ah. And when were you going to tell me?!) According to the agency, I got A+ reviews, so it's just a matter of finding a new assignment. Right. On a Friday morning. Sure. I was hoping to spend all morning hunched over my pretty new sewing machine, but maybe I'll break out the resumes. Dar.
All is not lost, however, for yesterday I had a good job interview. Afterwards I went to Macy's for a cup of tea and some cake, but I was sorely disappointed. The waitress brought out a lovely wooden box with the Tazo logo carved in the top and I thought "ah! Tazo! How Elegant!" but when I opened it, the little nooks were filled with Lipton. LIPTON! I know I'm being a snob, but jay-hensu, come on Macy's you cheapskate store, with your fifty-dollar dog treats and your twelve-foot tall moose, you can't buy some REAL TEA? Yes, the cake was very good, but really now...
All is not lost, however, for yesterday I had a good job interview. Afterwards I went to Macy's for a cup of tea and some cake, but I was sorely disappointed. The waitress brought out a lovely wooden box with the Tazo logo carved in the top and I thought "ah! Tazo! How Elegant!" but when I opened it, the little nooks were filled with Lipton. LIPTON! I know I'm being a snob, but jay-hensu, come on Macy's you cheapskate store, with your fifty-dollar dog treats and your twelve-foot tall moose, you can't buy some REAL TEA? Yes, the cake was very good, but really now...
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Celebrity Hack
There's home and then there's not home, and I'm definitely not home right now. I am feeling a little more centered about finding a new job and living in Chicago, but still ansty about Seeing the World and trying something different. In the meantime: worked for twelve and a half hours today. Welcome back!
Christmas was magnificent. I am the happiest kid on the block because I woke up to find a Singer sewing machine under the tree, causing me to dance around breathless with joy. Finally, a friend who won't get sick of my endless contemplations of period clothes. (not that I don't have friends who are excited about period clothes. But I'm sure even THEY have hit their limit of my reverent recitations of Nelson's decorations et al.) By Mom's count, we had forty people in our house at one point, and most of the afternoon was spent singing. I love to sing with my family, we are endlessly musical, and what we lack in training we make up for in enthusiasm. (except for KT. She has amazing talent, also enthusiasm. Also, better hair.) The highlights of the day were marked by a pair of Announcements, one of which involves a Boat, specifically the purchasing of by my dad. Dad, who was quickly corrected by me when he regretfully told me that I couldn't borrow it: "But Dad, if I have to drive it, how am I going to sit up in the bow and bark at passing jetskis?!"
So we had a long day of family fun, and in the evening I settled down with "Half Blood Prince" in front of of a roaring fire and watched Law and Order with mom...just like being at home. Yesterday Dad brought me and the new Singer (which doesn't have a name yet, since I'm trying to figure out if it's male or female) back to Chicago, pausing momentarily for brat-y goodness at Kenosha. If Napoleon had had my stash of leftovers, he would have made it to St. Petersburg. My one regret about working today is that I did not have the luxury of eating my way slowly through the fridge. Also, my roommate got to the taco salad. Damnit.
Happy news on the job front: I have a Very Promising job interview tomorrow for a full-time office position (yay), the only slight downside is that they would probably want me to start Monday. I am supposed to be working on Monday. But...er...ooooh, this is awkward, but if you REALLY had wanted me there, wouldn't you be offering me more than eighteen hours a week? I feel bad ditching my wonderful boss, but a real job is, well, a real job.
News at eleven.
Oh wait, it is eleven.
Good night all.
Christmas was magnificent. I am the happiest kid on the block because I woke up to find a Singer sewing machine under the tree, causing me to dance around breathless with joy. Finally, a friend who won't get sick of my endless contemplations of period clothes. (not that I don't have friends who are excited about period clothes. But I'm sure even THEY have hit their limit of my reverent recitations of Nelson's decorations et al.) By Mom's count, we had forty people in our house at one point, and most of the afternoon was spent singing. I love to sing with my family, we are endlessly musical, and what we lack in training we make up for in enthusiasm. (except for KT. She has amazing talent, also enthusiasm. Also, better hair.) The highlights of the day were marked by a pair of Announcements, one of which involves a Boat, specifically the purchasing of by my dad. Dad, who was quickly corrected by me when he regretfully told me that I couldn't borrow it: "But Dad, if I have to drive it, how am I going to sit up in the bow and bark at passing jetskis?!"
So we had a long day of family fun, and in the evening I settled down with "Half Blood Prince" in front of of a roaring fire and watched Law and Order with mom...just like being at home. Yesterday Dad brought me and the new Singer (which doesn't have a name yet, since I'm trying to figure out if it's male or female) back to Chicago, pausing momentarily for brat-y goodness at Kenosha. If Napoleon had had my stash of leftovers, he would have made it to St. Petersburg. My one regret about working today is that I did not have the luxury of eating my way slowly through the fridge. Also, my roommate got to the taco salad. Damnit.
Happy news on the job front: I have a Very Promising job interview tomorrow for a full-time office position (yay), the only slight downside is that they would probably want me to start Monday. I am supposed to be working on Monday. But...er...ooooh, this is awkward, but if you REALLY had wanted me there, wouldn't you be offering me more than eighteen hours a week? I feel bad ditching my wonderful boss, but a real job is, well, a real job.
