Happy Easter & Happy What Shoulda Been my Birthday

Yes, kiddies, it's that day--eggs, chocolate, bonnets, bunnies. All things sugary and peep-like that we hold dear. It's also the birthday of Mariah Carey (35), Christina Modica(33), and Russell Jones (37--no, NOT ODB, a friend of mine). It's also what should have been my birthday. Can you imagine what life would have been like if I had been an Aries? I'd get what I want, for one. Instead of seeing everyone else pass in front of me while I beg for crumbs. This whole psychic thing ain't worth it in the end. I'd gladly give up seeing ghosts and being visited by dead people in my dreams like that damn Sixth Sense kid if it meant success. I work hard, play by the rules, and still get shit. Ides of March my ass!

In other news, I've added not one but THREE new allies in my quest to get the hell outta AP. Baldo's lackey that sits next to me is basically uneducated in the facts. She's exactly what this place wants: passive, quiet, thankful to get 28K per year. YOU GOTTA BE FRIGGIN KIDDING ME. Sorry to be so "Bensonhurst", but I don't give a rat's dead, diseased ASS what these fuckwits think of me now. I'll do the work, find the way out, get hired somewhere else, and probably get some snide comment on how my co-worker left with only 4 days notice, am I going to do the same? To which, with full glee, I will retort with "Don't you have any faith in me? Oh, that's right. You don't. That's why I'm leaving. Here's my two weeks notice." I welcome nasty comments at this point. It's going to take the bitch-slap edge off the masterpiece that is my resignation letter. Burn bridges, my ass, kiddies. All my references no longer work there. If I cared less what the people at this hole thought, I'd be in a coma. I will, however, make up for the Friday I wanted to take but didn't at the hellhole acting school and leave on a Thursday and not a Friday. At this point, I need the money, so I ain't taking the vacation days I should. If I don't get paid for them, it's off to the NY State Labor Board so I can file a case and sue. Just because I dress plainly and am not a skinny ass WASP doesn't mean I'm going to sit quietly while they ream me. THAT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN, HONEY!

I am worth 42K to start. And I'm gonna find it.

After I leave, I'm planning on posting my resignation letter right here for all to see. Some of you have an idea of how wicked I can be, and how dazzling my writing skills are when there's lots at stake, so stay tuned!

It's gonna be a DOOZY.

Bad Back

REALLY bad back.

I decided to say "fuck it" yesterday morning, turn around and go home. Shooting pains up my back made it damn near impossible to sit tethered to my chair for an entire day.

My only regret is that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to my co-worker who told the Big Bastard to go STUFF IT. She didn't even come in today, thereby making me even happier.

(I just got off the phone with him--acid drips off my tongue--and I couldn't resist telling him she wasn't here. "THANKS A LOT," he answered, sarcastically. He still thinks she cares. HA! Nothing could be further from the truth.)

A few good leads from her netted me a good appointment on Tuesday morning at 8 am with a new head hunter. That means I'll have to get up mega mega early to go see him on Park Ave to make it this shithole on time, but if it brings me at least 40K? I'll get up at 3 am and walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. I'll willingly extend myself to get out of here. Even the guy I just spoke to was shocked when I told him how much I made. (He mentioned something about Quickbooks. It amazes me how people won't even consider me when I tell them I don't know certain computer programs. As if Dummy books aren't available. What the fuck?)

Well, I'm still in pain, reeking of BioFreeze, a gel version of BenGay. There's a really loud chirping bird on the ledge (Dexter snack!), and I want to keel over and die. I think a trip to the yarn store would do me some good. How is this much pain possible located in a four inch section of my body? HOWWWW?

Someone in Tanzania just won the lottery because my luck sucks

Yes, kiddies. That is how the cosmic balance of the world is achieved. No $1,000 for me, in fact, my credit card has been partially blocked. Why? In my infinitely senile overwraught state, I forgot to send a March payment. That means double and a half next month.

And a nice blunder on my credit report.

