Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

No Place Like Homicidal

OMG.  Argyle is at a bar RIGHT NOW sitting next to FANCY CRANE, and I am out of town and cannot drive to the bar like a lunatic, get all up in her face, and GEEK the FUCK OUT.  I AM SO MAD.  I AM CRAZED.  Seriously. This is NOT FAIR.  The Universe is trying to hurt me, right?  WHAT IS THIS?  No, but I'm really like insane about this.  To be fair, Ulrich and I have been out wine-tasting all day, so my judgment is somewhat impaired, but I AM REALLY PISSED ABOUT THIS.  I will never speak to Argyle again!  HOW DARE SHE MEET FANCY WITHOUT ME!  THAT BITCH!

Okay.  It's okay.  I'm okay now.  I swear.  I'm...going to breathe.  And maybe have more wine.  AND SEETHE.  No, not that last part.  I'm going to practice my Zen breathing and I'm going to be okay.  It's all okay.

IT IS NOT OKAY.  I am losing my mind.  I'm going to cry for a minute, but then I'll be fine.  No!  I'm fine.  Don't worry about me.  *sob*

Actually, there are possibly worries needed for my future, because I may commit a murder and be incarcerated.  Not Argyle -- I talk a good game, but I could never kill her because there would be no one left who knows how to Swiffer without leaving clumps of residue all over the fucking apartment.  (Seriously, why can't I figure this out?  I'm a college graduate, people!)  No, I am going to assassinate A CERTAIN PERSON I WORK WITH*.  I don't want to go into the whole thing because it would just piss me off all over again, and I spent two hours explaining it all to Ulrich yesterday, but the man needs to just die.

Between the passive-aggressive denunciations of my efforts on the job, and the way he a) doesn't listen, b) doesn't communicate, and c) expects me to nevertheless divine exactly what he wants and do it the way he wants it while not listening to me or answering my questions and telling me 'do whatever, I don't care' before then publicly accusing me of screwing things up by not doing what he wanted WHICH HE NEVER TOLD ME OH MY G-D I'M LOSING MY MIND AND I CANNOT STOP SHOUTING WITH WORDS!  He seriously ruined my life like eight times on Friday, to the point where everyone sitting in my cubicle area offered to buy me drinks and/or help hide the body.

I am trying to be calm and sensible about this, believe it or not.  I am trying to remember to forget about work when I'm not at work, but for reals?  This man makes me glad that I may be testifying in court on Monday and unable to go to the office.  Let him figure out how to do shit without me for a day.

Except that he won't.  He'll just wait and give me a passive-aggressive lecture about how I've wasted time by being subpoenaed and now have to really buckle down to make up for it.  That fucker.

Okay.  I need to go and practice more Zen breathing.  Send help.

*I am changing certain indicators in order to preserve a little privacy.  Not that I think THIS PERSON will ever read this?  But loose lips sink ships.  The person sitting in front of me has been leaning over my wall all day long to talk very loudly about my homicidal impulses, and I don't need to add any fuel to the fire.

We Don't Want YOUR Fries With That, Bitch!

So today is my birthday.  No, no -- don't get up!  I appreciate it, but really the applause is unnecessary.  I am OLD today, though.  OLD.  Well, old-er.  Old enough that if I were a famous actor I would start getting parts like "Single Father" and shit.  Well, maybe not me.  I would get parts like "Single Mother's Gay Best Friend", and I'd just be the catty, dishy guy who works with her at her interior design firm, and I'd be featured in the expository scenes where she's gushing on and on about the guy she met through her friend, and he's soooo beautiful (and he'd be played by Ashton Kutcher or some other such predictably affable comedian), and then I'd have to sigh and say shit like, "Oh, Susan (Drew Barrymore NO DOUBT,) you are so lucky!" and I'd have to act like I hate her for being so lucky, but really I'm so happy because she's my bestest friend and I know how broken up she's been since her husband died in that freak accident two years before.  And then there'd be a series of miscommunications between her and Ashton and she'd think he was a deadbeat, or a gigolo, or a con man, or something like that, and I'd be featured in a series of split-screen phone conversations where I'm in a bubble bath or something equally fey until FINALLY all is settled in the end and the young lovers waltz off into the sunset and everyone wonders, "HEY?  WHAT ABOUT THE GAY BEST FRIEND?"

