Hello I got the job! They apparently are able to see past the fact that my incompetence shines when faced with the dubious task of opening doors and are willing to test the theory that I’m actually intelligent, as stated by my glowing references.

And it’s temp to perm, so no more getting bounced around like the forgotten child in a divorce.

After 3-6 months, I’ll be making more money than I was when I was working full-time; more money for less work? This really panders to my lady of leisure lifestyle.

I start on Monday. I’m so happy I can breathe again.

I left Chooch sitting in front of the Toys R Us website and told him to go wild. Just not too wild. Like, under $50 wild.

OMG now I can eat! And buy new jeans! TODAY I LOVE EVERYONE!

Dear people who read this:

First of all, thank you for reading this crap that spews from my head. I’ve been writing shit since I was a young kid and it is HARD to get people to read what I write, and even care about it, so I really am grateful for the people I’ve picked up along the way. I can’t even get my own boyfriend to read it.

But I was curious: What do you like best about this blog? What makes you come back and read more (assuming you do)?

I’ve been blogging since 2001, and you know how everyone always says, “Oh yeah, I write for myself, no one else”? Fuck those people, they’re lying. Yes, I partially write this shit for myself, for my own posterity, but I also write in the hopes that some random person might stumble upon this site and find something that resonates with them or makes them laugh.

I just don’t know what that might be, to be honest. I’m kind of all over the map with this and that’s sort of how I like it, because variety can be nice.

When I was on Live Journal, it was easier to gauge what people liked, mostly because LJ users were quicker to drop a comment.

So if you feel like it, leave a comment here, on this post***, and help me figure shit out. Tell me what you like, if there was a post that stood out to you, what you’d like to see more of. Please don’t be mean though. Not today, at least. My psyche is feeling kind of fragile this week. Ha-ha. (No, I’m serious. Lots of spontaneous crying-while-driving, lol.)

I’m not exactly fishing for compliments here; consider it research. Because I feel like I’ve lost my direction.

Naming fruit since 1996,

Erin.

(***For the people who comment on the LiveJournal feed, I don’t always get those comments. They’re not emailed to me since it’s a feed and not an LJ, so I have to physically go to the feed page and check. If you don’t always get replies from me, that’s why and I apologize. I’ve already lost a LiveJournal friend because she thought I was being rude/too good for LJ, when really, I wasn’t getting any of her comments, and that makes me sad. It’s always better to comment on the actual site to ensure that I see what you have to say, because it’s important to me! <3)

EDIT:  OK, LiveJournal people, I get it. Commenting over here is HARD and ANNOYING. You don’t ever have do it again.

A week and I still have a job. I won’t lie – I’m not happy about it. Being in an office again makes me feel angry and stifled, completely unhappy. But this was something I had to do, mostly because Henry is MEAN and made me, and I’m only working half days so I shouldn’t complain. I have no RIGHT to complain.

Prior to this, I had been looking for evening work, like my last two jobs. I’m not lucky enough to have anyone who will watch my son for me so I can get a full time daylight job and I refuse to put him in daycare because my luck, it will be one of those fly by night ones that wind up as a breaking report on the nightly news because the proprietors are using it as a drug front.

But things started to get tight around here and Henry was like, “Look, just get a job, any job. Don’t worry about the shift; I’ll figure it out.”

So when the temp agency offered this particular job to me, Henry said it was OK that I’d be working daylight, that he’d adjust his schedule at work so that he could just work around me.

He’s been leaving here around 2:30AM every morning, and coming home by 6:30AM so I can leave. Then when I come home, he goes back to work. Except that he sends me texts throughout the morning, saying things like, “[My boss] scheduled a truck for 1:30 this afternoon; when are you leaving?” So then I’m pressured, stressed and annoyed. Look, Moustache. Don’t ride my ass about getting a job, and then when I get one that SAME DAY because I’m hustla, don’t start sending me these namby pamby texts talking about “Wahhhh, I have to go back to work, when are you coming homeeeeee?”

Fuck you, you said it wouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t want to work, remember?! And now you’re making me rush through the shit I have to do and feel all panic-prone because I don’t know what time I’m going to be able to leave so that you can go back to your REAL job.

(Because my job is fake and meaningless.)

I don’t know, I just feel so disheartened. I like my supervisor all right, but he acts all surprised when I get my shit done faster than he anticipated and then gets all apologetic for not having anything else for me to do, but before he could run off to find busy work for me, I reminded him that I took this job mainly because most days I’d get to leave by noon.

