Trying super hard to keep up my raging schedule of posting once a month. Sometimes, it’s tough.
After the high of Stitch Rock, it was back to life, back to reality. What is Soul II Soul? I digress.
Kids, they say you can’t go back. They say lots of things, let’s be honest. But I think going back to the paper was another in my long line of BAD IDEAS. All caps are necessary, don’t you know.
Not bad as in “I’m ready to jump, like I was at the job in January where I was humiliated, bullied and yelled at on a daily basis.” Nope, not that bad!
But bad in that I’m spinning my wheels. I work five hours a day. Twenty-five hours a week. At first, it was nine till two. Then, it became ten to three. Now, it’s noon to five and frankly, that sucks.
Here is a sweater I made for a college chum (I did charge her, though — I’m easy, but I’m not cheap!) to take your mind off the pain.
It’s called Blish (stupid name, amirite?) It’s a Norah Gaughan joint from Berroco, and it took a long damn time but was worth it. I really like it, it’s in my lover, Fisherman’s Wool by Lion Brand, and it fits her and suits her in her snow-filled climate.
Back at my day job, life continues apace. My best friend and the only one I talk to there broke his shoulder (!) and now he’s out for an indefinite period. Don’t worry, he still sends texts laced with his pain-medication ramblings, and I’ll sit at night and simultaneously knit, watch Ink Master (does this season suck, or what?) and reply to him whilst my husband works late and six days a week. Ain’t much of a life, but I’m living it.
See, here’s the thing: When I was hired, I was specifically told I wouldn’t be working with a certain person. I didn’t ask, I was told. And I was happy to hear that, because if I’d known the tide would turn and I WOULD be working with that person, I’d have taken the job at the fertilizer broker. Seriously.
She’s not a mean or bad person. She’s just a total flibbertigibbet who has her head up her arse and sends me panicked e-mails all day about things she’s told me NOTHING ABOUT, so I’m left to try to decipher the runes she throws me. Also, she smells like mothballs and has scabs all over her face, and wears weird necklaces that look like anal beads. Is it wrong that I said that?
I was at a party recently with an old friend who used to work with her and another one who currently does. My old buddy said, “Oh, just make sure to tell her how awesome she looks everyday, how whatever rag she’s wearing is the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ll be great!”
But see, I CAN’T do that, because she is the definition of a hawt mess. Yes, I meant to spell it that way! Yesterday she had the anal beads and some psychedelic relic tunic from the rejected Grace Slick collection. Everyone told her she looked fabulous. I make an effort to look good everyday, and I get compliments from strangers, shop clerks, and people at my development. I have not once been paid a compliment by anyone I work with.
I just thought I’d mention that before I buy the anal beads necklace to try and fit in. Oh god, the search engine on this entry will blow up.
I’m going to stop bitching about work now. I applied for another job yesterday (shocking, right?). And my husband and I keep telling ourselves….One more year. One more year. One more year and we’ll move away from SoFla and do what? I don’t know. But it’s good to have a goal. We signed our lease and it runs out in January of 2016. That’s another Olympiad year! If Brazil can do it, so can we. I want to make it happen.
We are both desperately unhappy. We both need new jobs. The fact that we work at the same place (again) isn’t the negative factor you think it might be, in that one of us might as well be working on Mars for all the contact we have. Different departments, different lives. But they both suck. He works ten to twelve hour days, or more, six days a week. We barely see each other. And it didn’t used to be that way. Frankly, I blame “Ameriker,” but that’s another rant for another day and includes my thoughts about Taylor Swift, Kim K, Fifty Shades of Stupid, right wing whack jobs AND liberal idiots, and the fact fact that women wear eyeliner that looks like a Sharpie marker landed on their face. Frankly, I just don’t have the energy to go there right now.
Hey, I read a book. I read several! I am almost at my Goodreads goal of 52 for the year. That’s a book a week, but not really, because some weeks I read three and some weeks I read….none. And I confess, four of the 52 have been graphic novels, but they count, damn it, especially when three of the four are arcane growing-up-in Korea memoirs. It ain’t like I’m reading Archie and Jughead here.
This week I was delighted to get this little nugget on my Kindle.
Oh David. You are such a raconteur. I just wish you hadn’t gone on too much about your experiments in the occult and “magick,” your spelling, not mine. Not that I disapprove, I just find it all kind of silly, and once you start playing with toilet paper angels at Alan Moore’s house (as one does, I guess?) I kind of tune out. But when you are detailing the poncey idiocy and general assiness of one Mr. Peter Murphy, well, the book comes alive. I still don’t know why your guitarist from Bauhaus AND Love and Rockets, Daniel Ash, tried to beat me up with a mike stand back in 1986 in an underground cafeteria in Athens, GA, but I guess I never will. My old college boyfriend used to say “She Drives Me Crazy” by the Fine Young Cannibals was written about me. I get it. I’m difficult. Still, it was a moment, amririte? Just like the toilet paper angels, my friends. Just like the angels.
If you were a former goth girl like me, or you just love music memoirs, give this one a try. I saw Bauhaus AND Love and Rockets a combined five times in the eighties and nineties, and I’m so thankful I did. These poor kids today and their Marroon 5.