News at eleven.
Oh wait, it is eleven.
Good night all.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Normality on a Saturday
I feel bad for not going out last night with my friend, even though he had asked me three weeks ago, but after a week of being sick, not getting enough sleep and going to two job interviews in one day, I was ready to crack. So I stayed home and went to bed at 7:45. And slept until 8:30. Clearly I needed it.
Today I had to return to the clinic so I could get my TB test examined. I can tell that I'm feeling better, because I saw an anti-abortion protest outside a woman's clinic, and I nearly got off the bus to give the protestors a piece of my mind. Five males (of course!!!), holding pictures of babies (no dead fetuses, thank God) and the Madonna and haranguing Christmas shoppers. I understand pro-lifers even less when they're male and I don't appreciate them waving religious iconography in my face. If an angel had come to me in a blaze of light and told me that I was going to bear the Son of Man, you bet your fur I'd keep it. Not all women have that assurance. Moving on.
Actually-I'm sure there's a whole essay in there about how Mary had no real assurance that everything WOULD be okay and she kind of had to go on faith, etc. etc. but now's not the time.
I spent the intervening hours between my visit ("is my tetanus shot supposed to look like this?" "What, does this hurt?" *poke* "OW!" "It's fine. It's just a reaction." Oh, good...glad to have cleared that up...) and working doing some Christmas shopping. I have no idea what to get my mother. Normally I'd get her a sweater or a pair of slippers and be done with it, but this year I want to get her something sparkly. The problem is...I just haven't found it yet. Suggestions? The problem with Christmas shopping is you tend to find lots of things for yourself. Like, for example, an antique metal locker from HMS Mercury that was only--ONLY!--$125 that I have no use for whatsover, but it says "HMS Mercury" on it. Also, inkwells.
As I walked to work I ran into another protest, this one against furs, outside of Saks...I applaud people who are willing to stand out in the snow and get slushed on, but, really, guys (again, all men, hmm...), this time of the year, you're just in people's way and probably pishing them off.
Now CNN tells me that Hillary Clinton is losing her lead in the Iowa polls, after gleefully pointing out that a blizzard on January 5th could make all the difference. (read: "Those poor rubes. The fate of Middle-Earth lies in their hands, but they might not be able to shovel out!!") I'm quite excited to think that Barack is slowly edging into the lead. I'm totally ready to follow him as a president, but I wasn't sure anyone else felt the same way. Well, there's still eleven plus months until the vote, but good numbers are a positive thing. Yay.
Today I had to return to the clinic so I could get my TB test examined. I can tell that I'm feeling better, because I saw an anti-abortion protest outside a woman's clinic, and I nearly got off the bus to give the protestors a piece of my mind. Five males (of course!!!), holding pictures of babies (no dead fetuses, thank God) and the Madonna and haranguing Christmas shoppers. I understand pro-lifers even less when they're male and I don't appreciate them waving religious iconography in my face. If an angel had come to me in a blaze of light and told me that I was going to bear the Son of Man, you bet your fur I'd keep it. Not all women have that assurance. Moving on.
Actually-I'm sure there's a whole essay in there about how Mary had no real assurance that everything WOULD be okay and she kind of had to go on faith, etc. etc. but now's not the time.
I spent the intervening hours between my visit ("is my tetanus shot supposed to look like this?" "What, does this hurt?" *poke* "OW!" "It's fine. It's just a reaction." Oh, good...glad to have cleared that up...) and working doing some Christmas shopping. I have no idea what to get my mother. Normally I'd get her a sweater or a pair of slippers and be done with it, but this year I want to get her something sparkly. The problem is...I just haven't found it yet. Suggestions? The problem with Christmas shopping is you tend to find lots of things for yourself. Like, for example, an antique metal locker from HMS Mercury that was only--ONLY!--$125 that I have no use for whatsover, but it says "HMS Mercury" on it. Also, inkwells.
As I walked to work I ran into another protest, this one against furs, outside of Saks...I applaud people who are willing to stand out in the snow and get slushed on, but, really, guys (again, all men, hmm...), this time of the year, you're just in people's way and probably pishing them off.
Now CNN tells me that Hillary Clinton is losing her lead in the Iowa polls, after gleefully pointing out that a blizzard on January 5th could make all the difference. (read: "Those poor rubes. The fate of Middle-Earth lies in their hands, but they might not be able to shovel out!!") I'm quite excited to think that Barack is slowly edging into the lead. I'm totally ready to follow him as a president, but I wasn't sure anyone else felt the same way. Well, there's still eleven plus months until the vote, but good numbers are a positive thing. Yay.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
So far, so good
The site of my TB injection remains flat and colourless. The site of my tetanus booster (thank you, US taxpayers) hurts like a sob. Ironically, it's about an inch south of the snitch tat, where hopefully tattoo #3 will be appearing. Someday. In the meantime, everytime my bra strap slips off my shoulder it rubs against this spot, causing me to growl in pain. This happens a lot. I need new bras.
I have another interview lined up--this one for Monday morning, for a real job, not a temp agency, a job involving Admin and Reception and Business Professional. Which I have done before. Is it theatre? No. Will it allow me to a) have only one job b) get a new apartment c) have enough money that I can afford tea in teashops on Sunday so I can write JK Rowling-style d) buy plane tickets to London and e) adopt a warm and fuzzy? Yes. So I need to get a haircut and wash my suit. Check.