I mainly sit by myself in a conference room, my makeshift office with lights that shut off if I’ve been sitting too still. I have to wave my arms like an idiot to get them to recognize that a human is in there. How appropos; I’m so temporary that the LIGHT doesn’t even recognize me.

Last Friday, I was sitting there, quietly sifting through information on a stack of invoices, when two older women came in. They introduced themselves as Cindy and Cindy. When I said my name, the rotund Cindy contorted her face in a look I’ve come to known as the standardized “Am I dealing with a retard?” expression.

I repeated my name twice before she comprehended. The last time I checked, I don’t have a speech impediment, speak too quietly, or communicate in aboriginal grunts and clucks. So Rotund Cindy must be the retard.

Even though we had just gone through a round of introductions, the Cindys proceeded to talk about me as though I weren’t there. Surveying the conference room, the taller, yuppier one remarked that it would make a good place to stow the auditors when they arrive.

“The temp can just move to Karen’s old office by the kitchen,” she suggested to the fat Cindy.

“But there’s no phone in Karen’s office,” the fat Cindy pointed out.

“The temp doesn’t really need a phone, though,” Yuppy Cindy countered.

You’re right, the temp doesn’t need a phone, but hello she’s SITTING RIGHT HERE LOOKING AT YOU.

Fuck.

And then the other day, there was an email sent out from one of the Cindys, reminding everyone in a very uptight and pretentious syntax that all unmarked leftovers in the fridge would be discarded on Wednesday. I’m not sure which Cindy e-penned that friendly reminder, but it made me hate them both even more.

I’ve really grown to like the woman I hastily wrote off as Tina-esque (some of you might remember Tina and her skin legions, mullet and One-Uppiness from two jobs ago). I guess she’s the office manager, but she greets me cooley every morning in a teasing tone. I like that, to be teased. It makes me feel little girlish, but not in the patronized kind of way.

Today, some strange man wandered into my conference room, muttering something about how he was used to the room being full of boxes but now they’re gone. I joked that now the room was just full of me, and it took him awhile but he eventually laughed as comprehension set in. I thought at first that he was special needs, but I think he was just tired.

I can’t remember his name, but he was nice enough and reminded me that lunches are catered on Thursdays. I haven’t been there long enough in a day to eat lunch with everyone, though. It’s just as well, as all that will do is open up the awkward can. It’s bad enough being the new person, but even worse being a temp. No one really cares about temps, because why bother expending energy getting to know someone who’s just there for a few weeks. And you know, that’s unlike me to have that sort of attitude. I have always been out going at my jobs, sometimes to a fault perhaps. But being friendly and having camaraderie with co-workers has always made going to work worth it for me. Just anymore, I don’t have the energy or the drive. I just want to get in there, get my shit done and be done with this assignment. That makes me feel horrible just typing it, but it’s the truth and I don’t know how to be anything but honest.

I just feel that every time I get an office job, it sets me back so far. I will literally stop doing everything that I enjoy because I just don’t have the time or the mental energy.

Maybe it’s selfish, but I would rather not have a ton of money than sacrifice doing the things that make me want me to get out of bed every day. I’m not sure that Henry understands that. Maybe he does, I don’t know. I spend so much time and energy working up to certain goals, like finally being able to take up that shop owner on her offer of a gallery showing, only to be yanked back into the bowels of another generic American office. And I can’t get ahead.

Today I came home and was able to watch a recording of the Russian Olympic hockey game, one of the few things making me happy this week, and then afterward I went to the local library and took a test to become a Census employee. My friend Stacey did it and suggested that I try it out too. It’s basically going to door-to-door to collect information from people who didn’t send in their Census.

There were eight of us in  stuffy meeting room in the library. The instructor was an old man wearing a cable knit sweater. He obsessively opened and rummaged through his briefcase every few minutes. I kept wondering if he had candy in there and then my mouth got all dry because I was thinking about candy in a briefcase. Goddammit why do I think about shit like that.

You would think that the actual test would take longer than filling out the application, but no. I sat there for FORTY MINUTES while these idiots stressed out over filling in a few fucking boxes in a three page application form.

It was standard shit! I can only imagine that two of them must have a lot of felonies to list because every time the instructor asked if they were finished, it was all, “No, I’m still working on this one page.”

Working on this one page? It’s a goddamn application to be a fucking Census worker, not a blueprint of the Sheik’s new skyscraping harem house.

