Slip sliding away

At work, we have all finally agreed on a radio station. I confess (as I only will here) I secretly made this happen by “randomly” finding it on the dial. Oh, the subterfuge!  There is one station, Seaview Radio, that I like to call “Dentist Office Music. ” I think it’s because I first heard it at my former dentist’s office. I know! I have shocked you. Forgive me.

It trucks in music from the ’50s to today, with a strong emphasis on the ’70s. As Josh Rouse once sang, “I’m feeling 1972.” And I am. I may just put Serpico on this afternoon! (Followed, of course, by the Always Sunny episode where Charlie becomes Serpico).

What’s good about this station:

1) Not a lot of commercials. But the ones that play are all local, and very old-fashioned. You know, “Our shoe spa that sells old lady sandals has been in business for 50 years! Birkenstock forever!” Shit like that.

2) CBS news every hour on the hour. It lets me know another horrific hour has passed, and it’s ALMOST OVER and I can go home and eat dark chocolate chips and peanut butter whilst watching awful reality TV. Huzzah!

3) Lots of Paul Simon. I mean, LOTS. It reminds me of when I was driving with one of my parents in the ’70s, in our old Mercury Comet, changing the stations to hear “Love Me Like a Rock.”

This is NOT OUR CAR. It's just some photo I stole from the Internets.

This is NOT OUR CAR. It’s just some photo I stole from the Internets.

4) Every once a month or so, they’ll play something like Squeeze’s “Tempted,” and I completely lose my shit. And start to tell the other two idiots (who are 10 years younger than me) about how much I love Squeeze, and how I met Glen Tilbrook in a Winn Dixie parking lot on a rainy night and sang songs with him. But my nostalgia chubby is totally deflated because I get the “Derp?” faces from them and then I wonder why I even bother.

Speaking of Squeeze, I found out Chris Difford did the English translation for a Sigur Rós song on the new Sarah Brightman album. Which I bought on iTunes this week. Because Sarah is bonkers and I love her and she did a cover of Wings’ “Venus and Mars” on this new album, and man I love that song. I used to have it on an 8-track. And she also covers a Cocteau Twins song. Can you tell I am geeking out over how awesome this is? Sorry, I got all music nerdy AGAIN.

The bad things about this station:

1) Too much Jim Croce. Seriously.

2) Too much Tony Orlando and Dawn. HELP ME?

3) WAY TOO MUCH MANILOW.

Now is time for my secret shame. When I was a child I was in love with Barry Manilow. I know, how did I become the fruitfly I am with über sensitive gaydar if I was so deluded as a child? I do not know. He was awfully close to his mama. You would think that would have given it away. You have to admit, there’s something a little off about an 8-year-old girlchild  sitting in her bedroom listening to “Weekend in New England” on repeat whilst taking pictures of its singer on TV. This was pre-YouTube, remember kiddies.

So. There’s that.

It’s been a trying week. My husband is going through a really rough time at work, but I know that happens when one person is expected to do the job of three. Which is pretty much what the entire U.S. workforce is expected to do now, except, of course, our receptionist who sits on her cell phone and puts on makeup all day.

Anyway.  I feel for him, I truly do. I think I have a job through May, because they have scheduled our Ayn Rand Weekly Power Hour Meetings through the end of May. Wheee! I’m saving all my money in the rainy day fund.

My mama loves me. She loves me. She gets down on her knees and hugs me.

Yeah, thank you Spotify for indulging my weird mid-’70s foray into Simonalgia.

Do you remember that time Andy Warhol was on Love Boat? Seriously, that shit happened. It did.

She loves me loves me loves me loves me.

My mother (the one who rocks me like a rock) and sister are having a disturbance in the force, and once again I am called to intervene. I beg not to be put in the middle, but continually I am. It’s times like this that I miss my dad so much, it hurts. I just want things to be the way they were. Even though they were fucked up.

I hope you enjoyed that truth bomb!

I am rambling, but this is how my mind works. It goes from thought to thought, skipping like a stone on a lake.