I have completely given up on my roommates. Before I left I was despairing about how it is going to take me a long time to clean, and one of the guys said "oh, if you'd just leave me a list, I could help out..." Implying of course that I would clean--he would "help." So I said, as I dashed out the door to wash work clothes so I have something to wear during my two interviews tomorrow, "would you mind shaking out the rugs? I'm going to sweep and mop when I get home!" Two hours later (at eight thirty) I returned home. Rugs: unshaken. I had hoped he might get the hint and shake, sweep and mop, but since a direct imperative was beyond him, I don't know why I thought he'd go above and beyond. Other roommate also not so gret: Cans still appearing in the garbage despite a slightly desperate post-it note saying "please recycle! thank you!!!"
for the record it took me ten minutes to shake, fifteen to sweep and fifteen to mop. And another ten to bitch.
but I have not given up yet. For in the store today, an incredibly helpful lady named Diane (clearly, a reincarnation of the goddess of wisdom and patience) gave me refund on my organic peanut butter even though I did not have the original receipt without quarrel. Thank you diane for being such a decent human being. I really need some of that right now. She even gave me the FULL refund, not the price on sale, but the extra two dollars, which I promptly spent on a jar of chunky Jif. Preservatives be damned.
Also, Herbal Essences makes a shampoo called "DRAMA CLEAN." Yes I bought it, how could I not? Have you been paying attention to this post? "nickilovesdrama?" "nickiloveshistronics" more like.
I have another interview lined up--this one for Monday morning, for a real job, not a temp agency, a job involving Admin and Reception and Business Professional. Which I have done before. Is it theatre? No. Will it allow me to a) have only one job b) get a new apartment c) have enough money that I can afford tea in teashops on Sunday so I can write JK Rowling-style d) buy plane tickets to London and e) adopt a warm and fuzzy? Yes. So I need to get a haircut and wash my suit. Check.
I have completely given up on my roommates. Before I left I was despairing about how it is going to take me a long time to clean, and one of the guys said "oh, if you'd just leave me a list, I could help out..." Implying of course that I would clean--he would "help." So I said, as I dashed out the door to wash work clothes so I have something to wear during my two interviews tomorrow, "would you mind shaking out the rugs? I'm going to sweep and mop when I get home!" Two hours later (at eight thirty) I returned home. Rugs: unshaken. I had hoped he might get the hint and shake, sweep and mop, but since a direct imperative was beyond him, I don't know why I thought he'd go above and beyond. Other roommate also not so gret: Cans still appearing in the garbage despite a slightly desperate post-it note saying "please recycle! thank you!!!"
for the record it took me ten minutes to shake, fifteen to sweep and fifteen to mop. And another ten to bitch.
but I have not given up yet. For in the store today, an incredibly helpful lady named Diane (clearly, a reincarnation of the goddess of wisdom and patience) gave me refund on my organic peanut butter even though I did not have the original receipt without quarrel. Thank you diane for being such a decent human being. I really need some of that right now. She even gave me the FULL refund, not the price on sale, but the extra two dollars, which I promptly spent on a jar of chunky Jif. Preservatives be damned.
Also, Herbal Essences makes a shampoo called "DRAMA CLEAN." Yes I bought it, how could I not? Have you been paying attention to this post? "nickilovesdrama?" "nickiloveshistronics" more like.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Pricked, prodded and preoccupied
Another hoop I have to jump through to volunteer with wee children is having a tuberculosis test. I always associated TB with eighteenth century writers, but apparently it's having a comeback tour in our schools and hospitals. So I made an appointment with a low income clinic downtown and went down there today. In the course of two hours I was:
1. Seen by 4 different people
2. Stabbed by three of them
3. Reassured my blood sugar level is perfectly normal--no diabetes (woot)
4. Ditto high blood pressure (double woot)
5. Robbed of blood for a cholesterol test
6. Given a TB test which involves a clinician inserting a tiny needle under my skin and then blowing it up like a balloon, or a science fiction movie. I'm sure there was some kind of medical reason for doing this, but then again it could just have been "hey, look at this cool thing your skin does!" If I do not have TB the bubble is supposed to go away. If I do, it will get harder and bigger. Right now--it's gone. So much for me retiring to a sanitarium and reading the plays of Henrik Ibsen.
So I have an owie on my inside right arm, my left shoulder, my left finger and my left forearm. I only saw the doctor for about ten minutes. I was really impressed with how efficient these people are, but at the same time it was a little disconcerting at being shuffled around so efficiently. I also felt very out of my league because almost everyone there was Hispanic and more than half had a baby(ies) or small children attached to them. (as Extremely Efficient Clinician #1 took my weight (their scale is broken, btw) another one weight a brand-new baby who was six pounds (six pounds!!! awww!!!) causing me to lean over for a look and prompting EE #1 to swat me on the arm and tell me to stand still.) I learned a new word tonight--CONSULTARIO! Which is a much cooler word than "exam room."
I'm relieved everything looks okay. I will return on Saturday to find out about my TB bubble and my cholesterol test. Meanwhile I'm feeling a little better. Migraine on Sunday was followed up by a bout of stomach flu on Monday and yesterday I worked thirteen hours.
