Escape from Jurassic Park

This week is my last week at Jurassic Park, and I am more thrilled than I would be if I was riding a fucking unicorn over a rainbow made entirely of cheese.
I am pretty damn excited.


I finally found another part time job to supplement my other part time job at the hospital, which isn’t the best solution in the world, and it’s not the most prestigious job - I will be entering the sparkle and hustle of the food service industry - but the new place of employment will fit my personality and tree-hugging ways. Jurassic Park doesn’t even believe in recycling paper, which is, by far, the easiest resource to recycle (I kept my own box under my desk, and recycled everything I could at home). The dinos probably consider recycling fruitless, because a big meteor will come and wipe them out - or, maybe, like so many other endeavors, they are too lazy, uninformed, and selfish to care.

My successor will surely experience the joys I have been experiencing for the last few years: a creepy, spider-filled bathroom; a microwave that smells like fishy vaginas and is located in the closet with the toxic cleaning supplies; thankless requests with zero direction; and a whole bevvy of pathetic questions regarding simple computer tasks.

I hope this next person is blessed with the patience of a saint.

The kind of patience that can weather such requests as “Can you call my cell phone? I want to see what the ringer sounds like and how loud it is” (something one can preview on most phones). This was asked of me last week - never mind that I was in the middle of actually working on something, and my coworker had an office phone sitting right on his desk.

I understand that there may be a lack of experience because my coworkers belong to a generation that didn’t grow up with technology. For the most part of their pre-historic lives, they lived in a pre-digital, non-virtual world, while I was just at the cusp of the technology and online information boom - I had to dial up to access email and chat rooms - CHAT ROOMS - which were the big electronic communication thingys of my day. But the dinos are grown adults with no diagnosed mental handicaps who have had computers both in their personal and professional lives for 10-plus years. I don’t think it’s too much to assume that they know how to add page numbers to Word documents or attach files to emails. The questions I get asked go beyond eye-rolling, and they don't just get asked just once. There is no notion of “learning how to do things on one’s own.” My coworkers think that there’s always going to be someone younger and more adept at computers there to help them, and that they don’t need to pay attention when I show them how to do a simple task for the 4,599th time.

My successor, who will also be considered a “secretary” (if she’s female), should be prepared to say the following only a few hundred times: “Click ‘New folder.’” “Click ‘Add attachment.’” “Use the return key.”

He or she should also be prepared to get called by the wrong name over and over again, as I did, despite years of working there.

I have also stated (nicely) that when my coworkers copy and paste large parts of documents together, it’s a lot more difficult to get the formatting right. I petitioned for one basic document for proposals, but that went unheard. I always have to go in and do some major re-indenting and re-page-numbering work, as well as basic formatting and making sure that all the fonts are the same. 

I was called over to my coworker’s computer just a few weeks ago. “How do I make this go here?” Well. I meandered over to look at his screen, and then realized that what my coworker had done was that he had built a document out of a series of spaces and return keys instead of tabbing and page breaks. Holy. Shit.  I had showed him how to work those wily indents and page breaks before, but he had resorted back to tap-tap-tap-tap-tapping the space bar until things looked aligned to him (which they were not). Tap-tap-tap-tap. And then he wonders why, when he adds a word or two somewhere, everything else gets fucked up.

So. My last day will be joyous. When I quit my last job, I made a cake with the word FUCK JOB X on it in cursive. And then I ate the shit out of it.  Who knows how I will celebrate my flying off and soaring away from here.

Let’s hope it involves booze.

Roommates & Lewd Japery

I got a call last week from a woman who identified herself by first name only, said she knew my former roommate, and had a "gift" for me.


I was tempted to call back. After all, the "gift" could have been something totally fabulous: a lifetime cheese subscription, for example. Or a unicorn. We don't live in New Jersey, so I'm pretty sure the "gift" was a positive thing, and not code for "You're going to get the kiss of death." I figured it was probably something that my former roommate had given this woman to give to me (as she now lives, sadly, two hours away), or possibly something Jewish. I never rule out the possibility of my fake Judaism being a reason for why things happen. During my college years I was pretty much Jewish by association through the sorority I was involved in, the people I knew, and my love of free food. I used to get packets with Hamantashen from the local Chabad on campus; somehow they had tracked down my address with their Jewdar.