I sat there, bounced in my seat, stared at my cuticles, and obsessively checked Words with Friends on my phone. At one point, I had a wicked flashback to the GED testing room and instantly required a bucket of cold water and a sharp slap to the face.

This seriously took forty minutes. I got there at 3:45, like the Dumbledore impressionist on the phone advised, and it was 4:25 by the time the instructor was finally able to pass out the tests and read the instructions. I laughed at how his voice went from deep and ambivalent to rehearsed and excited when he began going over the typical “Please don’t be a douchebag and cheat” spiel.

My favorite part was when he was like, “Don’t ask me any questions once testing begins. You have to figure it out by yourself” because I knew at least 3/4 of the room was silently thinking “FUCK” in their heads, and I wondered who the instructor pissed off to be punished by sitting in this  depressing room and monitoring a bunch of directionless people who have nothing less to aspire to so why not try out for the fucking Census.

The fucking CENSUS.

What has my life become?

We had thirty minutes to complete twenty eight 5th grade level questions. I zipped through all of them until I got to a multiplication problem that involved three digits and DECIMALS. I had to skip it because I kept wanting to shift the number with the decimal to the right, like in addition. When I came back to it later, I remembered the correct way but proceeded to spend the remaining minutes trying to remember what the fuck was nine times seven.

9 x 7.

Seriously.

I had to start with 9 x 5 and then add in increments of nine, what the HELL has happened to me. There was a time when I got As in Calculus and now multiplication tables make confused spittle form in the pockets of my lips.

Oh, I got it right in the end, don’t you fret. It just took half a piece of scratch paper.

Instead of starting my new job on Tuesday as planned, the snow had other ideas and so I remained cabin-bound until today.  I woke up to that sickening “first day of school” full-body anxiety, but instead of hitting snooze and dwelling, I jumped up and pretended I was instead getting ready for roller skating or a Chiodos show (pre-Craig Owens departure) or just a good old fashioned hoedown.

The drive wasn’t as bad as I anticipated, plus it gave me some time to listen to some new music I recently acquired and that was good. There’s nothing like a screamo/post-hardcore cover of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” to make me want to conquer a boardroom.

I was a few minutes early and the man who would become my supervisor wasn’t there yet so I was stowed in the small waiting area, where I immediately realized that I was way overdressed after noting that most of the women who bustled past wore mom-jeans and ugly shoes. A few more seconds of spying had me noting the bouncing parade of antique knit sweaters. One of the sweaters was a gaudy purple hue interwoven with some sort of obnoxious silver thread. I’m pretty sure my Mrs. B., my kindergarten teacher, sported that same sweater in 1985.

I was inspired to clandestinely tweet: “Hopefully I get the memo the next time it’s 80s Day at my new place of work.”

And then the most Tina-ish woman there found me, like they all do. She was brash and tall and, around 20+ years of cigarette drags, she croaked, “Erin? Come on, I’m going to give you a tour.” I looked down as I trailed behind her and noticed that she was wearing boots similar to the ones my mom wore. IN THE EIGHTIES.

When the fuck was I?!

The only thing I remember being shown on the impromptu tour was a large, clear glass bowl that sat atop a filing cabinet in the middle of the office space. And you know what was in that glass bowl? CANDY. I couldn’t wait to start stealing it!

“You’re welcome to help yourself to that candy whenever you want, as well as all the pop in the fridge….” Alternate Tina continued to point out the free perks and I felt shocked. I wouldn’t have to PILFER? I could just…have? Like, while people were watching, I could just…take?

This might take some getting used to. I’m not sure I know how to fetch candy in an office without utilizing my slinky ninja-gait.

Alternate Tina deposited me in my makeshift office, which is just a small conference room set up with a computer. Moments later, the HR woman who interviewed me last week stopped in with some papers to sign and told me that everyone was allowed to wear jeans this week as a perk for coming in due to this shitty weather. But she didn’t say anything about the 1980’s Golden Girls sweaters. I had to sign a paper swearing that I wouldn’t make unwanted sexual advances on any of my co-workers, which was painful, like signing away my first born. (Though there are times when that feels like a wonderful treat.)

Next, I got to meet my supervisor, who is a very pleasant man who likes to overdose on the word “literally” and swears without apologizing. We had a small training session with another woman who actually works there but will be doing of this fantastic data entry along with me, and then I was left to do the practice work myself.

