All Things Profane and Sacred

Every day at 8:17 am an alarm goes off in my house. It beeps for a minute and then stops. I know it's my stopwatch doing this, but I can't figure out how the alarm was set or how to disable the alarm. All I know is that it never happened before I lent J the stopwatch.

Waiting with bated breath to hear from my judge. So as to not drive you crazy with the things that are circulating in my head, how about a story? You like-a zee stories, yes?

During undergrad, I was living with my friend M. We were in a pretty nice apartment-it backed up on a nature preserve, so we had a view of the marsh (which looked lake-like, not swampy) and surrounding stuff from our lovely balcony. A path from the parking lot ran along the building underneath the balconies, but it was rarely used by any of the balcony eschewing weirdos in the building. Anyhow, M really loved to grill out on the balcony. Almost as soon as the meat hit the Weber, she was bouncing up and down asking if I thought the meat was done yet. I would scold her, "My mom says people who don't cook their meat get worms in their anus. Do you want worms in your anus?" Well, one day I was inside the house when M went out on the balcony to check the meat. I shouted out to her, "Is it done yet?" She shouted back at me, "Do you want worms in your anus?" She lifted her eyes from the meat as she said this and looked down at some neighbor who was looking up at her from the path, thinking M was calling out to her. She quickly looked down and hurried away, and M quickly darted back in the house. She told me, "I think I just asked our neighbor if she wanted worms in her anus."

As much as I hate being unemployed, I hate interviewing more. Picking out clothes and analyzing them like a math problem. Debating every outfits' merits. Attempting to iron shirts that are going to wrinkle as soon as I put them on. Removing as much pet hair as possible. Smearing on enough makeup to look like I'm taking this seriously, but not so much that I feel like a cheap whore (Since I have rarely worn makeup since my great-grandmother told me I looked like a circus clown at age 8, anything on my face makes me feel greasy and garish). Trying to be sincere, but not a syncopant. Trying to shut off the long running ever popular inner dialogue. And, of course, trying not to shift around on the farty sounding chairs everyone keeps especially to trip up interviewees.

The worst part is going over every aspect of the interview later. One minute everything is roses, the next is a fit of shame and despair over some answer or question or stutter. ARRRRRGG. I totally do not feel adult.

I've been taking another mini-me pity vacation. It feels stupid, because, hey, I'm already not working-what the fuck do I need to vacation from? But I've just been so fricken run down and sickish. I've been sleeping later and later. Sluggishly going about my routine. Checking Craigslist at least 3 times a day-flagging and applying for jobs. Checking the law school postings. Rattling contacts. Sulking in the library. Feeling hopeless and angry. Listening to the news, god, the news. Our idiot president doing idiot things. Our idiot congress (excepting Russ Feingold!) doing idiot things. Our idiot VP doing idiot things. Idiot South Dakotans banning abortions. Ai ya.

But, hey, I have an interview tommorrow, so who knows. Maybe I could distract myself from this travesty and lose myself in the pursuit of money.

The only upside to being unemployed is staying home on days like this-days where the wind gusts and the sky is that chilly grey color. I'm doubly stuck because J borrowed my car-his doesn't have a working heater, which means he can't defrost his windows. It wouldn't be so bad in town, but he travels up the mountain a piece and it's cold in them thar hills.

Here is a bit of absolute insanity for you-

J's brother, who is a veteran, was recently laid off. He went down to the local unemployment office to file for unemployment and look for a job. He was told that the new policy for veterans is that they need to see their "vet rep" before they can file for unemployment. The waiting list for an appointment with a vet rep is so long, that the next available appointment is in three weeks. Until he sees his vet rep, he cannot get unemployment or leads from the unemployment office. This is how Portland treats its veterans-making it more difficult for them to get assistance when they need it. Astonishing and disgusting.

Yesterday mostly was just one of those days. It started off innocuous enough-I went to the pool for a swim before a lunch meeting. My skin had some sort of allergic reaction to the clorine, and I was covered in itchy red welts. I put on my fancy clothes (in contrast to the sweaty pants I wore in to the pool) and they weren't fitting right. The shirt was pulling up weirdly and the bra was digging into my arms. The worst was my socks. Brand new. Green. Fuzzy. They were fine until I got downtown. After parking, I hopped out to head to the rendezvous point. It only took a few steps to realize something was wrong. My feet were slipping all over the place inside my shoes. I shuffled the few blocks to the Justice Center, sat down and took off my shoes. A pile of green fluff flew out and scattered green fibers all over my pants. It looked like my socks were molting. Sigh. I sat down and picked lint off my pants while waiting for my lunch date. Twenty minutes later I gave up and decided to pack it in and go home. I couldn't find my goddamn car, so I spent 20 more minutes circling the parking garage and then circling another parking garage before finding the thing and freaking going home already. Covered in green fuzz.

