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October 31, 2003
Happy Halloween!
Posted by hilatron at 11:54 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
October 28, 2003
Selected Recent Events Which May Indicate That I Should Consider a Career in Slapstick Comedy or the Like
Somehow got Velcro of wallet stuck to boob area of sweater, much to the delight and amusement of elderly male lottery addicts at Fran's Mini Mart.
Forgot to zip up pants three times in one day, most notably just before sitting down in a meeting next to boss's boss. Thank goodness for long shirts.
Upon inserting wallet into front pocket of bag, pushed too far and got hand stuck in pocket with wallet. Comical flapping ensued.
Me, the morning time, piping hot tea, a recalcitrant teapot. Discuss.
Plans to wear beloved if extremely dorky overalls thwarted on Saturday when, while attempting nothing more complicated than having a pee, dropped strap into toilet.
Sewing, generally. The pins. The hot irons. The opportunities to sew things to themselves in physics-defying ways. The hopping. The cursing.
A true artiste can make old things new again: pulled classic trip-run-flail-run-save maneuver, but timing it to occur right next to a busful of pointing laughing evil children was pure genius.
Yes, pulled face at children. What would you have done?
Posted by hilatron at 08:04 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
October 24, 2003
I made things.
I have made some more things.
These and more (if I get to make them in time) will all be on auction in the 3WA Crafts Fair, November 3-10. All are welcome to bid!
Posted by hilatron at 09:39 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
October 22, 2003
CONVERSATIONS WITH MY METABOLISM (A Play)
SCENE 1.
A scantily-clad woman walks across the stage, holding a placard that reads "A New England Town. Fall. 2003."
The curtain rises. We see HILATRON, a robot of grace and charm, sitting behind a desk, upper stage left. Throughout, she will mime various actions.
Enter the METABOLISM, stage right. The METABOLISM is a Neanderthal wearing a fur loincloth. It carries a large stick. It looks around nervously as leaves fall from the ceiling.
METABOLISM. Unga! It get cold! Me make robot eat more, increase fatty deposits for long harsh winter. (Loudly, in the manner of an anime character calling out an enemy) STOOOOOO-MAAAAACH!
The STOMACH enters from stage right. The STOMACH is a small, jittery man in a denim jumpsuit, reminiscent of a janitor's uniform. He is clearly intimidated by the METABOLISM.
STOMACH. Y-yes, Mr. M?
METABOLISM. We need eat more! Winter come! You demand many foods now!
STOMACH. But, uh, Mr. M, sir, the lady upstairs won't like that. You know what she said about--
METABOLISM. YOU LISTEN ME NOW! What upstairs know about eating? Me been doing this for untold millennia. Me call shots when it come to keeping this show going! Ooogn!
STOMACH. O-o-okay. (Clears throat) Um, food? Can I have some, uh, food?
HILATRON looks around. She rubs her belly, then takes an apple out of a drawer and starts to eat it.
METABOLISM. Not good enough, digestion-boy! We need more than wimpy fruit snacks to pull through cold dark months! Ask for cheese!
STOMACH. But, uh, Mr. M, sir --
METABOLISM. Cheese! Ask for CHEESE! (He gives the STOMACH a violent wedgie. The STOMACH yelps and then:)
STOMACH and METABOLISM. (Together) CHEEEEESE! CHEEEEEEEEESE!
HILATRON tosses the apple aside, removes a large wheel of cheese from the drawer and starts eating it ravenously.
The pair continue yelling as the BRAIN, a large old-fashioned computer like something out of a science fiction movie, rolls in on an electric cart.
BRAIN. (Coming to a halt at center stage, in an imposing and educated female voice.) Stop!
HILATRON stops eating.
BRAIN. You fools. Are you not aware that we live in a modern world, where a wide variety of food is available year-round and heated homes are de rigeur? Your incessant pestering will merely make Hilatron plump and sluggish. If you want her to be in top form this winter, the best thing to do is to encourage a regular regimen of exercise, the consumption of fruits and vegetables, and plenty of sleep.
METABOLISM. (Smiles craftily.) Sleep? Me show you sleep! If you no allow successful gorging, me make Hilatron sleep real good! Urgh! Auuurrrph!
The METABOLISM hits himself over the head with his club and collapses. Simultaneously, HILATRON lets out a huge yawn. She tries to do some work at her desk, but is clearly exhausted. Finally, she pushes everything off her desk and lies down for a nap.
BRAIN. Oh for the love of... (To STOMACH, with condescension and a touch of distaste.) You there! Stomach! Get him awake this instant!
STOMACH. But -- but ma'am!
The BRAIN's lights begin to blink wildly. In a thundering voice:
BRAIN. This INSTANT, I said! Do not make me repeat myself again! I can make or break you, puny organ!
STOMACH. (Cringing.) Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am.
Tentatively, he walks over to the METABOLISM, who is snoring loudly. He taps the METABOLISM on the shoulder. No response. He taps harder. The METABOLISM rolls over, and the STOMACH jumps back and runs a few steps away before he catches himself. The BRAIN makes an ominous buzzing noise. The STOMACH takes a deep breath and returns, poking the METABOLISM in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. Without waking up and without apparent effort, the METABOLISM grabs the STOMACH's leg and pulls him off balance. The STOMACH teeters and then comes crashing to the floor next to the METABOLISM. The racket finally wakes the METABOLISM up.