So last weekend, Ulrich and Argyle and I had a night on the town.  Old-school.  I mean, we got SHITFACED.  Like, we drank...and then we drank some more...and then we drank some more, and THEN we decided to go to the bar, where we drank and drank and drank, and some dude tried to pick up Argyle (but he wasn't good at it, so he and his wingmen picked up ALL of us to get to her), and then the three of us stumbled home drunkenly but happily.  This is where the DRAMA begins.

We wanted chili fries.  You cannot get chili fries at any of the fast food places in our neighborhood.  So we had to go to the grocery store and buy chili and cheese, and then walk down to McDonald's at 2:30am to get fries.  But the place is closed after, like, midnight, and we had to go through the drive-thru.  Except that we were on foot.  So picture me and Argyle standing between cars -- PATIENTLY -- waiting to get to the window.  (They wouldn't acknowledge us at the speaker, you see.)  We finally get up there and ask for two orders of fries, and the manager comes up and gets ALL IN OUR FACES and says, "We don't have time for this!"

I'm all, "Listen, I'm offering you money -- I just want two orders of fries."  And she repeats, "WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"  For what?  Walking over to the heat lamp and picking up two things of French fries?  Because seriously, that doesn't take long.  So the three of us get into this EXTREME DEBATE at 2:30 in the morning about what exactly is going on here, until I snapped out, "I am offering you my money for your product, and you are refusing it!  You are saying you do not want my money!"  And she says (try to guess) "WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!"  And Argyle barked out something pithy and we stomped off.

But we did not stomp with our tails between our legs.  Oh no!  We marched RIGHT BACK to the apartment, got in Argyle's car, DROVE BACK TO MCDONALD'S (at 3:00am), ordered our French fries, waited in the drive-thru line, got to the window, and then Argyle leaned over and shouted, "Oh!  I'm sorry -- we forgot!  YOU DON'T WANT OUR MONEY!" and then drove off at 1780mph, all the way over to the Carl's Jr. next door so we could wait in the drive-thru for another fifteen minutes to get our fries.  FOR WHICH WE GLADLY PAID.

We had briefly considered ordering two of every item on the menu at McDonald's before driving off, but it's not like they can't get your license plate number a million times while you're waiting.

Anyway, this is why we will NEVER EAT THERE AGAIN.  And you should not either.  Don't let anyone ever tell you not to do things just on principle, because it was the most awesome fun we have ever had.

GASP

That's me, gulping air into my lungs, because I have FINALLY been able to get my head out of work for a few minutes.  Things have seriously been crazy hectic this week.  The shit hit the fan, like, six different ways.  Fortunately, I'm getting to be an expert shit-handler.  That sounded wrong.  But it is actually fairly accurate.

Okay, but for reals?  Why do people have to be assholes?  Like, especially (JUST FOR EXAMPLE) people in public relations.  Isn't their job to RELATE?  To THE PUBLIC?  If I had a dollar for every douchebag PR guy who gave me the runaround this week and/or acted like I was planning to slander them To Catch a Predator style and run some kind of child labor exposé ("We'd love to come down there and film you guys!  Could you make sure your workers don't bathe or put on makeup?  We'll be bringing some shackles -- for atmosphere -- so make sure everyone's aware.  We'd also like them to sing some old spirituals or whatever.  If you have any with broken limbs, let's put them in the front with extra welts on their flesh.") I would have...a whole lot of dollars.

