Well, I just got word from my superintendent that my fabulous use of bath time (due to fibromyalgia, of course) has caused massive damage in not one but TWO apartments under me. B14 and A14 are empty, but not me. My building's emptying out, basically. That's pretty much all there is to it. So, I've learned
1) if I take a bath, go easy on letting the water down. A little at a time, but no more--the pipes (from 1957) can't handle it.
2) the problem of my hair loss is what caused the gunk in the first place. If any more back up occurs, I have to call my super. PRONTO.
Happy happy joy joy.
In other news, week #2 is going well. The Christmas spirit's on, we just had a farewell party to one of our staffers, and things are looking up for 2007. Now I just have to play catch-up with my bills and hope my credit rating can be in good standing by the end of my next lease renewal.
Arrrgghhhhh.....the $ problems just don't end. There's never enough money and never enough time.
My super did like my Christmas tree, though. Thanks, KJou!
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Friday, December 8, 2006
Instant Karma's Gonna Get You
26 years. How could I not post? This whole week changed my outlook. Lennon's in my head, always will be.
Yes, I am betrayed and disgusted by the way that place treated me. (No, I will never mention it by name again.) But I will move on. This week is the start of something new and perhaps, fitting.
I decorated my windows, I found my angel that burned out. My door is filled with Christmas cards of years past. It's my way of recycling. The cats have treats, I'm evicting Kashi from the Christmas decorations box today, and tomorrow I'm getting my tree with KJou. I'm in the spirit. And happy to say Chapman still sits in jail.
Haven't heard any songs yet, but the revelers at Strawberry Fields in Central Park might get some snowflakes today. It feels pretty darn cold out there.
The only thing I didn't do this week was go into NYC and see the windows. I walked by Brooklyn's Macy's and saw their windows, but I haven't had the strength to deal with the trains. I needed the rest this week. I do feel better.
And I think this might continue.
No more Blue Meanies in my life. Nope!
Yes, I am betrayed and disgusted by the way that place treated me. (No, I will never mention it by name again.) But I will move on. This week is the start of something new and perhaps, fitting.
I decorated my windows, I found my angel that burned out. My door is filled with Christmas cards of years past. It's my way of recycling. The cats have treats, I'm evicting Kashi from the Christmas decorations box today, and tomorrow I'm getting my tree with KJou. I'm in the spirit. And happy to say Chapman still sits in jail.
Haven't heard any songs yet, but the revelers at Strawberry Fields in Central Park might get some snowflakes today. It feels pretty darn cold out there.
The only thing I didn't do this week was go into NYC and see the windows. I walked by Brooklyn's Macy's and saw their windows, but I haven't had the strength to deal with the trains. I needed the rest this week. I do feel better.
And I think this might continue.
No more Blue Meanies in my life. Nope!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Silent? Maybe tomorrow...
Ya know, kiddies, I realize I’m supposed to be grateful. I realize I’m supposed to stop bitching, shup up, suck it up and just be glad that I’m leaving.
Except that’s a betrayal of everything I feel and see around me. So now, I will rant. This is me, would you expect anything less?
I leave this place with a profound sense of disappointment. I know--I do not think--I KNOW I was set up to fail. These non-integrated systems, the lack of communication, and pure evil selfish narcissistic miscreants took a working system and fucked it up beyond any comprehensible level of human understanding. Now, since we know narcissists aren’t human at all but mere shells, I am supposed to be alien. Quiet. Obedient. Aloof. Submissive, demure, stupid. I am a great resource, but no one wants to hear it. I might get too big for my britches and actually ask for a pay raise or a new title. And to top it all off? There’s some bullshit lunch I’m supposed to go to being “held” in my honor. I said yes and thank you, but really these are words. I really don’t cherish the thought of spending any time with any of these people in close quarters. The gesture is an empty one, anyway. It’s another veiled attempt to get inside my head and know the real reasons why I’m leaving. If they cared, I would have been treated better and not pushed to a semi-nervous breakdown back in June. Even my doctor told me I’d crack eventually. I wish they’d shut up and put it in my check. I’ve already got the NYS Labor Board and a labor lawyer on speed dial ready to go if there’s any “cuteness” in my last check. I know how flat-out cruel and mean I can be. It’s beyond nasty, it’s downright evil and I’m proud. Sun Tzu’s Art of War states that to know your enemy? You must become your enemy. Well, I can mirror these bastards better than their own miserable reflections.
A profound thought occurred to me last night: no exit interview. Then, I realized the last time I spoke with HR, the “We’ll Pay You To Stay Home” back in October WAS the exit interview. I said I wouldn’t take the bait, stated clearly my intention to find a new job which I now have, and walked out with my head held high. The insidious nature of these cockroaches was to make things so miserable for me that I left. Well, fuck all of them, I took the hint. Now you’re stuck with Pinochet, Sad Sack, Baldo and the other rah rah rote cheerleaders. NOT MY PROBLEM.
I am free. And why? Simple. The harmonious disconnect that is disengaged management and top-down thinking is not going to destroy me. They will fall apart. It happened at my previous job and the one before. I’d say for every place I’d left, the average is two or three people that they have had to hire to do what I do the way they do it. In the long run, I’ve helped companies go into the red, not the black, after I leave. They’ve kept me in the red while my moods turn black. Joke’s on them, kiddies.
I am also covering my ass legally by backing up all my files and basically deleting my hard drive. I found a great free download program that the CIA actually uses. Anything on paper has already been shredded.
The funny thing about the personality-disordered is that they trip over themselves trying to appear smarter than everyone. For all their intelligence and cunning, they fall into their own traps very badly. I’m sure it kills them that I am three steps ahead of this loathsome game they tried to push me into. Let’s not forget how cat-like and sharp I am. My little fuzzers taught me well. Patience, beauty, stealth. Then the claws, the fangs and the POUNCE. Right for the jugular. To play and to kill is the same instinct to my immortal beloveds, a lesson I have learned well.
Three days to go, kiddies. Anything that hits the fan will NOT be distributed evenly.
Stay posted!
Except that’s a betrayal of everything I feel and see around me. So now, I will rant. This is me, would you expect anything less?
I leave this place with a profound sense of disappointment. I know--I do not think--I KNOW I was set up to fail. These non-integrated systems, the lack of communication, and pure evil selfish narcissistic miscreants took a working system and fucked it up beyond any comprehensible level of human understanding. Now, since we know narcissists aren’t human at all but mere shells, I am supposed to be alien. Quiet. Obedient. Aloof. Submissive, demure, stupid. I am a great resource, but no one wants to hear it. I might get too big for my britches and actually ask for a pay raise or a new title. And to top it all off? There’s some bullshit lunch I’m supposed to go to being “held” in my honor. I said yes and thank you, but really these are words. I really don’t cherish the thought of spending any time with any of these people in close quarters. The gesture is an empty one, anyway. It’s another veiled attempt to get inside my head and know the real reasons why I’m leaving. If they cared, I would have been treated better and not pushed to a semi-nervous breakdown back in June. Even my doctor told me I’d crack eventually. I wish they’d shut up and put it in my check. I’ve already got the NYS Labor Board and a labor lawyer on speed dial ready to go if there’s any “cuteness” in my last check. I know how flat-out cruel and mean I can be. It’s beyond nasty, it’s downright evil and I’m proud. Sun Tzu’s Art of War states that to know your enemy? You must become your enemy. Well, I can mirror these bastards better than their own miserable reflections.
A profound thought occurred to me last night: no exit interview. Then, I realized the last time I spoke with HR, the “We’ll Pay You To Stay Home” back in October WAS the exit interview. I said I wouldn’t take the bait, stated clearly my intention to find a new job which I now have, and walked out with my head held high. The insidious nature of these cockroaches was to make things so miserable for me that I left. Well, fuck all of them, I took the hint. Now you’re stuck with Pinochet, Sad Sack, Baldo and the other rah rah rote cheerleaders. NOT MY PROBLEM.
I am free. And why? Simple. The harmonious disconnect that is disengaged management and top-down thinking is not going to destroy me. They will fall apart. It happened at my previous job and the one before. I’d say for every place I’d left, the average is two or three people that they have had to hire to do what I do the way they do it. In the long run, I’ve helped companies go into the red, not the black, after I leave. They’ve kept me in the red while my moods turn black. Joke’s on them, kiddies.
I am also covering my ass legally by backing up all my files and basically deleting my hard drive. I found a great free download program that the CIA actually uses. Anything on paper has already been shredded.
The funny thing about the personality-disordered is that they trip over themselves trying to appear smarter than everyone. For all their intelligence and cunning, they fall into their own traps very badly. I’m sure it kills them that I am three steps ahead of this loathsome game they tried to push me into. Let’s not forget how cat-like and sharp I am. My little fuzzers taught me well. Patience, beauty, stealth. Then the claws, the fangs and the POUNCE. Right for the jugular. To play and to kill is the same instinct to my immortal beloveds, a lesson I have learned well.
Three days to go, kiddies. Anything that hits the fan will NOT be distributed evenly.
Stay posted!
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
In Case You Have Forgotten
Memo to Self
Dear Self:
You have turned into something despicable and unrecognizable. You are angry, wrathful, withered, and full of spite lately. Shame, indeed, self! Do you realize no one wants to hear it anymore? Not even I, your very conscience!
Do you remember when you were lithe, beautiful and flexible? Not for someone else or Anna Wintour but because you moved constantly? Because you saw something past the comfort of bed? Do you remember the freedom you felt when those shiny satin slippers were on your feet and you could jump towards the moon? Do you remember the feel of your first skates and mastering the ice not because it was a habit but because it was a joy? Before your body betrayed you? Can you go back? Is it even possible? Why do you sit and wait. There is no saving, there is only now. Have you forgotten all those years in a studio? Did they do nothing?
Is there some passion left underneath this glop you call a body? Must you defend every bit of beauty to those that do not understand or can you sit and smile for the sake of it all in spite of…yourself?
Can you read, cook, care about the holidays and clean your damn apartment? Can you stop lying around stewing in the ridiculous nature of the idiots with whom you’re stuck working and get over it? Remember yoga? Remember walking through the city and imagining the wonder of it all? Can you see those who need help and those that won’t care? Have you gotten the two confused? Lighten up, self. You can be a kid again. It’s possible. You have to try.
Think about it. For me. For us, your body and mind. Shut up and integrate!
And now the tears flow.
An email from Bubu’s Mama and a picture of Gelsey did it. I haven’t read her yet this year, and I have only 7 weeks left. Mama and G hit a bruised spot on me—the thing that’s fallen off the shelf. I keep looking at it and asking if I should bend down, pick it up or throw it away. I am still deciding.
I had a smooth interview today. I was in my element, preciously mentioning my friends who’ve passed, my mother that stood on the front lines before AIDS had a name. I spoke of social workers and needle sticks, and my love of food—cooking, eating and serving it out like I once did to students, the homeless, the lost, the needy. I might be broke as fuck, but I have an ethical personality. I cannot change what I am. Like I said this morning, there is no shortcut to the work of the soul. Even if it’s sitting under a mass of tangled muscles that are on fire, gnarled, and not working well most of the time stuck with a bunch of narcissistic children who would not, will not, do not care if I bled to death in front of them.
Where did my fight go? Have I thrown in the towel? Is there a towel? Or does the fact that I am even questioning this mean that I still care.
I must separate the good use of myself from those that would like to use me. I don’t think this place I'm in is getting me anything other than a foot deeper than the hole I’m already in.
Finally: a meaningful blog. Now I have work to do.
And things to be thankful for. Like Gelsey’s words, which I will now read for the 15th time.
My soul is chipped, not shattered. Weary, not worn.
I will battle on. I have to. To paraphrase Nietzsche, I have enough chaos in myself to give birth to a shining star.
Dear Self:
You have turned into something despicable and unrecognizable. You are angry, wrathful, withered, and full of spite lately. Shame, indeed, self! Do you realize no one wants to hear it anymore? Not even I, your very conscience!
Do you remember when you were lithe, beautiful and flexible? Not for someone else or Anna Wintour but because you moved constantly? Because you saw something past the comfort of bed? Do you remember the freedom you felt when those shiny satin slippers were on your feet and you could jump towards the moon? Do you remember the feel of your first skates and mastering the ice not because it was a habit but because it was a joy? Before your body betrayed you? Can you go back? Is it even possible? Why do you sit and wait. There is no saving, there is only now. Have you forgotten all those years in a studio? Did they do nothing?
Is there some passion left underneath this glop you call a body? Must you defend every bit of beauty to those that do not understand or can you sit and smile for the sake of it all in spite of…yourself?
Can you read, cook, care about the holidays and clean your damn apartment? Can you stop lying around stewing in the ridiculous nature of the idiots with whom you’re stuck working and get over it? Remember yoga? Remember walking through the city and imagining the wonder of it all? Can you see those who need help and those that won’t care? Have you gotten the two confused? Lighten up, self. You can be a kid again. It’s possible. You have to try.
Think about it. For me. For us, your body and mind. Shut up and integrate!
And now the tears flow.
An email from Bubu’s Mama and a picture of Gelsey did it. I haven’t read her yet this year, and I have only 7 weeks left. Mama and G hit a bruised spot on me—the thing that’s fallen off the shelf. I keep looking at it and asking if I should bend down, pick it up or throw it away. I am still deciding.
I had a smooth interview today. I was in my element, preciously mentioning my friends who’ve passed, my mother that stood on the front lines before AIDS had a name. I spoke of social workers and needle sticks, and my love of food—cooking, eating and serving it out like I once did to students, the homeless, the lost, the needy. I might be broke as fuck, but I have an ethical personality. I cannot change what I am. Like I said this morning, there is no shortcut to the work of the soul. Even if it’s sitting under a mass of tangled muscles that are on fire, gnarled, and not working well most of the time stuck with a bunch of narcissistic children who would not, will not, do not care if I bled to death in front of them.
Where did my fight go? Have I thrown in the towel? Is there a towel? Or does the fact that I am even questioning this mean that I still care.
I must separate the good use of myself from those that would like to use me. I don’t think this place I'm in is getting me anything other than a foot deeper than the hole I’m already in.
Finally: a meaningful blog. Now I have work to do.
And things to be thankful for. Like Gelsey’s words, which I will now read for the 15th time.
My soul is chipped, not shattered. Weary, not worn.
I will battle on. I have to. To paraphrase Nietzsche, I have enough chaos in myself to give birth to a shining star.
Friday, November 10, 2006
I Couldn't Make This Up if I Tried...
Actual cut and paste. Work email. I couldn't invent this with my twisted mind, it's too basic. Read on.
We are ordering additional election night polo shirts and would like to give you shirts for the hard work and attention you gave to the election orders. We just wanted to let you know that the work you've done is recognized.
Please send me the size you prefer - S - M - L - XL, etc., today if you can.
Thanks.
Say it with me, kiddies!
"I worked really hard and all I got was this LOUSY T-SHIRT."
ARE THESE TWITS SERIOUS???? Gimme a friggin' break.
How about cutting me a check? Giving me a gift card to Macy's? They're down the block. It's 34th Street, home and hub of the best shopping locations in NYC and I get a fucking t-shirt??? If this place had its head further up its ass, the walls would be BLUE from lack of oxygen. But in my humble place, I'm supposed to bow down and flog myself Quaker-style at their supreme gratefulness. The gratefulness that comes with the knowledge that a sweat shop in Malaysia sewed and fit this shirt for 10 cents per hour and the little girl who stitched on the buttons had her pinky chopped off by the bobbin. She died later of gangrene, but hey, can't go and pay a United States union garment worker for them damn polo shirts. CAN I PUKE NOW?
I'd laugh, but this isn't funny.
In job news, I spoke with Sirius radio today, God's Love We Deliver, and FX Marketspace (a division owned by Reuters) on Wednesday. The interviews are lining up. It's not going to be turkey time for me! I might do what my buddy Al did and just walk out.
My future, decided by a t-shirt. Oh, that's CHOICE.
We are ordering additional election night polo shirts and would like to give you shirts for the hard work and attention you gave to the election orders. We just wanted to let you know that the work you've done is recognized.
Please send me the size you prefer - S - M - L - XL, etc., today if you can.
Thanks.
Say it with me, kiddies!
"I worked really hard and all I got was this LOUSY T-SHIRT."
ARE THESE TWITS SERIOUS???? Gimme a friggin' break.
How about cutting me a check? Giving me a gift card to Macy's? They're down the block. It's 34th Street, home and hub of the best shopping locations in NYC and I get a fucking t-shirt??? If this place had its head further up its ass, the walls would be BLUE from lack of oxygen. But in my humble place, I'm supposed to bow down and flog myself Quaker-style at their supreme gratefulness. The gratefulness that comes with the knowledge that a sweat shop in Malaysia sewed and fit this shirt for 10 cents per hour and the little girl who stitched on the buttons had her pinky chopped off by the bobbin. She died later of gangrene, but hey, can't go and pay a United States union garment worker for them damn polo shirts. CAN I PUKE NOW?
I'd laugh, but this isn't funny.
In job news, I spoke with Sirius radio today, God's Love We Deliver, and FX Marketspace (a division owned by Reuters) on Wednesday. The interviews are lining up. It's not going to be turkey time for me! I might do what my buddy Al did and just walk out.
My future, decided by a t-shirt. Oh, that's CHOICE.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
Na Na NAH NAH!
Hey hey hey
GOODBYE!!!!
Woooo.....whatta night, kiddies.
I worked until 8pm, hopped down to see some friends in the lobby and went home to two slices of pizza for dinner and yes, I flipped on the tv. TN was in the balance, but I just flipped on my Mac, and YES, THE DEMS WON IT. Not like I'm going to relax after such a tight race, and whoa am I tired, but I had to watch. I needed to watch.
Nancy Pelosi is the Speaker of the House. Cheney is CRYING right now. Oh, and I can see Newt Gingrich hanging up a photo of her on a dartboard and inviting friends for a "game" and some brewskis. I'm loving this, I am.
The country is fed up. Here's your results.
Normally, with this little sleep, and OHHHH my fibro's kicking in this morning PLUS it's raining outside (NY's sky has tears of joy), I would take the day off. But since I work with so many damn Rumsfelds (I've got two lookalikes on my floor) I'm going into work. I'll be tired and sucking down Starbucks like it's candy, but the gloating is soooo worth it.
Let's see if Conchita Princessa comes in today. I got to do everything yesterday due to ITS tooth being bad. Well, the work IS DONE. Kjou's laughing at that private joke.
It's gonna be a great day!
GOODBYE!!!!
Woooo.....whatta night, kiddies.
I worked until 8pm, hopped down to see some friends in the lobby and went home to two slices of pizza for dinner and yes, I flipped on the tv. TN was in the balance, but I just flipped on my Mac, and YES, THE DEMS WON IT. Not like I'm going to relax after such a tight race, and whoa am I tired, but I had to watch. I needed to watch.
Nancy Pelosi is the Speaker of the House. Cheney is CRYING right now. Oh, and I can see Newt Gingrich hanging up a photo of her on a dartboard and inviting friends for a "game" and some brewskis. I'm loving this, I am.