I had a really bad moment this morning--probably due to the fact I was lightheaded (stomach flu+not eating=light head) and was wondering how to pass the three hours between working and my appointment. An image of a bookstore with a coffee shop flitted into my head and I thought hazily "oh, I'll...just go there..." I'd been there a lot even though I'd never had coffee there, but I figured I could get a paper or...and then I realised the bookstore in my mind was actually the Waterstones right off of Trafalgar Square. Where I used to kill a LOT of time.
I carried that with me all day, very cranky, very upset at my life right now, only to arrive home to an email from a company inviting me to interview with them for a stage management position (paid) and a voicemail from a temp agency about a REAL job.
1. Seen by 4 different people
2. Stabbed by three of them
3. Reassured my blood sugar level is perfectly normal--no diabetes (woot)
4. Ditto high blood pressure (double woot)
5. Robbed of blood for a cholesterol test
6. Given a TB test which involves a clinician inserting a tiny needle under my skin and then blowing it up like a balloon, or a science fiction movie. I'm sure there was some kind of medical reason for doing this, but then again it could just have been "hey, look at this cool thing your skin does!" If I do not have TB the bubble is supposed to go away. If I do, it will get harder and bigger. Right now--it's gone. So much for me retiring to a sanitarium and reading the plays of Henrik Ibsen.
So I have an owie on my inside right arm, my left shoulder, my left finger and my left forearm. I only saw the doctor for about ten minutes. I was really impressed with how efficient these people are, but at the same time it was a little disconcerting at being shuffled around so efficiently. I also felt very out of my league because almost everyone there was Hispanic and more than half had a baby(ies) or small children attached to them. (as Extremely Efficient Clinician #1 took my weight (their scale is broken, btw) another one weight a brand-new baby who was six pounds (six pounds!!! awww!!!) causing me to lean over for a look and prompting EE #1 to swat me on the arm and tell me to stand still.) I learned a new word tonight--CONSULTARIO! Which is a much cooler word than "exam room."
I'm relieved everything looks okay. I will return on Saturday to find out about my TB bubble and my cholesterol test. Meanwhile I'm feeling a little better. Migraine on Sunday was followed up by a bout of stomach flu on Monday and yesterday I worked thirteen hours.
I had a really bad moment this morning--probably due to the fact I was lightheaded (stomach flu+not eating=light head) and was wondering how to pass the three hours between working and my appointment. An image of a bookstore with a coffee shop flitted into my head and I thought hazily "oh, I'll...just go there..." I'd been there a lot even though I'd never had coffee there, but I figured I could get a paper or...and then I realised the bookstore in my mind was actually the Waterstones right off of Trafalgar Square. Where I used to kill a LOT of time.
I carried that with me all day, very cranky, very upset at my life right now, only to arrive home to an email from a company inviting me to interview with them for a stage management position (paid) and a voicemail from a temp agency about a REAL job.
Monday, December 10, 2007
70% Better
I'm feeling better today...last night after a 1776 production meeting I came home, took a scalding hot shower, put on flannels and socks and curled up into the fetal position and slept like the dead for twelve hours. I think in addition to being overworked and underfed, I'm severely dehydrated, because I drank three liters of water before going to bed--and I didn't get up once during the night to use the bathroom. I did have to reschedule a meeting at (yet another) temp agency--I just hope the perky secretary on the other end believed me when I said I was suffering from a migraine and didn't secretly think I was just avoiding going outside. I don't know why my body's reaction to getting sick--any kind of sick--is to immediately shut down blood flow to my extremities so my fingers, toes and nose feel as cold as though we were hiking Mount Everest. SEriously. When I got home last night, I thought my fingers would for sure be black once I prised off my mittens. Naturally, as a precaution today, I put on a hoodie under my winter coat and almost immediately regretted it when Stage Two kicked in and I turned from freezing to feverish. I am a LOT better today though. I sort of feel like, oh, I don't know, say like Professor Lupin after his transformation at the end of Movie 3 ("I've looked worse." "Really sir? Because you look like sh--") Better, but fearful that it could come back at any time. I never get migraines. What is going on?
I probably should have stayed in yesterday, but I stubbornly insisted on taking advantage of my one day off this week and going to see "The Golden Compass" even though I had read bad reviews. I have to admit, I was very disappointed in the film--the acting was superb, but unlike the books, which do not dumb down their messages for kids, the film had to spell everything out for their audiences, and did not allow us to discover the story on our own. I was very sad with the way the story moved around so much and focussed so much on the big action scenes--although Kathy Bates was, as always, an inspiried . Ah, well. That's why we read books after all.
I probably should have stayed in yesterday, but I stubbornly insisted on taking advantage of my one day off this week and going to see "The Golden Compass" even though I had read bad reviews. I have to admit, I was very disappointed in the film--the acting was superb, but unlike the books, which do not dumb down their messages for kids, the film had to spell everything out for their audiences, and did not allow us to discover the story on our own. I was very sad with the way the story moved around so much and focussed so much on the big action scenes--although Kathy Bates was, as always, an inspiried . Ah, well. That's why we read books after all.
ahhh...agony...
This must be a migraine...a nuclear bomb slowly exploding in my head...feverishness...pain in my limbs...nausea...sensitive to light and sound...feeling extreme cold...all bloody day...