But it's cool.  I got my car situation all straightened out at last, and it's mine, mine, mine!  Ironically, while I was sitting there and waiting for them to process my title transfer, I recognized this guy who was working there at Triple-A.  At first I was confused, because he looked familiar but still seemed so different, and I convinced myself I was wrong.  But then I heard him answer the phone, and sure enough: it was Tony, my old compatriot from the shackles-and-child-laboring pits of Arts-Friendly!  I didn't have time to go over and ask him how he was or what he's up to, because I had to haul ass to the office, but it's kind of nice just to know where he is and that he seems to be doing better than ever now that he's broken free of the chain gang.

In other news, both Tex and Ulrich have officially completed their respective local obligations and have returned to whence they came.  Ulrich is back up north at school, and Tex has gone back down south to his other obligations, so Argyle and I are alone.  Just us and TiVo.  And pie.  (I made pie this weekend.) I don't know what we did in the days before TiVo, though, I swear.  Of course, it's not all roses -- last night I was up till 3am trying to catch up on shows, because I'm going up north myself this weekend and will be missing all my leisurely opportunities to watch at my own convenience.

Okay, speaking of which, I need to get the FUCK out of the office.  RIGHT. NOW.  I will go for a run, I will drive the fifteen or so miles all the way back home to get shit I forgot this morning when I was running out the door, and then I will drive all the way back that and THEN some to go visit my boyfriend.  Toodles, y'all -- have a great and relaxing weekend!
 

You'll Never Guess What Happened

First, the good news: I'm getting a new car!  Yay!  Well, not a NEW car, but one that's new to me.  Now the bad news: I'm getting a new car because...my car is totaled!  Sigh.

I know what you're thinking.  Go ahead, I'm thinking it too.  But seriously, did one of my ancestors, like, crash a jeep into the mummy's tomb?  Because what is with all the bad car mojo?  However, I suppose I should be glad that this time it literally took only a week for me to get all the paperwork signed and the money from my insurance company in the bank.  Last time it took five months and I almost lost my motherfucking mind.  I've actually even picked out a car already, sorta, if the dude selling it would ever call me back.

Related: why is it that I can't get people to sell me their cars?  The first car I bought -- brand new -- I couldn't get the salesman to call me back for two weeks.  I'm all, "Hey, I've got several thousand dollars I'd love to give you!" and he couldn't find time to get in touch?  Second time, the dude resisted my haggling but promised that if the price dropped he'd call.  The price dropped two weeks later and he didn't fucking call.  I found out about BY ACCIDENT because I responded to an ad in the paper for a car that sounded exactly like the one I wanted at the price I was asking.  What a douchebag.

Anyway, I've been driving Tex's enormous SUV for the past few days.  This has been exciting, because I am decidedly not a Big Car person.  In addition to lending me his car with no questions asked, he also cut my hair for free and is helping me take care of getting this new vehicle.  I told Argyle the other day that I was really glad we're going out with her boyfriend.  But then he needs the car tomorrow, so I will have to figure out something else.  "Something else", it turns out, will be that Ulrich will drive me to work at FIVE IN THE MORNING on his way out of town, and pick me up on his way back.  I will spend three hours tomorrow sitting in the Starbucks and reading.

At least I'll have a shot at finishing my book before the year's out.

Rum for the Money

This past weekend, we decided to make a grand and ambitious excursion around the city, in order to get drunk.  It had been a long time in coming, and as the summer really is entering its final stages, the time was now or never.  So we all piled into Tex's car (that is to say, myself, Tex, Ulrich, and Argyle) and we began Mojito Tour '07!

Stop #1 was The Abbey.  Yes, it kind of sucks now, having become a total tourist trap with escalating prices, but they still make one damn good mojito.   Tex treated us to nachos, and we got to the bottom of our drinks so fast you'd have thought we were expecting to find gold.  Ulrich and I had the coconut mojito, but Tex had the Ultimate, and they were all AMAZING.

