Monday, February 3, 2014

PS....

Okay, to be fair.... it's not like anyone is making my bed, bringing me a breakfast tray or getting Don Budge to give me tennis lessons (which is a shame, because right now I think I could beat him).  It would actually be pretty creepy - and legally actionable - if my boss came in to draw my bath (for both of us, I suspect).  And it's not like I've ever had to scrub the floors, or room in a tomb.

STILL... someone else is ordering lunch, and stocking paper clips, and routing calls, and sorting mail, and changing toner.  And when you're so used to doing that and suddenly you don't have to... it makes a girl feel positively redheaded about the whole thing.




Dionne and Me Are Gonna Be Psychic Friends.... I Totally Saw the Future!!

Don't let me get all braggy, but..

From earlier blog post: If fate has the sense of humor I'm hoping it does, now is the time when I will land a decent job and immediately devote 95% of my waking hours to being amazing at it.  Which means the other 5% is going to be crazy busy between reading and tutoring, NEITHER of which I will give up (I've already slept enough to get me through my mid-40's; I'm good for a while - just keep the Crystal Light Energy cheap).

Did I or did I not call it?  ;)

I'll be back soon!  Just gettin' a rhythm...  it's been a long damn time since I've spent this much of my day productively.

Monday, January 20, 2014

So Ends The Year of Living Langourously...

...well, not EXACTLY languorously.  Between job-searching and fruitless interviews, there was a lot of buzz-killy "I am such a piece of #$##$^, never ever going to get hired again in this economy, behold the walking scared-straight story for little underachieving schoolchildren, what the hell am I going to DO next month when the car payment is due again" drama.  Without family, I'd have sunk a lot lower a lot sooner, and grateful as I am, the whole being-a-worthless-drain-on-them is a depressing guilt trip of its own.  But yeah... judging from the amount of dust on my "good" clothes - interview ensemble excluded - I'd say languorous, at least from a laundry perspective.  But no more.  Time to wash the lucky sweater, get my bathroom back in shape for express-lane use, and organize the "good(er)" bag, because... someone's going back to work tomorrow.

(albeit with less Aqua-Net than this)

Friday, January 17, 2014

The flats worked!

I imagine the conversation in HR went something like this: "Smith!  Hire that woman immediately.  She'll spot imminent danger to our shoulder blade area, and alert us."


Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Once Upon a Time...

An English teacher I greatly admired once told us that the foundation of all Western literature could be found in three sources: The Bible, mythology, and fairy tales.  Being a huge fan of information I don't need, I decided recently to check out the fairy tales, and downloaded The Blue Fairy Book onto my phone.  Guess what?  Fairy tales are fucked up.

That's no revelation to anyone who has read them - or remembered them - as an adult, and you're an idiot if you're reading centuries-old literature and expecting to find contemporary attitudes.  I wasn't looking for progressive tales of shattering the glass ceiling, but damn.  I'd forgotten just how twisted this classic "kiddie lit" can get!   Disney shouldn't be filming this stuff... Tarantino should.

The one I listened to - Twelve Brothers - opens with a King telling his pregnant Queen that if she has a girl, he'll KILL their twelve sons so that their daughter will inherit all.  Which actually is kind of progressive, I guess, in the psychotically stupid, murderous sense of the word.  The distraught Queen, who probably wonders how her idiot husband ever became King without learning how to divide, tells her youngest son, who tells his brothers, and all twelve decide to run away immediately in case Mom pops the wrong way.  Which she does, leaving the brothers penniless, homeless fugitives.  Which THEY decide to avenge by killing any women they encounter, for the rest of their lives.  Yeah.  Bitches, man....

Well, Little Sister grows up, learns the truth, and goes off in search of her brothers, who are all shacked up in a cottage somewhere, seven-dwarves-style.  Luckily for her, she finds the youngest one first, who doesn't quite have the hard-on for lady-killin' that his brothers have, and is actually happy to be reunited with Sis.  He hides her, and when the pack gets home (Little Bro has clearly been designated the bitch of the group, since the other ones make him stay home and keep house while they're off doing sweaty manly labor), he pitches them an idea: "Hey guys?  I've been thinking: you know how we're totally gonna kill any girls we meet - which probably means no one's taking this French Maid costume off me anytime soon, but that's cool?  Wellll... wouldn't it be even MORE punk-rock if we let the first one live and just kill every girl after her?"

The Great Brain Trust mulls this over and agrees the only thing more righteous than killing all the girls in the world would be killing most of the girls.  As they high-five and chest-bump each other amid shouts of "EXTREEEEME!", Little Bro reveals their surprise houseguest.  New policy already in place, the brothers joyfully embrace her (especially Little Bro, who is already rolling down the tops of his lacy stockings and kicking off the heels), and everybody settles down to live together happily ever after.

Except they don't, because one day, Lil' Sis is picking flowers with which to surprise her brothers, and she accidentally picks twelve enchanted flowers, turning one of her brothers into a crow with each pick (which I imagine was entertaining for a moment, at least, on their end: "Dude, wtf??!!")

An old witch comes along and explains to the girl that - first of all, dummy! - don't go picking wildflowers you don't know anything about, unless you really dig crows.  Second, the ONLY way she can change her brothers back into strapping young potential serial killers is if she does not speak a word - or laugh - for exactly seven years.  So, the Princess goes and climbs a tree - because why wouldn't you, at that point - and starts waiting.  There's no word on what the crows are doing, and it's never spelled out if they kill any women while they're in crow form, but I think we all agree it's possible.

This pic is here half because it fits the moment, and half because the little girl
in the foreground is possibly the greatest "running in terror" freeze-frame, ever.

Eventually, a handsome prince comes along and discovers the beautiful mute in the tree.  There's no resisting a gorgeous girl who can't talk, so naturally, he puts her on his horse, takes her home, weds her (one imagines it was a quiet affair - zing!) and eventually she becomes Queen.  She's still a humorless mute with birds for brothers, but at least she can wait it out in style, now.  Except (da-da-DUMMMM)....her bitchy jealous hateful mother-in-law constantly accuses her of being a witch. The non-talking is bad enough, Mom points out, but what kind of social deviant never laughs?  Witches, that's what kind.

The King, though deeply in love, is helpless against this kind of rock-solid logic, so he orders his wife burned at the stake ("Whaddaya want me to do?  You know how Mother gets.").  Speechless, helpless, and apparently not possessed of a notepad, the Queen is tied to the stake and lit while her heartbroken hubby looks on, doubtless wishing he somehow - somehow - had the authority to stop all this.  Just as her royal rainments begin to burn.... you guessed it.  What's that in the sky?  It's a bird!  It's a plane!  It's....TWELVE ANGRY CROWS!

The crows land around their sister just at the last minute of the seven years, become human, tear off her ropes and rescue her.  She explains all, the bitchy mother-in-law is packed off to a scuzzy retirement home in South Florida, the simple-minded King is presumably forgiven, though you'd like to believe he sleeps on the couch for a while, and everyone lives happily ever after.  Go to sleep, honey.  Of course you're an only child.  Really.  I promise.








Sunday, January 12, 2014