For example, my mother just got a call from a Jewish organization that wanted to ask her some questions. My mother, who had had a beer, got a little sassy and said, "I'm not interested, I'm an atheist!" and hung the hell up. Then she tried to blame me for the family household getting calls like that.

Instead of calling the woman back, I texted my former roommate to inquire about this lady and her "gift," and she texted back that it was a Mary Kay lady, and she had had a Mary Kay party, where she was directed to put down contacts to be stalked and madeover.  Imagine my disappointment that my "gift" was going to be some lame free pink lip balm or the like, and not something Jewish and delicious. I did not call the woman back. I wasn't pissed or anything - I just didn't want her stalking me for the next six months, telling me I had fall colors, and hustling her overpriced makeup. I have a hard time saying no or being VERY FIRM with anyone, so calling her back would have been my own undoing.

I happened to be following in my mother's footsteps and drinking at a bar that night, when my former roommate texted me about this Mary Kay lady. At that point, any old thoughts were liable to enter my head, and I thought, giddily, why didn't we have a party - and not a Mary Kay party - A SEX TOY PARTY? Are we not modern ladies? Isn't one of our rites of passage having sex toy party?


I texted my former roommate this thought.


YOU KNOW WHAT, I thought, suddenly huffy, WE DIDN'T HAVE A SEX TOY PARTY BECAUSE OUR STUPID BOYFRIENDS WERE ALWAYS HANGING AROUND, RUINING OUR POTENTIAL DILDOFESTS!


And it was true. We were both dating men pretty much the entire time we lived together, boyfriends who either got the boot or gave us the boot, eventually. We occasionally had our nights together, but most of our time was spent studying, drinking with our lady friends, or hanging out with these men, an arrangement we were both fine with - but not one that lent itself well to planning and executing special parties.

I texted her this revelation as well, and ordered another gin and tonic.

I have been to sex toy parties before - probably three or four - all hosted by someone else. I never did make any purchases, but came more for the camaraderie, and to kick ass at the penis drawing contests. During one of these parties, another former roommate did purchase something - it was phallic, glow in the dark, and had the ability to stick to the wall.  She had bought it on the sly for prank purposes only.  Its first moment of fun came when another girl, who lived with us, walked into the bathroom one day to see it stuck to the shower wall, pointing lewdly at her. From there it moved around the apartment, appearing under pillows and on laptops, in dresser drawers and behind boxes of Mac N Cheese.


Before this particular product had appeared, however, we had been pulling the same prank on each other with a tube of Vagisil - hiding it in backpacks and purses, bathroom cupboards, and wherever it would be a surprise. One became hyper-aware, in those days, that one might open a cupboard or shake out a sock and suddenly come face to face with that loathsome white tube.

That particular game ended when, after a long day, I came home and was sitting in the living room, and one of my roommates asked if I had found anything.

"What?" I asked. "What would I find?"

"Oh, nothing."  I knew she was up to no good, and it probably had something to do with the Vagisil.

"Where is it?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Did you use your backpack today?"

At this point, I'm sure I gave her a questioning look. "Yes, but I didn't find it. Where is it?!"

I ran into my bedroom to dig inside my backpack, but found nothing. Not in any of the small pockets or larger compartments.  Then I looked at the net pocket on the side, used mainly to hold a water bottle. There it was.  In full view.  The Vagisil. And I had been carrying my backpack all day - around campus, to class, to work, to the library, EVERYWHERE.

I came back to the living room, probably looking pissed and/or defeated. "I FOUND IT." I then retreated to my room, thinking about the people who could have been witness to what they surely assumed was MY Vagisil.

My roommate was apologetic. She'd thought I'd find it that morning, before I left.  She even wrote me an apology note.  I've forgiven her, but I remain wary of games of lets-plant-the-whatever-on-somebody.


It's all fun and games until somebody walks around with Vagisil all day.