Stop #2 was Lola's, where we met up with Glambo and her frenemy, Nutsy.  Now here's the thing: you will NEVER hear me saying that Lola's sucks in any way, because they are the  undisputed champions of the martini, but our bartender?  Kind of sucked, frankly.  I know he has no control over regulation drink size, etc, but the black cherry mojito (sounds good, right?) had, like, a JUNGLE of mint leaves in it.  When Argyle tried to compliment him on the drink anyway, he sassed, "Well, I don't really care how it is, because this is a martini bar."  Excuse the fuck out of us, we'll take it somewhere else.

Somewhere Else turned out to be Ma'Kai in Santa Monica.  My dad took me there for my birthday dinner one year, and I in turn took Ulrich there for his birthday dinner this year.  The food is delicious, the restaurant itself is beautiful, and they make a lot of really good specialty cocktails.  We were unfortunately pressed for time, late for a dinner reservation, and had to CHUG our mojitos.  Already a little bit tipsy, we were really getting buzzed when we left and stumbled across the street to:

i Cugini, a wonderful little Italian place that makes the BEST bellini you will ever have, EVER.  The mojito wasn't too shabby either -- a little tart for my taste, but I'll cut the guy some slack since he was muddling our drinks with a BROKEN FINGER.  We also had to slam these ones down, and then stumbled much more drunkenly back to the car.

Last stop: Za-Zen.  I don't care what they say over there, the restaurant is named Za-Zen.  It used to be, anyway, and then for some unexplained reason they changed the name to "Bite" (which, STUPID) and kept the menu and everything else all exactly the same.  Bite is a dumb-ass name.  Anyway, We had another round of mojitos (raspberry, this time), and Tex treated us all to an incredible sushi dinner.

So I woke up totally, totally hung-over the next day, but it was well worth it.  Seriously.  I'm sorry the summer has to end, but Mojito Tour '07 made it all worthwhile.

And, shit, because this was supposed to be a much more elaborate and entertaining post, that would also include stories of how my glasses are all fucked up, and how I got SERVED WITH ANOTHER SUBPOENA to appear as a witness (relating to that horrible accident I witnessed where the dude lost his face and stuff), but it is closing time and I have to haul ass out of the office to get home in time to get Ulrich in time to make it to a screening of The Bourne Ultimatum, so forgive the rush job, I love you guys, I'll talk to you soon, kisses, bye!

Life is Like a Murderous Hermaphrodite

I love soap operas.  I won't lie about it anymore.  When I was in my early teens, whenever I'd get sick, I'd just spend the whole day lying around on the sofa, watching TV.  I'd start the day with a rerun of something like Charlie's Angels or Murder, She Wrote, and then follow it up with old favorites like The Bionic Woman, The Price is Right, maybe some Moonlighting and an episode of Remington Steele, until the evening, when the Nick At Nite programming would begin and I'd be treated to all my REAL faves.  It was like the televisual equivalent of Easy Listening.  The one thing I wouldn't watch?  Soaps.

I don't know why, I just considered them a waste of my time.  Like, how unrealistic! (This was long before Dawson's Creek, in my defense, THE epitome of unrealistic television -- I mean, for reals, y'all: Pacey became a stockbroker, and some girl actually had the sex with Dawson.  I think not.)  Anyway, I couldn't be bothered.  FLASH FORWARD to 2004 when I quit The Worst Job Ever and suddenly had a lot of free time on my hands.  That's when I found Passions.  When I started?  Sheridan and Luis were getting married in the cemetary, but suddenly the Wheelers revealed themselves to be Luis's dad and Sheridan's presumed-dead (at Sheridan's hands) mom, who had fled to Mexico and gotten plastic surgery and fallen in love, and then Pilar started slapping Katherine around a lot, and Beth tried to gas Sheridan to death so she could regain Luis's affections, and Beth's mother's orangutan nursemaid was in love with Luis and trying to thwart Beth -- well, I got hooked.