The same credit report that some asshole would like to get their hands on to be me (how frightening) since Blockbuster has some strange charge that STILL hasn't been taken off. Like I'd actually rent "White Chicks"? If I wanna see a white chick, I'll either bleach a baby duck for Easter or look in the mirror. GOD!!!

And yes, my faithful co-worker has been hired by a new internet company taking a chance in New York to the tune of $50K. Baldo, the evil strain, looked at her and smiled as he said, "Well, I would have turned you over eventually." "Turn over" is a nifty HR phrase for "gotten rid of you." Sweet guy, huh? I wish this man death. If a former evil bitch at my previous job can have a heart attack? This guy's got something even better comin' at him! Hope I'm around to hear about it. Aren't narcissists fun? Nandy keeps passing by my desk to try and get me to look at him, but nope, attention ain't something I give freely anymore. If I wanted to work with children, I would have stayed an apprentice teacher with 5th graders. That wasn't for me, and neither is this hellhole.

I've also found out the group I went to at Winston staffing is basically ignoring me. I was referred there by a former co-worker (not my internet gal) who was tall, thin, fey, and pretty. I am short, fat, sharp, and barely hanging on to anything resembling a "look." The idea that I have to 'dumb-down' and possibly get liposuction to get an agency to take me seriously is beyond my tolerance. Who the fuck ARE these women?

I clicked onto the NY Times job watch the other day and there are plenty of jobs thru Winston. Do these people have no faith in me? Who the hell does? Why do I always have to beg for the crumbs off the cake everyone else gets to have and eat, too? Am I fucking invisible?

All I know is this stress is not good for me. I could barely walk yesterday. Stiff as a board, and basically squatting in my knitting class last night. I got home, put my stuff down, and was unable to pick up Dexter. He was not happy at the loss of our nightly ritual. He's not exactly 3 lbs, but I do dance around with him after checking messages, making tea, and hanging up my coat. What gives? Maybe it's the rain. My joints are swollen.

Hey, at least my head isn't.

Let's see what Baldo's next assistant looks like. I expect one of those monkeys from the careerbuilder commercials to hand me a memo any day now.

Diagnosis

Well, it isn't arthritis. It IS fibromyalgia. My bloods came back normal. My bone density is solid. No degeneration at the spine or vertebrae. It's the soft tissue causing me problems. Reminds me of a funny email I received years ago about how I should be seeing a doctor for all my "ailments." Like I'm making it up for sympathy or something. HA! Back to my NSaids and nerve pills. Good to know.

In sad news, Bobby Short is dead (he was 80), CBGB's is about to go under (after a rent dispute AND Hilly Kristal being in the R&R Hall of Fame), and I did NOT win $1000 in the Daily News scratch-off game. In fact, no one won anything.

Someone called last night with a cryptic question, "Do you believe in curses?" Where the hell that came from, I dunno. I told her I believed negativity begets negativity. She then proceeded to whisper so those she lives with wouldn't hear her. Turns out the publisher of the game IN NEBRASKA screwed up by putting out the wrong numbers. It wasn't 13, it was 12. That means I'm out 1 Grand, Marie is not the jackpot winner, and for the first day of spring? It's really crappy outside.

I also didn't do laundry last night, I went out for a Cobb salad. Which I shouldn't have. Because I thought I won $1,000. Hey, I coulda been like that dumb woman in Queens who booked a cruise for her family on her credit card. Stupid! Me paying $10 is not the same as going flat broke BEFORE I got the money. I can eat $10 and the Cobb salad, but as they say, THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A FREE LUNCH.

(or a good scratch off.)

Like, wow

Spring is in two days.

My Jessica Simpson mess of hair has been toned down again.

I am now 33. (I am now purchasing vats of moisturizer.)

Knitting is going well.

I managed to sleep well today.

Rickie Lee Jones's "Rebel Rebel" is playing. RD was right--this riff is great no matter who does it.

Michelle Kwan came in 4th. Johnny came in 4th. That still gives USA 3 entries each in Torino next year.