TAMBOURINE OF FURY

Interview II: The Office Yeti

My hardcore job search has been on for three months now with little progress. I did manage to get the part time job with health and dental insurance options, and plenty of downtime for reading. However, because it is part time, I don't work enough hours to be able to afford even my meager lifestyle, and my original, full time job doesn't offer any health insurance. So I remain stuck working 55 hours a week, daydreaming about marrying a wealthy man so I can quit both jobs and stay home and eat imported Gouda all day. I'm a feminist like that.

I've applied to a plethora of jobs, looking specifically for that Big Girl Career Job with a writing component, but there are a lot of jobs where I've just said, fuck yeah, I'll apply to that - Dog Park Attendant? Sign me up, I love pugs! Barista? I'll have to get an asymmetrical haircut, but yeah, here's the application! I have to walk 40 minutes, and then get on the bus to get there? Yeah! I'll do it! I want to get out of Jurassic Park - the full time job where they still call me by the wrong name after three years - that badly.


Applying for jobs is not a simple process. One has to be diligent enough to seek out and religiously check a variety of websites for job postings, figure out if one can fudge a little bit about the Photoshop skills required, and then write a cover letter that will really blow Sir or Madam's socks off.  One also needs a resume that distinguishes the applicant from all of the other English majors out there, and that confirms that one KNOWS THINGS and has SKILLS even if they don't directly pertain to the job being applied for. I might not know CPR or how to wrestle alligators or build a basic website, but I am really good at writing awesome raps as my dinosaur alter-ego, Velociraptor the Rapper, having wedding therapy sessions with my engaged friend, and dancing (reference: Boyfriend).


After these hurdles comes the wait, and I usually swing from being overly optimistic to being depressed and grumpy. I've made the cut a few times, which means INTERVIEWS, which are a roller coaster ride of fuckery in themselves.  Most of the time, it goes well, but sometimes there is so much disorganization and awkwardness, you forget that you're interviewing for Receptionist and not Head of the Lobotomy Patients. My second interview was like this - just full-o-fuckery.


I should mention, at this point, that it was a non-profit.  I would gladly work for a non-profit, and I believe in what non-profits do, especially at the community level. But I also know many are vastly underfunded, which probably contributes to the lack of organization and direction that I've witnessed at several places (and a few of those have stabilized since then, operating now with efficiency). This particular non-profit seemed to be in one of the not-so-organized spells.


Once I found the building, there were several choices for entry. I picked the middle door, which seemed the most prominent, and walked in on some young woman working in a cubicle. Unsurprised by my random presence, she told me to go to the next door down.  I did as directed, and was met by a dimly lit hallway. A woman walked by, and I introduced myself and told her my purpose, and she lead me into another room, dimly lit as well, which seemed to be the reception area; there were chairs, but no magazines, a desk, but nobody behind the desk - at least, until a lady of gargantuan stature appeared, to use the fax machine. She asked me if she could help me, and I told her who I was here to see. "Oh, that's me," said the Office Yeti, and continued poking at the fax machine.

A few moments later I was lead into another dark, small room, with three ladies wedged in around a desk. While I had previously thought the female Yeti to be the ringleader, a shorter woman with glasses asked most of the questions - what were my strengths, weaknesses, etc. - while the Yeti and her youthful sidekick got sidetracked and talked about copying a certain flier, and where the original was. It was a short interview.


Despite this fuckery, I wanted the job - if only to escape from Jurassic Park. When I didn't hear back after a few weeks, I called only to learn, from the voicemail, that the Office Yeti was no longer there. I was directed to two different people, neither of which I could remember meeting at the interview. I called and left a message for one of the woman.  A week later, a different woman called back and left me a message, apologizing for not returning my phone call right away, and that the position had been filled.


Just a few days ago, however, I noticed the same position at the same non-profit back up on the online job boards.


I did not apply again.

Networking, Socially.

Crossed off of the TO DO list today:


Making a fancy link to the When I'm President of the Moon Facebook page!  It's right there, on the right hand side of the page, because the left side is evil. Feel free to click on it.  THEN WE CAN SOCIAL NETWORK.


Still to do:


Read my old diaries. I've flipped through them, and they are basically filled with complaints about junior high and magazine cutouts of Limp Bizkit.


Good reading.

Bootylicious.

I walked into the women’s locker room at the gym a few Sundays ago and saw this.