The country is fed up. Here's your results.
Normally, with this little sleep, and OHHHH my fibro's kicking in this morning PLUS it's raining outside (NY's sky has tears of joy), I would take the day off. But since I work with so many damn Rumsfelds (I've got two lookalikes on my floor) I'm going into work. I'll be tired and sucking down Starbucks like it's candy, but the gloating is soooo worth it.
Let's see if Conchita Princessa comes in today. I got to do everything yesterday due to ITS tooth being bad. Well, the work IS DONE. Kjou's laughing at that private joke.
It's gonna be a great day!
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
VOTE. RIGHT NOW DAMMIT!
Why are you sitting here reading this? Did you vote? Well then, get AWAY FROM YOUR COMPUTER AND GET TO THE POLLS. THE FUTURE OF OUR CONGRESS IS AT STAKE!!!
The middle class is sinking in NYC. VOTE.
Rents and taxes are too damn high. VOTE.
Rumsfeld, Cheney and Bush are fucking weasels. Piss them off! VOTE.
We don't belong in this war. This war is this generation's VIETNAM. VOTE.
Do I make myself clear?
Even if you hate Hillary Clinton, VOTE.
Even if Cuomo pisses you off, VOTE.
VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE!!!!!!!
There. I feel much better now.
And yes, I voted this morning. The Suffragettes would be proud.
The middle class is sinking in NYC. VOTE.
Rents and taxes are too damn high. VOTE.
Rumsfeld, Cheney and Bush are fucking weasels. Piss them off! VOTE.
We don't belong in this war. This war is this generation's VIETNAM. VOTE.
Do I make myself clear?
Even if you hate Hillary Clinton, VOTE.
Even if Cuomo pisses you off, VOTE.
VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE VOTE!!!!!!!
There. I feel much better now.
And yes, I voted this morning. The Suffragettes would be proud.
Monday, November 6, 2006
Saddam's gonna hang, Dems gonna win?
Miki Ando won SkateAmerica, but that's skating. My maven must hate me since I took a break. Both my body and my finances can't handle the strain. I'm in pain body and wallet-wise. Time for a new rink, I think.
Saddam will most likely escape, he's such a coward. He'll probably grab a bag of cool ranch Doritos and hide in another hole. They're never going to find Bin Laden since he choked to death on dustbunnies behind my couch. I still haven't swiffered back there, although my progress in getting rid of my Collyer Brother Daily News stack was finally conquered Saturday night. Yay for me!
Tomorrow's the Final Mudsling...er, Election. Vote, kiddies! Vote. Please get off your asses, the status quo is killing this country.
Kjou is on Christmas tree duty this year, so Bling Boy and Bratling will have a new visitor. Neither one of us has a car, so we'll just sweat our velvet cake lovin' asses up three flights of stairs and wing it. Dinner's on me, 'jou, never fear! We've got our choice of American, diner, Turkish, Moroccan, Italian, French, Irish, German, and Applebees. The Moroccan has excellent mint tea and luscious tagines. Good food, good prices. I've finally gotten used to Bay Ridge after 24 years.
Pinochet and Bassett Hound are away. I can breathe deeply. Like I need to be asked how these election isssues affect my work. Um, I'm on it, I'm NOT the non-visa who can't vote. Is done? IS DONE. My name's KENNEDY, for chrissakes, you think I don't care about this election? Bobby's dream is in the damn toilet, you twits!
Stupidity, I say.
In other news, I am fully fascinated with Anchal, the Sarasvati-in-Jeans model from this cycle of Tyra's show. I never took the other seasons seriously, but this one pulled me in. Yes, Melrose annoys the shit outta me, but she's a natural. However, Anchal is a teenage goddess. She's just otherwordly. Naturally, the cattiness has gotten to her. Tall, deep golden, breasts, hips and perfect black hair? Get Victoria's Secret on this girl, STAT! And she's from Florida, the place I hate. Anchal might be the reason I change my mind. I hope she makes it to the final 2. The modeling world's got enough cookie-cutter Christie Brinkleys out there. No offense, Christie, but there's only one of you. That's enough.
It's slow cooker time, temperature-wise. It dropped to 40 degrees last night and I was in my glory. I was lazy and didn't do my laundry, but caught up with all my election coverage. This country's going to hell, plain and simple. Let's pray we make it to 2008.
Saddam will most likely escape, he's such a coward. He'll probably grab a bag of cool ranch Doritos and hide in another hole. They're never going to find Bin Laden since he choked to death on dustbunnies behind my couch. I still haven't swiffered back there, although my progress in getting rid of my Collyer Brother Daily News stack was finally conquered Saturday night. Yay for me!
Tomorrow's the Final Mudsling...er, Election. Vote, kiddies! Vote. Please get off your asses, the status quo is killing this country.
Kjou is on Christmas tree duty this year, so Bling Boy and Bratling will have a new visitor. Neither one of us has a car, so we'll just sweat our velvet cake lovin' asses up three flights of stairs and wing it. Dinner's on me, 'jou, never fear! We've got our choice of American, diner, Turkish, Moroccan, Italian, French, Irish, German, and Applebees. The Moroccan has excellent mint tea and luscious tagines. Good food, good prices. I've finally gotten used to Bay Ridge after 24 years.
Pinochet and Bassett Hound are away. I can breathe deeply. Like I need to be asked how these election isssues affect my work. Um, I'm on it, I'm NOT the non-visa who can't vote. Is done? IS DONE. My name's KENNEDY, for chrissakes, you think I don't care about this election? Bobby's dream is in the damn toilet, you twits!
Stupidity, I say.
In other news, I am fully fascinated with Anchal, the Sarasvati-in-Jeans model from this cycle of Tyra's show. I never took the other seasons seriously, but this one pulled me in. Yes, Melrose annoys the shit outta me, but she's a natural. However, Anchal is a teenage goddess. She's just otherwordly. Naturally, the cattiness has gotten to her. Tall, deep golden, breasts, hips and perfect black hair? Get Victoria's Secret on this girl, STAT! And she's from Florida, the place I hate. Anchal might be the reason I change my mind. I hope she makes it to the final 2. The modeling world's got enough cookie-cutter Christie Brinkleys out there. No offense, Christie, but there's only one of you. That's enough.
It's slow cooker time, temperature-wise. It dropped to 40 degrees last night and I was in my glory. I was lazy and didn't do my laundry, but caught up with all my election coverage. This country's going to hell, plain and simple. Let's pray we make it to 2008.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Retrograde
The monster of Mercury going retrograde has begun. Actually, it began earlier this week with some bullshit reunions at work. Who trounced up the stairs but....BAG O'ROCKS HIMSELF. I feigned interest as he swooped in for a "hug." I cringed slightly, only to watch him hover over Pinochet. He saw pictures of the spawn and the most horrible (and inappropriate) phrase tumbled out of Sad Sack's mouth and with a straight face, "He leaves and she gets pregnant."
OUT. FUCKING. RAGEOUS. Wick would've had his head for uttering that behind closed doors let alone an open floor.
This is the same person who wrote me up for sending info the field he dubbed as "inappropriate" yet contained factual information about work and my real name. Yet suggesting someone's former supervisor knocked up an underling is not? Oh, I forgot. Pinochet doesn't understand the intricacies of language since it isn't its native tongue, so the joke wouldn't be offensive. Also, it wasn't public. It also wasn't aimed at me, plus Pinochet's obedient. I'd have the ACLU crammed up his ass if he hurled that one at me. I laughed out loud at the thought of bringing this up to HR. Cynicism abounds.
That's retrograde for ya: it brings back people you thought were gone. What was so funny was as Sir Bags rolled in for the "hug", he failed to notice I was filling out a job application for Time Warner. The interview went well.
This week went well. I saw Wenner Media (home of Rolling Stone magazine), the School of Visual Arts, Time Warner Cable, and two PR places. I'm lining 'em up like Rockettes. It's fabulous.
My evenings after my hellish days o'work consist of meditation, hot baths filled with lemon and salt (removes negativity) and reading books about metaphysics, Romany magic, Druids, Celtic invocations and various Catholic saints. My earthly plane is muddy and ugly, yet my spiritual life continues to grow. I replenish my armor and know that I am not the only person who's had difficulty and selfishly cruel bastards blocking my path. Evil is alive and well. Even more obvious that we're near Halloween. It gives them strength. Little do they know good spirits are among the dead, too.
Tonight I have a Halloween party where I will wield my magical cards. I love doing this and they're paying me, too. Nice.
Pardon me, I need to get ready.
hee hee
OUT. FUCKING. RAGEOUS. Wick would've had his head for uttering that behind closed doors let alone an open floor.
This is the same person who wrote me up for sending info the field he dubbed as "inappropriate" yet contained factual information about work and my real name. Yet suggesting someone's former supervisor knocked up an underling is not? Oh, I forgot. Pinochet doesn't understand the intricacies of language since it isn't its native tongue, so the joke wouldn't be offensive. Also, it wasn't public. It also wasn't aimed at me, plus Pinochet's obedient. I'd have the ACLU crammed up his ass if he hurled that one at me. I laughed out loud at the thought of bringing this up to HR. Cynicism abounds.
That's retrograde for ya: it brings back people you thought were gone. What was so funny was as Sir Bags rolled in for the "hug", he failed to notice I was filling out a job application for Time Warner. The interview went well.
This week went well. I saw Wenner Media (home of Rolling Stone magazine), the School of Visual Arts, Time Warner Cable, and two PR places. I'm lining 'em up like Rockettes. It's fabulous.
My evenings after my hellish days o'work consist of meditation, hot baths filled with lemon and salt (removes negativity) and reading books about metaphysics, Romany magic, Druids, Celtic invocations and various Catholic saints. My earthly plane is muddy and ugly, yet my spiritual life continues to grow. I replenish my armor and know that I am not the only person who's had difficulty and selfishly cruel bastards blocking my path. Evil is alive and well. Even more obvious that we're near Halloween. It gives them strength. Little do they know good spirits are among the dead, too.
Tonight I have a Halloween party where I will wield my magical cards. I love doing this and they're paying me, too. Nice.
Pardon me, I need to get ready.
hee hee
Monday, October 23, 2006
Woo Hahhhh
Wenner Media. Nice place. Big blown-up shots of famous Rolling Stone covers everywhere. Old location, near Radio City. Happy happy Joy joy!!!
I've got interviews lined up like Rockettes.
Tomorrow: PR spot thru Agency. Yeah, I know. But the woman bugged me. She wants to make a buck, and I want the job.
Wednesday: Time Warner Cable at 59th St. Perks include free cable, tuition reimbursement, and the Triple Play: digital phone, cable, and internet. FREE, I tell you. That's better than free coffee and pastries any day.
Thursday: Rockefeller Group. Massive real-estate magnate. They built half the architecture I adore in this city, the first notable being my beloved ice rink under Prometheus. I scored bonus points for telling them 1) I worked there; and 2) I'm a native New Yorker. Good stuff!
Friday: Possible round two with Wenner. The guy traveling gets back on Wednesday.
Next Monday and Tuesday are open. Wednesday is an ergonomic place. I thought of how much I hate my chair, told them so, they laughed and said, "We like humor. You sound funny. Would you like to come in?" Aw, shucks. I'll come in.
I'LL DO ANYTHING TO GET OUTTA HERE, so, ahem. Yes, I'll come in.
So that's my end of it. Plus it's cool out, I've officially shut off the a/c, my heat is up, I did my laundry, and I'm adjusting to two cats. I'm taking the Zen Kitten Approach: the right cat will be waiting at the right time for me to squoosh him/her. And if Dexter doesn't like it, I'll swat him with my right hand. Brat boy.
Stay posted! Things are heating up...
I've got interviews lined up like Rockettes.
Tomorrow: PR spot thru Agency. Yeah, I know. But the woman bugged me. She wants to make a buck, and I want the job.
Wednesday: Time Warner Cable at 59th St. Perks include free cable, tuition reimbursement, and the Triple Play: digital phone, cable, and internet. FREE, I tell you. That's better than free coffee and pastries any day.
Thursday: Rockefeller Group. Massive real-estate magnate. They built half the architecture I adore in this city, the first notable being my beloved ice rink under Prometheus. I scored bonus points for telling them 1) I worked there; and 2) I'm a native New Yorker. Good stuff!
Friday: Possible round two with Wenner. The guy traveling gets back on Wednesday.
Next Monday and Tuesday are open. Wednesday is an ergonomic place. I thought of how much I hate my chair, told them so, they laughed and said, "We like humor. You sound funny. Would you like to come in?" Aw, shucks. I'll come in.
I'LL DO ANYTHING TO GET OUTTA HERE, so, ahem. Yes, I'll come in.
So that's my end of it. Plus it's cool out, I've officially shut off the a/c, my heat is up, I did my laundry, and I'm adjusting to two cats. I'm taking the Zen Kitten Approach: the right cat will be waiting at the right time for me to squoosh him/her. And if Dexter doesn't like it, I'll swat him with my right hand. Brat boy.
Stay posted! Things are heating up...
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Thrill of the Hunt
Oh, the job hunt's heating up. Ask and you shall receive.
Given my love of astrological omens, I followed this past eclipse and full moon with fervent splendor. And today, I said, "I MUST BLOG!!!" So here I am.
A wunderkind named Ms. Brick (yes, that's the real name) basically led me to all I believe in: karma, confluence, convergence. Another piece of the puzzle. She found me on monster. Told me I was funny, was direct, honest, and we laughed in her office for over an hour. Yes, I had to dive onto the hood of a cab to get back to 10th Avenue, but it was worth it. She's got friends in Conde Nast, and understands the meaning of "passion." She took one look at me and said, "Why would any of these agencies want you for finance? Creative people--dancers, actors, singers--are ten times smarter than those that push other people's money around. I won't waste your time."
Now that I like to hear!
So, I've basically got one interview after the other lined up. Yesterday I saw Hearst, I'm waiting on Wolff-Olins, next week on Wednesday is the Rockefeller Group. Whatever the hell it is, I'll take it just to get out. It's going to happen. I can feel it. Playbill chose someone else, but it rolled off my back. I've got too many things to plan, too much going on. It's all good. I feel ready.
My tarot readings are going well, too. I've booked a Halloween party and a private reading next weekend. That, in addition to my eBay stuff, and I've got money coming in.
I'm back, despite my fibromyalgia kicking my back and legs into stiff hell. I'm not letting it stop me.
Plus, I'm still cat-hunting. I'm either getting another tabby or another black cat. Dexter needs a friend. He's taken to the late Ms. Muffins's bed, so at least it's getting used.
October is always a weird month...everything either falls apart or comes together. I think "together" is where I'm at.
Given my love of astrological omens, I followed this past eclipse and full moon with fervent splendor. And today, I said, "I MUST BLOG!!!" So here I am.
A wunderkind named Ms. Brick (yes, that's the real name) basically led me to all I believe in: karma, confluence, convergence. Another piece of the puzzle. She found me on monster. Told me I was funny, was direct, honest, and we laughed in her office for over an hour. Yes, I had to dive onto the hood of a cab to get back to 10th Avenue, but it was worth it. She's got friends in Conde Nast, and understands the meaning of "passion." She took one look at me and said, "Why would any of these agencies want you for finance? Creative people--dancers, actors, singers--are ten times smarter than those that push other people's money around. I won't waste your time."
Now that I like to hear!
So, I've basically got one interview after the other lined up. Yesterday I saw Hearst, I'm waiting on Wolff-Olins, next week on Wednesday is the Rockefeller Group. Whatever the hell it is, I'll take it just to get out. It's going to happen. I can feel it. Playbill chose someone else, but it rolled off my back. I've got too many things to plan, too much going on. It's all good. I feel ready.
My tarot readings are going well, too. I've booked a Halloween party and a private reading next weekend. That, in addition to my eBay stuff, and I've got money coming in.
I'm back, despite my fibromyalgia kicking my back and legs into stiff hell. I'm not letting it stop me.
Plus, I'm still cat-hunting. I'm either getting another tabby or another black cat. Dexter needs a friend. He's taken to the late Ms. Muffins's bed, so at least it's getting used.
October is always a weird month...everything either falls apart or comes together. I think "together" is where I'm at.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Joe, Barbaro, and Beautiful
Well, little signs are greeting me that things are getting better. At least, that's the way I'd like to see it. Why should I sit here, on this rainy miserable day, and rehash the same ole same ole?
Joe Torre isn't getting fired by Steinbrenner. Barbaro the horse continues to improve, although his hoof is growing very slowly and he's still confined to his stall. As for Beautiful, well that's a funny story.
I dreamed of a cat sitting near a stained glass window. It's a recurring dream. Today, on my way to yet another employment agency, I passed St. Agnes's church. There was a stained glass window. And there sat...Beautiful. The white and black cat. I stopped into the rectory. Beautiful was perched in his wicker basket. Given how difficult things have been lately (not just me, either), I could't resist. An Indian woman told me about the rectory cat. I asked about a St. Michael's candle. They didn't have any. But, I felt Beautiful. No pun intended. A moment of peace.
Little stirrings of hope. I can't do anything but that.
My friend's cell phone isn't working. Another co-worker is about to get fired, and one did last week. My ceiling is starting to chip and crumble again. My mother's golf cart is on the fritz. It's raining out.
But today, I felt Beautiful. That's got to mean something.
(and if it doesn't, it made me smile.)
Joe Torre isn't getting fired by Steinbrenner. Barbaro the horse continues to improve, although his hoof is growing very slowly and he's still confined to his stall. As for Beautiful, well that's a funny story.
I dreamed of a cat sitting near a stained glass window. It's a recurring dream. Today, on my way to yet another employment agency, I passed St. Agnes's church. There was a stained glass window. And there sat...Beautiful. The white and black cat. I stopped into the rectory. Beautiful was perched in his wicker basket. Given how difficult things have been lately (not just me, either), I could't resist. An Indian woman told me about the rectory cat. I asked about a St. Michael's candle. They didn't have any. But, I felt Beautiful. No pun intended. A moment of peace.
Little stirrings of hope. I can't do anything but that.
My friend's cell phone isn't working. Another co-worker is about to get fired, and one did last week. My ceiling is starting to chip and crumble again. My mother's golf cart is on the fritz. It's raining out.
But today, I felt Beautiful. That's got to mean something.
(and if it doesn't, it made me smile.)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
71
Well, that's how old my dad would have been. In tribute, I'm blasting Billie Holiday in his honor. Given some recent ugly events at my place of employment, I think of him and his wit, his sarcasm, his sharpness and sometimes evil sense of humor. It suits me well at the moment. I thought of him all day today.
True, we had our difficulties, and yes, he went from the angry young man to the vengeful old teetotaler, but he did have principles. "Bullshit is just that. No two ways about it." I can hear his voice as if it were right next to me.
"What kind of 'stupid' are you?" That's another fave.
"I'm asking you a CIVIL question." Point taken.
"Gimme a friggin' break. Do I have the word "asshole" stamped to my forehead?" That one is quite fitting at the moment.