J and I have a pretty low key Valentines planned. All these diamond commercials drive me freaking nuts this time of year-it just seems so over the top. We're just going to cuddle, drink some whiskey, eat some chocolate and snuggle some more. I'm going to make him a fancy pants Valentine this afternoon too.

Yesterday I finally did it. I took some of the plastic off the windows. Now, I know this act will parcipitate a winter storm, but I needed the light and it's been so sunny and warm. So freakin' sue me.

I can see Mount Hood from my office!

I'm going kinda nutso waiting to hear back from this job I really want. I'm starting to feel like striding in, kicking them in the balls and shouting, "Goddammit, give me the fucking job already! I want to work! You need a worker! I will do good and you will like me! I'm a real likeable fucking person! Asshole!"

Apparently I come accross as "not a dynamo" (I think because I'm not a hypercompetitive jerk). Maybe this new interview strategy will show them what I'm made of (mostly raw sicilian rage).

Being unemployed means having low grade anxiety all the time. No matter what you are doing, the background worry rumbles around and sloshes against your insides. Sometimes jets of fear well up and spill out and once in a while you have a giant fear induced blowout. It makes you tired, keeping all that under control all the time.

I've got a runny nose and a rumbling cough. Despite the gigantic pile of mail on my desk, a memo for the ACLU that is unwritten and other opportunities to attend to, I'm going to drink some NyQuil and come to after I feel better (I may mix it with Pepto and see if that will soothe the anxiety produced hole in my stomach). NyQuil, NyQuil, NyQuil, We love you, you giant fucking Q!

The week is off to a slow start. I went dragonboating on Saturday in the pouring rain and cold. I think I'll like the sport better once my arms are built up a bit and when the heavens are not pouring upon me. Until then, its sore back muscles, legs and arms. Sunday saw some people over for the superbowl, but since we loaded a few too many super bowls, I don't have the sharpest recolection of it, beyond the bickering between opposing factions. Yesterday was sunny and beautiful, so I sat on the porch with HG, drank 40s, played dominos and listened to Johnny Cash while the lazy dogs basked. Another white trash holiday.

Hows about a Monday morning funny?: Take a read off this: Is Anyone at Cosmo Getting Laid?: Women: Glamour Reveals the Secrets to Man-Speak!!!

We watched the uncut version of Clerks last night (it just came out on DVD for the 10th anniversery edition). I tried to say something snappy and poignant here to wrap up just what this movie means to me, but words fail me (Jebus, how sappy). Between the ages of 16 and 20, I saw this movie on average at least once a month, so it has probably been more influential in my life than the Bible, the Origin of Species or Disneyland. I remember reading somewhere someone referring to working in a video store as the ur slacker job. I'd have to take partial issue with that-clerking anywhere is the ur slacker job, and whenever I clerk, I feel like a gen X stereotype (or archetype, if you prefer-makeing Clerks the Rosetta stone of the slacker generation).

So, I was pretty excited about the uncut version. I could see why they made most of the cuts-while the newly included material is funny, and in some instances makes the dialogue more clear, it slows the pace of the film way down. It has a completely different ending (I'm not going to do a spoiler), one that make more sense and is overall better, but one that I found jarring on an emotional level (I've known these charaters for so long that I'm having difficulties accepting change). I think they should have gone with the original ending-I'm not sure why they didn't.

Note to R: I'm going to be presumptious because it is my blog and I'll do what I want to. I know you're visiting, so I'm going drop a note to you here. Remember when we watched Clerks? It was your first time and boy it is so much fun to share a movie you love with a friend who loves it as much as you do. Strange days, eh?

J's mom is a bit wiggy. J gets a few boxes a year from her filled with half used battery packs, kelp, purse pilots and other odd assorted bits and pieces. Last time J talked with her, she said she was sending me a package. When he asked what sort of package I was getting, she whispered, "A sexbook!"

I cannot call J's mom and thank her for sending me a sexbook. I don't even know what she means by sexbook. I don't want to know what she means. Maybe it'll be lost in the mail.