Now, a little setting of the scene: I run. I’ve become dedicated to running, and I think it’s glorious to run for an hour while watching Patti Stanger and her gang of goths cut down another douchebag millionaire while helping the deserving find love. However, I didn’t make it an entire hour that Sunday - I’d fallen victim to the sea shanty of Captain Morgan the night before, and only managed to run for half an hour, maybe.  I had gone to the warehouse on Saturday night with my boyfriend, and my ears were still ringing.  I had also gone to bed at three, and woken up at seven, unable  to fall back into sleep. The boyfriend managed to sleep until nearly noon, the lucky bastard, but he was sleeping off the mental and physical pain of being slowly knocked down on the floor by the writhing singer of one of the local bands we had seen, who had crawled between his legs and grabbed his ankles. (The next weekend, he would see the same guy at a bar and declare, “That’s the guy I played Night Crawlers with!”)  He had also been hit in the head by the tambourine of fury, wielded by the blonde-wig-sporting, dress-wearing, high-heel-kicking male singer of another band.

So I had already been having a fairly difficult day, and more fuckery waited for me behind the innocent-looking door of the women’s locker room.  I understand that locker rooms are there for a reason - to change clothes, shower, gossip loudly - and there might be some nakedness involved. I understand that. However, there was no clause in my gym membership that stated “WE HEREBY ARE NOT HELD RESPONSIBLE SHOULD YOU WALK INTO THE LOCKER ROOM AND IMMEDIATELY HAVE A BUTT IN YOUR FACE.” Which is exactly what happened.

It wasn’t that this woman was bare-assed - I wasn’t offended by that.  It was that she had the audacity to stand right there in front of the door, leaning over the sink, when she had no under-roos on.  And the real slap in the face was that SHE WAS WEARING A TEE SHIRT. I'm not sure why she decided to put on a tee shirt and WHY IT WAS SO HARD TO PUT SOME DAMN UNDERWEAR ON.

Reflection: perhaps my hangover was Jesus’s way of telling me DO NOT GO TO THE GYM TODAY, AS YE WILL EYE BUTTOCKS OF AN INGLORIOUS NATURE RIGHT UP IN YOUR FACE.

I don’t think I even paused - I just walked on at a faster clip, tried to erase that ass from my mind, get my shit together, and GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE.
Later, I told this tale to my family during our Sunday night dinner, as, clearly, it’s an appropriate topic for family-dinner-table-talk. My mother theorized that the woman was washing her underwear in the sink.  That would be a valid reason to not be wearing underwear, but that brings up an entirely new set of questions: Why was she washing it?  Did she period herself? Was it her only pair?  Did she shart?

My mother then told us the tale of her friend, who’s niece-in-law got arrested for being incredibly shitfaced and decided to call my mother's friend late at night to come and get her from the jail.  This woman was nice enough to actually do that - a mistake, we decided - but when she went down there, she waited. And waited.  Finally, the girl came out, still drunk, and crying, to be released into this woman’s custody.  Apparently, she was crying not because of the arrest, but because it had taken her so long to get dressed - she had drunkenly put her pants on inside out.

Which is probably worse than just being bare-assed at the gym.

Sexy Results

I was at work this morning when a call came in.  As usual, I answered the phone professionally, in my non-sexy voice, stating a robust "Good morning!" followed by the company's name.

"Who may I ask is calling?" the woman on the other line said.

I was confused. LISTEN LADY, YOU CALLED ME, I wanted to say, but instead I went with "I'm sorry?"

"Oh . . ." There was some muttering on the other end of the line.  I was about to hang up, as I deal with a lot of this nature of phone fuckery at my job, but I decided to be nice.

"Who were you trying to reach?" I asked.

"I thought this was the phone sex line."

I hung up.

I DEMAND SATISFACTION

I was the biggest bitch at the library today.

The public library in my town has adopted the self-checkout ways of the big-box stores of America - now there are four or five self-checkout stations, and usually only one to two people watching over the front desk.  This is how we do it nowadays: deal with the machine first, and, if necessary, the people. Well, the machines can’t feel my rage, unfortunately. They have remained unresponsive to my swearing. (I swear a lot, everywhere. Library, K-Mart, laundry mat, regardless of whether or not I’m around children or the elderly or any nuns.)