He's probably knocking back a few with pages of Baudelaire or Hemingway in front of him. The spine of the book is probably scotch-taped and dog-eared.
I expect nothing less. Neither did he, and that's probably why I feel so strong right now. What's right is right. Can't fool me on that one...
True, we had our difficulties, and yes, he went from the angry young man to the vengeful old teetotaler, but he did have principles. "Bullshit is just that. No two ways about it." I can hear his voice as if it were right next to me.
"What kind of 'stupid' are you?" That's another fave.
"I'm asking you a CIVIL question." Point taken.
"Gimme a friggin' break. Do I have the word "asshole" stamped to my forehead?" That one is quite fitting at the moment.
He's probably knocking back a few with pages of Baudelaire or Hemingway in front of him. The spine of the book is probably scotch-taped and dog-eared.
I expect nothing less. Neither did he, and that's probably why I feel so strong right now. What's right is right. Can't fool me on that one...
Friday, September 29, 2006
Swords and a Gargoyle
I'll start with the gargoyle.
My building had a funny yet scary incident involving....what else? This is me, after all...A CAT. A silver tabby somehow got stuck between the cement scaffolding on the front of my building about 25 feet up, roughly near the second and third floor. Poor thing was yowling and howling. Since my entire building is filled with cats, dogs, birds, fish, hamsters, snakes and iguanas it was basically the Zoo Lovers to the rescue!
The fire department wouldn't help. 311 sent us to animal control. Animal control was closed for the evening (It was 8:30 pm) and the ASPCA was closed, as well. My super's wife grabbed the painting ladder from the basement and an enterprising teenager with a talent for climbing fences began to scale the wall. I was hanging out of my third story window with a long stick from my living room shade tapping at kitty to send him over to the side of the building to jump down from a/c to a/c and leap to the ground. After 40 minutes of madness, kitty jumped and FLEW up the block. We broke into cheers and decided if this little bugger comes back, I'll give Dexter and Kashi a new playmate and name him GARGOYLE.
As for the sword, my curiosity regarding St. Michael's statue in the church across the street was happily fulfilled yesterday. Since August 2004, I have wondered exactly how the sword protrudes from his hand. It's not cut in marble, but is made of brass pinned and screwed into his fist. Today is Mike's feast day, the ground workers prepared the space yesterday and...WOW...they took down the sword. The screw was a bit loose due to gravity and tarnish. I got to run my finger across the sword right before they polished it to a gleam. Turns out this statue was there from before World War I, was blessed at the Vatican, and the sword was hammered and shaped specifically to fit into the hand. It's pinned on one side and locked on the other. What I didn't notice was the crescent insignia in red and yellow carved in the back of the sword. One tiny little dragon and one lion are intertwined at the base. I stood there, amazed. It's not often you get to see, let alone, touch something like this. I returned from lunch knowing I had received a real gift.
I might not have caught the cat, but I did touch the sword. A blessing indeed.
And thank you, Meg, for the card. Muffins had so many friends who loved watching her attack the Christmas tree. I wonder if Dexter's up for it this year...
My building had a funny yet scary incident involving....what else? This is me, after all...A CAT. A silver tabby somehow got stuck between the cement scaffolding on the front of my building about 25 feet up, roughly near the second and third floor. Poor thing was yowling and howling. Since my entire building is filled with cats, dogs, birds, fish, hamsters, snakes and iguanas it was basically the Zoo Lovers to the rescue!
The fire department wouldn't help. 311 sent us to animal control. Animal control was closed for the evening (It was 8:30 pm) and the ASPCA was closed, as well. My super's wife grabbed the painting ladder from the basement and an enterprising teenager with a talent for climbing fences began to scale the wall. I was hanging out of my third story window with a long stick from my living room shade tapping at kitty to send him over to the side of the building to jump down from a/c to a/c and leap to the ground. After 40 minutes of madness, kitty jumped and FLEW up the block. We broke into cheers and decided if this little bugger comes back, I'll give Dexter and Kashi a new playmate and name him GARGOYLE.
As for the sword, my curiosity regarding St. Michael's statue in the church across the street was happily fulfilled yesterday. Since August 2004, I have wondered exactly how the sword protrudes from his hand. It's not cut in marble, but is made of brass pinned and screwed into his fist. Today is Mike's feast day, the ground workers prepared the space yesterday and...WOW...they took down the sword. The screw was a bit loose due to gravity and tarnish. I got to run my finger across the sword right before they polished it to a gleam. Turns out this statue was there from before World War I, was blessed at the Vatican, and the sword was hammered and shaped specifically to fit into the hand. It's pinned on one side and locked on the other. What I didn't notice was the crescent insignia in red and yellow carved in the back of the sword. One tiny little dragon and one lion are intertwined at the base. I stood there, amazed. It's not often you get to see, let alone, touch something like this. I returned from lunch knowing I had received a real gift.
I might not have caught the cat, but I did touch the sword. A blessing indeed.
And thank you, Meg, for the card. Muffins had so many friends who loved watching her attack the Christmas tree. I wonder if Dexter's up for it this year...
Monday, September 25, 2006
Help, I need Somebody
To get me another cat, and yes, a new job. Hate to play that damn fiddle over, but Pinochet returns in one week. My coworker and I aren’t sitting around waiting for the bullshit. I know Sad Sack won’t listen. Sad Sack is a control freak. No wonder they love each other so much.
All I know is that we will not go back to the voice mail nastiness just because IT spawned. I suggested we go together to HR to put in a formal complaint since, at this point, we need to go past Sad Sack. We are chattel, and not worth being spoken to. We both got a 1% raise, and our lack of Latin language skills (although I am pretty handy with French in a pinch) does not endear us to Sad Sack or the Snake Bastard.
Another weekend of back pain and I basically wanted to fall apart. I took care of my neighbor’s cats and got a paper, but that was about it. Fibromyalgia + change of season = UGH.
Piscean luck must be changing, though. Miraculously, one of my mother’s neighbors handed her a $6,000 check because he and his wife were moving to West Virginia. Out of all the phonies, snobs, and lunatics they’d met, they felt my mother was the most deserving. Talk about a loan coming just in time. Wow. I wonder: if Pisces swim in schools, could I or one of my other March fishies be next? There’s about 10 of you out there that follow this blog. Maybe, just maybe, some niceness will brush by our fins.
I miss Muffins horribly. I’m having guilt over the fact that I kinda took her for granted. Again, it’s that “Butchy” problem: he lived 21 years, I keep thinking all my cats will make it that long. The real problems begin at around 14-17 years of age. I cannot get it through my Butchy Brain that he was an exception, not the norm. Taffy, too—she lived 19 years. La Grande Diva to the end. Kashi and Dexter are playing rough with each other, and won’t leave my side. They know something is not right, but can’t verbalize. Muffins’ ashes sit near the radiator, her favorite spot. She was kittenish and chubby till the end. So cute and loveable, even though she hated being picked up. I really believed she’d come home. Two cats at Christmas just seems so empty. Dex will be 14 on December 19. Now I get into the “what if” years. The day I lose him? There will be a national day of mourning. I don’t think I’ll be able to go on, but I will get another male black cat. It’s a family tradition after 27 years of black cats in our lives. Even my dad had one right before he died. My wacky cat-ness continues.
Halloween’s coming, which is my only joy right now. I have taken to listening to Anonymous 4 at night, which is a female group specializing in polyphonic 13th century chants to the Blessed Mother. It’s gothic, stern, and yet angelic. At this point in my life, I truly identify with the angelic and the demonic. I’m surrounded by demons in the corporate world. No wonder I choose to hear angelic voices calling out to God.
St. Michael’s feast day—and I’ve learned my departed Uncle Vincent’s birthday—is Friday. Someone left Michael a really ugly ficus-looking plant. I’m bringing something colorful, maybe carnations or lilies. Anything but a tiny tree that sheds when you walk by.
Oh, how I want to get out of here. What the hell’s taking so long?
All I know is that we will not go back to the voice mail nastiness just because IT spawned. I suggested we go together to HR to put in a formal complaint since, at this point, we need to go past Sad Sack. We are chattel, and not worth being spoken to. We both got a 1% raise, and our lack of Latin language skills (although I am pretty handy with French in a pinch) does not endear us to Sad Sack or the Snake Bastard.
Another weekend of back pain and I basically wanted to fall apart. I took care of my neighbor’s cats and got a paper, but that was about it. Fibromyalgia + change of season = UGH.
Piscean luck must be changing, though. Miraculously, one of my mother’s neighbors handed her a $6,000 check because he and his wife were moving to West Virginia. Out of all the phonies, snobs, and lunatics they’d met, they felt my mother was the most deserving. Talk about a loan coming just in time. Wow. I wonder: if Pisces swim in schools, could I or one of my other March fishies be next? There’s about 10 of you out there that follow this blog. Maybe, just maybe, some niceness will brush by our fins.
I miss Muffins horribly. I’m having guilt over the fact that I kinda took her for granted. Again, it’s that “Butchy” problem: he lived 21 years, I keep thinking all my cats will make it that long. The real problems begin at around 14-17 years of age. I cannot get it through my Butchy Brain that he was an exception, not the norm. Taffy, too—she lived 19 years. La Grande Diva to the end. Kashi and Dexter are playing rough with each other, and won’t leave my side. They know something is not right, but can’t verbalize. Muffins’ ashes sit near the radiator, her favorite spot. She was kittenish and chubby till the end. So cute and loveable, even though she hated being picked up. I really believed she’d come home. Two cats at Christmas just seems so empty. Dex will be 14 on December 19. Now I get into the “what if” years. The day I lose him? There will be a national day of mourning. I don’t think I’ll be able to go on, but I will get another male black cat. It’s a family tradition after 27 years of black cats in our lives. Even my dad had one right before he died. My wacky cat-ness continues.
Halloween’s coming, which is my only joy right now. I have taken to listening to Anonymous 4 at night, which is a female group specializing in polyphonic 13th century chants to the Blessed Mother. It’s gothic, stern, and yet angelic. At this point in my life, I truly identify with the angelic and the demonic. I’m surrounded by demons in the corporate world. No wonder I choose to hear angelic voices calling out to God.
St. Michael’s feast day—and I’ve learned my departed Uncle Vincent’s birthday—is Friday. Someone left Michael a really ugly ficus-looking plant. I’m bringing something colorful, maybe carnations or lilies. Anything but a tiny tree that sheds when you walk by.
Oh, how I want to get out of here. What the hell’s taking so long?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Muffins is coming home
Well, her ashes anyway.
Poor poofsky. Who's going to climb in my Christmas tree this year?
sigh...
Thank God for Project Runway or I'd be in total depression. I can't even find anything to blog about.
Tomorrow's a full moon and an eclipse in Virgo. Should be lively.
(and please god, let them auf Jeffrey. He's obnoxious.)
Poor poofsky. Who's going to climb in my Christmas tree this year?
sigh...
Thank God for Project Runway or I'd be in total depression. I can't even find anything to blog about.
Tomorrow's a full moon and an eclipse in Virgo. Should be lively.
(and please god, let them auf Jeffrey. He's obnoxious.)
Monday, September 11, 2006
Miss Muffins 1989-2006
Yup, she's gone.
Renal failure and the beginning of congestive heart failure. She cried on Friday when I visited her and the doctors and I decided it wasn't going to get better. She passed at 9:37 am on Saturday morning. I held her as the needle went in. A fibro attack came on from all the stress and I spent the rest of the day in bed. I took a giant pain pill (for my body, my heart is really broken)and Sunday was only a smidge better, bodywise. I'm a mess.
For the first time in 26 years, I am down to two cats. No trio, just a duo. They know something is wrong, they're looking for her. I took up the towels, bed and blankets, but to no avail. Dex and Kashi are meowing through the apartment as if Muffins will come out from hiding. She's gone and I can't tell them in catspeak. I wish I could. Kashi liked Muffins, although she didn't always return Kash's love. I'll have to see if Dexter's up to playing with her, she's quite the jumper. Dex will be 14 on December 19, one day after Muffins's birthday. She would have been 17. He's getting up there, too. It's off to the vet very soon for him.
I wonder if any of my cats will ever break Butch's or Taffy's record. Butch was 21, Taffy was 19. Pure exceptions, I'm certain. Both tuxedo cats. Gray and black. Naturally, they hated each other.
I took Muffins home in a shoe box in the snow on January 6, 1990. I'll get her ashes back this weekend. Where am I going to find a pastel calico who was half peach and half gray? Muffins was one of a kind. Gorgeous, sweet, fat and funny. All the way to the end.
Laurie Bleier of the Brooklyn Animal Foster Network contacted me today about a rescue benefit. Maybe I'll start checking out what little life will make Kashi happy. Dexter can't jump like he used to.
My poor fuzzers. They're all I have.
And yes, I know it's September 11. I try not to think of 2001. I like to think of 2002 when I brought Kashi home. The city and the country will remember death, but I will remember little feet and yellow eyes.
Tomorrow is never promised.
Renal failure and the beginning of congestive heart failure. She cried on Friday when I visited her and the doctors and I decided it wasn't going to get better. She passed at 9:37 am on Saturday morning. I held her as the needle went in. A fibro attack came on from all the stress and I spent the rest of the day in bed. I took a giant pain pill (for my body, my heart is really broken)and Sunday was only a smidge better, bodywise. I'm a mess.
For the first time in 26 years, I am down to two cats. No trio, just a duo. They know something is wrong, they're looking for her. I took up the towels, bed and blankets, but to no avail. Dex and Kashi are meowing through the apartment as if Muffins will come out from hiding. She's gone and I can't tell them in catspeak. I wish I could. Kashi liked Muffins, although she didn't always return Kash's love. I'll have to see if Dexter's up to playing with her, she's quite the jumper. Dex will be 14 on December 19, one day after Muffins's birthday. She would have been 17. He's getting up there, too. It's off to the vet very soon for him.
I wonder if any of my cats will ever break Butch's or Taffy's record. Butch was 21, Taffy was 19. Pure exceptions, I'm certain. Both tuxedo cats. Gray and black. Naturally, they hated each other.
I took Muffins home in a shoe box in the snow on January 6, 1990. I'll get her ashes back this weekend. Where am I going to find a pastel calico who was half peach and half gray? Muffins was one of a kind. Gorgeous, sweet, fat and funny. All the way to the end.
Laurie Bleier of the Brooklyn Animal Foster Network contacted me today about a rescue benefit. Maybe I'll start checking out what little life will make Kashi happy. Dexter can't jump like he used to.
My poor fuzzers. They're all I have.
And yes, I know it's September 11. I try not to think of 2001. I like to think of 2002 when I brought Kashi home. The city and the country will remember death, but I will remember little feet and yellow eyes.
Tomorrow is never promised.
Sunday, September 3, 2006
Change of events for Miss Muffins
Well, needless to say, my bad luck extends to my cat.
I got not one, but THREE phone calls from Dr. Asher yesterday to wake up and get Muffins in there ASAP. Turns out the blood work reveals her kidneys and system was filled with bacteria from her abcessed tooth. That is NOT NOT NOT good.
I woke up in a daze, and prepared to run out in the rain and dropped her off. Saturday is apparently doggie day at the vet, so she was equally shaking and pissed at me for surrounding her with the strange smells of two pit bulls, one corgie, a rottie, and a snappy pomeranian. We were not happy campers.
They admitted her, she'll be there until Tuesday since tomorrow is a holiday. So much for the antibiotic drops I was supposed to give her. Poor pookie. The money will come from somewhere. I'll be begging and aggressively nagging these assholes that I've interviewed with over the last month as to whether ANY of these fuckers will hire me. I am so sick of shoddy treatment myself to think that I can't pay for my beloved kitty? IT MAKES ME SICK.
In other news, I'll be hanging out with one of my coworkers today. She wants to start an eBay shop. She needs money and so do I. PayPal and antiques? Here I come.
My god! Someone who actually wants to HELP me. Gee, what the hell does that feel like.
No word on whether Pinochet's returning. God damn that miserable demon bitch and its spawn to HELL. Let 'em both drown in the Lake of Ice. I'll skate over both of 'em while going into a scratch spin.
I got not one, but THREE phone calls from Dr. Asher yesterday to wake up and get Muffins in there ASAP. Turns out the blood work reveals her kidneys and system was filled with bacteria from her abcessed tooth. That is NOT NOT NOT good.
I woke up in a daze, and prepared to run out in the rain and dropped her off. Saturday is apparently doggie day at the vet, so she was equally shaking and pissed at me for surrounding her with the strange smells of two pit bulls, one corgie, a rottie, and a snappy pomeranian. We were not happy campers.
They admitted her, she'll be there until Tuesday since tomorrow is a holiday. So much for the antibiotic drops I was supposed to give her. Poor pookie. The money will come from somewhere. I'll be begging and aggressively nagging these assholes that I've interviewed with over the last month as to whether ANY of these fuckers will hire me. I am so sick of shoddy treatment myself to think that I can't pay for my beloved kitty? IT MAKES ME SICK.
In other news, I'll be hanging out with one of my coworkers today. She wants to start an eBay shop. She needs money and so do I. PayPal and antiques? Here I come.
My god! Someone who actually wants to HELP me. Gee, what the hell does that feel like.
No word on whether Pinochet's returning. God damn that miserable demon bitch and its spawn to HELL. Let 'em both drown in the Lake of Ice. I'll skate over both of 'em while going into a scratch spin.
Friday, September 1, 2006
Our Miss Brooke (and Miss Muffins!)
Well, the only heartwarming thing I've seen today is that Brooke Astor's son is no longer the guardian of her estate. It's gone to Ms. de la Renta, who has the 104 yr old lady's best interests at heart. The NY Post told the story on page 3 of today's paper.
The judge essentially fired her money-grubbing son and his awful wife from their $2.3 million per year perch while this darling (woman who essentially saved New York's arts and landmarks) sat in filthy clothes, ratty furniture, and ate instant oatmeal every day. Certainly not the type of treatment Miss Brooke deserves. Her beloved dogs Boysie and Girlsie will also have their own caretaker and will be at the foot of "mommy's" lap, where they should be. Her manicures, wardrobe, and heating system will be upgraded so she may live in comfort. I'm happy to say the vaseline and cheap skincare is also gone. Brooke will have her Estee Lauder creams and treatments once again. Befitting of a lady who wears a hat and white gloves everywhere she goes!
As for Miss Muffins? My chubby calico is not doing so well. She's got a tooth extraction (and possibly two more) coming up on Wednesday. In the last week, she's taken a downturn in her grooming and eating. I thought it was an abcess, and it turns out I was right. I gave her the first dose of antibiotics about an hour ago, let's see if I can get her to eat tonight. She's 16 and I don't know whether the anesthesia will be easy, either. Thank god she's a chubster--my hunch was that she was living off her body's fat storage. Once again, I was correct. She lost 5 lbs., but it's going to be ok. She was always a glutton and this might just have saved her life. If she were a skinny supermodel like Taffy or Kashi, she'd have wasted away. So, I'm off to the vet again Wednesday and we'll see how that goes.
I really would do anything for my little fuzzers, they are my life.