It’s just transferring information from shipping invoices onto an Excel spreadsheet. (I just typed in Spreadshirt at first, which shows you what little time I spend in offices these days.) I know it sounds awful, but as far as careers go, I go out of my way to find low-key data entry/billing jobs. I don’t want stress. I want to go to work, plug and chug quietly, and then come home and have the mental energy left to do the things I like to do. Is that selfish? Maybe.

There were no real invoices for me to work on after that, so I got to leave by 1pm. And that’s the other beautiful thing about this job: there are days when I will only have to stay until noon. My supervisor, after explaining this to me, offered, “If you’d prefer to be here for a full day everyday, I could try to look for other things for you to do…” but I very zealously interrupted, “No! No, that’s OK. I was told during the interview about that, and I’m completely OK with it.” And I am, too. I don’t want a full time job! I don’t want a job AT ALL to be honest but HENRY made me get one.

And you better believe that from the moment I got home today until, well, currently, I haven’t let him forget about that.

“Make me lunch!” I yelled as I stormed through the door.

He stood there gaping at me.

“Go make me lunch! I had a long day…because of YOU!” I spat.

And he started laughing. As if my working is a JOKE to him, something that he derives pleasure from, like watching Kate Gosselin and her douche-curtains suffer in public.

And you know what else? On my way home, I got an email from my work-at-home HR broad informing me that there was work out if I was interested. So I had to come home and WORK some more instead of watching MTV; oh pity me, Internet!

I’m going to go and schedule a day at the spa now.

Tomorrow, I have to try and learn how to use the coffee maker. Fuck. At least I get to wear jeans and my best sweater from 5th grade.

[I hope you know that this is a joke and that I am grateful to be working. The End.]

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I got a job? Well, that was fun. I was trying to cram in as many hours (see also: minutes) as possible on the computer before Chooch discovered that I wasn’t paying attention to him. Yes, working at home sounded like a fine idea at the time. I wasn’t getting paid very much, but for as little work I was able to put in, my checks actually weren’t as dismal as I imagined. In fact, I was able to have my shoes cobbled, I was! With a little extra to spare for some luke warm porridge!

There was this one instance where Chooch came over and said, “Come play with me.” I go, “I can’t; I’m working right now.”

He disappeared for a brief moment, and when he returned, he was forcing a pile of dirty pennies into my palm. “Here, I paid you. Now come play.”

The sad thing is, he didn’t even realize how close he was to matching my pay rate.

So this job was supposed to last “a few months.” Try two weeks. Yes, the HR broad sent out an email thanking everyone for their hard work and that unbeknownst to anyone at the company, we had actually helped them meet their quota way faster than they imagined, and that we would be contacted in the future if there was more work.

I was back in the same boat, paddling toward the homeless shelter.

But then I remembered that my friend Sarah’s mom works at a staffing firm, and that she had given a valiant attempt at placing me somewhere safe and stable after I was laid off from FedEx last winter. I emailed her last Wednesday morning and by that afternoon, I had a new job.

I start tomorrow. It’s a temporary position, but at this point I’d shine shoes if I had to. Actually, I probably would be pretty good at that, among very little else.

And then today, the HR lady from the other place sent out an email saying there will be more work this week. I guess I have two jobs now. Or a job and a half, as it were.

Hopefully, there will be awesome people at this place tomorrow. I haven’t had a day job in so long, I hope the sun doesn’t blind me. But at least this means I won’t miss any hockey games or pout like the teenaged scene kid I truly am when a band plays on a weeknight and I can’t get off work.

I’m not looking forward to the commute though.

With Henry and Chooch off at the store, I thought that I could relax a little, get my nerves to stop buzzing.  After posting that last entry about the Valentines, I went upstairs to change into my exercise clothes.

Approximately 1.3 minutes later is when the knocking started.

I’m not talking about some demure rapping from an old lady looking for her lost cat. The knocking I’m talking about here was intense.

Urgent.

Motherfucking frightening.

Initial thoughts:

• It’s too late to be the gas man!
• Wait, we’re not behind on the gas bill.
• OMG it’s the CONSTABLE.
• Jehovah’s Witnesses?
• My blog has finally discovered by Robin and she has her meth herd out front with fiery torches and a battering ram!

I did what I always do in these harrowing cat and mouse situations: I hid on the bedroom floor. The knocking continued, in angry, I’ve-come-to-murder-you spurts. During the few moments of silence, I’d get courageous, pop up a bit and peek through the blinds. Across the street in the church parking lot sat a white Suburban, the headlights of which still shone. I became obsessed with the idea that my knocker’s accomplice was sitting quietly in the dark interior, shuffling a deck of cards and wearing brass knuckles while waiting for the knocker to return with my dead body.