Oh My God. Make it stop, please, Jesus, make it stop.
Oh My God. Make it stop, please, Jesus, make it stop.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
My Fingerprints: Let Me Show You Them
One of the things I have to do to be able to volunteer with small, impressionable children is get my fingerprints taken. So today I bundled up and bundled down to the Center, where a very efficient woman scanned my fingers into a machine. How cold is it here today? So cold that I had to give the woman a baggie containing my snapped-off fingers when she asked for my hand.
It's very hard to type with with no fingers.
I was very impressed with this machine: I had a hazy vision of walking around all day with my fingers stained purple "voting for the first time EVER in Iraq" style, but instead she just slapped them on the machine which took an electric picture and loaded it right into the computer. It took, literally, two minutes. Five, if you count the time needed for Horatio Caine to take off his sunglasses, make a pithy retort and Roger Daltry to scream the intro to "CSI Miami."
God I miss CSI Miami. Dream job: steady hours, dog, home in time to see CSI Miami.
Speaking of dream job. We have a new person at Job A, and I am trying to be happy that we found a new non-idiotic person for this role, but at the same time I'm a little cranky that the place is willing to hire a completely new person and give her more hours when, hello!, I'm right there. Also, ruffled a little because I've been asked to train her how to close. Do not seem to recall THAT being in my job description. Grrr. Trying not to jump in and say "let me do it!" while she fumbled through her first close put fifteen extra minutes on my timecard, but mah patience, it is thin.
The happy news for today is I found a new winter coat--exactly what I was looking for. I actually bought one at LB, went to Sears to try find a scarf/hat/mittens, found a coat I liked better, bought it, and took the other one back to LB, thoroughly confusing my manager. But I like the Sears one better. I always say myself as more of a button-up peacoat than a zip-up furry hoodie, though it was fun to pretend for a half hour.
It's very hard to type with with no fingers.
I was very impressed with this machine: I had a hazy vision of walking around all day with my fingers stained purple "voting for the first time EVER in Iraq" style, but instead she just slapped them on the machine which took an electric picture and loaded it right into the computer. It took, literally, two minutes. Five, if you count the time needed for Horatio Caine to take off his sunglasses, make a pithy retort and Roger Daltry to scream the intro to "CSI Miami."
God I miss CSI Miami. Dream job: steady hours, dog, home in time to see CSI Miami.
Speaking of dream job. We have a new person at Job A, and I am trying to be happy that we found a new non-idiotic person for this role, but at the same time I'm a little cranky that the place is willing to hire a completely new person and give her more hours when, hello!, I'm right there. Also, ruffled a little because I've been asked to train her how to close. Do not seem to recall THAT being in my job description. Grrr. Trying not to jump in and say "let me do it!" while she fumbled through her first close put fifteen extra minutes on my timecard, but mah patience, it is thin.
The happy news for today is I found a new winter coat--exactly what I was looking for. I actually bought one at LB, went to Sears to try find a scarf/hat/mittens, found a coat I liked better, bought it, and took the other one back to LB, thoroughly confusing my manager. But I like the Sears one better. I always say myself as more of a button-up peacoat than a zip-up furry hoodie, though it was fun to pretend for a half hour.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
whimper!
I know I posted like, three minutes ago, but after I went to LB to do a little shopping ($238+BOGO+Associate Discount=$85. woot.) I wandered into Macy's. And I just had to post about the FAO Schwartz display--they have a menagerie of life-size stuffed animals, zebras, ponies, baby elephants, etc up on the fourth floor. I was wandered around with a goofy little smile on my face, dodging children, "Did you ever see the faces of the children/they get so excited" from Tommy running through my head, feeling genuinely Christmassy. And then I saw the unicorn. Not exactly life-size (I always pictured them huge), but still huge, horn down, ready to charge into someone's living room. and I just felt really happy that some little kid was going to wake up on Christmas morning and there would be a unicorn in their living room. I couldn't even get cynical about how it was $800 and some spoiled brat who doesn't deserve it will probably be hanging her Gucci clothes off it in five years time, no, I was just really happy thinking about the happy child thirty days from now.
I wandered down to the ground floor where Macy's has a mini-Lush store. Lush is an organic soap store, with fizzy bath salts and henna hair dye, and they also have a store in Covent Garden--which is where I got my Christmas fix last year. So if I closed my eyes and inhaled, I captured the happyness of being in London around Christmas. The lucky sales girl had an easy sell after that.
Then I went home and prepared to cut up eggplant for dinner. Pumpkin spice candle burning merrily in the window, classical music on the radio, and then I sliced right through my thumb. Yeah. It happened that fast. One second I'm thinking about the last time I had eggplant Greek style, the next minute I was dripping blood all over the sink. It's not deep, but it is painful. My left thumb, on the side, nicked the nail. Luckily it's the one finger I don't use when I'm typing so I can update every one on my day. A good day--but I really wish I hadn't ended on such a sore note.
If only I had a real unicorn to heal me with it's magical powers...
I wandered down to the ground floor where Macy's has a mini-Lush store. Lush is an organic soap store, with fizzy bath salts and henna hair dye, and they also have a store in Covent Garden--which is where I got my Christmas fix last year. So if I closed my eyes and inhaled, I captured the happyness of being in London around Christmas. The lucky sales girl had an easy sell after that.