The judge essentially fired her money-grubbing son and his awful wife from their $2.3 million per year perch while this darling (woman who essentially saved New York's arts and landmarks) sat in filthy clothes, ratty furniture, and ate instant oatmeal every day. Certainly not the type of treatment Miss Brooke deserves. Her beloved dogs Boysie and Girlsie will also have their own caretaker and will be at the foot of "mommy's" lap, where they should be. Her manicures, wardrobe, and heating system will be upgraded so she may live in comfort. I'm happy to say the vaseline and cheap skincare is also gone. Brooke will have her Estee Lauder creams and treatments once again. Befitting of a lady who wears a hat and white gloves everywhere she goes!
As for Miss Muffins? My chubby calico is not doing so well. She's got a tooth extraction (and possibly two more) coming up on Wednesday. In the last week, she's taken a downturn in her grooming and eating. I thought it was an abcess, and it turns out I was right. I gave her the first dose of antibiotics about an hour ago, let's see if I can get her to eat tonight. She's 16 and I don't know whether the anesthesia will be easy, either. Thank god she's a chubster--my hunch was that she was living off her body's fat storage. Once again, I was correct. She lost 5 lbs., but it's going to be ok. She was always a glutton and this might just have saved her life. If she were a skinny supermodel like Taffy or Kashi, she'd have wasted away. So, I'm off to the vet again Wednesday and we'll see how that goes.
I really would do anything for my little fuzzers, they are my life.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Je Reviens
Well, there I sat once again last night to watch the four hour block Spike Lee gave us. I have many things to say, to feel, to think about.
I think I was touched for three main reasons: I was raised on jazz, I have many black friends, and I myself have been pushed aside from those with more money and privilege. I might have gone to good schools, but I will not and cannot forget the way my own color treated me. My parents were educated, but they were union, not corporate Wall Street wonks. They chose professions close to what they believed in. Their jobs were an extension of their personalities, something I have taken with me and copied. And yet, I was treated like white trash. Not so. Working class is not white trash. Not when my father could quote Shakespeare and Moliere off the top of his head. Not when my mother knew every show tune and Streisand song under the sun and could reproduce every note with the touch of a piano or the strum of a guitar. I was not raised with the curse of materialism, I was raised knowing values. Religion. Music. Culture. Books, not television. Hard work, not trust funds. And for this, I was pushed aside. Well, I know the deal. I know the truth. I call it, I see it, and I believe. No one can kill that in me.
It's probably why I see racism and stupidity for what it is. I had a violent reaction earlier this summer with David Whathisface's "Firecrotch" comment on Lindsay Lohan since he never worked a day in his life. She's a millionaire due to hard work. Yes, acting and dealing with a crazy family (I have one of those myself) is hard work. She made her money, she didn't have it handed to her. And not surprisingly, a few black comedians came to her defense! You can find the reactions on YouTube and the internet. Funny stuff, but truth is truth. Grandstanding and telling people "hope and pray" is NOT a plan. And making fun of a teenaged red-head who makes movies is beyond ridiculous.
You're poor? Struggling to stay part of the middle class (whatever the hell that is, I don't know by NY standards anymore) and be 'upwardly mobile'--another phrase I've come to hate--is increasingly difficult in the face of greed, power and political abuse. There's this continual farce I keep hearing about that people supposedly get more mellow as they age. Not me. HELL NO.
I've become more politically active and aware of this country's shift to the right more in the last six years of my life more than ever. Complacency goes hand in had with apathy. Get enough of that, and true evil is born. It's all around us. Have you noticed? I see it every day.
Can't we all get along? is the joke from the Rodney King aftermath, but it's not a joke at all. It's going to take activism--I mean the real militant type from the 60's and 70's--to get people off their asses to see that they're getting fucked. "Well, what can I do?" is the sheepish refrain.
TAKE TO THE STREETS AND YELL. COMPLAIN. VOTE, BITCH, THREATEN, STRIKE, ASSAIL YOUR CONGRESSMEN. Action, not rhetoric. It's the only thing that's going to work. My tax dollars once again might let something like Katrina happen again? We're still dealing with 9/11, and I'm NOT pissed off that Nawlins Mayor Ray Nagin called Ground Zero a "hole in the ground." I've stood there. I've taken the PATH train from there. It's a damn hole, alright. Pure politics and stupidity fucking it up for the rest of us. We are free. To Do. As they Tell us.
UM, sorry. Don't think so. Shut up. Get gone. Here's a quarter, call me when I care.
Thank you, Spike, for telling it like it is. It reminds me I have the right to stay just the way I am. My parents are proud of me. This I know.
I think I was touched for three main reasons: I was raised on jazz, I have many black friends, and I myself have been pushed aside from those with more money and privilege. I might have gone to good schools, but I will not and cannot forget the way my own color treated me. My parents were educated, but they were union, not corporate Wall Street wonks. They chose professions close to what they believed in. Their jobs were an extension of their personalities, something I have taken with me and copied. And yet, I was treated like white trash. Not so. Working class is not white trash. Not when my father could quote Shakespeare and Moliere off the top of his head. Not when my mother knew every show tune and Streisand song under the sun and could reproduce every note with the touch of a piano or the strum of a guitar. I was not raised with the curse of materialism, I was raised knowing values. Religion. Music. Culture. Books, not television. Hard work, not trust funds. And for this, I was pushed aside. Well, I know the deal. I know the truth. I call it, I see it, and I believe. No one can kill that in me.
It's probably why I see racism and stupidity for what it is. I had a violent reaction earlier this summer with David Whathisface's "Firecrotch" comment on Lindsay Lohan since he never worked a day in his life. She's a millionaire due to hard work. Yes, acting and dealing with a crazy family (I have one of those myself) is hard work. She made her money, she didn't have it handed to her. And not surprisingly, a few black comedians came to her defense! You can find the reactions on YouTube and the internet. Funny stuff, but truth is truth. Grandstanding and telling people "hope and pray" is NOT a plan. And making fun of a teenaged red-head who makes movies is beyond ridiculous.
You're poor? Struggling to stay part of the middle class (whatever the hell that is, I don't know by NY standards anymore) and be 'upwardly mobile'--another phrase I've come to hate--is increasingly difficult in the face of greed, power and political abuse. There's this continual farce I keep hearing about that people supposedly get more mellow as they age. Not me. HELL NO.
I've become more politically active and aware of this country's shift to the right more in the last six years of my life more than ever. Complacency goes hand in had with apathy. Get enough of that, and true evil is born. It's all around us. Have you noticed? I see it every day.
Can't we all get along? is the joke from the Rodney King aftermath, but it's not a joke at all. It's going to take activism--I mean the real militant type from the 60's and 70's--to get people off their asses to see that they're getting fucked. "Well, what can I do?" is the sheepish refrain.
TAKE TO THE STREETS AND YELL. COMPLAIN. VOTE, BITCH, THREATEN, STRIKE, ASSAIL YOUR CONGRESSMEN. Action, not rhetoric. It's the only thing that's going to work. My tax dollars once again might let something like Katrina happen again? We're still dealing with 9/11, and I'm NOT pissed off that Nawlins Mayor Ray Nagin called Ground Zero a "hole in the ground." I've stood there. I've taken the PATH train from there. It's a damn hole, alright. Pure politics and stupidity fucking it up for the rest of us. We are free. To Do. As they Tell us.
UM, sorry. Don't think so. Shut up. Get gone. Here's a quarter, call me when I care.
Thank you, Spike, for telling it like it is. It reminds me I have the right to stay just the way I am. My parents are proud of me. This I know.
Monday, August 21, 2006
When the Levee Breaks
Mama/You Got to Move
Robert Plant sang it, Spike Lee filmed it. Do the right thing--no pun intended--and turn on HBO tonight. Take a good hard look at how our present aristocracy screws over those who aren't white and rich. No one, and I mean no one, will get me to answer my phone during this time. We are one week away from the 1-yr anniversary of this fourteen-carat-gold fuck up, and I want to see what the media has to say, since so much of the footage was obviously sanitized. Spike's gonna show it all.
I remember vividly the day three summers ago when I walked right by him near St. Marks Place in NYC. This is not a tall man, mind you. He's about 5'7. Medium build, slight. Searing eyes, though. Born on the Pisces/Aries cusp--March 20. I know about 3 or 4 people with this birthday, and you just don't mess with them. You get that Pisces creativity with an Aries delivery--elegantly riding roughshod over the bones of the dead, pinkies out. That's him, alright.
I spent this past weekend mostly in pain starting on Friday with a big bunch of back spasms. Fibromyalgia's really sinking its teeth into me. My standing massage appointment at Park Slope's Opal was a welcome respite. I limped to the neighborhood 2 hours early, but I managed to find my notary for my lease renewal. I also took a nice visit to the Brooklyn Animal Foster Network benefit at a local pet shop. Puppies, kittens, displaced and newborn. They'd done some work with Katrina pets, too.
I opened a cage and lifted a brown and black tabby baby into my arms. Green eyes, white feet, pink toes and steady purring. I had two hours to kill, might as well acquaint myself with everyone there. Two and four-legged. As usual, people walked up to me and asked about my obvious comfort with this kitty. I regaled them with tales (tails?) of Butchy, Fluffy, Taffy, Jupiter, Sylvester, Miss Muffins, Kashi and Dexter. 32 years of my life wrapped up in whiskers, fur and joy. BAFN is a unit similar to Muffins Pet Listings, where I found Dexter after Fluffy's death in 1994. They find people to foster pets until a permanent place is found. They are a full-functioning nonprofit with a partnership through the North Shore Animal League for onsite mobile spay/neuter/vaccinate programs. Good people, nice animals. I stopped to pat a lovely Chinese crested dog on the head and made my way to my tortur...er, massage session.
I took a deep breath and filled out the form. I'm pretty banged up when I write it all down. Knees, ankles, hips, bad lower back, two dislocated shoulders, a neck with no curve in it, and TMJ. The fact that I can still walk (let alone skate every week) is astonishing. My therapist was a lovely dredlocked lady whose birthday was one day after mine. Post-Ides Childe, ha! My hips and legs were really REALLY bad. 70 minutes later, I felt lightheaded and bit weak. My back was severely pummeled with orange oil and hot stones, but it worked. I could actually touch my toes for the first time in weeks. I might go back because it's so obvious I need the healing touch. My body is out of whack, we all know my mind is, too. Mind/Body must come together. Still, there is no coincidence.
The bookshelves on the wall were dotted with elephants, Shiva and Ganesh statues. A very Eastern feel for this place. All the gods and goddesses that have caught my eye lately were staring back at me. Pain is emotional as well as physical. What am I holding onto? Is this what my job has turned me into? I shudder to think.
I walked out in the same direction as I came, and one of the animal caretakers stopped me.
"Your kitten was adopted. He just went home."
"Good," I replied.
Perhaps I have the healing touch, too? Only with four-leggers. Mind, Body, and Kitties. Funny, these connections...
Robert Plant sang it, Spike Lee filmed it. Do the right thing--no pun intended--and turn on HBO tonight. Take a good hard look at how our present aristocracy screws over those who aren't white and rich. No one, and I mean no one, will get me to answer my phone during this time. We are one week away from the 1-yr anniversary of this fourteen-carat-gold fuck up, and I want to see what the media has to say, since so much of the footage was obviously sanitized. Spike's gonna show it all.
I remember vividly the day three summers ago when I walked right by him near St. Marks Place in NYC. This is not a tall man, mind you. He's about 5'7. Medium build, slight. Searing eyes, though. Born on the Pisces/Aries cusp--March 20. I know about 3 or 4 people with this birthday, and you just don't mess with them. You get that Pisces creativity with an Aries delivery--elegantly riding roughshod over the bones of the dead, pinkies out. That's him, alright.
I spent this past weekend mostly in pain starting on Friday with a big bunch of back spasms. Fibromyalgia's really sinking its teeth into me. My standing massage appointment at Park Slope's Opal was a welcome respite. I limped to the neighborhood 2 hours early, but I managed to find my notary for my lease renewal. I also took a nice visit to the Brooklyn Animal Foster Network benefit at a local pet shop. Puppies, kittens, displaced and newborn. They'd done some work with Katrina pets, too.
I opened a cage and lifted a brown and black tabby baby into my arms. Green eyes, white feet, pink toes and steady purring. I had two hours to kill, might as well acquaint myself with everyone there. Two and four-legged. As usual, people walked up to me and asked about my obvious comfort with this kitty. I regaled them with tales (tails?) of Butchy, Fluffy, Taffy, Jupiter, Sylvester, Miss Muffins, Kashi and Dexter. 32 years of my life wrapped up in whiskers, fur and joy. BAFN is a unit similar to Muffins Pet Listings, where I found Dexter after Fluffy's death in 1994. They find people to foster pets until a permanent place is found. They are a full-functioning nonprofit with a partnership through the North Shore Animal League for onsite mobile spay/neuter/vaccinate programs. Good people, nice animals. I stopped to pat a lovely Chinese crested dog on the head and made my way to my tortur...er, massage session.
I took a deep breath and filled out the form. I'm pretty banged up when I write it all down. Knees, ankles, hips, bad lower back, two dislocated shoulders, a neck with no curve in it, and TMJ. The fact that I can still walk (let alone skate every week) is astonishing. My therapist was a lovely dredlocked lady whose birthday was one day after mine. Post-Ides Childe, ha! My hips and legs were really REALLY bad. 70 minutes later, I felt lightheaded and bit weak. My back was severely pummeled with orange oil and hot stones, but it worked. I could actually touch my toes for the first time in weeks. I might go back because it's so obvious I need the healing touch. My body is out of whack, we all know my mind is, too. Mind/Body must come together. Still, there is no coincidence.
The bookshelves on the wall were dotted with elephants, Shiva and Ganesh statues. A very Eastern feel for this place. All the gods and goddesses that have caught my eye lately were staring back at me. Pain is emotional as well as physical. What am I holding onto? Is this what my job has turned me into? I shudder to think.
I walked out in the same direction as I came, and one of the animal caretakers stopped me.
"Your kitten was adopted. He just went home."
"Good," I replied.
Perhaps I have the healing touch, too? Only with four-leggers. Mind, Body, and Kitties. Funny, these connections...
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Time for Myself
Wow. I actually have a moment to blog. iTunes blasting. I'm in thought. It's evening. I'm happy. Today was gorgeous. I think I'm going out to have coffee or something. My neighbor and I share the same name and spirit. We are locked in mortal combat with the super's rather bipolar wife over the state of our ceilings. Caving in again. Paint chips, dust, blah blah blah. You get the picture.
More interviews are coming. I had two this past week, two more this week. Pretty nifty, I say.
I cashed in some crappy B-share mutual funds to keep up with my bills, so I have some credit card madness at bay for the moment. I held onto the things for five years, so I didn't have to pay that much. Visa got damn near all of it, honestly. It's not like I'm whooping and hollering at some bling nightclub sipping Cristal.
Negative vibes continue from the Bassett Hound, but I'm keeping him at bay. Salt works wonders on these things. Nice big-ass tub of Origins lavendar and vanilla salt scrub washes the tension right down the drain. I wonder if my little week "off" was actually the culmination of all this negativity. I'm beginning to think so. The people I work with are empty, with the exception of the newbie and my other coworker. We've all banded together in our lack of funds, trying to get by. We are nice, polite, and look out for each other. We've all commented on how Pinochet's absence has improved the "air" greatly. It's a relief, plain and simple.
There's a partial lunar eclipse in Pisces next month, and eclipses tend to chuck things across the cosmos. Good. I'm ready for a big fat power shift. Hopefully, some of that power will cross my path. I'm still waiting.
I visited my St. Michael statue and saw that there is an emblem on the back of the sword. It's so high up I can't see. It did reveal a red and black square. That means this statue wasn't meant to face the wall, but it does. I never believed any church could surpass my loyalty to St. Finbar's, but this is the one. It's stood there since the 1800's. St. Brigid's was torn down last week on the lower East side. Sad, that was the first real church in lower Manhattan during the Immigrant wave to New York City. Things change. It sucks, but sometimes it's necessary.
Oh, and CBGB's is moving to Vegas. Hilly Kristal's lease finally expires September 30. Speaking of leases, it's time to get mine renewed. I have to find a notary. Do they exist on Sunday? Hmmm....
More interviews are coming. I had two this past week, two more this week. Pretty nifty, I say.
I cashed in some crappy B-share mutual funds to keep up with my bills, so I have some credit card madness at bay for the moment. I held onto the things for five years, so I didn't have to pay that much. Visa got damn near all of it, honestly. It's not like I'm whooping and hollering at some bling nightclub sipping Cristal.
Negative vibes continue from the Bassett Hound, but I'm keeping him at bay. Salt works wonders on these things. Nice big-ass tub of Origins lavendar and vanilla salt scrub washes the tension right down the drain. I wonder if my little week "off" was actually the culmination of all this negativity. I'm beginning to think so. The people I work with are empty, with the exception of the newbie and my other coworker. We've all banded together in our lack of funds, trying to get by. We are nice, polite, and look out for each other. We've all commented on how Pinochet's absence has improved the "air" greatly. It's a relief, plain and simple.
There's a partial lunar eclipse in Pisces next month, and eclipses tend to chuck things across the cosmos. Good. I'm ready for a big fat power shift. Hopefully, some of that power will cross my path. I'm still waiting.
I visited my St. Michael statue and saw that there is an emblem on the back of the sword. It's so high up I can't see. It did reveal a red and black square. That means this statue wasn't meant to face the wall, but it does. I never believed any church could surpass my loyalty to St. Finbar's, but this is the one. It's stood there since the 1800's. St. Brigid's was torn down last week on the lower East side. Sad, that was the first real church in lower Manhattan during the Immigrant wave to New York City. Things change. It sucks, but sometimes it's necessary.
Oh, and CBGB's is moving to Vegas. Hilly Kristal's lease finally expires September 30. Speaking of leases, it's time to get mine renewed. I have to find a notary. Do they exist on Sunday? Hmmm....
Friday, August 4, 2006
Swans and Ducklings
Well, it seems I must be connected to something bigger than myself...I thought of the black swan (not my favorite ballet) and one of my favorite bloggers mentioned the same thing. We have not met, but we will. He is in NYC and we are living parallel lives, trying to connect with creativity and softness while shielding ourselves from past hurts, cynicism, sarcasm. No wonder the world needs children: they are the only innocence left. This principle dies a bruised and bloody death.
I became thoroughly nauseous yesterday in this sweltering heat, felt dizzy and went to lie down. One of my coworkers told me to pack it in and go home. So, I did. But first, I went to Macy's. I haven't been in there in 5 years? 10 years? I didn't even remember the floor layout, it's been so long. My mother and I used to live there in the early 1980's. I don't know why, but she had a home furnishings fetish. I smiled when it came to me.
I found myself looking at the winning suit from Project Runway. Nice rosettes, even if they seem like little macaroons. I escalated upward to the sixth floor, lost myself in bedding and went to the rest rooms to splash myself with water. Sweat dripping does not make me feel feminine or even human.