It sounded like the knocker was trying to open my door. And my head was full of expletives as I tried to remember if the door was even locked or not. It was bad enough that EVERY light downstairs was on (green, what?), including the TV, so the knocker knew someone was home and seemed undeterred by the fact that I wasn’t speedily answering the door in a bathtowel.

After a few minutes of this (these situations feel longer when you’re in the thick of it; especially if you’re like me and pretend you’re a diamond thief hiding from the CIA), the knocking ceased and I stole a look just in time to see my neighbor James retreating.

James and his family moved in next door last May. They’re quiet all day long, but come 9pm, it’s like they’re throwing cinder blocks around over there, building something, I don’t know. Probably I’m better off not knowing. And there’s 4 young kids, too, who we rarely see. Alisha is convinced that they’re a family pop group, like The Jackson 5, and only come out when they can rely on the night shadows to cloak them. They have a brand new Mercedes, which they keep parked on the street, even during snow storms, and this ain’t no residential cul-de-sac on which we live. It’s a pretty rockin’ road, with buses and large trucks to boot. They also have a Lexus SVU which they seem to hide in the garage.

The block we live on is not exactly known for luxury vehicles. We’re talking Elantras and Focuses up in here, OK?

They have these flashy cars, yet no furniture on the entire first floor.

Henry, who swears he doesn’t spy on them, says they spend all their time upstairs. In fact, I think whoever is on the other side of our bedroom has been cooking in their room lately, and it stinks.

They’re a mystery.

Where was I? Oh, James! I had just spotted James and felt a mixture of relief and also apprehension, because why was James knocking so maniacally? Maybe he was locked out and needed to use my phone.  I was still standing at the window, wondering this, when I realized that he had stopped on the sidewalk in front of our house and was staring up into my window. I do love me some creepy.

Ducking, I grabbed my shoes, ran downstairs and out the front door to find James standing idly on his front porch.

“Hey, was that you knocking?” I asked innocently, shoes untied and knees knocking from the burst of cold.

“Yeah, can I borrow your shovel?” he asked, walking across the front yard toward me.

“My what now?” I was confused. I must have misheard him. Probably what he really said was, “Can I borrow your bone marrow?” because who knocks like THAT for a shovel?

“Your shovel.”

Seriously? Had he just murdered someone?

I gave him the shovel and he didn’t even use it right away!

So much for giving my nerves a chance to stop buzzing. Fuck.

Henry and I are just hanging out on the couch right now. Hi! And somehow the subject of me being a hussy came up, how some guy made me feel uncomfortable when he called me pretty.

“Uncomfortable?” Henry said with incredulity. “That’s funny.” Because I eat that shit up with a fancy grapefruit spoon, you see.

“Yeah, but right now I’m just not in the frame of mind,” I said, trying to reassure him that I won’t be out roaming the pastures.

Henry laughed again. Not a “I’m watching Chapelle’s Show” laugh, but more of a disgusted “You’re a cheatin’ whore” throat scrape. “But you can change like that,” he said, snapping his hard-working, blue-collared fingers.

Desperate to ease his paranoia, I pointed out that my annual spring fever will be coming up soon. “And maybe it’ll be for you!” I punched his stomach for punctuation.

“Oh please. When you have ever spring fevered me?”

“I did that one year!” I blurted out.

I think it would be fun if Henry guest-blogged on here. Maybe write about his favorite kitchen memories or tediously tap out tales from his days in THE SERVICE, which maybe could make people respect him! (Not me though; lost cause right here.

)

If there’s something you’d like Henry to write about, let me know right here! Misty suggested a day in the life, which I think would really be riveting. (I mean, as long as I know in advance the day he’s going to start writing, in order to create fires – metaphorical and literal – so he’ll have something other than work and sleep to tell the Internet.

)

In the past, when Henry has forwarded me Craigslist ads it’s been for such wholesome things like “BREASTFEEDING XXX VIDEOS! GET PAID FOR MEN TO JACK OFF TO UR SQUIRTING BREAST MILK!!!” and a myriad of other paid intimate encounters. Just let your imagination do the rest. So last Friday, when I saw that he had passed along another Craigslist ad, I was like, “Oh boy, what do we have now? Does he want me to pee in someone’s mouth for this month’s rent?” But it was a data entry job. Working from home.