METABOLISM. (Sitting up.) What for you make all this ruckus? Me sleep! Me prove point to that Brain over there! You ruin everything!
Enraged, the METABOLISM reaches for his club and starts beating up the STOMACH. In the background, HILATRON awakens and looks around. She mimes hunger as the STOMACH whimpers in pain and tries unsuccessfully to escape.
BRAIN. My good man, there's really no need for this vulgar display. If you would just listen to reason for a moment --
METABOLISM. (Stops hitting the STOMACH, who crawls to the edge of the stage and collapses. Quietly at first, but growing louder throughout his speech, as he slowly approaches the BRAIN:) You...and...your...reason! Me no care! Me know what's what! It get cold, we eat lots, we stay alive! That the rule! That work for thousands of years! Me no need some newcomer, some piddly evolution, telling ME what to do! Me no care from "central heating." Me no care from "supermarket." Me know that we alive, and that means my plan work! (He hefts club in his hand.) Now me take over here, even if I have to do this! (He hits the BRAIN with his club.)
BRAIN. I say! Violence will not solve anything! We just need to come to some sort of compromise...
METABOLISM. No more talk! Only hit! No more compromise! Only me!
The METABOLISM begins hitting the BRAIN in earnest, breaking lights and sending buttons and dials flying across the stage. The BRAIN makes stammering protests which degrade into frenzied buzzing noises; then, with a flash and pop, the BRAIN shorts out. The METABOLISM turns triumphantly to the STOMACH, who is quaking with fear.
METABOLISM. This winter different. This winter, we do things MY way! Unga-unga-OOOOOOOOOOOO!
The lights fade to black except for a spotlight on HILATRON, who gets up from her desk, walks carefully over to where the cheese landed earlier, and picks it up. Slowly and deliberately, almost primly, she sets the cheese on the desk and sits down. She takes a big bite from the large wheel. Smiling, with cheese dropping from her open mouth:
HILATRON. Mmmmm. Me like cheese.
THE END.
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October 20, 2003
You want to be mad but you just can't resist these puppy-dog eyes.
Now this is ridiculous. I am turning into one of those people who once a month or so checks in with an "I'm sorry baby, I know I've been neglecting you but it won't happen again, just take me back this one last time and I swear things will change," but you know they won't, those ungrateful bastards. Hmmph.
So this weekend was the infamous and dreaded work event. After months of trial and irritability and printing problems, all went well. And my goodness did I ever look fabulous. For those of you who remember the Great Reunion Dress-buying Event of 2003, I finally got a chance to give that hard-won garment a second outing.
However, return to the workaday world I must, and this morning was rough. For one thing, all the fancy dressing and jet-setting left discarded shoes and handbags all over my apartment, the better to trip me and prevent me from finding important items like keys and wallet. For another, the lingering effect of a fancy party is always to raise my standards of dress for a few days afterward. Suddenly I'm not happy with merely finding some pants and a shirt that don't make small children cry, oh no, suddenly I want to look fashionable. This is a lofty and despair-inducing goal for a Monday morning, at least in the cat-hair-bedecked Tron household.
Speaking of playing dress-up, last night I caught Bruce Campbell's excellent turn as an aging, mummy-battling Elvis in Bubba Ho-Tep. Hie thee to the local indie theater and see it, if you get a chance: even if you think you don't like horror-comedies, you will probably be surprised at the depth of thought and sensitivity that went into creating this portrayal of What Might Have Happened if the King had lived. Well, except for the mummy probably.
Cheers, I'm out. And honey, I promise I'll be back soon. Don't look at me like that, darlin' - you know you drive me crazy.
Posted by hilatron at 10:08 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 15, 2003
This is what happens when you elect a president who can't spell 'disestablishmentarianism.'
I thought it was the caffeine that made me sleep poorly for the last two nights. I thought maybe I was cranky because a certain person who controls my paycheck likes to call me into her office so that I can watch her chew apples with her mouth open, while talking. I thought maybe I was feeling hostile to my nearest coworker because he is built like a polar bear and keeps the window open even in the chilliest fall weather, creating a noticeable cold zone around our workstations. I thought I was feeling less than perfectly put together today because it's been far too long since I did laundry. However, now I know different.
In case you were not aware, it's Marriage Protection Week, kids. Did you know that marriage makes everyone's life better? Were you aware that it produces happier children, guarantees security for the tender sex, reduces crime, cures colds, and gets your tiles sparkling clean? At least, it does all that as long as you're straight. Even our President says so, so it must be true. No wonder I am so grumpy! I am missing out on the magical cure-all represented by this institution! What a silly girl I am, letting my heterosexual relationship sit around not living up to its potential!