My skates are being saved by Mike, the pain in ass skate sharpener. Wouldn'tcha know it? The moron who screwed up my blade at 3rd Street Skate Co. now works with him. I would not on threat of death let him touch these skates. I got a lecture from Mike (similar to last year's woe-is-me-with-Wiggon-watching rant in SkyRink) about why didn't I look for him, why didn't I find him, why didn't I go to him first, blah fucking blah blah.

JUST SHARPEN THE DAMN SKATE, MIKE. AND DON'T LET THE OTHER GUY EVEN SO MUCH AS LOOK AT THE RIGHT BLADE OR I WILL MAIM BOTH OF YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS.

I nearly ran over two tourists getting in the door before he left. I have no patience for slow people. "She MUST be REALLY IMPORTANT," the ponytailed Wyoming-ite snapped.

"NO," I snapped back, in my best snotrag "I'm a real New Yorker" voice and I barreled down the stairs 25 minutes before Mike was scheduled to leave. "I'm going to kill that bitch on the stairs!" I shouted.

"Did she bump by you, too?" I hear behind me. A security guard goes up to check. Like I'm going to let a starbucks-worshipping idiot with a map of Broadway stop me from getting to Mike. HA!

What--they're going to throw me out of the store? I've given Paragon Sports more money in ice packs, ace bandages, athlete's tape, sneakers, tennis rackets, hockey jerseys, exercise bands, swimsuits, and hand-warmers than I can count since 1993. I'll gladly start going to Modell's if they'd like.

Mike can fix the right blade. Thank god. I roll my eyes while he lectures me. Which he does to me and other skaters since we only need him for sharpenings and nothing else, thus, THE LECTURES. We must suffer in order to get his services and he knows it. "I don't mean to start a fight, Andie (why oh why does he call me Andie?), but why didn't you try to find me?****insert white noise to block out stupidity****" The knot in my stomach tightens as visions of a Wyoming Woman Altercation fill my head. Luckily, she was in a different part of the store.

I have an omelette in a diner and go to work, where I sit now. Contracts, contracts, contracts. Ick, yuck, phooey.

Why can't this office have a cat? Those little fuzzers certainly lower my blood pressure.

Which won't go back down until I've got my skates on again. Leaving your skates overnight in a pro shop is like leaving your kids in daycare: they might look fine on the way home, but the damage doesn't show itself until months later.

And the damage is usually IMMENSE.

(oh, pray for me, kiddies...)

I agree wholeheartedly

For those of you that feel faster is better, I say fuck you. For those of you that have criticized me for sleeping late, doing one thing per day, or simply laying languid near a tree or my couch with a good book (or my new knitting), shut it! NOW!

My friends in Canada, UK, Amsterdam, and Germany are laughing their asses off at the American concept of "vacation." And since I'll be here again tomorrow to catch up, guess what? Here's a lovely article that suits my sensibility perfectly.

Take your "productivity" and rancid materialism and stick it. Waaay far up.

Here's Proof of what I've just said

Marvin Hamlisch Saves the Day….kinda

Well, a surreal interview this afternoon—I go to a brokerage firm that I know nothing about, based on a last minute call from one of the various agents, while I am wearing a pair of unpressed, almost cat-haired pants (Dexter “autographed” them near the chair), wondering “what the hell’s this gonna be like?” in a section of the city that’s even too ritzy pour moi—across from Van Cleef & Arpels. Pink topaz in the window. Very “Spring”.

I get there plenty early via a lovely Haitian taxi driver: Moussai Narcisse (a nice flower, really) only to stare up at a huge building. I walk into the lobby to hear a lachrymose version of –GOD THESE THINGS ONLY HAPPEN TO ME—Through the Eyes of Love, that wonderfully diabetes-inducing song from Ice Castles that’s won me many a karaoke contest over the years. I can hear my father giggling in my ear as I pass the pianist. I visualize him stuffing $5 into the lady’s coat pocket as I pop on the elevator and shake my head. Who puts a pianist in a lobby? Landlords across the street from Van Cleef & Arpels, apparently.