FLASH FORWARD to today.  I'm still hooked.  These days, Beth is gone (having kidnapped Sheridan's son, Marty, and fled to Rome, where she is presumed dead in a train explosion), Martin and Katherine are no longer in the picture (having been written out to accomodate a shrinking budget), and two characters named "Fancy" and "Pretty" (sisters -- oh yes, they went there) are at odds because Fancy apparently threw acid in Pretty's face, scarring her for life, although it seems to have been accidental/self-defense -- and Pretty is an obnoxious, whiny ho, frankly, and I'm not wasting a lot of tears on her -- and now Pretty is threatening to ruin Fancy's wedding to Luis, which is taking place in a prison, because Luis is on death row for a bunch of murders and rapes that were actually committed by Fancy and Pretty's half-brother Vincent (although only Eve, Julian, and Sheridan know that as yet) and it's all very complicated.  The nice thing is, my roommate Argyle is also hooked on Passions.  A sample text message exchange, from earlier today:

Dr. No: Pretty is a stupid bitch and a LURD and I hate her!

Argyle: I know, right? Like, her life is ruined b/c she has to wear her hair down to cover her scar?  Grl, plz.

Usually our discussions are more erudite than that, but I think you catch the drift.  Anyway, Passions is moving to DirecTV in a month or so, and we're all torn up about it.  It's really become a touchstone of our cohabitation -- playing drinking games to Passions (for example, "drink whenever Sheridan deserves to be slapped". You'll be drunk by the end of Act II).  So we're going to bribe a friend to TiVo it for us, when really we should just let it go.

I don't even know why I brought this up.  I've been drinking viognier while writing this, so I've sort of lost track of what I'm doing.  Anyway, the point is this: SUCK IT, SHER-SHER!

I Think I'm Paranoid

I hate it when I can't sleep because it's too hot and my boss keeps walking in to check on me.  I could really use a nap, people.

My hair is doing really strange things today, by the way.  I'm not sure what happened, but it all stood up this morning like it was holding a vigil for some reason, and it has yet to relax.  I totally look like a Parasaurolophus or something:

Well, I take better care of my skin and nails, but you get the idea.  Anyway, I cut all my hair off not that long ago, and it's actually kind of refreshing to have my hair short enough where it'll stand up and stuff.  Before, I had only two modes: Acceptable, or Hat Day.  Hat Day is hard when it's 8 million degrees outside, y'all.  Although it's actually been pretty cool the last few, go fig.

Domino is in town, too, by the way.  It's actually pretty cool, although I haven't really had a chance to see much of her.  We all got drinks on Saturday, but I wasn't feeling very good, so we didn't stay out long.  She was supposed to come meet me for coffee this afternoon, but...dude, NOBODY wants to drive out to the Valley.  Not if you have to, certainly not if it's optional.  So I excused her from that, but will see her tonight.  It's weird -- she moved ten months ago, but somehow it feels like it's been so much longer.

Anyway, we met for drinks at this pub -- it's a great place, but...okay, people, it's where He Who Shall Not Be Named used to hang out with his friends.  Like, the ONLY place they used to hang out, and do you know why?  Do you?  Guess.  No, don't guess, because you'll never get it, it's that stupid.  It's the only place they used to hang out, because they didn't know of any other bars.  IN LOS ANGELES.  I mean...what can truly be said about that?  The statement mocks itself with dry sarcasm, right?

Anyway, I bring this up to put you in my frame of mind on Saturday.  EVERY time someone entered the bar, I would look up in a panic, worried that it was him.  This seems totally irrational, I know, but HE was totally irrational, as if you need the brush-up lesson on the Kafka nightmare that was my relationship with HWSNBN.  Anyway, I would sit there, feeling like everyone was staring at me and texting YOU KNOW WHO that I was at the bar, and OMG!!1!  I did run into HWSNBN once after I dumped him and he freaked out and I worried he would stab me or May Day one night.  I should clarify: I saw him once after all that, at Target, but he didn't see me and I turned and literally RAN for the door like the place was on fire.  He might have seen me as I ran away, but there was no confrontation and that's all I care about.