Lately, the self-checkout machines at the library have been receiving a lot of my swearing.  In the past month or so, I’ve had problems scanning my card.  The last few weeks, it hasn’t scanned at all.  It is an old card.  It’s so old that instead of my signature, my mother signed my name.  I was probably 7 when it was bestowed upon me, that little piece of plastic that held the world of wooden blocks and Babysitter’s Club books - I loved Ann M. Martin so much that I went to see her at the local bookstore when she did a book signing. I FUCKING LOVED THOSE BABYSITTER CLUB BOOKS.
So, in order to check out my items - mostly CDs of college radio crap nowadays - I have had to go up to the front desk.  Before today, I had asked twice for a new card. Twice I was denied by the Keepers of the Cards, as it still scanned at the front desk scanners - never mind that it was cracked and the bar code was peeling off.

Then came today.  Today!  DAY OF HOLY CRAP I NEED TO GO HOME AND DRINK A LOT OF GIN! I was still reeling from the rabies-inducing Valentine’s Day fuckery of yesterday, and I was not going to take the librarian’s refusal to give me a new card, as it was my tax-payer and God-given right.  At least, I felt that way.  So when my card refused to scan - and I stood there a good amount of time, waiting for it to be read - I went up the counter and handed the librarian my card.

“I need a new card,” I said.

She scanned it, and, of course, it scanned just fine for her.  OF COURSE.  She told me this, and then said that I “was probably just not holding it there long enough.”  YEP. I’M SURE THAT’S IT. Then she said, “Here, I’ll go over with you and show you.”  BECAUSE I DID NOT WORK AT A GROCERY STORE FOR TWO YEARS SCANNING ITEMS AND I AM NOT A COLLEGE GRADUATE.  Perhaps she thought I was mentally incapable or not patient enough to stand there for more than three seconds, holding my card under the little red lasers of mockery. YES. SURELY THAT’S IT.

It scanned for her at the self-checkout readers, too. I muttered “Thank you.”  Then I checked out my items, and, afterward, I tried to re-scan the card - I even held it at an angle, as she had - but NOTHING. That card was busted as shit.

I went back up the front desk, to the other lady who was working there, and snapped the card in half, then placed the two halves on the counter.

“I need a new card.”

How I Blossomed From a Needle-Phobic Girl to a Dumb Slut to a Cranky Old Lady

When I went off to college, I was required to get several shots that would supposedly make me immune to the things that preyed on the young living in close quarters. These excluded a vaccine for STDs and fuckery, unfortunately - I was staying in the dorm so notorious for poor sexual decisions that it was known as the STD Dorm.  I was not told of this particular dorm’s reputation when I labeled my top four choices for residences on the housing application.  I was 18, and naive, and there were  no indicators on the form - things that would have been helpful such as “The STD Dorm - BEWARE” or “The Dorm Full of Theater Fuckery and Emo English Majors” or “The Dorm At the End of the World” - there were simply the official University names of these dorms, and I went with the few that I had actually heard of and knew of the approximate location.  Looking back, this was probably not the best plan as there were probably reasons why I’d heard the names of these dorms bandied about, especially my number one dorm of choice - it was not because this dorm was full of future Nobel Prize winners, but because it was a hotbed of sluts.  Unfortunately, I got my first choice in dorms, and I became a slut by association.

Not that being a slut, male or female, is a bad thing.  I’m going purely on the comic reputation here, the kind of reputation that gets furthered by dumb nineteen-and twenty-year-old college kids - when they say STD Dorm, there’s either a profound and self-righteous disgust, or, more often, a kind of beaming pride.  I subscribe wholly to the words of Dan Savage on sluttery - if you want to go slut it up, go be your slutty self, and have fun and be safe.  I suppose, however, that because it was called the STD Dorm and not the Condom Dorm that it implied that these sluts, self-identified or not, were not being safe.  So, basically, when I got to college, I wasn’t only a slut, but a dumb, unsafe slut by association with my living quarters.