When is the last time I enjoyed shopping for myself? Can I remember? And it's got nothing to do with clothes fitting--hey, that's what alterations are for--it's more about investing in my looks, my presentation, and of course that constant battle with my lack of money. Somewhere in the midst of bills, stress, and my health hell I've lost my sense of picking and choosing lovely things. I also equate shopping with my former friend, who smeared her mafia daddy's money and size 1 figure in my working-class face every Friday. She was tall, thin, manipulative, and didn't have to work. I was (and am) short, fat, funny, and very "workaholic." After a while, I didn't like shopping. I question if I still do. I realize this "Ha Ha Fuck You" association is not exactly congruous with beautifying myself. It's not even sane. She's been out of my life for ten years now. Why am I holding onto this? The more I think about it, I realize I let myself be dragged into shop after shop, fully realizing I could never afford (nor fit into) most of the items she paraded in front of me. Ah, yes, more narcissistic behavior. The bane of my existence. My only satisfaction is knowing Danny, our mutual friend (and my lover, not hers, OH how that killed her), told me how miserable she was (is?) after four children she didn't want or need. Um, adoption? Abortion, maybe? How about birth control? This isn't communist China! You didn't need to have four kids....but I digress.
My point is I got stuck in such a negative association with something that's so real and all around me that I've put myself off to the side. She did it, this job is doing it, and my family did it to some degree. How did I cope yesterday?
I enjoyed going from floor to floor finding little resting spots when I thought I would keel over. Dizziness and nausea is no joke. A bottle of water later, I started to smile. I did go in there for the air conditioning, so I made the best of it. I talked to sales people. I talked to other customers. I was amazed when a shop guy from the Dior section came over and offered me some apricot cream for my hands. I accepted, he slathered, and we laughed. We spoke about sunscreen, fragrance, all the tourists and the importance of looking one's best. How amazing! Me? The Old Navy Coupon Chick? Talking about improving my image? I must be crazy from the heat. Or, maybe it's time.
Time to start investing in me. I'm doing it with the job hunt. I'm trying to destress, relax, take my vitamins and enjoy my least favorite season. No one's put me first, so I guess I must. I think I might have had to all along. Maybe that would relieve the constant anger and send me some relief. Smile, laugh, find the little things to comfort me. Did I need apricot cream up and down my arms? No. But I was calm enough to let someone approach me rather than snarling in my usual Dexter-esque style. That in itself is MAJOR improvement. I have jokes. I have stories. I have a sense of humor. Why not share it? The weather is rotten and people are fed up. So, maybe I'll give someone something to laugh about. In a good way.
Btw, Vera Wang's new fragrance, Princess, is DIVINE. Go to Macy's and spritz away, kiddies!
I became thoroughly nauseous yesterday in this sweltering heat, felt dizzy and went to lie down. One of my coworkers told me to pack it in and go home. So, I did. But first, I went to Macy's. I haven't been in there in 5 years? 10 years? I didn't even remember the floor layout, it's been so long. My mother and I used to live there in the early 1980's. I don't know why, but she had a home furnishings fetish. I smiled when it came to me.
I found myself looking at the winning suit from Project Runway. Nice rosettes, even if they seem like little macaroons. I escalated upward to the sixth floor, lost myself in bedding and went to the rest rooms to splash myself with water. Sweat dripping does not make me feel feminine or even human.
When is the last time I enjoyed shopping for myself? Can I remember? And it's got nothing to do with clothes fitting--hey, that's what alterations are for--it's more about investing in my looks, my presentation, and of course that constant battle with my lack of money. Somewhere in the midst of bills, stress, and my health hell I've lost my sense of picking and choosing lovely things. I also equate shopping with my former friend, who smeared her mafia daddy's money and size 1 figure in my working-class face every Friday. She was tall, thin, manipulative, and didn't have to work. I was (and am) short, fat, funny, and very "workaholic." After a while, I didn't like shopping. I question if I still do. I realize this "Ha Ha Fuck You" association is not exactly congruous with beautifying myself. It's not even sane. She's been out of my life for ten years now. Why am I holding onto this? The more I think about it, I realize I let myself be dragged into shop after shop, fully realizing I could never afford (nor fit into) most of the items she paraded in front of me. Ah, yes, more narcissistic behavior. The bane of my existence. My only satisfaction is knowing Danny, our mutual friend (and my lover, not hers, OH how that killed her), told me how miserable she was (is?) after four children she didn't want or need. Um, adoption? Abortion, maybe? How about birth control? This isn't communist China! You didn't need to have four kids....but I digress.
My point is I got stuck in such a negative association with something that's so real and all around me that I've put myself off to the side. She did it, this job is doing it, and my family did it to some degree. How did I cope yesterday?
I enjoyed going from floor to floor finding little resting spots when I thought I would keel over. Dizziness and nausea is no joke. A bottle of water later, I started to smile. I did go in there for the air conditioning, so I made the best of it. I talked to sales people. I talked to other customers. I was amazed when a shop guy from the Dior section came over and offered me some apricot cream for my hands. I accepted, he slathered, and we laughed. We spoke about sunscreen, fragrance, all the tourists and the importance of looking one's best. How amazing! Me? The Old Navy Coupon Chick? Talking about improving my image? I must be crazy from the heat. Or, maybe it's time.
Time to start investing in me. I'm doing it with the job hunt. I'm trying to destress, relax, take my vitamins and enjoy my least favorite season. No one's put me first, so I guess I must. I think I might have had to all along. Maybe that would relieve the constant anger and send me some relief. Smile, laugh, find the little things to comfort me. Did I need apricot cream up and down my arms? No. But I was calm enough to let someone approach me rather than snarling in my usual Dexter-esque style. That in itself is MAJOR improvement. I have jokes. I have stories. I have a sense of humor. Why not share it? The weather is rotten and people are fed up. So, maybe I'll give someone something to laugh about. In a good way.
Btw, Vera Wang's new fragrance, Princess, is DIVINE. Go to Macy's and spritz away, kiddies!
Monday, July 31, 2006
PASSION
No, this is not about Mel Gibson, fruit or Liz Taylor perfume. This is about seeing those around me missing the one thing I still have.
PASSION.
In the searing heat of this past Saturday, I decided to not risk a severe sunburn. So, I stayed in. Good idea. I watched the news tell me that the heat index reached over 100 degrees. Lobsters are nice in Maine. However, I'm in Brooklyn and don't need to resemble one.
I sat in my living room, cool as a cucumber, and decided to do the three things I can't stand: 1) sort through my junk mail; 2)write out checks to those that don't do e-commerce; 3) balance my bank statements. Ick, Bleah, and Arrrggh! It took 4 hours, but I did it. Now all I need is stamps, some twine to recycle the junk mail, and about 1 more hour to file the bank statements.
In the middle of this, I was watching some useless infomercials. Dumb, dumb...buy this...we'll promise you...it's great...changed my life...wow...blah, blah, blah. Then, in typical style, I flipped over to HSN. Was my favorite fossil around? Could I see some hilarious presentation of yet another product I don't need? But, of course, darlings. Wei East was on. For those of you that don't know her, she's a charming Chinese woman whose English is not so great, but she hawks great stuff. Stuff like white lotus, chestnut, green tea. Chinese herbs saved me in 1992 when I had chronic fatigue syndrome, so I kept watching. I'd never paid attention to her before, but I was up to my neck in ripped envelopes. It seemed like a nice diversion. Chinese herbs? In a skin care line? What's all this about...
Well, as I've said before, it's not the messenger sometimes, it's the MESSAGE. A caller from (where else?) New York City called in and spoke to Wei. The caller basically said that she didn't buy the products because they worked. She bought them because Wei impressed her so much. "You have passion for what you do, and that matters." I smiled. Wei answered that she loves what she does and stands behind it since her family used these same products years ago and they all look stunningly beautiful. Not once did I hear the words "young", "anti-aging", "youthful" or "glow." She stuck to the formulations of what she does and how Western dermatology blends well with gels, creams, and plants. Nifty. And yes, I bought a starter kit. $20. Trial sized. Hey, I'm 34, and scared of leaving the house on a sunny day. Either I'm a vampire or just getting vain, but Wei knows what works. She cares about what she does. She went on to say that you must love your work. Be the best at something. If you love it, you need to know it. I can certainly understand that. Even if her accent threw me off, she was adorable!
Imagine that...the same things I rant and rave over every day is basically putting $$$ in this woman's company. Good for her, I say.
In contrast, I got a phone call this morning from someone whose vacations keep getting interrupted by someone here on this floor. It seems HE doesn't do much, even when he's supposed to. Passion or pass-the-buck? I'll take passion, thank you very much. Do as I say, not as I do. Well, that's not really something I care to remember, kiddies.
And three companies called me for yet another round of interviews this week. Looks like I'll be ironing some soft summer shirts and my nifty black pants. I must impress! They contacted me, I did no looking. One is media, the other is advertising. I'm excited!!!!
Oh, and Kashi the Bratling turned 4 yesterday. We had chicken pounce treats and I put ice cubes in her water dish. Dexter was jealous, but what else is new? Muffin slept all day. Wish I could have done the same...
PASSION.
In the searing heat of this past Saturday, I decided to not risk a severe sunburn. So, I stayed in. Good idea. I watched the news tell me that the heat index reached over 100 degrees. Lobsters are nice in Maine. However, I'm in Brooklyn and don't need to resemble one.
I sat in my living room, cool as a cucumber, and decided to do the three things I can't stand: 1) sort through my junk mail; 2)write out checks to those that don't do e-commerce; 3) balance my bank statements. Ick, Bleah, and Arrrggh! It took 4 hours, but I did it. Now all I need is stamps, some twine to recycle the junk mail, and about 1 more hour to file the bank statements.
In the middle of this, I was watching some useless infomercials. Dumb, dumb...buy this...we'll promise you...it's great...changed my life...wow...blah, blah, blah. Then, in typical style, I flipped over to HSN. Was my favorite fossil around? Could I see some hilarious presentation of yet another product I don't need? But, of course, darlings. Wei East was on. For those of you that don't know her, she's a charming Chinese woman whose English is not so great, but she hawks great stuff. Stuff like white lotus, chestnut, green tea. Chinese herbs saved me in 1992 when I had chronic fatigue syndrome, so I kept watching. I'd never paid attention to her before, but I was up to my neck in ripped envelopes. It seemed like a nice diversion. Chinese herbs? In a skin care line? What's all this about...
Well, as I've said before, it's not the messenger sometimes, it's the MESSAGE. A caller from (where else?) New York City called in and spoke to Wei. The caller basically said that she didn't buy the products because they worked. She bought them because Wei impressed her so much. "You have passion for what you do, and that matters." I smiled. Wei answered that she loves what she does and stands behind it since her family used these same products years ago and they all look stunningly beautiful. Not once did I hear the words "young", "anti-aging", "youthful" or "glow." She stuck to the formulations of what she does and how Western dermatology blends well with gels, creams, and plants. Nifty. And yes, I bought a starter kit. $20. Trial sized. Hey, I'm 34, and scared of leaving the house on a sunny day. Either I'm a vampire or just getting vain, but Wei knows what works. She cares about what she does. She went on to say that you must love your work. Be the best at something. If you love it, you need to know it. I can certainly understand that. Even if her accent threw me off, she was adorable!
Imagine that...the same things I rant and rave over every day is basically putting $$$ in this woman's company. Good for her, I say.
In contrast, I got a phone call this morning from someone whose vacations keep getting interrupted by someone here on this floor. It seems HE doesn't do much, even when he's supposed to. Passion or pass-the-buck? I'll take passion, thank you very much. Do as I say, not as I do. Well, that's not really something I care to remember, kiddies.
And three companies called me for yet another round of interviews this week. Looks like I'll be ironing some soft summer shirts and my nifty black pants. I must impress! They contacted me, I did no looking. One is media, the other is advertising. I'm excited!!!!
Oh, and Kashi the Bratling turned 4 yesterday. We had chicken pounce treats and I put ice cubes in her water dish. Dexter was jealous, but what else is new? Muffin slept all day. Wish I could have done the same...
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Now This I Enjoy.......
Some observers have expressed derisive opinions about Guy Boos, a Wisconsin man who hurled his washing machine down a flight of stairs and pumped it full of bullets with his .25-caliber gun. I, on the other hand, admire those who take out their frustration and rage on inanimate objects rather than on animals or other human beings. That's why I advise you to consider Boos' methodology if you find yourself on the verge of boiling over, Pisces. Don't repress your negative feelings, but find a way to express them that doesn't cost you anything more than a little money.
Courtesy of Rob Breszny, my favorite astrologer. In fact, it's right in line with what happened last night: I forgot my cell phone at work. That's a bit rotten because I use the "alarm" feature as my morning clock. The beep is strong enough to get me out of bed and it has a 10-minute snooze feature rather than the standard 7 or 9 minutes. The current piece o'crap my mom's former friend regifted to me no longer works. So, off to Duane Reade I go.
I find a clock I like with big red digital numbers. And then I realize something...when was this other clock made? I flip over the bottom. "Sept 1994" and the serial number. She gave it to me USED in 2001 when I moved into my apartment. How sweet. I unplug it and dump it in the hall. I'm not going to wreck my own floor by hurling it, I'll save that for garbage time!
I awake to the glorious sound of a radio--CD 101.9. It's nice to hear Najee. The new clock is clear, loud, and the snooze was a perfect 9 minutes. I poured a cuppa joe and looked at the rejected plastic lump with a smirk on my face.
I got dressed, fed the fuzzy monsters (cats, for those of you who don't speak "Annie"), and grabbed the garbage. The plastic reject was in the bag.
IT MADE A THUD WHEN I HURLED IT INTO THE TRASH. The back of it snapped off. Good. Now it's dead, headed for a land heap, and that fat demon from hell no longer has any of her regifted objects in my apartment. HA!
I'm sure Breszny would be proud of me.
And I pet a black cat up the block before I got on the train. Nasty to object, kindness to living things. A good lesson indeed.
Courtesy of Rob Breszny, my favorite astrologer. In fact, it's right in line with what happened last night: I forgot my cell phone at work. That's a bit rotten because I use the "alarm" feature as my morning clock. The beep is strong enough to get me out of bed and it has a 10-minute snooze feature rather than the standard 7 or 9 minutes. The current piece o'crap my mom's former friend regifted to me no longer works. So, off to Duane Reade I go.
I find a clock I like with big red digital numbers. And then I realize something...when was this other clock made? I flip over the bottom. "Sept 1994" and the serial number. She gave it to me USED in 2001 when I moved into my apartment. How sweet. I unplug it and dump it in the hall. I'm not going to wreck my own floor by hurling it, I'll save that for garbage time!
I awake to the glorious sound of a radio--CD 101.9. It's nice to hear Najee. The new clock is clear, loud, and the snooze was a perfect 9 minutes. I poured a cuppa joe and looked at the rejected plastic lump with a smirk on my face.
I got dressed, fed the fuzzy monsters (cats, for those of you who don't speak "Annie"), and grabbed the garbage. The plastic reject was in the bag.
IT MADE A THUD WHEN I HURLED IT INTO THE TRASH. The back of it snapped off. Good. Now it's dead, headed for a land heap, and that fat demon from hell no longer has any of her regifted objects in my apartment. HA!
I'm sure Breszny would be proud of me.
And I pet a black cat up the block before I got on the train. Nasty to object, kindness to living things. A good lesson indeed.
Monday, July 24, 2006
What a headache
That's really all I have to say. More downsizing is about to begin. We are about to lose (if my soothsaying ways are correct, which is usually 90% of the time) another coworker. A good one. A god-fearing one. One I've come to enjoy, trust and love. Of course.
The miserable bald snake bastard continues to annoy. I had no sleep last night. I skated this morning, a change for me. I am tired, exhausted.
Malan's website isn't too bad. The controversial Runway decision endures. That's judging for ya. Happens in figure skating all the time.
Well, no one's here today. I'm scooting out very soon. Tired, tired, tired I am.
The miserable bald snake bastard continues to annoy. I had no sleep last night. I skated this morning, a change for me. I am tired, exhausted.
Malan's website isn't too bad. The controversial Runway decision endures. That's judging for ya. Happens in figure skating all the time.
Well, no one's here today. I'm scooting out very soon. Tired, tired, tired I am.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Wendy, Santino and Angela
Sigh....
Project Runway has done it again: in their quest to "create" drama, Malan was voted off. I've been too busy to blog about it, but it's still annoying me.
Let's recap: Vincent (who's funny and nuts) and Angela (who DOESN'T sketch, don't ask me why) were paired on episode 2's challenge. They had to team together to create a pageant gown for Miss USA. Gowns basically make or break you in Pageant Land, so this was a pretty hefty challenge. Long story short: Kayne & Robert had the winning gown. Vincent and Angela were at loggerheads since 1) Vincent really didn't know how to work with another person, and 2) Angela had nothing to do with the concept, color, feel or creation of the gown and denounced it while actually doing NO work.
Interestingly enough, in the middle of all of this, Malan and his partner actually got much done. In fact, the only thing that didn't work was the length and the bodice color, which was chocolate brown (well, on my t.v. it was.)The bottom was a bronze-y sienna, which matched Miss USA's skin tone and hair quite well. Though heavily rouched, but very curvaceous, it struck me as a solid design that got squashed due to PR's extreme time restraints. Bummer. It had a strong feel, was very couture, though perhaps a bit "winter" and not really "pageant." I'm not one who believes in ingratiating an audience, but that's usually what pageants are all about. They must fawn, keel and drool for the judges. That aesthetic probably doesn't jive with Malan, but I don't blame him. In fact, I agree.
A strong design should bring the eye forward, and Vincent's gown didn't do that. Angela didn't believe it did, either, but then again this is a person who designs without sketching (something Chloe Dao did, and she's last year's winner.) Angela wanted to pair with Kayne during the sketch time, who was clearly annoyed and he chose Robert, whose chic Barbies I actually own. $300, much bickering and two days later, the end result was Vincent's spring green Judy Jetson "exercise". My opinion? Cute back, strange "curled" sleeves and a nice A-line train, but nothing to celebrate. Malan's gown had an unfinished hem and was a bit puffy on top, but he did manage to work with his partner nicely and executed something very similar to the sketch. If the color choice had been different and more time allotted, the execution might have been very different. Heidi, Vera Wang (with whom I've skated) and Nina did their thing, and then? It's Malan and Angela on the runway.
My god what an easy choice! Angela did no work, what the hell is she doing there? Buh bye.
So I wait and the "auf weidersehen" goes to.....MALAN.
I hurled my remote clear across the room. Thank god it landed on my chair, it would have shattered had it hit the wall. I was furious. Hurt. Insulted. Cheated. Belitted. Bewildered. Pissed. Confused. Like it happened to me.