It’s a re-insurance company and I hear nothing about what my agent promised me, but I do hear plenty about who my interviewer wants in HER employee, what SHE expects, and how the last person was fired after three months. She’s only there 2 days a week, I’d be unsupervised, mostly untrained, there’s no pension plan, but there is a 401K (bankruptcy at age 80, anyone?), and the hours are long. What else is new? There are 25 people in the company. Then, the phone rings, she picks it up and says the next person that’s supposed to interview won’t be able to be seen, despite the fact that this person is sitting 10 feet from her door. She also cuts me off in mid-sentence to check her email. If that ain’t a bad vibe, I don’t know what is. I continue to stare through ice-cold blue eyes (definitely NOT Marvin’s Eyes of Love), and wonder how I’m going to get back to the office and pull off another “Dr’s appt.” lie. She mentions her perfectionistic tendencies. Perfectionist + Ice Cold Blue Eyes= Control Freak. Shades of former jobs? You betcha. Check, please!

Now, I wonder at all if my agent (who resembles Ethel Merman) will even take my call. I appreciate aggression, but this ain’t the place for me. I can talk a good game--I grew up on a stage for god’s sake!—but if I make more than two or three mistakes, will I have three months, as well? Interviews are not just what I say, they are what the person says. And I did not like what this person had to say.

Still, I’ll send the references and a thank you note. Time is time, and I took some of it today. My first real interview, rather than a pre-screening. I’ll at least tell my agent that. I’m not going to take the first job after one interview. That’s like marrying the first guy you’ve ever dated. I had a friend that did that. I told her I wouldn’t be attending her wedding back in 1992, I’d rather attend the divorce. She got pissed at me. We didn’t speak. I got a strange phone call in 1995 from her. Her words?

“You were right. Wanna have coffee?”

Mais, oui. The phrase I love most.

I Can See Whats Mine Now...Finding Out Whats True...

How old am I?

Wow. An immaculate moment yesterday let me know once and for all that I have absolutely, positively NO connection to my generation once and for COMPLETELY all.

I have my facial with a lovely, tall, peppy creature named Sarah. She's my facial/waxing person. Waxing out of the way (demonic screams being buried in Pilo Arts's basement), we move onto my seaweed facial. Proof positive that I must be a mermaid--I dig the smell of seaweed, which makes most people gag and run screaming. As I change into my spa-approved towel/robe thingie, I look at a bunch of cds--one of them is Sade's Lover's Rock, a continual favorite of mine. I ask her to pop it in, and we proceed to shoot the breeze.

"I've been listening to Sade for 20 years," I say.

"How old are you? If you don't mind me asking, " she replies.

"I'll be 33 in 10 days," I answer. "This year will be the 20th anniversary of Live-Aid, too."

"I never heard of that group. Live AID?" she asks.

I blink slowly and concentrate on not falling off the table.

"Live-Aid, you know? Bob Geldof set up the concert for the African famine? It was viewed in every country around the world on July 13, 1985. It was impossible to miss. It's on DVD now, too."

"Wow, I'm only 2 years younger than you. I don't know that at all."

"It's a moment in history. You should get see it. It's our generation, you know." (CONFESSION: I had to keep the acid from burning my stomach when I said "our". If I remember it, and she doesn't, what does that mean?) We proceed to moisturize, steam, and glop green guk onto my face. Then the picking and squeezing begins.

I also mention how the masks in the corner remind me of the Mummenschanz from Germany, who used to appear on the Muppet Show all the time. Sarah does not know who they are, either. A mention of Shields and Yarnell also elicited a strange look. Not only do I feel like an art snob, I feel like a dinosaur despite our two year age difference.

Is two years that much? I'd like to think not. Then again, even with my fucked up family, I was not raised in front of a tv. It was only on to show me interesting things like a German performance group who put putty on their faces and toilet paper and amused audiences around the world. My world, apparently. That and books. Can't say I didn't have an imagination.

All in all, good facial. But it only shows how deeply the divide is between people my age and people that actually understand what I'm talking about, who are usually five-ten years older if not older. Yikes.