Then I went home and prepared to cut up eggplant for dinner. Pumpkin spice candle burning merrily in the window, classical music on the radio, and then I sliced right through my thumb. Yeah. It happened that fast. One second I'm thinking about the last time I had eggplant Greek style, the next minute I was dripping blood all over the sink. It's not deep, but it is painful. My left thumb, on the side, nicked the nail. Luckily it's the one finger I don't use when I'm typing so I can update every one on my day. A good day--but I really wish I hadn't ended on such a sore note.
If only I had a real unicorn to heal me with it's magical powers...
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Summer Patriots
I just emailed the biggest batch yet of Revolutionary research bucket o' joy, and I'm done for the night--the last one bounced back because my director's email is full. Oops. Sorry. I spent most of Thanksgiving inside working on research, and eating pizza. Spoke with a faraway friend for almost two hours, and then ate more pizza. The heat in our apartment has gone from "nonexistent" to "oven" so I am a very happy puppy, nice and warm. Today was much the same--both roommates are gone, I have a chunk of research accomplished, and now I think I'll crack open that jar of salsa and watch me some LOTR.
I worked yesterday at LB. It wasn't too terribly crazy, although I did pick out a couple shirts that I'm going to back for tomorrow. My manager got a call late yesterday That the regional manager was going to be making a surprise visit on Saturday—so suddenly we needed to restock, clean and get the back of the store tidy. Naturally we ended up finding this out at four pm, when everyone else had left. They asked me if I wanted to stay late, and I said sure…so I was there until eleven when I finally had to leave or else. On my way to work that morning, a bottle of juice I bought was leaking into my shoe, a fact unbeknownst to me until I had landed at Michigan Ave. Now, my shoes are plastic (thank you Payless), except for a bit of felt on the inside, so I toweled them off and put them on, figuring I could handle clammy shoes for six hours. But then I discovered we were having a heating problem, so the store was cold enough to chill beer—AND I ended up working for fifteen hours. Needless to say, my feet are not happy with me today, which is why I haven’t hobbled any further than the corner store for milk. I was looking forward to the fat paycheck until I started adding up the clothes I found and the GW figure which will be mine in approximately four hours and realized that I had made, oh, maybe $20. Oh well. I needed some new clothes anyway. Easy come, easy go.
Then today, more research. It’s so hard to know what to write when you’re preparing information for actors. Do they want you to extrapolate from the text of the play? Do they want to read primary historical sources? How do you explain to normal, modern people what living in the 18th century was like? Think of all the objects and norms you take for granted, and all the events in your life that have made you who you are. Have you ever said “What was life like before the internets?” How about—what was life like before the telephone? How do you condense that down so it’s meaningful for someone who has maybe two lines in a play? Then multiply that by twenty-two. It’s been fun, but I’m looking forward to going to the reading on Tuesday and finding out if anything I’ve sent over has been helpful—and if not, what would be. I feel like I’ve learned a lot, but that’s not helpful if I’m not communicating it effectively.
More than anything, I’ve learned that the founding of our country was an unbelieveable occureance—even cooler than the lame mythology that’s grown up around (deep rumbly voice here) “The Signing of the Declaration!” “The Winter at Valley Forge!” “The Battle of Yorktown!” Our founding fathers were just guys, you know? and not all of them were quite sure they liked the idea of this independence thing, thank you very much. But they all decided to say screw you to the mother country and try this experiment—and btw (Bush, I’m looking at you here) when it FAILED, they TRIED SOMETHING ELSE. That’s so cool. They were just men, doing their thing (well, except GW, who is, in fact, probably descended from Trojan warriors or something) and voila! America.
The other day at my other job, CNN was on, and they were being jerks by asking hapless passerbys questions from the Citizen’s Test (oops, misspelled Citizin) administered to new immigrants. One of the questions was “Who was President during WWI?” Got it? One of the other workers said “Oh—Roosevelt and Truman” and I immediately became smug because they were asking about world war ONE, where the president was Wilson. But then I felt guilty because I know that I couldn’t answer every question on that test—and that I don’t know if I could have said “AND Truman” in a pinch. I wanted to say something like “yay, Americans together!” but in today’s climate I don’t even know if that would be okay, so I kept my mouth shut. (yeah, for once)
Although I now know that Sam Hutchinson was the first president of the United States in the technically most technical sense of the term. Just in case it ever comes up.
I worked yesterday at LB. It wasn't too terribly crazy, although I did pick out a couple shirts that I'm going to back for tomorrow. My manager got a call late yesterday That the regional manager was going to be making a surprise visit on Saturday—so suddenly we needed to restock, clean and get the back of the store tidy. Naturally we ended up finding this out at four pm, when everyone else had left. They asked me if I wanted to stay late, and I said sure…so I was there until eleven when I finally had to leave or else. On my way to work that morning, a bottle of juice I bought was leaking into my shoe, a fact unbeknownst to me until I had landed at Michigan Ave. Now, my shoes are plastic (thank you Payless), except for a bit of felt on the inside, so I toweled them off and put them on, figuring I could handle clammy shoes for six hours. But then I discovered we were having a heating problem, so the store was cold enough to chill beer—AND I ended up working for fifteen hours. Needless to say, my feet are not happy with me today, which is why I haven’t hobbled any further than the corner store for milk. I was looking forward to the fat paycheck until I started adding up the clothes I found and the GW figure which will be mine in approximately four hours and realized that I had made, oh, maybe $20. Oh well. I needed some new clothes anyway. Easy come, easy go.