Still crazy after all these years.

I am.

Oh, I bought more new music this week, the new Phoenix album and Jessie Ware’s Devotion, which I’ve been waiting on for like, forever. Damn you, U.K. only releases! In between the trip down Simon-Lane, I have been listening to this on repeat. Check out my girl giving you straight up Rachel Weisz realness.

I will remain here, doing laundry alone, watching the Powell/Pressburger film I queued up last night, and thinking of 50 more ways to leave my lover.

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Five fathoms deep.

First an apology for all the blather about my shitty job. Why, if I had a penny….for every crappy story, psycho co-worker and bullshit job assignment for every job I’ve ever had. Well, you catch my drift.

And it’s not really any better since the last time I posted. It went like this: We had a meeting two weeks ago celebrating the 20 years our company has been around, complete with cake (!) and a free day off on Friday. More on what I did on that day off in a bit. Then, we got invited to a big dinner at a local Brazilian steakhouse. All the fixins’. And the possibility to earn more days off, a cruise, etc. Fun.

Then, we come back from the day off and are told we have two weeks to turn our performance around or heads will roll! Off with the heads! Stop painting the roses red!

Or something like that. Then, we get a new “consultant,” who is some dude who used to work there who’s going to get us all ship-shape. The two girls I work with him have dubbed him “The Bobs,” a la Office Space, and I can’t disagree.

WHATEVER. People, here’s a newsflash: I get no satisfaction from my job — from any job — I’ve ever had. Except my time in the yarn biz, and we know how that ended! I am sick of this. Sick of doing things that are beneath my intelligence level and skill-set. Working with dildoheads (is that one word or two? I am never sure) who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground, and who respond to the tragedy in Boston by playing (and singing along to, badly) a chorus from “God Bless the USA.” No, I am not kidding.

So, enough about that. Whatever will be will be. I am going to explore teaching, finally. I don’t know what I need to do, or how to achieve it, because everyone I know who has become a teacher REFUSES TO TELL ME. So, I will do what I always do: Rely on myself and figure it out.

In other news: On my Friday off, I watched movies and slept. All day. It was pure joy. I started with two über-depressing documentaries,

Girl Model

Whore’s Glory.

It’s so wonderful to learn the way our patriarchal society, and sadly, other women, cause so much suffering in the world. I am proud to say I am a FEMINIST, and these movies, while well-crafted, are deeply, deeply disturbing.

Of course, I needed a palate cleanser afterwards, as the rain poured down outside my window. Not metaphorically, it was actually pouring.

So, I queued up Flashdance. Yes, I said Flashdance. This is the most ridiculous, plot-inconsistent and retarded movie in the pantheon of ’80s movies, and yet, I can’t resist it. Do I like the music? Fuck, no. Do I not see the dance-double in all the scenes? Mais bien sur! No, the reason I watch this, and frankly, the entire Adrian Lynne oeuvre, is really quite simple.

House pron. You know what I mean — I’m not going to use the real P word, lest I get hit by another wave of Polish spam.

flashdanceapt3This. This apartment. I have been obsessing over it for years. Between this warehouse apartment and Gorodish’s in Diva (look it up – Diva is my favorite movie, as you know), it’s a tough call. They are both my everything.

But I find myself really questioning things now. Like, how does she clean it? Does she use Murphy’s Oil Soap on the floors? She can’t use a Swiffer, because they weren’t invented yet. Does she own a vacuum? Does she NEED one? Where did she get her furniture? Damn, that TV is big. She couldn’t have gotten that at the dump. But you know, Goodwill has some good deals on TVs, even now. When she opens the warehouse windows, (and she totally does, I caught that part!) does it get smelly in there? Does soot come in? How SHOULD one ventilate in this apartment?

Clearly, I need to seek help.

That’s all I have to bitch/obsess about today. Do I still knit, you ask? Yes, but I haven’t loaded anything on Etsy in a dog’s age, because I need to get photos and I am always os busy on the weekend. Maybe I will lose my job and just have all the time in the world hahahahaha!