I've always thought reality tv is a bit of fluff, but after two seasons of PR I'm emotionally involved. This was BEYOND a slight, it was calculated and I'm certain: THEY WANT RATINGS. Buzz is buzz, but this is a travesty. And I truly wonder if Michael Kors not being there had anything to do with it. I love Vera, we've spoken a few times at Rockefeller Center (I gave her daughters skating lessons 10 years ago), and I trust her judgment, but this was a slap in the face to a very strong designer. Go see Malan's website--the clothes are PRISTINE. True, he turned down last season after being chosen, but revenge? I don't think PR would do that. They let Daniel back in after being voted off season 1's first episode and he made it to season 2's fourth episode. Will Malan come back for Season 4? That is, IF there's a season 4. This decision has pissed off PLENTY of people, and might just wreck PR's credibility.
Yes, I'll still watch but I don't know what to cheer now. I thought PR coming on during what is a very humid and icky summer would make me happy, but now I'm just...feh. About the whole thing. I'm not happy. I can only imagine what Malan feels like. I even put up a comment on his blog, something I wouldn't normally do. I haven't emailed anyone I don't personally know since Johnny Weir in 2004, and everyone knows how much I adore him. We even met, and that day is still precious in my mind. Malan's in Long Island City, my mom's old neighborhood. I hope he shows somewhere. I'll be sitting in the front row waiting for that devilish grin.
Reality tv really does have its head up its ass. (Even if these people do know how to sew.)
Whatever...
Project Runway has done it again: in their quest to "create" drama, Malan was voted off. I've been too busy to blog about it, but it's still annoying me.
Let's recap: Vincent (who's funny and nuts) and Angela (who DOESN'T sketch, don't ask me why) were paired on episode 2's challenge. They had to team together to create a pageant gown for Miss USA. Gowns basically make or break you in Pageant Land, so this was a pretty hefty challenge. Long story short: Kayne & Robert had the winning gown. Vincent and Angela were at loggerheads since 1) Vincent really didn't know how to work with another person, and 2) Angela had nothing to do with the concept, color, feel or creation of the gown and denounced it while actually doing NO work.
Interestingly enough, in the middle of all of this, Malan and his partner actually got much done. In fact, the only thing that didn't work was the length and the bodice color, which was chocolate brown (well, on my t.v. it was.)The bottom was a bronze-y sienna, which matched Miss USA's skin tone and hair quite well. Though heavily rouched, but very curvaceous, it struck me as a solid design that got squashed due to PR's extreme time restraints. Bummer. It had a strong feel, was very couture, though perhaps a bit "winter" and not really "pageant." I'm not one who believes in ingratiating an audience, but that's usually what pageants are all about. They must fawn, keel and drool for the judges. That aesthetic probably doesn't jive with Malan, but I don't blame him. In fact, I agree.
A strong design should bring the eye forward, and Vincent's gown didn't do that. Angela didn't believe it did, either, but then again this is a person who designs without sketching (something Chloe Dao did, and she's last year's winner.) Angela wanted to pair with Kayne during the sketch time, who was clearly annoyed and he chose Robert, whose chic Barbies I actually own. $300, much bickering and two days later, the end result was Vincent's spring green Judy Jetson "exercise". My opinion? Cute back, strange "curled" sleeves and a nice A-line train, but nothing to celebrate. Malan's gown had an unfinished hem and was a bit puffy on top, but he did manage to work with his partner nicely and executed something very similar to the sketch. If the color choice had been different and more time allotted, the execution might have been very different. Heidi, Vera Wang (with whom I've skated) and Nina did their thing, and then? It's Malan and Angela on the runway.
My god what an easy choice! Angela did no work, what the hell is she doing there? Buh bye.
So I wait and the "auf weidersehen" goes to.....MALAN.
I hurled my remote clear across the room. Thank god it landed on my chair, it would have shattered had it hit the wall. I was furious. Hurt. Insulted. Cheated. Belitted. Bewildered. Pissed. Confused. Like it happened to me.
I've always thought reality tv is a bit of fluff, but after two seasons of PR I'm emotionally involved. This was BEYOND a slight, it was calculated and I'm certain: THEY WANT RATINGS. Buzz is buzz, but this is a travesty. And I truly wonder if Michael Kors not being there had anything to do with it. I love Vera, we've spoken a few times at Rockefeller Center (I gave her daughters skating lessons 10 years ago), and I trust her judgment, but this was a slap in the face to a very strong designer. Go see Malan's website--the clothes are PRISTINE. True, he turned down last season after being chosen, but revenge? I don't think PR would do that. They let Daniel back in after being voted off season 1's first episode and he made it to season 2's fourth episode. Will Malan come back for Season 4? That is, IF there's a season 4. This decision has pissed off PLENTY of people, and might just wreck PR's credibility.
Yes, I'll still watch but I don't know what to cheer now. I thought PR coming on during what is a very humid and icky summer would make me happy, but now I'm just...feh. About the whole thing. I'm not happy. I can only imagine what Malan feels like. I even put up a comment on his blog, something I wouldn't normally do. I haven't emailed anyone I don't personally know since Johnny Weir in 2004, and everyone knows how much I adore him. We even met, and that day is still precious in my mind. Malan's in Long Island City, my mom's old neighborhood. I hope he shows somewhere. I'll be sitting in the front row waiting for that devilish grin.
Reality tv really does have its head up its ass. (Even if these people do know how to sew.)
Whatever...
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Vindication
Remember that old Carly Simon song, "Anticipation"? Just put the word 'vindication' in there and that's the tune I'm singing!
Once again, I've been proven right. That's the great thing about Mercury in retrograde--all the people you've known in your past squeak out of the woodwork and tell you things you need to know, but never expected.
As I suspected, Sad Sack and his Merry Band of Morons (yes, I'm still suffering at this job, but another interview's on the way next week) are basically going behind my back in order to "speed" things along. These are the same twits that told me one year ago I was going too fast and making mistakes. One set of rules for them, another for me. As usual--the story of my life! I'm also beginning to realize that Sad Sack and the dictator are in league with each other and will do anything to avoid me. Why? I follow policy, the rules, the way things are done properly. I am not interested in ego gratification, bullshit or bowing down. I get down on my knees for NO ONE, not even with a gun to my head. Fuck you and fuck you.
Another suspicion came true, as well. Former acquaintances and those they denied loving/flirting/screwing/dating/using were doing all the above and more. Lots of money down the drain and poof! They disappear. No money, no love. I don't love you, I don't need you. Translation? I CAN'T USE YOU. Just like I thought! Reminds me of past "friends", now that I think of it. In fact, they're still that way, but after many kids, there's nowhere to go but down. Oh, I'm loving this.
Our newbie who replaced Pinochet is catching up quite nicely and coming to me with plenty o'questions that would have never been answered since IT didn't have the answers despite "knowing it all." Almost all the filing, paper, clutter, mess and legal junk has been done, noted, signed and ready for closing. And all since the middle of May. IT's been here for one year and has done....socializing, proselytizing, sneering, bitching, ratting out people to their bosses and domineering (verb, not noun.) It spawned this past weekend on what would have been Thelma's 61st birthday. Thelma would have said, "Oh, that's DEEP." I can hear her voice and feel her rolling her eyes. God, I miss that woman!
And that's that, for now. The heat index on the East coast is set to soar to about 105 degrees today, so sunscreen, hats, umbrellas and ice cubes are the way to go, kiddies!
Ta ta , la la and ha ha ha...
Once again, I've been proven right. That's the great thing about Mercury in retrograde--all the people you've known in your past squeak out of the woodwork and tell you things you need to know, but never expected.
As I suspected, Sad Sack and his Merry Band of Morons (yes, I'm still suffering at this job, but another interview's on the way next week) are basically going behind my back in order to "speed" things along. These are the same twits that told me one year ago I was going too fast and making mistakes. One set of rules for them, another for me. As usual--the story of my life! I'm also beginning to realize that Sad Sack and the dictator are in league with each other and will do anything to avoid me. Why? I follow policy, the rules, the way things are done properly. I am not interested in ego gratification, bullshit or bowing down. I get down on my knees for NO ONE, not even with a gun to my head. Fuck you and fuck you.
Another suspicion came true, as well. Former acquaintances and those they denied loving/flirting/screwing/dating/using were doing all the above and more. Lots of money down the drain and poof! They disappear. No money, no love. I don't love you, I don't need you. Translation? I CAN'T USE YOU. Just like I thought! Reminds me of past "friends", now that I think of it. In fact, they're still that way, but after many kids, there's nowhere to go but down. Oh, I'm loving this.
Our newbie who replaced Pinochet is catching up quite nicely and coming to me with plenty o'questions that would have never been answered since IT didn't have the answers despite "knowing it all." Almost all the filing, paper, clutter, mess and legal junk has been done, noted, signed and ready for closing. And all since the middle of May. IT's been here for one year and has done....socializing, proselytizing, sneering, bitching, ratting out people to their bosses and domineering (verb, not noun.) It spawned this past weekend on what would have been Thelma's 61st birthday. Thelma would have said, "Oh, that's DEEP." I can hear her voice and feel her rolling her eyes. God, I miss that woman!
And that's that, for now. The heat index on the East coast is set to soar to about 105 degrees today, so sunscreen, hats, umbrellas and ice cubes are the way to go, kiddies!
Ta ta , la la and ha ha ha...
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Swimming in Soup
Soupy weather, that is. It's a swamp out there! I've taken to showering at night to get the grimy gunk off, but I still didn't fall asleep until 2 am last night. Yeeeesh. Old habits are coming back to haunt me.
Here's an interesting thing: Benadryl no longer has any effect on me. It stops my allergies, but no longer puts me to sleep. That's what those sleeping pills have done to me. Benadryl is like tic tacs. Good God, am I turning into Joey Heatherton? I hope not. My A/C didn't kick in as strong as I'd like it, but the room was cool last night. Cats on my head, as usual. Will I ever stop loving these little furry creatures? They just fascinate me.
The verdict is in: that week off definitely gave me perspective. While the humidity is still swelling my limbs like sausages, I do feel better. I've got to do things at my own pace, for my own reasons. It's the only way. I am not going to make anything better by getting angry at it. I cannot change a dysfunctional company. More admins and execs are leaving in droves. It's an exodus, plain and simple. In one hour, the quarterly "update" meeting will take place. That gives me time to update my web profiles on about 5 sites. Good! It gives me something to do. Other than all this paper work, of which I could care less.
We're full swing into retrograde, so it's going to be wacky. I'm taking it slow. The universe will straighten itself out, so I will go with the flow. At least, that's what I keep hearing should be done.
Judika Illes got back to me today. I'm surprised it was so fast. She wrote a few books on women's spirituality, herbalism, and pagan rites around the world that captivated my attention. Her website also features a very Dexter-esque black fuzzball which made me smile. We nutty cat ladies must band together. She's in NJ and I'm going to meet her. I know it. I want to discuss her books, which now take up a lot of my reading. It's either that or reality tv, which makes me gag.
Tonite's premiere episode of Project Runway is all I'm waiting for. I'm rooting for the redhead with five children. She seems sassy. That Scottish-accented guy looks like a piece of work, but I love the mischief in his laugh. There's a story behind those eyes. But hey, we all need a Wendy Pepper and a Santino to get the show rolling. I still adore Nick Vereos. His Barbie is featured prominently in Toys R Us. I must get one.
Well, the haze is getting thicker and thicker out there. I wonder if it'll thunderstorm later today. I hope so. This humidity is unbearable.
Now the big question: can I bribe Dexter to blog? He's just sooo attached to the sparrows across the window. Lazy fatboy.
Here's an interesting thing: Benadryl no longer has any effect on me. It stops my allergies, but no longer puts me to sleep. That's what those sleeping pills have done to me. Benadryl is like tic tacs. Good God, am I turning into Joey Heatherton? I hope not. My A/C didn't kick in as strong as I'd like it, but the room was cool last night. Cats on my head, as usual. Will I ever stop loving these little furry creatures? They just fascinate me.
The verdict is in: that week off definitely gave me perspective. While the humidity is still swelling my limbs like sausages, I do feel better. I've got to do things at my own pace, for my own reasons. It's the only way. I am not going to make anything better by getting angry at it. I cannot change a dysfunctional company. More admins and execs are leaving in droves. It's an exodus, plain and simple. In one hour, the quarterly "update" meeting will take place. That gives me time to update my web profiles on about 5 sites. Good! It gives me something to do. Other than all this paper work, of which I could care less.
We're full swing into retrograde, so it's going to be wacky. I'm taking it slow. The universe will straighten itself out, so I will go with the flow. At least, that's what I keep hearing should be done.
Judika Illes got back to me today. I'm surprised it was so fast. She wrote a few books on women's spirituality, herbalism, and pagan rites around the world that captivated my attention. Her website also features a very Dexter-esque black fuzzball which made me smile. We nutty cat ladies must band together. She's in NJ and I'm going to meet her. I know it. I want to discuss her books, which now take up a lot of my reading. It's either that or reality tv, which makes me gag.
Tonite's premiere episode of Project Runway is all I'm waiting for. I'm rooting for the redhead with five children. She seems sassy. That Scottish-accented guy looks like a piece of work, but I love the mischief in his laugh. There's a story behind those eyes. But hey, we all need a Wendy Pepper and a Santino to get the show rolling. I still adore Nick Vereos. His Barbie is featured prominently in Toys R Us. I must get one.
Well, the haze is getting thicker and thicker out there. I wonder if it'll thunderstorm later today. I hope so. This humidity is unbearable.
Now the big question: can I bribe Dexter to blog? He's just sooo attached to the sparrows across the window. Lazy fatboy.
Thursday, July 6, 2006
Garde L'Esprit
Well, it's clear Pinochet is a complete and utter nightmare. I will not let this get to me. After screaming at the temp and freaking out that a few people were not here yesterday, IT (as I will now refer to Pinochet, the genderless monster) does not realize how much a fool it has been made. It does not see that to do these assholes's bidding, it is not liked, trusted or even listened to. This reminds me of the classic four-year old throwing a tantrum. Given the amount of children I have rid myself of over the last five years, here's another I will add to my list. Shameful, puckish behavior. Plain and simple.
Why, oh WHY have I been bending over backwards for these people? They just take, take, take. Well, fuck them all. Now it's my turn. To stop giving. I will do what I have to and nothing more. Really and truly.
I feel rejuvenated and alive after not being here for a week. True, I didn't get to do a few things I wanted with my time off, but I needed the rest. I needed to sleep late, clean up my apartment, spend time with some friends and my cats, and talk hourly with my mother on the phone each day. Maybe we haven't always gotten along, but I need to start working on that. She is the last remaining family member and I need to come to terms with my frustrations and her limitations. Neither one of us is perfect. More importantly, neither one of us HAS to be. Ever.
Doesn't look like Crain's is going to take me, so let's see about the Limited. And of course, let me get some coals burning in the fire. Yes, it's summer, but I can't give up. I will let nothing get in my way. I've fully realized it doesn't matter whether I take a two hour lunch to go on an interview, no one's watching anyway. My paranoia has left me. I will do what I have to get out. On my terms.
In other news, KJou went to Lush products! He was very giggly and happy with his new purchases. That place is addicting, I swear.
Mercury's in retrograde for this month, kiddies, so take it slow. It's not good to push too hard, start anything new, sign contracts or undertake huge projects. It's a time of reflection, "cleaning" out the old, and appreciating what you have. A fine meditation indeed.
Why, oh WHY have I been bending over backwards for these people? They just take, take, take. Well, fuck them all. Now it's my turn. To stop giving. I will do what I have to and nothing more. Really and truly.
I feel rejuvenated and alive after not being here for a week. True, I didn't get to do a few things I wanted with my time off, but I needed the rest. I needed to sleep late, clean up my apartment, spend time with some friends and my cats, and talk hourly with my mother on the phone each day. Maybe we haven't always gotten along, but I need to start working on that. She is the last remaining family member and I need to come to terms with my frustrations and her limitations. Neither one of us is perfect. More importantly, neither one of us HAS to be. Ever.
Doesn't look like Crain's is going to take me, so let's see about the Limited. And of course, let me get some coals burning in the fire. Yes, it's summer, but I can't give up. I will let nothing get in my way. I've fully realized it doesn't matter whether I take a two hour lunch to go on an interview, no one's watching anyway. My paranoia has left me. I will do what I have to get out. On my terms.
In other news, KJou went to Lush products! He was very giggly and happy with his new purchases. That place is addicting, I swear.
Mercury's in retrograde for this month, kiddies, so take it slow. It's not good to push too hard, start anything new, sign contracts or undertake huge projects. It's a time of reflection, "cleaning" out the old, and appreciating what you have. A fine meditation indeed.
Monday, July 3, 2006
I Choose to Stand and Fight
Well, I'm back at my desk, TONS of admins are leaving. Snarky's leaving the company, I found out and the state, too. HA! Everyone will disappear. Pinochet's not coming back until October, which gives me plenty of time to seek a job in peace, not torpor. IT screamed at the temp who replaced me last week. Evil is as evil does. She sounded horribly bemused at hearing my voice because it knows I won't take any crap like that. My other two are happily on vacation. Good for them. We all deserve a break. This place is falling apart rapidly.
No communication, bullshit politics, long hours, too much paper, too much work, not enough pay...it's a glorified zoo. Don't FEED the ANIMALS!
I feel vindicated, justified, fulfilled. I will survive, I am competent, I will get out. My renewed vengeance is to smirk and scheme. I remember a girl named Salene Parnese and her friend Marisa in my high school had a joke going for almost their entire high school existence, "Let's SCHEME." They would whisper it to each other in gruff voices and then cackle like maniacs. Salene and Marisa? I'm borrowing your phrase.
Nuttiness abounds in other areas, too: Becks stepping down as captain? Brazil NOT winning this past weekend? Oh, that's right. Mercury's in retrograde. Things are about to get really, really weird.
And Johnny Weir and Lindsay Lohan had a shared birthday yesterday! Happy cake and cookies, you two....
Well, I'm off like a dirty shirt. Let's see what the 4th holds.
No communication, bullshit politics, long hours, too much paper, too much work, not enough pay...it's a glorified zoo. Don't FEED the ANIMALS!
I feel vindicated, justified, fulfilled. I will survive, I am competent, I will get out. My renewed vengeance is to smirk and scheme. I remember a girl named Salene Parnese and her friend Marisa in my high school had a joke going for almost their entire high school existence, "Let's SCHEME." They would whisper it to each other in gruff voices and then cackle like maniacs. Salene and Marisa? I'm borrowing your phrase.
Nuttiness abounds in other areas, too: Becks stepping down as captain? Brazil NOT winning this past weekend? Oh, that's right. Mercury's in retrograde. Things are about to get really, really weird.
And Johnny Weir and Lindsay Lohan had a shared birthday yesterday! Happy cake and cookies, you two....
Well, I'm off like a dirty shirt. Let's see what the 4th holds.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Blue Monday
Just checked my email, slept late today. Went out with my queens and had a ball yesterday. We didn't get drenched, but it was certainly emptier than last year.
Today is day 4 of my doctor-imposed exile. Friday was a good day, but I didn't finish cleaning like I wanted to. The weekend was too busy, and today I felt kinda blah. Can't beat myself up over such simple things, I think moving forward from here is the only way to go. I do want to visit the zoos this week--Staten Island (like I did with my mother during my Bensonhurst years), Central Park, Coney Island's aquarium. Bronx just seems like trying to travel to the moon without a passport. My life has been devoid of joy for so long that I even question its existence.