Now, my red flag went up. It’s not often I’ve found a legit work-at-home gig, aside from medical transcriptioning. But I shrugged and replied. The only thing worse than being an artist is being a fake artist in a shitty economy which means I kind of need SOMETHING to happen financially.

An hour or so later, someone called me back. He sounded flustered, unprepared. He kept saying, “Hold on” while someone in what I hoped was an office and not a secret Chinatown warehouse with boarded windows and kidnapped women, could be hear speaking to him in muffled tones.

Five minutes and very little information later, I had found myself scheduled for a 1:00pm training session the next day.

The fact that this so-called company even has an office was enough to calm my paranoia.

The fact that it was in a respectable area made me feel even better. Almost confident. Almost.

The guy I spoke with, Ken, came down to let and another girl in. He immediately apologized for the way he was on the phone, explaining that his boss had come into his office, tossed a bunch of replies on his desk and said, “Here, start calling these people.” That made me relax a bit too, the fact that he was aware of how unpolished he sounded on the phone.

He led us to a conference room where there was already an older woman and a guy waiting. As I pulled out a chair next to the woman, I kind of caught a vibe. One of those “Sit anywhere here, preferably find an entire separate room to sit in” vibe. And as soon as I shrugged out of my jacket, she turned to me and proceeded to tell me that her first apartment post-college was right down the street from there.

And the dam was broken.

She. Never. Stopped.

Her name is Gwendolyn but she goes by Wendy. Her fiance was waiting for her in the van. He was working on Word documents while he waited. He’s from Holland and they’re waiting for his social security card to come so they can get married. This is very exciting to her. She used to work for the GOV’T and sometimes she would have to talk to FBI.

She’s 41!

She has 5 kids!

Her first son was baptized at Sacred Heart!

You know what she is? She’s a Tina-type. Anytime someone would say anything, she always found a way to piggy back the conversation. I could tell Ken was getting irritated, and we had a long wait ahead of us. Why can’t people just come on time? If you’re trying to get a job, COME ON TIME. Don’t make the rest of  us responsible people waste time out of our SATURDAY because you failed to utilize the entire day’s notice you had to find a way to be on time. FOR A JOB.

And I’m glad Redd Foxx decided to rise from the grave in order to attend this training session, where he would repeatedly call the computer “the machine” and ask to have every minute direction repeated.

It’s data entry. 10-key. Work that is so simple, they didn’t even require us to submit our resumes. Within 45 minutes, we were trained, not only in the job we’d be doing from home, but in the auto-biography of Wendy.

At one point, she leaned over me while I was trying to covertly text from my lap and yelled, “OH THAT’S A NICE PHONE! WHAT IS IT, VERIZON?” Um, no? It’s an iPhone? And did you know she’s looking for a new phone? That hers can’t even use Bluetooth?

I wanted to leave. I was so ready to get the fuck out of there and enjoy the rest of my day but NO. Wendy wouldn’t stop. I had to wait behind her while she turned in her payroll info to the office manager, and it wouldn’t be my turn until she was done talking about EVERY SINGLE JOB SHE’S EVER HELD and how she’s done 10-key so often that she’ll be able to do this while watching TV and she already knows exactly what hours she’ll be working and STFU IT’S MY TURN.

After I managed to sully every form with crossed-out words, scribbles, and signatures on the wrong lines (I’m semi-retarded at filling out forms, which I guess is why my only options in life are burger-flipper and data entry clerk; I’m not even sure I could handle working on a farm), I retreated back to the conference room to collect my jacket and purse. And oh yay, Wendy was still there, talking to Ken about how even if job ads say “no phone calls,” she’ll Google the company and put in a call straight to HR. I laughed nervously along with Ken and tried to skirt out the door, but he held up a hand and said, “Wait, I’ll walk you guys out.”

FUCK. Fuck fuck fuck.

So there I am, in an elevator with Ken and Wendy, sucking anxiously on my bottom lip, trying not to explode, when Ken asked what our plans for the night.

“I’m watching the hockey game,” I somehow managed to get out before Wendy had a chance to capture the conversation and rape it anally.

“Who are they playing?” Ken asked. And we began to talk about hockey but it was cut short by Wendy’s Tourettes-like eruption of, “I’M MAKING BRUSCHETTA TONIGHT I’M A REALLY GOOD COOK I LOVE TO COOK BECAUSE I KNOW EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT THE HISTORY OF COOKING AND I INVENTED FOOD NETWORK.”