I know, I sound crazy.  But the thing is, my life is SO GOOD without HWSNBN in it, and I have no desire to upset that balance.  Not for an evening, not for five minutes.  He was on a downward spiral like a water slide, and I spent six months with him dragging me along after him.  Done.  Anyway, he didn't show, and that makes me very happy.

At any rate, we're doing something tonight, and it should be a lot less harrowing, methinks.  After all, we're going to a different bar.

Your Frenemies And Neighbors

It was a very busy weekend at Casa de No, y'all.  I don't know if I mentioned this before, but one of our neighbors totally died a couple months back.  I mean, he was old and stuff, so it wasn't tragic and unexpected, but death is always sad.  Unless it's, you know, Hitler.

Anyway, Argyle's friend Glambo needed a place, and on our recommendation she rented the vacant apartment and we helped her move in on Sunday (and I have the muscles, sore and rippling, to prove it).  This should be fun, as it means we'll have a friendly neighbor thirteen seconds away!  A friendly neighbor, with a dishwasher and A/C, like WTF?  Why don't we have that?  No seriously, why don't we?

Thing is, the process has also suddenly pulled us all deeper into the bizarre, Melrose Place-ian world of our apartment complex.  I have never been much of an apartment socializer -- when I was in Chicago, I lived at the end of an adjunct hall and made friends with the two other people who shared the same fate, but we never HUNG OUT or whatever -- in part because I kind of enjoy solitude in my own space (says the guy with three de facto roommates) and worried that Friends With The Neighbors equaled No More Me Time.  I also have ALWAYS resisted the allure of the "OMG, my apartment complex is just like Melrose Place!!!!" claims, because Dolly used to say that ALL THE TIME and it drove me insane.  Like, no, Dolly, your apartment complex is not "like Melrose Place", because I actually WANTED to hear about Melrose Place.

Anyway.  Glambo's appearance has precipitated a lot of strange events.  For one, the presence of Glambo's car does not suit the otherwise pleasant building manager's family much, because they had hitherto been using the space designated for that apartment to store some of their crap.  Now they are extremely unhappy, and seem to have held it against Argyle for getting someone with a car to rent the unit.  It has been subtle, but the signs are there.  The landlord has encouraged them to move their crap to the space immediately across from MY car, making it impossible for me to get in and out every day without folding my car in half like an origami swan and making a sixteen-point turn.

We now have nick-names for nearly everyone in the building, based on their personal proclivities.  To wit:

Phlegmy, aka Old Man Shouts-a-Lot, who has been my mortal enemy since the day he screamed at me through my kitchen window at 10pm for using a hand-held mixer, is suddenly being all hearts and flowers with us.  This would be a confusing turn of events even if he hadn't confided in Argyle that he THINKS MY BOYFRIEND IS "CUTE".

Old Lady Jenkins, who we previously thought possibly the meanest old woman on the planet, given her propensity for ignoring us when we say hello and snapping at us when we offer to assist her in dragging her grocery-laden walker up the front steps, turns out to suffer from hearing loss, poor eyesight, and...um, a lot of wine in the afternoon.  Suddenly she's all friendly, too.  And apparently she and Old Man Phlegmy have a social life we knew nothing about, and go out drinking together (?!?!)

Meg Ryan Moan, (so named for obvious reasons) and her boyfriend Goldpenis (so named for the reaction his aforementioned member elicits in MRM), who still haven't introduced themselves, but have finally quieted down some after Ulrich finally lost all of his patience and started yelling at them out of the bedroom window one night whilst they were in the extremely loud throes of passion.