Yesterday was a true reminder that honest spirits find each other. My gaudy humor and over-the-top ways amused all I came near, and we howled with laughter, drank and danced. A lovely respite, indeed.
My little almanac says "Listen to the sea" for today's date. So, I'm hopping on a bus, going past my old neighborhood, and will go near the Boardwalk. Maybe the ocean will calm my imbalanced emotions. I really am all over the place lately. It's hard trying to give a damn when it's obvious the people you work with really don't give a rat's ass about you.
I deserve this week. Why I'm having guilt pangs for taking off is beyond me. It's not my job to save empty people. I can only save myself.
Today is day 4 of my doctor-imposed exile. Friday was a good day, but I didn't finish cleaning like I wanted to. The weekend was too busy, and today I felt kinda blah. Can't beat myself up over such simple things, I think moving forward from here is the only way to go. I do want to visit the zoos this week--Staten Island (like I did with my mother during my Bensonhurst years), Central Park, Coney Island's aquarium. Bronx just seems like trying to travel to the moon without a passport. My life has been devoid of joy for so long that I even question its existence.
Yesterday was a true reminder that honest spirits find each other. My gaudy humor and over-the-top ways amused all I came near, and we howled with laughter, drank and danced. A lovely respite, indeed.
My little almanac says "Listen to the sea" for today's date. So, I'm hopping on a bus, going past my old neighborhood, and will go near the Boardwalk. Maybe the ocean will calm my imbalanced emotions. I really am all over the place lately. It's hard trying to give a damn when it's obvious the people you work with really don't give a rat's ass about you.
I deserve this week. Why I'm having guilt pangs for taking off is beyond me. It's not my job to save empty people. I can only save myself.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Ash Salad
Well, it happened. One last nasty email broke me down this morning. I, drenched in tears, marched down to HR and put in my papers for a medical leave.This place will not kill me, and no, I will not waste my energy on confronting these creatures I work with. They are miserable and empty.
I, however, have a medical condition--three of 'em that are real, painful, and in the case of my arrythmia: potentially fatal--so I had my doctor fill out forms just so I could have it on record that this place is eating away at my health. I will be spending next week in bed and on monster doubling my efforts at getting the fuck out of here before I have a full-blown nervous breakdown. I get the distinct feeling they'd enjoy that. Narcissists LOVE to feel superior. My rep downstairs told me to stop sacrificing myself, since the work will get done somehow.
I fear I will join the ranks of my family: mom had 1 breakdown, dad had, what? three? Four? I watched him slip into madness, alcoholism, and a series of hospitalizations that ultimately, did not save him. His mind cracked, his body gave out. Mom was a bit stronger, took a few weeks off, and continued on. Eventually, she quit that job. That's what I want to do. How do I get someone to do that....the eternally endless rotten struggle.
And in all this, who comes to my rescue? Certainly not the white, rich, old men. One Canadian, one South African, and three special souls, all black. KJou says "These are YOUR people, stop frontin'." He's right. I know the struggle, the fear, the lack of money, and only hope to get me thru the day. It's good for breakfast, too short for lunch, and leaves an empty plate for dinner. I've worked for how long? When did I not work, never been paid well, and my rewards and thank you's are few and far between. I am not making any headway. I have no money, I don't own anything, my health sucks, and my personal life is in the toilet. I can't even stay up past 11 pm, so forget about dating. My soul seeks something more. Peace, a lack of pain and more money to pay my bills. That's what I need. That's success. That would cure my insomnia so when I get in bed and fall asleep, I could stay asleep. Not shaking when I get a bill in the mail or see something from my landlord. Who knows how much rent I'll pay?
I can't afford to go on disability, but I can't do this anymore. I just can't. It will destroy me. I am just too damn fragile right now. No security. Just a lot of meds, cat hair, and things I can't pay in full.
I went to college for this? OH, I ain't getting out of bed next week. Let's see if I even leave my apartment. I'm FED UP. With all of it.
I, however, have a medical condition--three of 'em that are real, painful, and in the case of my arrythmia: potentially fatal--so I had my doctor fill out forms just so I could have it on record that this place is eating away at my health. I will be spending next week in bed and on monster doubling my efforts at getting the fuck out of here before I have a full-blown nervous breakdown. I get the distinct feeling they'd enjoy that. Narcissists LOVE to feel superior. My rep downstairs told me to stop sacrificing myself, since the work will get done somehow.
I fear I will join the ranks of my family: mom had 1 breakdown, dad had, what? three? Four? I watched him slip into madness, alcoholism, and a series of hospitalizations that ultimately, did not save him. His mind cracked, his body gave out. Mom was a bit stronger, took a few weeks off, and continued on. Eventually, she quit that job. That's what I want to do. How do I get someone to do that....the eternally endless rotten struggle.
And in all this, who comes to my rescue? Certainly not the white, rich, old men. One Canadian, one South African, and three special souls, all black. KJou says "These are YOUR people, stop frontin'." He's right. I know the struggle, the fear, the lack of money, and only hope to get me thru the day. It's good for breakfast, too short for lunch, and leaves an empty plate for dinner. I've worked for how long? When did I not work, never been paid well, and my rewards and thank you's are few and far between. I am not making any headway. I have no money, I don't own anything, my health sucks, and my personal life is in the toilet. I can't even stay up past 11 pm, so forget about dating. My soul seeks something more. Peace, a lack of pain and more money to pay my bills. That's what I need. That's success. That would cure my insomnia so when I get in bed and fall asleep, I could stay asleep. Not shaking when I get a bill in the mail or see something from my landlord. Who knows how much rent I'll pay?
I can't afford to go on disability, but I can't do this anymore. I just can't. It will destroy me. I am just too damn fragile right now. No security. Just a lot of meds, cat hair, and things I can't pay in full.
I went to college for this? OH, I ain't getting out of bed next week. Let's see if I even leave my apartment. I'm FED UP. With all of it.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Happy Father's Day
For those of you whose dads are still around, kiss the old goat on the head, give him his card, his cake, tie and be done with it. For those of you like me, play their favorite songs, mix their favorite drink (mine was fond of iced tea brewed with mint and/or Bloody Marys with a killer celery stalk just for conversation starters), and smile at their pictures.
It's hotter than hell out there today and I don't have a sunblock. No, really. It's time for me to do the Coppertone thing and go on freckle-watch. Oh, it's great to be Irish. We look like fresh-boiled lobsters during summer without cosmetic vigilance.
My favorite fossil was on HSN last night, but my delicious mandarin orange body cream kit was nowhere to be found. I'm just not into vanilla, sorry. Even did an ebay search, nothing. Feh. Maybe next time.
I'm off to hunt down my friend's cat for her afternoon diabetes shot. Poor pookie.
Eccckkkkhhhthth....I hate summer.
It's hotter than hell out there today and I don't have a sunblock. No, really. It's time for me to do the Coppertone thing and go on freckle-watch. Oh, it's great to be Irish. We look like fresh-boiled lobsters during summer without cosmetic vigilance.
My favorite fossil was on HSN last night, but my delicious mandarin orange body cream kit was nowhere to be found. I'm just not into vanilla, sorry. Even did an ebay search, nothing. Feh. Maybe next time.
I'm off to hunt down my friend's cat for her afternoon diabetes shot. Poor pookie.
Eccckkkkhhhthth....I hate summer.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
See? I'm not crazy. Or, maybe I am. Right now.
Well, Ellie told me nothing I didn't already know. My energy is insane. Emotionally, I'm imbalanced--gee, tell me something I don't know--and she suggested me taking a medical leave of absence. Something I've fiddled with in my mind. Again and again. I am in pain, physically and emotionally. My next step is either a psychiatrist (fuck you, Tom Cruise) or a hospital (I like jello.)
My increasing swings from anger to apathy and to rage will eventually land me in a "facility". My mother had a nervous breakdown from one of her jobs and my dad had two. She also mentioned that my latent psychic ability came from my mother AND father. I always thought he had something the alcohol couldn't kill. I will not escape my own destruction by ignoring what's going on. It's more than the negativity of my job, it's all that I've absorbed so far in my whacked out 34 years. Here's an excerpt from one of her blogs on metaphysics. It's frighteningly relevant to my life.
All species - plant, animal, human - are highly adaptable. The basic systems of life, given some minimal parameters, is able to adjust and survive. As Earth's energy cells continue through this change, individuals will be affected in different ways. If you are in a state of balance--meaning that you are working on your life's path, moving forward with little steps that hopefully lead to larger steps - then the conversion, and the ability of your body to change, needn't be that difficult. Everyone will be aware of it to some degree. Electrical sensations in the body will be detectable, even in the most balanced person.
Those that are having difficulty in life, however, will need to look at the relationship between themselves and everything else in their lives. Stress is one of the things that is going to throw the body's central electrical system even further off-course during these changes. The whole immune system goes right down, because the body needs to adapt to these new grid levels---so it can pull energy from the new pattern. A stressed person won't be able to put the proper internal energy into maing the shift.
So the new energy will be all around, but the stressed body won't be compatible to receive that energy. Imagine the new cells all emitting energy - the next step for us is to prepare to access the new energy by attuning to it now. This is important for good health in the future.
Illnesses that are grid-induced will always be electrical in nature - headaches, fatigue, memory loss, disorientation, feelings of agitation, vision difficulties, and ringing in the ears. many of these symptoms may be the result of living in an old cell that is dying while engaged in a lifestyle that is unhealthy or unbalanced. Most of these conditions can be traced back to a basic imbalance of electrical forces in the body due primarily to negative thoughts and stress.
If you are feeling stuck - and not moving forward on the truths you seek here on earth then you are under stress. This leads to overload and illness. More and more people are showing evidence of being out of balance. More is written about mental illness such as depression these days. Some people are acting violent or erratic for no apparent reason. The energy grid doesnot cause mental illness. What happens is that the new energy pattern is still grounded in the etheric realm.
It is fluctuating a lot--solar flares, disruptions at the Earth's core, and planetary alignments all influence it-- causing the grid to through up spikes. It's like lightening coming out of the cells. When a cell experiences one of these energy spikes the whole cell actually becomes electrically charged and the sub-cell gets agitated.
Their charge level actually increases, which forces a higher charge level in all animals, all plants, and all people within the cell. So now you are taking in Earth force energy at a higher level at a higher frequency.
Most people are taking in pretty low Earth energy, and solar energy, due to a significant amount of stress.
In a state of balance you can tap into higher psychic abilities. What we think we shall become. Listen to your intuition (little voice).
Something to think about. Consistently in my case. Yikes.
My increasing swings from anger to apathy and to rage will eventually land me in a "facility". My mother had a nervous breakdown from one of her jobs and my dad had two. She also mentioned that my latent psychic ability came from my mother AND father. I always thought he had something the alcohol couldn't kill. I will not escape my own destruction by ignoring what's going on. It's more than the negativity of my job, it's all that I've absorbed so far in my whacked out 34 years. Here's an excerpt from one of her blogs on metaphysics. It's frighteningly relevant to my life.
All species - plant, animal, human - are highly adaptable. The basic systems of life, given some minimal parameters, is able to adjust and survive. As Earth's energy cells continue through this change, individuals will be affected in different ways. If you are in a state of balance--meaning that you are working on your life's path, moving forward with little steps that hopefully lead to larger steps - then the conversion, and the ability of your body to change, needn't be that difficult. Everyone will be aware of it to some degree. Electrical sensations in the body will be detectable, even in the most balanced person.
Those that are having difficulty in life, however, will need to look at the relationship between themselves and everything else in their lives. Stress is one of the things that is going to throw the body's central electrical system even further off-course during these changes. The whole immune system goes right down, because the body needs to adapt to these new grid levels---so it can pull energy from the new pattern. A stressed person won't be able to put the proper internal energy into maing the shift.
So the new energy will be all around, but the stressed body won't be compatible to receive that energy. Imagine the new cells all emitting energy - the next step for us is to prepare to access the new energy by attuning to it now. This is important for good health in the future.
Illnesses that are grid-induced will always be electrical in nature - headaches, fatigue, memory loss, disorientation, feelings of agitation, vision difficulties, and ringing in the ears. many of these symptoms may be the result of living in an old cell that is dying while engaged in a lifestyle that is unhealthy or unbalanced. Most of these conditions can be traced back to a basic imbalance of electrical forces in the body due primarily to negative thoughts and stress.
If you are feeling stuck - and not moving forward on the truths you seek here on earth then you are under stress. This leads to overload and illness. More and more people are showing evidence of being out of balance. More is written about mental illness such as depression these days. Some people are acting violent or erratic for no apparent reason. The energy grid doesnot cause mental illness. What happens is that the new energy pattern is still grounded in the etheric realm.
It is fluctuating a lot--solar flares, disruptions at the Earth's core, and planetary alignments all influence it-- causing the grid to through up spikes. It's like lightening coming out of the cells. When a cell experiences one of these energy spikes the whole cell actually becomes electrically charged and the sub-cell gets agitated.
Their charge level actually increases, which forces a higher charge level in all animals, all plants, and all people within the cell. So now you are taking in Earth force energy at a higher level at a higher frequency.
Most people are taking in pretty low Earth energy, and solar energy, due to a significant amount of stress.
In a state of balance you can tap into higher psychic abilities. What we think we shall become. Listen to your intuition (little voice).
Something to think about. Consistently in my case. Yikes.
Thursday, June 8, 2006
Many Moons, Many Moods
Whether you are a volunteer or you do it for a living, if your daily activity involves some kind of altruism or giving of yourself, today you may learn a very important lesson, dear Pisces. You are going to learn that in order to help other people, you need to learn to take care of yourself. After all, how can you help other people as much as you would like to if you don't take good care of yourself mentally and physically?
Well, kiddies, usually Rob Breszney is my focus each week, but this time Susan Miller hit it right on the head. Can I keep giving? At what price glory, I ask.
Ghosts surround me: dad’s death, Coltrane’s on the cover of The Village Voice and for some inexplicable reason, I picked up my copy of Lady in Satin to get me through today. What do all these things have in common…
Broken spirits. Something in them died while they were still alive.
Places can be haunted, but so can people. Give, give, and give and get nothing in return? Well, watch yourself go, fall apart, snap, die. I am trying so desperately not to do that. Working with narcissists, schizotypals, powermongers and control freaks does not allow an area conducive to breathing. Where’s the levity? Ghosts float. Mists, orbs, shadows. Corporeal people—like me sitting here—need this. I want something in return if I give. If I care, If I schedule, commit, agree, work, and fight every ounce of a body that keeps telling me to waste away, lay still, admit defeat. Absolutely not.
I get the distinct feeling that these creatures in this current building would like me to believe their version of me: I am somehow less than them. Lower, scrappier, disfiguringly flawed, deficient. Well, here’s the funny thing: if I’ve already figured out what they are, and they absolutely cannot see what I’m made of, who won that game? And it IS a game. The same game that drove so many of the good people and entertainers I adored into drugs, booze, pills, madness and despair. The game doesn’t change, but I realize I must. I have to. I am not ready for my name engraved on a stone with the others I love.
This weekend, I am visiting a medium named Ellie Crystal. Not my usual medium, but then again, I haven’t seen Roger Pratt in a long time. And his connection was to my mother, not really me. Perhaps I need my own. If I have the cerebral balance of a therapist (mind), perhaps I can take a new batch of questions to Ellie (spirit.) Who said dialogue is only one-on-one? Conventional thinking states that too many cooks spoil the broth, but it’s more than broth I’m going after. I am still in the middle of a very shitty situation and struggling.
Billie sang “It’s a Pleasure to be Sad…” I have to disagree. I’ve seen too damn much of it and I need to purge that idea from my head. My future as a human being --as opposed to these soulless monsters--depends on it.
And so do many of you, my beloved audience.
Well, kiddies, usually Rob Breszney is my focus each week, but this time Susan Miller hit it right on the head. Can I keep giving? At what price glory, I ask.
Ghosts surround me: dad’s death, Coltrane’s on the cover of The Village Voice and for some inexplicable reason, I picked up my copy of Lady in Satin to get me through today. What do all these things have in common…
Broken spirits. Something in them died while they were still alive.
Places can be haunted, but so can people. Give, give, and give and get nothing in return? Well, watch yourself go, fall apart, snap, die. I am trying so desperately not to do that. Working with narcissists, schizotypals, powermongers and control freaks does not allow an area conducive to breathing. Where’s the levity? Ghosts float. Mists, orbs, shadows. Corporeal people—like me sitting here—need this. I want something in return if I give. If I care, If I schedule, commit, agree, work, and fight every ounce of a body that keeps telling me to waste away, lay still, admit defeat. Absolutely not.
I get the distinct feeling that these creatures in this current building would like me to believe their version of me: I am somehow less than them. Lower, scrappier, disfiguringly flawed, deficient. Well, here’s the funny thing: if I’ve already figured out what they are, and they absolutely cannot see what I’m made of, who won that game? And it IS a game. The same game that drove so many of the good people and entertainers I adored into drugs, booze, pills, madness and despair. The game doesn’t change, but I realize I must. I have to. I am not ready for my name engraved on a stone with the others I love.
This weekend, I am visiting a medium named Ellie Crystal. Not my usual medium, but then again, I haven’t seen Roger Pratt in a long time. And his connection was to my mother, not really me. Perhaps I need my own. If I have the cerebral balance of a therapist (mind), perhaps I can take a new batch of questions to Ellie (spirit.) Who said dialogue is only one-on-one? Conventional thinking states that too many cooks spoil the broth, but it’s more than broth I’m going after. I am still in the middle of a very shitty situation and struggling.
Billie sang “It’s a Pleasure to be Sad…” I have to disagree. I’ve seen too damn much of it and I need to purge that idea from my head. My future as a human being --as opposed to these soulless monsters--depends on it.
And so do many of you, my beloved audience.
Friday, June 2, 2006
New Month, New Me
Yup, I've been off the Mac for a while. I've decided to take matters into my own hands and go on the guaifenesin protocol. That's the ingredient in most cough medicines and now currently in Mucinex. You know, that horrible ad with those ugly snot monsters dancing around that guy's sinuses? Well, the stuff is starting to work wonders on my fibromyalgia, which is steadily getting worse. I've been working with my doctor who's switched my meds yet again, so I figured Why Not?
It's summer and I have no intention of staying in bed like a damned invalid. I'm 34, not 94. For chrissakes, this has to END! Yes, RD and I were always fond of saying It Just Doesn't End, but I'm going to make it end, kiddies. There's no good reason I should feel this tired, this much in pain for any reason whatsoever.
The job market's picking up, too. Lotsa offers, and Simon & Schuster has me still in the running. That's good. A design company wants me Monday and today, I'm visiting a friend over at Broadway staffing inside King Kong's playground, a/k/a The Empire State building. Pinochet's ready to pop, the temp is working out, and if karma has any say in her ultimate demise, I'll be leaving at the same time she is. That would sock 'em right between the eyes. I'm not giving up no matter what.