This was blurted out while Ken was still talking to me. Not during a pause or a lull. Over top of a conversation.

I cannot tolerate that. I just can’t. Being interrupted is one of the most appalling things a person can do in presence besides shitting on my coffee table or slitting Henry’s throat (although……). It’s so rude. When people do that, I always wonder how they were able to get so far in life without learning about how rude that is. There was a girl I was friends with briefly last year who was the queen of hijacking conversations, until it got to the point where I just stopped trying to talk to her. And this is how Wendy is.

And I started imagining what it would be like to have to work with her every day but then remembered, “Oh yeah, I get to do this shit FROM HOME.” If I had to physically work with that lady, that might have been a deal breaker. I might have had to cut off a leg and apply for disability. Or cut off Henry’s leg and have him apply for disability.

Still, I came home and nursed a stress headache, then drank lots of wine.

So yes, I’m half-employed right now. And if I’m lucky, a week’s salary might get me some bread and milk from the corner store!

Corey came over Sunday night, as did Janna, and we stayed up talking until 2am.

It was really nice and somewhat cathartic since we did a lot of family ranting, and it made me realize that we have more in common than I thought.

Today, he leaves for a semester in London.

Have fun, Corey! Drink lots of Strongbow, listen to the Cure and most importantly – SEND ME SHIT!

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In his general high octave whine, Chooch is demanding a refill in his cup.

Henry asks what was in it.

“Hot chocolate,” Chooch answers, right before deciding that I should get it for him instead.

“Because she got it last time, and you will not know how,” he explains to Henry, in a tone alarmingly cross and indignant for such a small child.

“There’s not much your mother knows how to do,” Henry mumbles, pulling the milk from the fridge.

“So it can’t be that hard.”

It feels good, laughing that hard.

——————-
There is so much snow here in Pittsburgh and it’s making my house feel like the duplex version of the fucking Overlook, but instead of a kid riding around on a tricycle chanting REDRUM, I’ve got a Chooch riding around on a tricycle chanting obscenities and, with just a roll of his eyes, evoking more chills than those creepy dead twin girls.

This is the perfect weekend to watch horror movies. What are some of your faves?

Look, I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I haven’t been outside since last Wednesday. Is everything still the same out there? Have the zombie legions come skulking through the turf yet? I wouldn’t know. Cars could finally be flying and I’d have no idea because some mysterious virus has rendered me a shut-in.

I thought I was feeling better on Friday, so I exercised. Then I got sick again. Then on Saturday, I thought I was feeling better. So I exercised. Then I got sick again. I felt better that night so I watched “Paranormal Activity.” The realization that I wasted 90 minutes watching two of the bitchiest people ever to get a movie deal made me get sick all over again. Every time I get off the couch, my muscles get all trembly and my hands turn to ice-mitts and I basically roam around with a sad look on my face until Henry catches me afoot and yells, “YOU’RE SICK, WHY DON’T YOU REST, STUPID?”

Since Wednesday, I have eaten little other than cheese sandwich halves, frozen yogurt, and have had an undeniably craving for Orange Julius. And even those decidedly non-menacing foodstuffs leave me floating inside a nausea balloon. I’m not pregnant, so don’t even joke about that. Seriously, just don’t. Nothing pisses me off more than when someone insinuates that I don’t know I have a fetus incubating inside me, like I’m some fucking failure of a woman who can’t tell the signs.  And if I were pregnant? Well, move over Mary. There’s a new angel-fucked bitch in town.

It feels like The Mono, to be frank.

All I know is that I want to be playing outside the house someday soon. Maybe in February? If society will still have me by then. Please, don’t forget about me, society.

Also, this shit looks like a good time-passer. Ask me a question so I can have something to do while stewing in my pity.

Hello, here are two points of interest to preface the meat of this post:

1. In all my thirty years, I have had very limited experience with libraries. Sure, I loved library days in elementary school when Miss Dittoro would read us some book while we all sat on the carpet. And in high school, someone coaxed me to sign up to be a student librarian so I could spend my study halls bullshitting with friends in lieu of inhaling stale “food” fumes in the cafeteria, where most study halls were held. (Little did I know that when we had some lame school award ceremony, my name would get called among all the student librarians, wherein I had to walk down the auditorium aisle, take the stage and stand there while everyone in the crowd pretended to applaud but were really mocking all of us book dorks.)
2. Last weekend, a local lady on Twitter alerted me to the fact that not only is there some Facebook fanpage for people who grew up in my town, someone had written on the wall ABOUT MY BLOG. They listed the exact address and urged everyone to peruse a certain category where they could find photos I’ve taken and stories I’ve written about “characters they all know and love.” Hello, panic attack. My blog experienced a stat-spike the likes of which it hadn’t seen the Great LiveJournal-Oh Honestly Erin flame war of 2008. Sunday night I went to the gas station down the street from me to buy the paper (which I’ve never done before and you can ask Alisha, I was so confused) and literally hesitated on the threshold because I was afraid someone would know I was Oh Honestly, Erin and subsequently lynch me.