My first roommate actually lived up well to the reputation.  She’d go to the Campus Christian Churchy Church Group and then, with the love of Jesus in her heart, she would get so wasted that the young men she was with would have to carry her up the five flights of stairs to our shared room (the elevators never worked when I was living there).  She would flop around like a Jesus Fish out of water and I would sleepily look up from my lofted bed, attempting not to hit my head on the ceiling, wondering if she was okay.  The sink became her personal vomit bucket once or twice; after the first time I put in a request for a new roommate.  I never saw my resident hall live-in lady, and she probably wouldn’t have cared anyway, as I’m sure it wasn’t her first sink barf rodeo.

Apparently my roommate didn’t care for me either, what with my staying in and trying to slog through Crime and Punishment, my holding normal hours, and my willingness to put up with her yarking in our sink.  Perhaps she suspected me of eating a shitload of her Laffy Taffy without her permission, which, yes, I did, but she had it in a huge jar and her skinny ass wasn’t going to eat it anyway.  She hatched a plan with her friend who lived two floors below us, who also had a roommate she didn’t want to live with, and soon this girl and I were meeting, and they were asking if some switching could happen so they could be roommates and have drunken Jesus slut times together.  We agreed, and the new roommate of mine became a good friend - she still is.  As for those two, we never saw them eat in the cafeteria together, and figured that they had grown sick of each other - there was no better punishment in our minds for our former roommates than having to share a cramped 15 by 12 room with one another.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t be immunized for crappy roommates, but they did stick me with the Meningitis shot and some other fun stuff.  I hated shots at this time, and I was terrified.  I hadn’t gotten a shot for quite a while, and I hadn’t see a doctor ever since that out of control athletes foot that got me out of junior high swimming (thankfully) for a few days.  I wasn’t even going to a big girl doctor - I was still signed on with my pediatrician, and that’s where I was scheduled to receive the necessary shots.  As the day grew closer, I got more and more nervous about it.  My palms burst into sweat upon the thought of it.

When the Day of the Death Shots arrived, I went to the pediatrician’s office.  I don’t think my mother was with me, though she might have been; I don’t recall her there, holding my hand or anything.  I sat in the waiting room, along with the other patients, jealous that they were still young enough to play with the wooden spirally thing with the beads that move around, and I was stuck there reading Overprotective Parenting Monthly, waiting.  They were oblivious to what terrible things waiting for them behind those doors, but I knew. I knew.

The nurse called my name and I stood on shaky legs and went into that confusing hallway of examination rooms.  She made me do the usual stuff, stand on the scale, hold out my arm so my blood pressure could be taken, and then she lead me to my execution room.  The nurse said a few calming things, probably because I looked all sweaty, and prepared the shots.  Then, needle in hand, she told me to look away, as if she was going to saw off one of my gangrenous limbs.  I turned my head, and she administered the shots.

“That was fine!” I said, and suddenly my vision had dark shadowy frames around it that were closing in.  I passed out.

I almost instantly woke up from my faint, but the damage had been done, and was worsened when I told one of my best friends about the incident.  Rightfully, she laughed at me, but we are the kind of friends that can laugh when one of us faints at the pediatrician's office or gets a pencil stuck up her nose at her ACT prep course.

I have not fainted since that time, and I’ve had several rounds of shots, flu included, and I’ve been tattooed.  But I do get a little sweaty when the nurse holds up the needle.  Recently, I had to get a physical for the fancy new job.  This consisted of sitting in the waiting room for ten minutes and then being lead back by the nurse for the usual weigh-in and pee-in.  She gave me a shot and drew blood, after asking me if I was okay with shots. I laughed nervously. “I think so,” I replied.  It probably didn’t put her at ease, but I didn’t faint.  The worst part of the entire thing was waiting for twenty minutes in the nakey gown for the doctor to come in, and when he finally did, he checked my ears, knocked on my knees with that silly hammer, and then told me I could go.  I’ve clearly passed that youthful stage in my life where I’m frightened of shots, and have blossomed right into my elderly self.  I got pretty much naked for that? Pff, I thought as I put my two layers of pants back on.  Grumble, grumble.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Weekend of Victory

Last weekend, the man I go around with and I went to a show. I knew it was going to be bad scheduling on my part, as I had already made plans to go shopping with my mother and sister at the bright-eyed, busy-beaver hour of nine the next morning. In our family, we don’t go by the phrase “The early bird catches the worm,” but by the phrase, “The early bird catches the best thrift store deals, so hurry the fuck up.”