Barbaro's doing better, I'm happy to report. Prado, his jockey, visited him in the stall the other day with baby carrots and the cast is holding up fine. Miracles can and do happen.
Yesterday marked the fifth anniversary of my dad's death and I did not mope, moan, wail, scream or cry. That's progress. I did watch Amelie, an adorabe french film. It made me feel better. It's about a dreamer who learns to take risks and transforms the people around her. Sounds like someone I wanna be.
Tomorrow I help out at the ISI competition at SkyRink and spend the day in my element.
Things are looking up, kiddies. They really are. Now if I could get Dexter away from the window so he could blog. He's been soooo lazy!!!
It's summer and I have no intention of staying in bed like a damned invalid. I'm 34, not 94. For chrissakes, this has to END! Yes, RD and I were always fond of saying It Just Doesn't End, but I'm going to make it end, kiddies. There's no good reason I should feel this tired, this much in pain for any reason whatsoever.
The job market's picking up, too. Lotsa offers, and Simon & Schuster has me still in the running. That's good. A design company wants me Monday and today, I'm visiting a friend over at Broadway staffing inside King Kong's playground, a/k/a The Empire State building. Pinochet's ready to pop, the temp is working out, and if karma has any say in her ultimate demise, I'll be leaving at the same time she is. That would sock 'em right between the eyes. I'm not giving up no matter what.
Barbaro's doing better, I'm happy to report. Prado, his jockey, visited him in the stall the other day with baby carrots and the cast is holding up fine. Miracles can and do happen.
Yesterday marked the fifth anniversary of my dad's death and I did not mope, moan, wail, scream or cry. That's progress. I did watch Amelie, an adorabe french film. It made me feel better. It's about a dreamer who learns to take risks and transforms the people around her. Sounds like someone I wanna be.
Tomorrow I help out at the ISI competition at SkyRink and spend the day in my element.
Things are looking up, kiddies. They really are. Now if I could get Dexter away from the window so he could blog. He's been soooo lazy!!!
Monday, May 22, 2006
Praying for Barbaro
Well, kiddies, Saturday really broke my heart. My father's ghost ensured that not only did I dream of him the night before, I tuned into horse racing where Barbaro, this year's Kentucky Derby winner, snapped his leg in three places. It's a miracle the jockey was able to dismount without being thrown overhead.
Horse racing was a passion of dad's, having lived part of the year in Haverstraw NY with acres and acres of land as a boy. He didn't become a cat person until I came into his life, but he was a horse and dog lover. I think he loved to watch them run. He wasn't much for the saddle (they hurt his hips and back), but many a carrot was shared when they nuzzled him at the gates. I'm not romanticizing his Damon Runyon-esque existence since he did gamble a bit too much on the ponies at times, but I understood the roots--watching these creatures run is exhilarating. I get caught up in it myself and can almost forgive those $20 bets that should have put milk and bread on the table.
Barbaro reminds me of the first time I heard about Ruffian, one of the greatest fillies that suffered a horrid demise. The year was 1975 or 76, I was a baby and everyone--particularly women--were talking about this horse. The name is seared into my memory. It was set to be a match race, one on one, and this horse was supposed to take it all. For the life of me, I can't remember the competitor's name. She did what she was trained to do: break out of the gate, run, run, and cross the finish line. That didn't happen. Ruffian's leg snapped midway through the race and she had to be put down. In the early years of the women's movement, many bemoaned that they had to live their victory through a horse. A horse that failed. Ruffian was buried on the track.
I thought of this yesterday and wondered just how well Barbaro's holding up. They're certainly giving this magnificent creature some real chances--in year's past, they'd grab the needle and put him down. Today's CNN coverage shows Barbaro wrapped in blue blankets and his back leg bandaged. Horses need all fours. Two main arteries are the only blood supply to the legs right before the hoof. Imagine that: such perfect creatures with a tiny design flaw. Lose circulation, and essentially, you lose the horse. They can put him to stud, but no triple crown. There's still a 50/50 chance something could go wrong, but I hope not. Barb was only doing what he was trained to do--I hope he outlasts the odds.
What would Dad say...I can only speculate.
Horse racing was a passion of dad's, having lived part of the year in Haverstraw NY with acres and acres of land as a boy. He didn't become a cat person until I came into his life, but he was a horse and dog lover. I think he loved to watch them run. He wasn't much for the saddle (they hurt his hips and back), but many a carrot was shared when they nuzzled him at the gates. I'm not romanticizing his Damon Runyon-esque existence since he did gamble a bit too much on the ponies at times, but I understood the roots--watching these creatures run is exhilarating. I get caught up in it myself and can almost forgive those $20 bets that should have put milk and bread on the table.
Barbaro reminds me of the first time I heard about Ruffian, one of the greatest fillies that suffered a horrid demise. The year was 1975 or 76, I was a baby and everyone--particularly women--were talking about this horse. The name is seared into my memory. It was set to be a match race, one on one, and this horse was supposed to take it all. For the life of me, I can't remember the competitor's name. She did what she was trained to do: break out of the gate, run, run, and cross the finish line. That didn't happen. Ruffian's leg snapped midway through the race and she had to be put down. In the early years of the women's movement, many bemoaned that they had to live their victory through a horse. A horse that failed. Ruffian was buried on the track.
I thought of this yesterday and wondered just how well Barbaro's holding up. They're certainly giving this magnificent creature some real chances--in year's past, they'd grab the needle and put him down. Today's CNN coverage shows Barbaro wrapped in blue blankets and his back leg bandaged. Horses need all fours. Two main arteries are the only blood supply to the legs right before the hoof. Imagine that: such perfect creatures with a tiny design flaw. Lose circulation, and essentially, you lose the horse. They can put him to stud, but no triple crown. There's still a 50/50 chance something could go wrong, but I hope not. Barb was only doing what he was trained to do--I hope he outlasts the odds.
What would Dad say...I can only speculate.
Friday, May 19, 2006
What's Up with Britney?
Other than her trying to mother her child. Ok, most of us wouldn't hold a baby and a glass of water at the same time, but most of us wouldn't have bodyguards helping us get in a limo, either.
Ok, the baby car seat incident aggravated me, but yesterday was just ridiculous. Is she really supposed to not slip if stalkerazzi are getting that close? She's walked in 5 inch heels, I don't think flip flops are the problem. I enjoyed her comment, "This is why I need a gun." I also enjoy not giving Bonnie Fuller and her glossy rags any money whatsoever.
Does anyone remember Princess Di? And no, we can't continue to blame the drunken chaffeur. He was only part of the problem. Numerous celebrities have cited this same problem, and it's only a matter of time before someone ELSE gets killed trying to escape some asshole with a sports lens.
This is the main reason I read that Scarlett Johannsen fled L.A. She was sick of being photographed and chased. Good, let her stay in the city I love. If I run into her at a Starbucks, I'll tell her I'm proud of her decision. These idiots need a smack in the head.
And of course, that second-rate fish-wrapper The NY Post puts Britney front and center. Um, didja know we still have a war going on? This country is going to hell? Hurricane season is around the corner and Nawlins is still in shambles? Noooo, Sean's little baseball cap is more important.
My god, they call themselves journalists???? Pardon me while I go puke.
Ok, the baby car seat incident aggravated me, but yesterday was just ridiculous. Is she really supposed to not slip if stalkerazzi are getting that close? She's walked in 5 inch heels, I don't think flip flops are the problem. I enjoyed her comment, "This is why I need a gun." I also enjoy not giving Bonnie Fuller and her glossy rags any money whatsoever.
Does anyone remember Princess Di? And no, we can't continue to blame the drunken chaffeur. He was only part of the problem. Numerous celebrities have cited this same problem, and it's only a matter of time before someone ELSE gets killed trying to escape some asshole with a sports lens.
This is the main reason I read that Scarlett Johannsen fled L.A. She was sick of being photographed and chased. Good, let her stay in the city I love. If I run into her at a Starbucks, I'll tell her I'm proud of her decision. These idiots need a smack in the head.
And of course, that second-rate fish-wrapper The NY Post puts Britney front and center. Um, didja know we still have a war going on? This country is going to hell? Hurricane season is around the corner and Nawlins is still in shambles? Noooo, Sean's little baseball cap is more important.
My god, they call themselves journalists???? Pardon me while I go puke.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Ahh...a difference
What a difference a week can make.
The new temp is here, and she's the complete opposite of Brunhilda. In true Grinchy fashion, work has been dumped on her desk. Somehow, I know I will get blamed for holding onto contracts when certain people could have asked for them. But then again, narcissists like YOU to ask THEM. I'm beholden to no one, kiddies. And I get down on my knees for no man. I've become accustomed to The Sneer.
The Sneer consists of saying one thing with your mouth and another with your eyes. Since facial expressions tend to lean one way, this eye/mouth conflict creates some serious tension in the face. The result? I know the thought, the look, and the resounding words don't match the intent. This amuses me no end. They think I don't know. It's like a game. What fun. I can win this one: cats have taught me all I need to know. They can sit for hours annoyed before pouncing after a good opportunity. Their opportunity is a mouse, string, a bird. Mine will be nicer people at my job and more $$$.
In other news, Simon & Schuster wants me to meet the Sr. VP. That excites me. And plenty of people have called, some agencies, some direct employers. Monster is a godsend!
We're halfway thru May, and I'm just plowing through. When June hits I'll have the Mermaid Parade and Pride week to jump around in and have fun.
I've really got to start planning my summer books, and no, The Da Vinci Code isn't on my list. Yes, I will break my own rule and see the movie without reading the book first because I adore Tom Hanks. Then I think it's time for me to go back to the beach and enjoy the water. I could barely move last summer with my fibromyalgia, this summer, I'm cranking out the anti-inflammatory pills and not letting it ruin my weekends.
Then it's off to visit Gus, the Central Park Polar bear. I haven't seen him in a looong time. I wonder if they got him a new red ball.
Well, off to lunch. I need a break from the Almighty and Powerful Beings that Work Here.
(as if.)
The new temp is here, and she's the complete opposite of Brunhilda. In true Grinchy fashion, work has been dumped on her desk. Somehow, I know I will get blamed for holding onto contracts when certain people could have asked for them. But then again, narcissists like YOU to ask THEM. I'm beholden to no one, kiddies. And I get down on my knees for no man. I've become accustomed to The Sneer.
The Sneer consists of saying one thing with your mouth and another with your eyes. Since facial expressions tend to lean one way, this eye/mouth conflict creates some serious tension in the face. The result? I know the thought, the look, and the resounding words don't match the intent. This amuses me no end. They think I don't know. It's like a game. What fun. I can win this one: cats have taught me all I need to know. They can sit for hours annoyed before pouncing after a good opportunity. Their opportunity is a mouse, string, a bird. Mine will be nicer people at my job and more $$$.
In other news, Simon & Schuster wants me to meet the Sr. VP. That excites me. And plenty of people have called, some agencies, some direct employers. Monster is a godsend!
We're halfway thru May, and I'm just plowing through. When June hits I'll have the Mermaid Parade and Pride week to jump around in and have fun.
I've really got to start planning my summer books, and no, The Da Vinci Code isn't on my list. Yes, I will break my own rule and see the movie without reading the book first because I adore Tom Hanks. Then I think it's time for me to go back to the beach and enjoy the water. I could barely move last summer with my fibromyalgia, this summer, I'm cranking out the anti-inflammatory pills and not letting it ruin my weekends.
Then it's off to visit Gus, the Central Park Polar bear. I haven't seen him in a looong time. I wonder if they got him a new red ball.
Well, off to lunch. I need a break from the Almighty and Powerful Beings that Work Here.
(as if.)
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Say Goodbye to the Middle Class
Yes, Our Commander in Chimp and His Ridiculous Krewe (yes, I'm listening to Nawlins jazz as I write this) have seen to it to push their 70 BILLION DOLLAR TAX CUT PERMANENTLY. Isn't that sweet? Here's the reaction from Chuck Schumer from CNN.com.
The Bush administration and the Republican leadership are far more interested in helping their wealthiest friends than hardworking, middle-class Americans," said Charles Schumer, D-N.Y. "The GOP made its choice, and they chose millionaire investors and oil companies over middle class families."
Ya got that right, Chuckie! And what will Albany do with this? If Spitzer doesn't win, that is. Suozzi's already thinking of adding a fine to the LIE. Like tolls aren't high enough? Nice. Does anyone really expect someone trying to survive on a WalMart salary and actually KNOW what the AMT tax is? Are you shitting me?
Naturally, oil companies will be eating this up, and use more and more of their profits to cushion their CEOs while the rest of us scream at the pumps while paying $7 for a gallon of gas. It's almost $4 now, and barrels of crude have hit $72, $7 is a REAL possibility. Not like I have a car, but surcharges are gonna be biting me in the ass like starving mosquitoes for the pizza delivery, the Circles delivery (I still love my Czarina Sauce dish), the flower delivery, etc etc etc...
ANYTHING THAT BENEFITS THESE ASSHOLE OIL COMPANIES WILL NOT BE PASSED ONTO US, KIDDIES.
So, for those of you that have friends that voted for Dubya, feel free to lean over--after you've polished your brass knuckles, of course--and THWACK them right in the head. They deserve it.
2 1/2 more years to go...will we make it under this administration? Those of us that don't see 100K a year, that is...
I think I need to lie down.
Face down.
And sob.
The Bush administration and the Republican leadership are far more interested in helping their wealthiest friends than hardworking, middle-class Americans," said Charles Schumer, D-N.Y. "The GOP made its choice, and they chose millionaire investors and oil companies over middle class families."
Ya got that right, Chuckie! And what will Albany do with this? If Spitzer doesn't win, that is. Suozzi's already thinking of adding a fine to the LIE. Like tolls aren't high enough? Nice. Does anyone really expect someone trying to survive on a WalMart salary and actually KNOW what the AMT tax is? Are you shitting me?
Naturally, oil companies will be eating this up, and use more and more of their profits to cushion their CEOs while the rest of us scream at the pumps while paying $7 for a gallon of gas. It's almost $4 now, and barrels of crude have hit $72, $7 is a REAL possibility. Not like I have a car, but surcharges are gonna be biting me in the ass like starving mosquitoes for the pizza delivery, the Circles delivery (I still love my Czarina Sauce dish), the flower delivery, etc etc etc...
ANYTHING THAT BENEFITS THESE ASSHOLE OIL COMPANIES WILL NOT BE PASSED ONTO US, KIDDIES.
So, for those of you that have friends that voted for Dubya, feel free to lean over--after you've polished your brass knuckles, of course--and THWACK them right in the head. They deserve it.
2 1/2 more years to go...will we make it under this administration? Those of us that don't see 100K a year, that is...
I think I need to lie down.
Face down.
And sob.
Saturday, May 6, 2006
Where Would Dante Put those I work With?
Here are the results of my test. I'm in the 5th Circle for the Wrathful and Gloomy. Gee, they caught me on a good day.
I say everyone else I work with would be in the 9th. Here's my results, kiddies!
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Fifth Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test
I say everyone else I work with would be in the 9th. Here's my results, kiddies!
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Fifth Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | High |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Low |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | Moderate |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | High |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Very Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | High |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very Low |
| Level 7 (Violent) | High |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | Moderate |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | Moderate |
Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test
Sunday, April 30, 2006
"Those people get HANDLED."
Wisdom from KJou. I love it.
It's regarding Pinochet and her "I'm Too Hollywood" holier than thou attitude that matches her Jackie O wannabe sunglasses. Just like Dawn, I wonder if she has any regard for the fact that so many people neither trust nor like her. KJou was ignored while trying to say hello. Friendly guy he is, and easy going. I haven't run into many people that don't like him, but the jury is in: Guilty as Bitchy can be charged for Ms. Thang. The list of "how can you sit next to that" gets longer and longer.
I was told promptly to move someone's visiting son from one of the offices since ***insert shit-eating dictator accent***I DONWAN HEARAYT FROM HIM. Mind you, no one called on Friday. No one even came in Friday. A bunch left early because 1) it was Friday; 2) it was 70 degrees outside. This poor kid comes in, doesn't realize his mom (from another floor) isn't there, and I have to get him to a phone since he doesn't have a cell. Not every teenager does. So, I'm promptly told to move him. Fine, I will. I've chosen to fight my battles wisely, since I am still job hunting. If there is karmic retribution in the universe, I will leave at the same moment this cretin goes on spawn leave, as KJou calls it. My other coworker will be stuck, but maybe that will give her the fire to get out. She's too good for that floor, too.
No one is steering the ship, so I will do what I want. Why should I carry the load? For what? A 1% raise, no thanks, and constant criticism? Puhhhlease. I bow to no one at this place. Not when none of them even remember Wick, Lou, or any of the good workers that got pushed out like animals to slaughter. So, in perfect Acting Style, I will pretend I am a person who cares. I will remember the lessons of Ruth Kossi. God bless her, she taught me how to rank someone out with a smile on my face. In the late 80's, she took Restaurant Associates (owners of The Rink) to court over firing her and won due to age discrimination. Back pay, damages, the whole nine. Go Ruth!!! I love that woman, and my god, what a skater. So, as homage to Ruth, I will act the part until I can escape.
I'm off to get cat food, and remember Karma has its own privileges.
It's regarding Pinochet and her "I'm Too Hollywood" holier than thou attitude that matches her Jackie O wannabe sunglasses. Just like Dawn, I wonder if she has any regard for the fact that so many people neither trust nor like her. KJou was ignored while trying to say hello. Friendly guy he is, and easy going. I haven't run into many people that don't like him, but the jury is in: Guilty as Bitchy can be charged for Ms. Thang. The list of "how can you sit next to that" gets longer and longer.
I was told promptly to move someone's visiting son from one of the offices since ***insert shit-eating dictator accent***I DONWAN HEARAYT FROM HIM. Mind you, no one called on Friday. No one even came in Friday. A bunch left early because 1) it was Friday; 2) it was 70 degrees outside. This poor kid comes in, doesn't realize his mom (from another floor) isn't there, and I have to get him to a phone since he doesn't have a cell. Not every teenager does. So, I'm promptly told to move him. Fine, I will. I've chosen to fight my battles wisely, since I am still job hunting. If there is karmic retribution in the universe, I will leave at the same moment this cretin goes on spawn leave, as KJou calls it. My other coworker will be stuck, but maybe that will give her the fire to get out. She's too good for that floor, too.
No one is steering the ship, so I will do what I want. Why should I carry the load? For what? A 1% raise, no thanks, and constant criticism? Puhhhlease. I bow to no one at this place. Not when none of them even remember Wick, Lou, or any of the good workers that got pushed out like animals to slaughter. So, in perfect Acting Style, I will pretend I am a person who cares. I will remember the lessons of Ruth Kossi. God bless her, she taught me how to rank someone out with a smile on my face. In the late 80's, she took Restaurant Associates (owners of The Rink) to court over firing her and won due to age discrimination. Back pay, damages, the whole nine. Go Ruth!!! I love that woman, and my god, what a skater. So, as homage to Ruth, I will act the part until I can escape.
I'm off to get cat food, and remember Karma has its own privileges.
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