In conclusion, I have been thinking about my dad a lot lately, and that’s about as maudlin as I’m prepared to get in print.

And also: I turned on the TV today and watched the entire PBS’s showing of Great Performances at the Met production of Thomas Adés The Tempest. OMG, this is the greatest thing I’ve seen in forever. It had everything: Bowie-esque costumes for Ariel and Caliban, a Sarah Brightman-esque Miranda, Prospero as played by Keith Richards’ body double, a part for a counter-tenor that only Jimmy Summerville could sing, and that touch of Shoenberg atonality that this freak loves.

And it had this divine creature as Ariel. You might not enjoy this, but it made my week.

Oh, what the hell, here’s MORE!

blame it on the black star.

Oh my God I don’t want to vent.

Oh my God I don’t want to vent.

I have to vent.

You know, I know someone from college who’s blogging now and getting very popular. I’m happy for her; she’s good people and a good writer. In the past I might have thought, “You know, I need to publicize my blog on FB and Google. I need to get more commenters and followers!”

But actually, I’m happy in my little corner of the ‘Net, with my small army (really small) of readers, and my Russian and Polish spammers. привет!

There are a lot of people that don’t need to know what I write.

I am about at my wit’s end, but I have to pretend I’m not. I know, it’s not that bad. I always say, I could be a child in China making Nikes for $4 a year, or whatever. Really, I do say that.

I don’t make enough money. Not for my skill set and education. I figure it’s the new world order, and I need to deal with it. My PTO program is a joke of epic proportions; it barely gives you a week of vacation a year. I used to get three. Or was it four? I forget. And I know, those people working in the sweatshop for Zara in Argentina. No, seriously, did you read about that? Kind of makes you think about not shopping at Zara. Not that they’ve ever had anything in my size.

But I digress, as usual. I just find it hard to be in a room with two people I would rather not be in a room with. One is a lump and the other has narcissistic personality disorder. I mean it. Okay, maybe not completely, because you know I wiki’ed that shit today. But when she gets in a Red Bull induced rager,  every thought in her head has to come out of her mouth.

I can’t think straight. It’s hard to work. You have to learn to type and listen to her at the same time. I have. But it’s tough. When she doesn’t feel like working, she doesn’t. Just shuts down and spins around in her chair like a toddler. And the talking. Every song that comes on must be sung, or reminds her of her psycho stalker ex-husband. In a good way. Derp?

Don’t get me started on the music she plays. Kids, I would rather listen to Schoenberg than LMFAO. And Rascal Flatts. And Maroon 5. I would! Then there’s the Flo Rida. Pure shit care of our fair state. I’m not surprised.

I didn’t put my music on today because I wanted to keep the peace. I think the Radiohead upsets them. People, it’s just The Bends, it’s not like I have Amnesiac in the iPod! I’m not playing my Tom Waits’ CD. I only have one, actually. The soundtrack from One From The Heart. I fucking love that movie.

I think I’m better. Just writing it down (and getting up and down, and eating some pure Cacao chocolate chips, and removing my nail polish, and eating and cleaning up a huge pile of cat puke) makes me feel a little better. I have to get it out. I hated my job at Barnes and Noble, and all I wanted was a quiet desk job. Well, I got it, but with some extra special benefits. I think it’s time to get off my ass and find a teaching position. Although a former BN co-worker and friend did, and after a year she’s had it. So there’s that.

I just don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.

In other news, today is honey’s birthday. And I’m taking him out tomorrow. Which would be my dad’s birthday. So there’s THAT.

In positive ending news, here is a pair of earrings I ordered from a Scottish Etsy seller. Just got them today:

bunnyThe shop is called SilkPurseSowsEar and I love them.

And also mes enfants are on SNL tomorrow, and I could die with joy.

Thomas Mars, J’Adore! Sometimes, I pretend I am Sofia Coppola…oh dear, I’ve said too much.