This show was at the local and once-unknown warehouse, which, since the opening and re-opening of the historically popular music venue/bar downtown and it’s inevitable downward spiral into bro-esque fuckery and poor band booking, has dug its way into my heart. It’s cheap, the bands are always good, I can bring however many PBRs will fit into my purse, and, sometimes, there’s a train on the tracks between you and that destination of glorious metal sin, and you have to climb over it because danger is fun.

Another point to make about the warehouse is that people will go there and they will get all kinds of crazy that is not tolerated or maybe just not present in the bars. The bands that night were of the typical hard/metal/thrash/rock/punk that the warehouse people, bless their hardworking hearts, book, some of them local, all of them great, and people had clearly come there to celebrate the musical talent and their freedom to get drunk in a very physical way.

I love free spirits.

Two jolly fellows in particular were bumping into each other, pushing everyone in their path, throwing themselves into the crowd, knocking people down, and rolling around on the floor as the bands played. They were wearing coats with matted fur that reminded me of when my parents’ long-haired cat gets dreadlocks and we have to get the scissors out and cut them off. These young men looked like two Sasquatches in heat, recklessly throwing themselves around, expressing their feral desires, or perhaps altered mental states moshfully. I am more willing to go to shows like this now, as my health insurance from my new job kicks in soon, but I stand to the side and I stay away from 40s and glass bottles in general, as that is how my boyfriend got his tooth chipped. He was drinking PBR, the nectar of the Gods, at the warehouse Halloween show when someone ran into him, knocking the bottle against his once-beautiful, now snaggy teeth.

I do, indeed, love the warehouse.

Needless to say, after my purse full of beers, I wasn’t in prime shopping shape the next morning. I stumbled to the coffee maker in agony. “Why, Jesus, why did you make PBR so delicious!?” I threw the previous day’s grounds into the compost bucket, which is actually a more difficult maneuver than it sounds like - one has to remove the rubber bands that keep the cupboard doors closed from the kitty’s curious paws, then pry the plastic lid off of the compost bucket while making sure that the cat doesn’t squeeze into the cupboard. My fear of fears: the cat climbing into the mysterious hole in the back corner of the lower cupboards and disappearing into the house (which reminds me of the House of Leaves house, with it’s secret staircase and attic noises and crooked hallways - nothing has fallen off the shelf yet) FOREVER. It is a very real concern of mine.

With my little nugget safely away from the cupboards of death, and coffee in my system, I made it to the street where my mother picked me up. After getting my sister, we went to the consignment store where she happens to work and proceeded to spend nearly three hours there, getting excited over pink metallic jackets in the 80’s section and leopard-print cardigans. Going to this consignment store is like a ritual, a tradition - instead of worshipping at a church, we worship the Rack of Sensible Jackets and the Divine Bin of Boots and Oversized 80’s Belts.

Afterwards, we made a stop at the grocery store, my sister momentarily pausing in the Valentine’s Day aisle to contemplate getting a not-so-secret crush a Valentine’s Day gift, and then to curse at love and all of it’s conventions. We then went to another consignment store to pick up the meager cash we had from things we had brought previously to sell. At that point, we were getting tired. My sister’s caffeine was running low, and so we walked around, trying to find a vending machine. We found one a few shops down, outside, oblivious that it was pure evil. Not only was it not Pepsi or Coke but Dr. Pepper, but the bottle got stuck at the bottom of the vending machine, behind the plastic flap.

“Fuck!” said my sister, and bent down to free it. She pushed the plastic flap, and hit it, and jiggled it, getting angrier by the moment, and swearing up the usual storm. At last she freed the bottle, and victory was hers.


Victorious, in fact, was the weekend, I realized: I had no teeth knocked out, I saw a handful of good bands and two Sasquatch men, and that leopard print cardigan was MINE.torious, in fact, was the weekend, I realized: I had no teeth knocked out, I saw a handful of good bands and two Sasquatch men, and that leopard print cardigan was MINE.