There, you have been properly educated and can now advance to the rest of this post.

Henry is a card-carrying member of the Carnegie Library. There’s one on Brookline Blvd, right by the laundromat he and Chooch go to, so while the washing machines are sterilyzing our wardrobe of cat urine, he and Chooch will get all cozy in the library. Sometimes they even check books out.

Now, I usually will just buy books, or trade with friends. But, embarrassingly, I have been reading the House of Night series and haven’t been able to justify buying the next book in line since Christmas is so close and I have that child-thing that I should be spending my money on. It’s been killing me, not knowing what’s going to happen to that whore Zoey and her lame friends who think they are twins and say things like, “That boy is so fiiiiiiiine” and I’m like, “STFU who do you think you are, SWV?” So Henry, having all the answers as usual, goes, “Why don’t you check the library’s website?”

This is how I learned that I can sign up for a membership online AND THEY WILL RESERVE BOOKS FOR ME WTF. Yes, it’s practically 2010 and I’m just learning about LIBRARIES while everyone and their pastor is walking into people, squinting at their Kindles.

Yesterday, I got an email saying that my book is in and they put it on some super special shelf for me. I wanted Henry to get it for me, but then remembered that my membership is only temporary and I have to get the actual card when I go in.

“Can’t I just give you my ID and you can tell them that I’m retarded and can’t make it in?” I pleaded, because libraries are SCARY.

“Even retards go to the library,” Henry spat, insinuating that I’m a cause much greater lost.

I checked the website and it said they were open on Christmas Eve until 3pm. I didn’t want to wait any longer for this book to be in my (teenaged) hands, so I made Henry and Chooch get bundled and we set off up the street. Because god forbid I should go to the scary library alone, even after Henry practically drew me an Army-regulation map of what to do once I walked through the automatic doors. I have to bring my flock with me. Safety in numbers and all that.

A block away, I started to get anxious. “Oh my god, I’m so scared,” I repeated several times, mostly to myself but just loud enough for Henry to hear and take great pity on me. You should have seen me, clutching the email printout of my library membership to my chest and doing the I-Have-To-Pee jig.

 Jesus probably had more composure walking with the goddamn cross.

“What you SHOULD be scared of is being recognized on this street,” Henry challenged. I let that sink in for a second, and then quickly smoothed my hair closer to my face as a shield.

I risked my life walking down that street only to find that the library was closed. Those motherfuckers.

I’ll probably just go back to scamming Doubleday.

In the car on the way to drop my stuff off at Wildcard, I go to Alisha, “Wanna hear something cute about Chooch?

“

Because Chooch is her second favorite subject behind the art of masticating cherry pie after it’s been ridden bareback by a gang of STD-laden missionaries for the Church of Satan, she said “Sure” with rich vehemence.

“Well, we were watching the NHL Network—” I began, excited to weave my web.

“Why’s it always gotta start with that?

” she spat, fronting like she doesn’t enjoy a good slapshot.

Then I dropped off my stuff and drove through a gritty, rapist alcove of a parking garage downtown Pittsburgh, just for kicks.

Hello. Through a beautiful miracle, I was able to upgrade my downtrodden Blackberry with the busted-ass trackball for an iPhone. Now I can finally join the Mob.

Isn’t that the criteria? No?

Oh wait, but I can join the mob of Feist-loving, scarf-wearing hipsters at Starbucks?! Bonus! (<—OMG that was a joke.)

In other news, Thanksgiving is this week & I’m so excited to be finding shit for Henry to make. My mommy is having dinner at her house, after refusing to acknowledge that special November Thursday as a holiday last year. I love Thanksgiving. Mostly for the food. Ok, only for the food.

If you’re American and you’re reading this, what are your Turkey Holocaust plans? And no matter where you’re from, what’s your favorite holiday dish?

And this concludes my typing practice. I’m proud to report that I didn’t chuck the phone once. I just curtsied.