Then today, more research. It’s so hard to know what to write when you’re preparing information for actors. Do they want you to extrapolate from the text of the play? Do they want to read primary historical sources? How do you explain to normal, modern people what living in the 18th century was like? Think of all the objects and norms you take for granted, and all the events in your life that have made you who you are. Have you ever said “What was life like before the internets?” How about—what was life like before the telephone? How do you condense that down so it’s meaningful for someone who has maybe two lines in a play? Then multiply that by twenty-two. It’s been fun, but I’m looking forward to going to the reading on Tuesday and finding out if anything I’ve sent over has been helpful—and if not, what would be. I feel like I’ve learned a lot, but that’s not helpful if I’m not communicating it effectively.
More than anything, I’ve learned that the founding of our country was an unbelieveable occureance—even cooler than the lame mythology that’s grown up around (deep rumbly voice here) “The Signing of the Declaration!” “The Winter at Valley Forge!” “The Battle of Yorktown!” Our founding fathers were just guys, you know? and not all of them were quite sure they liked the idea of this independence thing, thank you very much. But they all decided to say screw you to the mother country and try this experiment—and btw (Bush, I’m looking at you here) when it FAILED, they TRIED SOMETHING ELSE. That’s so cool. They were just men, doing their thing (well, except GW, who is, in fact, probably descended from Trojan warriors or something) and voila! America.
The other day at my other job, CNN was on, and they were being jerks by asking hapless passerbys questions from the Citizen’s Test (oops, misspelled Citizin) administered to new immigrants. One of the questions was “Who was President during WWI?” Got it? One of the other workers said “Oh—Roosevelt and Truman” and I immediately became smug because they were asking about world war ONE, where the president was Wilson. But then I felt guilty because I know that I couldn’t answer every question on that test—and that I don’t know if I could have said “AND Truman” in a pinch. I wanted to say something like “yay, Americans together!” but in today’s climate I don’t even know if that would be okay, so I kept my mouth shut. (yeah, for once)
Although I now know that Sam Hutchinson was the first president of the United States in the technically most technical sense of the term. Just in case it ever comes up.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
I am Famous!!!
One of the great timewasters, www.overheardintheoffice.com, published one of my submissions the other day. Alsome!
12PM They Don't Look Too Good, Either
60-ish suit in Cubs jacket on cell: I'm on the bus right now. I'm going to the Cubs game. Well, I just left Dad, and I gotta say, it doesn't look too good. They're feeding him through a stomach tube and they've got him on a drip. You know, he had that quadruple bypass a couple of years ago and he's got diabetes now... He's been unconscious most of the time when I visit him, and... Yeah, well, don't wish me good luck. The Cubbies are the ones who need it!
Clarke Street bus
Chicago, Illinois
Overheard by: priorities schmiorities
In other news, it occured to me today that having an iPod cord dangling from your coat pocket serves roughly the same purpose as a watch chain. Ostensibly to let you listen to your music, but really just to let everyone know what you're rich enough to afford an iPod. I just wish there was some kind of way I could hang some seals on Napoleon, that would be the sweetness.
***UPDATE!!!
Just what I need: a twelve inch tall poseable figure of George Washington complete with removeable telescope, cape, sword and tricorn. *small drool*
12PM They Don't Look Too Good, Either
60-ish suit in Cubs jacket on cell: I'm on the bus right now. I'm going to the Cubs game. Well, I just left Dad, and I gotta say, it doesn't look too good. They're feeding him through a stomach tube and they've got him on a drip. You know, he had that quadruple bypass a couple of years ago and he's got diabetes now... He's been unconscious most of the time when I visit him, and... Yeah, well, don't wish me good luck. The Cubbies are the ones who need it!
Clarke Street bus
Chicago, Illinois
Overheard by: priorities schmiorities
In other news, it occured to me today that having an iPod cord dangling from your coat pocket serves roughly the same purpose as a watch chain. Ostensibly to let you listen to your music, but really just to let everyone know what you're rich enough to afford an iPod. I just wish there was some kind of way I could hang some seals on Napoleon, that would be the sweetness.
***UPDATE!!!
Just what I need: a twelve inch tall poseable figure of George Washington complete with removeable telescope, cape, sword and tricorn. *small drool*
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Contemplating the Dollar
I picked up my first paycheck from LB today--a whole $32. Whoo. While I was waiting to retrive said paycheck, I was lovingly fingering a red and black jet bead necklace and earring set and thinking maybe it would be the perfect accessory to a certain upcoming birthday party--until I flipped it over and realised it cost $30. Four hours of work = one necklace. Maybe not.
