All Things Profane and Sacred

Time continues to be hard. My great-grandma tries to console me with talks on the Great Depression, but it doesn't make me feel much better. After all, we're not in the Great Depression. What's wrong with me that I can't friggen support myself?

I'm mostly trying to think about my friend A, who graduated into a saturated market in an expensive city and scraped by until he found a good job. I remember his calls and how scared he sounded. I remember sending him a care package to keep up his cheer. And I remember that he found a job, a good one, and got onto his feet. That's the prize my eyes are on these days-having something to pay these goddamn bills. Not living scared out here on the edge of the continent. Finding my safe place. Being shut of doing time.

I had a dream last night that I was an Okie lawyer, traveling to southern Texas with a cardboard suitcase, looking for a freaking job.

I kept hearing GWB, and others, talking about how the economy is picking up. Frankly, I've waded in so much bullshit that I don't even notice when I dismiss statements like these out of hand, however the much maligned NPR set me straight. The economy actually is getting better. It's just that only the top 1/3 of Americans are reaping the benefits. For the bottom 2/3 of the country (i.e., me, of broke-ass mountain), things are bad and getting worse. Thanks for the clarification, NPR.

While I haven't been able to confirm this in the mainstream media, I've been seeing this completely awesome quote around (in regards to the dunderheads in South Dakota):

"The President of the Oglala Sioux Tribe on the Pine Ridge Reservation, Cecilia Fire Thunder, was incensed. A former nurse and healthcare giver she was very angry that a state body made up mostly of white males, would make such a stupid law against women.

"To me, it is now a question of sovereignty," she said to me last week. "I will personally establish a Planned Parenthood clinic on my own land which is within the boundaries of the Pine Ridge Reservation where the State of South Dakota has absolutely no jurisdiction."


Hahaha! Fuck you, South Dakota!

As the song says, I'd rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery, however, since I'm not working for a paycheck, I guess I have time to wait to win the lottery.

So, yesterday I thought of a couple of non-depressing things that I could blog about, but today I've completely forgotten them. More evidence of my deteriorating mental condition. Ug. I have to go apply for some more terrible jobs now.

I haven't been blogging much lately, not because I'm so very busy with important exciting things, but because I've been pretty forking depressed. I don't like waking up in the morning, knowing the routine. Check email. Check job postings, willing there to be something for me, knowing that likelyhood is small. Apply to a variety of low paying jobs, hoping something will come through to provide some income. Shuffle through bills I know I can't pay. Take the dogs for a walk. Clean the house. Stab myself in the eye.

If one more goddamn person tells me how qualified, wonderful and soon to be hired I am before regretting to inform me that they aren't going to hire me, I am going to seriously fucken freak the fuck out.

It's nice to know people in show biz. Last night, around 5is, J got a call from a friend who wanted to know if we wanted to go to cirque du soleil. She had two comp tickets and her friend had bailed and she was tired, so we fed the boys, jumped into the car and zoomed across town. Luckily, we decided to bus and walk in. The street was jammed with cars to get to the parking lot, which was charging $10/car (I guess that when you've already paid so much for tickets-$35 for the nose bleeds, $185 for the up front and personals, $70 for where we were sitting-you don't kick much at the parking).

The show was stunning. Funny and magical and old style French. Best of all, there were only 2 clowns, and they weren't American clowns-which makes all the difference. J and I argued about that-he claimed all the acrobats were also clowns, which is downright slanderous, not to mention untrue. Acrobats are cool. French Clowns who aren't wearing bulb noses and greasepaint are ok. American clowns are scary, especially when they gurgle in their rusty clotted voices, "We all float down here."

Being unemployed gives me a lot of time to read the news and feel upset. Well, today I ain't having any of that, so here's some news that made me feel good:

1. The Fighting Whities: The University of Northern Colorado named its team the fighting whites in response to teams like the reds, braves and indians. The slogan? "Every thang's going to be all white."

2. Citizenship tests: Holland makes potential citizens watch a video of kissing men and naked women bathers to make sure immigrants will share Holland's liberal values, or at least be able to deal with them without threatening everyone with death. England's citizenship materials include a lesson on pub etiquette.

Ok. That's all I can think of for now. I know there must be some more good news out there.

Doesn't it seem the slightest bit odd that the same church that let pedophile priests molest thousands of children has its panties in a bunch over a law allowing fully qualified gay couples to adopt children?

So, on Mythbusters last night they were keeping track of how many times they farted in a day. Of the three fart researchers, the numbers broke down to something like 3, 5 and 10 farts daily. Maybe I'm just Farty McGasserson, but those numbers seem awfully low. Then again, I guess not everyone is addicted to carbs and selzer water.

J predictably woke up with the dread disease that I'm still fighting. Now our exterminator won't come over until the virus is dormant. The guy handles dead rats for a living, but he's afraid of our germs. I'd take flu over rats any day.

Ug. I've spent the last few days in a fever daze, covered with germs and blechy. Today the fever has broke and I don't feel as completely out of it as I did, but I'm going to curl up and sleep the rest of this bitch off today.

Shelly over at The Menagerie - Our Lives in Chaos says:

"In the Royal Navy historically (and for all I know, even now), toasts were made for different days of the week. Thursday's was/is "a bloody war or a sickly season" (after making captain, in the days before promotions were given by merit, you literally had to wait for the people ahead of you to die before you could be promoted to admiral)."

Strangely enough, a bloody war and a sickly season exactly describes my Thursday. I had an embarassing and unpleasant appointment at 9 in the morning that I thought was at 10 until 8:45 when I realized my mistake. Promising the dogs I'd give them a fantastic walk if they didn't shit in the house, I bolted out the door. After the appointment, I walked the dogs as promised and left for the grocery store. Picked up the necessities, forgetting my beloved selzer water. Once in the car, I decided I could remain selzerless for the next 24 hours. Bad idea.

I walked up our stairs with the eight bags of groceries laddered up my arms. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew something was up. No wiggling happy dogs were sitting in the foyer to meet me. And the house smelled . . . worse than usual. Hmmmm. The boys were sitting in the living room with their tails between their legs and that look on their face. Uh-oh. The crime occurred in the library (but didn't involve a candlestick or Col. Mustard). Thick splotches of diarrhea covered my library carpet. Uggg. As I moved into the kitchen to get my paper towels, I glanced into the bathroom. Double Ugg. I had emptied the catbox into the garbage intending to take out the garbage before going to the grocery store, but had forgotten and left the garbage can sitting on the floor. So, the bag was ripped apart and cat litter and garbage was strewn around my bathroom.

After the cleaning ordeal, my judge called to let me know he decided to hire someone else. I decided that I had enough for one day, pulled the blankets over my head and took some nyquil.

It's been a busy fucked up week, and there's no end in sight. My calendar is bulging, the sweatpants have remained in the drawers and I'm running my ass off. Friday, come rain or shine, I'm drinking. And that's all there is to that.

I finally have some interviews, so, of course, I'm completely broken out in a serious rash-little itchy bumps all over my hands. I scratched while sleeping too, so now I have a bunch of scabs and bleeding spots on my hands. They look like the hands of meth. No one will hire me looking like this.