Now when people ask me, "What world are you from?" I can honestly answer it's one only I'm aware of, I guess.

Yikes.

(and happy birthday Tom! You're still the greatest teacher I ever had!!!)

Another long week ended...

Well, I've done it. I've officially told the powers that be I'm leaving. What did I get? A name and a phone number to help me look after an honest outburst. It was deemed inappropriate, but I dare anyone to disagree with me.

More agencies, more phone calls, more faxes. And no, I will NOT be coming into work tomorrow. I will be having a facial at the local spa. I'm tired of squeezing my own blackheads, so I'm paying someone to do it for me. I think it's $65 well spent, really. NYC prices would be even higher, so it's a good deal.

I'm sniping every damn Barbie I can get my greedy hands on, thanks to my tax refund. So much of my stuff was either damaged or lost from those hobbit-like drunken movers in 2001, it's taken me this long to get over the emotional shock. An entire box of my grandmother's dishes are GONE. They were from the turn of the century in 1918. She was 22 and worked in a hotel in Haverstraw. (Yes, that means she was born in 1896.) I even asked Mom in Florida where they went, she knows the box, and told me she didn't have it. Nice, huh? And my dad's trains from the 30's are gone, too. That would have fetched me a pretty penny on eBay. Feh. What else is new?

Then some shopping for decent pants (thank you Old Navy), some end-of-season turtlenecks, and maybe a jacket or two. That oughta do me some good. Major MONDO laundry this weekend and some downloads for my Virex protection. Some kindhearted fluff muffin hacker sent me something I can't get out of my Mac. I thought they were impervious to viruses. Oops! Guess I was wrong.

I feel a bit better today, after the migraine headache from hell yesterday. I had sensitivity to light, it hurt when I blinked, I was squinting all day, I had nausea, dizziness and an overall feeling of "blah." If that ain't a migraine, I dunno what is! I went home to bed at 7:19 pm, and woke up at 2:30 am to get a drink of water, then slept until 5:15. Got up, skated, walked into the office at 8:13 am. My day is flying by...

More eBay updates later. RD, I love bluefinchasing these idiots!

(Bluefinchaser is a pain in the ass who doesn't know how to bid. RD and I love making fun of him.)

The Oscars SUCKED, but the gowns were amazing

And a hearty happy birthday to Chris Ferrand, Sharon Jay, and Kim Christiansen! Chris and Kim are both 34 today and Sharon is 27. Three of my favorite people.

Well, I'm still overloading on gown madness, it might be Project Runway hangover, but between E!, Access Hollywood, and the New York Times's fashion section? It makes me wanna get out my needle and thread. I'm missing two buttons on a shirt, my capezio pants are torn, and my legwarmers that I skate in are getting ratty. Time to knit new ones, I guess. Mom and I are in the same boat: she's been put on costume design for a production of My Fair Lady. Now if I can just convince her to build skating dresses, we'll both be swimming in mucho moolah.

Ebay's got the cutest little pin-and-bead doll (Snow Queen, of course!) for $4.95. My bid's in, I'm winning it. I used to make a lot of them when I was younger, I had two ballerinas and a pierrot clown. Where they went? No idea. But this one is right up my alley: small, cute, sparkly. It would fit nicely above my desk, and away from swatting paws, kitty-wise.

It's still snowing out there and everyone has that delightful look of misery. I'll call it 'slush shock'. Maybe it's schadenfreude on my part, but I love this weather and the way it pisses everyone off. The only happy faces I've seen are children and dancing dogs. My neighbor's rottie is jumping up and down with glee.

Speaking of snow, the new Budweiser commercial is HILARIOUS. It features the clydesdale horses making snowballs and flicking them at each other. One of them gets hit right in the flank and decides, "Oh, yeah?" The horse walks over, rubs his side against a snow-covered tree and causes a mini-avalanche on top of them! TOOOO FUNNY.
It's worth a look on Bud's website.

Along with the spongmonkeys, naturally.