Last night after work I was craving a Coke. I mean--just gagging for one. I think this has something to do with the fact that I'm trying to rid my diet of high fructose corn syrup, and my body was cranky because the only sugar it had had that day was Splenda. I decided to be bad and get a Coke, but I only had One Dollar. Coke in the convenience store costs at least 1.25 (which, with Chicago tax, comes out to roughly $4.06), but then I remembered that McDonald's had been having a deal on soda, so I trundled across the street. Alas, the deal, advertised over the summer as "42 cents for a cup of Coke the size of LAKE MICHIGAN!!!" was over. The small Coke was now $1, which, with Chicago tax comes out to roughly $4.06. Dar. No soda for me. I decided to suck it up and wait until I got home, where I could just be a grown-up and steal one of my roommate's Cokes.
I got a front-facing seat on the train, near the end. Almost immediately after I got on, a thin homeless man came through the door and started asking for money, explaining to everyone that he only needed five dollars to get into a shelter, and waving around a dollar. Now, most of the time I don't give money to people who ask (homeless persons and Greenpeace alike) because I a) believe they will buy alcohol with it, b) don't agree with their politics or c) I don't have any money on me. But this man struck me as particularly persistent: he walked up and down the train, stopping to harass people and wave his dollar in their faces. And everyone--to a man--ignored him. Even when his dollar came between their face and their newspaper. Not a glance.
I gave the man my dollar. I didn't really need it, and now I have thirty-two more dollars, so I figure even if that's only a rough profit of $31, I'm still coming out ahead. It's strange how other countries have their versions of the particular beggar you see over and over again: in Greece you have black clad weeping widows who kneel for hours outside in the sun, holding out a hand, occasionally with a child in tow. In Paris you have Algerian immigrants who will ask to show you a trick, then tie a bracelet on your wrist and refuse to let you go until you give them some change. In London, you have the thin, spaced-out train junkies who have given their speech so many times they sound like zombies. And in Chicago you have genuinely crazy people who--through a combination of no universal health care and madness brought on by the cold--can be downright scary sometimes.
Today there was another man on the train asking for money, a tall blind man holding a McDonald's cup (the kind that would have been 42 cents earlier in the summer) in one hand and a white cane in the other hand. He managed to walk down the aisle of the swaying train without falling and without holding onto anything. Once again, he was largely ignored, although the woman next to me quickly rolled up a dollar and tossed it into his cup so he didn't realise she had done it. I wanted to turn to her and say "I gave a dollar last night! Why did you give that guy some money?" but I didn't want to embarass her. Or myself. The Bible says we shouldn't make a big deal out of charity, and being the only person on the train who gives money can make you feel like a spotlight is shining on you. It shouldn't though--after all, the most it earns you is a thank you before the person moves on. After all, it's only a dollar. And, really, what can a dollar buy you these days?
Last night after work I was craving a Coke. I mean--just gagging for one. I think this has something to do with the fact that I'm trying to rid my diet of high fructose corn syrup, and my body was cranky because the only sugar it had had that day was Splenda. I decided to be bad and get a Coke, but I only had One Dollar. Coke in the convenience store costs at least 1.25 (which, with Chicago tax, comes out to roughly $4.06), but then I remembered that McDonald's had been having a deal on soda, so I trundled across the street. Alas, the deal, advertised over the summer as "42 cents for a cup of Coke the size of LAKE MICHIGAN!!!" was over. The small Coke was now $1, which, with Chicago tax comes out to roughly $4.06. Dar. No soda for me. I decided to suck it up and wait until I got home, where I could just be a grown-up and steal one of my roommate's Cokes.
I got a front-facing seat on the train, near the end. Almost immediately after I got on, a thin homeless man came through the door and started asking for money, explaining to everyone that he only needed five dollars to get into a shelter, and waving around a dollar. Now, most of the time I don't give money to people who ask (homeless persons and Greenpeace alike) because I a) believe they will buy alcohol with it, b) don't agree with their politics or c) I don't have any money on me. But this man struck me as particularly persistent: he walked up and down the train, stopping to harass people and wave his dollar in their faces. And everyone--to a man--ignored him. Even when his dollar came between their face and their newspaper. Not a glance.
I gave the man my dollar. I didn't really need it, and now I have thirty-two more dollars, so I figure even if that's only a rough profit of $31, I'm still coming out ahead. It's strange how other countries have their versions of the particular beggar you see over and over again: in Greece you have black clad weeping widows who kneel for hours outside in the sun, holding out a hand, occasionally with a child in tow. In Paris you have Algerian immigrants who will ask to show you a trick, then tie a bracelet on your wrist and refuse to let you go until you give them some change. In London, you have the thin, spaced-out train junkies who have given their speech so many times they sound like zombies. And in Chicago you have genuinely crazy people who--through a combination of no universal health care and madness brought on by the cold--can be downright scary sometimes.
Today there was another man on the train asking for money, a tall blind man holding a McDonald's cup (the kind that would have been 42 cents earlier in the summer) in one hand and a white cane in the other hand. He managed to walk down the aisle of the swaying train without falling and without holding onto anything. Once again, he was largely ignored, although the woman next to me quickly rolled up a dollar and tossed it into his cup so he didn't realise she had done it. I wanted to turn to her and say "I gave a dollar last night! Why did you give that guy some money?" but I didn't want to embarass her. Or myself. The Bible says we shouldn't make a big deal out of charity, and being the only person on the train who gives money can make you feel like a spotlight is shining on you. It shouldn't though--after all, the most it earns you is a thank you before the person moves on. After all, it's only a dollar. And, really, what can a dollar buy you these days?
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