New York and Cheats On New York, who barely registered on the radar until the other night when Glambo was unpacking some things and overheard a sudden, explosive commotion from directly below her, to the tune of, "So THIS is what goes on while I'm in New York," etc., etc.

Then there are an assortment of oddball recurring characters who come and go without much impact (the Sydneys and Janes of our little MP, if you will), like Antisocial Blonde Lady, Marathon Man (who runs back and forth all day long in the apartment above us), and The Chihuahua Girls, who are actually moving out now, and of course Glambo is living in the apartment formerly occupied by The Creeping Tom, aka Old Man Dies-a-Lot, and we suspect any day now she will become haunted and/or possessed.

We have found ourselves all of a sudden at the epicenter of our apartment building's social life (which, who knew there was one), and I have yet to decide how I feel about it.  All I know is, we're one scar-headed, bewigged, calculating doctor away from our own prime time soap.

Full House

Stately No Manor is a little bit cramped these days.  When Argyle moved in, she brought a surprising amount of furniture with her.  This was great, because after six months of living with my ascetic boyfriend -- sitting on the floor and eating out of ziploc bags -- it was kind of neat to have the place looking like a grown-up home again.  We acquired more stuff, and really jazzed the place up.

Ulrich has started to spend more time in LA, though, because he's lonely up at school all by himself.  This suits me fine, of course, because I get to see him more often, but it also brings complications in the form of all his crap.  He has to bring things with him when he comes, and because he's never gone long, he's started to just leave certain things behind.  My room is tiny, and already at full capacity, so this means there are now piles of things scattered around on the floor.

Ulrich is also on spring break this week, and staying at No Manor in the meantime.  Argyle's boyfriend Tex is ALSO in town for the month, working on a pilot, and he is staying with us as well.  Argyle's boss, in a fit of domestic pique, offloaded a roomful of furniture on her the other week.  OUR APARTMENT IS FULL.  I mean FULL.  My room looks like a landfill, the living room looks like a flea market, and the refrigerator positively cascades with food (HALF of which, let me just say, is elderly or infirm).

It's actually kind of fun, because we all get along, but I wish we had an annex.

The Big Cheese in the Rat Race

It's been a very long and hard road, folks, but I finally decided to stop not getting hired for stuff.  I mean, sure it was fun to sit around and watch my stories all day (and on that note, fuck YOU, NBC, for canceling Passions!) (and on THAT note...what the FUCK is up with Sheridan?  Leave Fancy and Luis alone, you lying hag!  She needs to get punched in the boobs.) but I finally decided that all the not having money, and all the needing to eat, were factors that couldn't be ignored anymore.  So I went ahead and had some people offer me work.

Okay, I'm sort of exaggerating.  Basically, Ulrich wrote a REALLY pathetic e-mail to his old company, practically begging them to make up something for me to do, and so here I am.  I was GOING to be "assisting" someone, but now I'm just doing "odds and ends".  The distinction is lost on me, but I'm getting paid for it, and I know when to keep my mouth shut.  I'm not above charity, people.  Pride is for suckers.

Of course, when it rains it pours, so I ALSO have a job interview lined up for tomorrow morning.  Cross your fingers, because it would be really nice for me to have steady employment when this brief gig is over.  It's a fun show, too, and one that's on quite frequently here at Casa de No, so it would be a great way to break the job famine.  Okay, ANY way would be a great way to break the job famine.  We're reaching critical mass here, people.  My bank account is practically anorexic.

Anyway, in my lingering joblessness, I decided it was time for me to embark on some serious reading.  To that end, I have been chugging my way through Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo, on the recommendation of my brother.  And may I just say that this book is 1500+ pages long, and I will be reading it until the day that I DIE, because I have no time now?   Sigh. 

And now my final point: a great, big, heaping pile of CONGRATULATIONS to Pussy Galore, who gave birth to daughter #2 this very morning.  Cheers!  I can't wait to meet her.