I surely do not need to repeat all the good things people have said, poking holes in the "logic" of these arguments and pointing out that Marriage Protection is actually Thinly Veiled Bigotry. I'll bet you can cruise around the Marriage Protection Website and do it on your own, anyway. I would just like to state that as a shacker-upper, I count myself proud to be a part, however small, of the bunion in these people's loafers. Let my happy relationship chafe their sense of moral superiority, let my childless state perplex them, let them squint and quiver over the fact that Josh does most of the cooking.
I propose that next week should be declared Why Exactly Are You So Concerned About What Other People Do With Their Private Lives Anyway? week. We can celebrate by staying home, taking a good look at ourselves, and working to become secure enough about our own individual morality and life choices that we do not need to go around shrieking and moaning and demanding that everyone else be exactly the same, Constitution be damned, the reality of how the world works aside.
Posted by hilatron at 12:18 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
October 13, 2003
Go Robot Go!
Lookit that, I have let things slide around here once again. The problem is that I usually depend on weekends for writing and thinking about future entries. And lately, the weekends have been getting away from me. For example, this weekend was a whirlwind of errands, craft-making, and Kill Bill seeing. And in two hours, we will be hosting some loved ones as they pass through town on a whirlwind tour of their own. It all adds up to not much time in front of the computer (and by "not much," I of course mean "less than ten hours per day, oh the smoking horror.")
Kill Bill was just the thing. I astounded Josh by announcing that I don't have anything bad to say about it, because I have a reputation for being a teeny bit critical at times. A word of warning: although super-fun and mega-stylish, the movie is also ultra-violent. So if you have some sort of weird aversion to the hacking off of multiple limbs, avoid. Although as EV, who along with her charming husband joined us for the viewing, pointed out, it's so over-the-top that it plays like comedy. Anyone over whom this exerts a negative influence, well, they had problems already.
In leiu of length or humor, I'll close with some more pictures of things I made:
More magnets, and the box they come in. Help me, I cannot stop making magnets.
These new things are all going to be for sale at the 3WA crafts fair (nothing naughty here, but a slightly risque page title, so watch out at work!) in November. Get your wallets ready, kids!
Now I'm off to tidy up the house and myself and the giant, terrifying pile of craft supplies on my desk in anticipation of visitors. If you don't hear from me, check under the silicone glue.
Posted by hilatron at 10:10 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
October 09, 2003
Aaaaaaah.
This week has brought the end of a lot of frustration, the relief of stress I was not even aware I had: only when the magazine came back from the printer's and actually looked pretty damn good did I realize how very convinced I had been that they were going to deliver us 1,000 copies of pure crap. I would like to note, however, that any reports you may have heard of me doing a little jig in the lobby of the building are greatly exaggerated.
In addition, here are some extremely dorky pictures of me in my new coat. Naturally, it is now too warm to wear it. That's okay, Weather - I can outwait you. Oh yes I can. If I could conquer the Hem that Would Not Die, I can beat you.
I'm off to go have a Tom Collins and cross "fashion model" off my Possible Careers list. You all have a nice weekend.
Posted by hilatron at 07:50 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
October 06, 2003
The Story of Mrs. Wilbur
I thought I would tell the story of second grade and Mrs. Wilbur. It is long, but I had to suffer through the whole damn year, why should you get off easy? So here goes.
If there were Bad Teacher Court and I took Mrs. Wilbur to trial there, the defense could present the case as follows: Mrs. Wilbur, public school teacher of long standing, was faced with a troubled student, me. After months of my refusal to participate in class or do my schoolwork, along with other crimes of subversion too minor to bother mentioning here, Mrs. Wilbur consulted with parents and guidance counselors to come up with a plan that allowed me to go on to the third grade, no harm done. What is the big? Simple. A minor ripple. No lasting scars to see, not even a black mark on the academic record. Why dig this up at all?
Because. People like Mrs. Wilbur thrive in the murky subjective underground, the things that can't be proven even in pretend court. Here are some more things about second grade, things with no witnesses:
Mrs. Wilbur was a very bad teacher. Mrs. Wilbur would hand out long lists of assignments for us to do on our own, so that we could "learn to structure our time." This is nonsense. Most seven-year-olds know shit about structuring time. Faced with a bewildering maze of classwork with nebulous due dates, and no real clue as to how to prioritize it all, I floundered and grew bored.
I am convinced that this whole time-structuring thing was not a misguided notion, but a mask for her complete indifference to her students. Above all, Mrs. Wilbur did not want to be bothered. Mrs. Wilbur would pretend not to hear questions while she was writing lists of assignments on the blackboard. Mrs. Wilbur would leave the classroom for several minutes at a stretch, and then when she returned to find us flying paper airplanes or whatever, would scold us for acting like a bunch of unsupervised seven-year-olds, because she really did not want to have to deal with the fact that that's what we were.
Mrs. Wilbur was boring. She spent a lot of time talking with her back to the class, writing on the board, or talking while looking down at a book. Kids would laugh, whisper and sometimes talk right over her without getting much of a reaction.
Mrs. Wilbur was either crazy, dumb or both. Mrs. Wilbur created spelling lists with words like "negligee" on them. Mrs. Wilbur handed out homework assignments, and at the bottom of each worksheet was a question: "How did you feel about doing this assignment?" followed by a smiley face, a neutral face, and a sad face. You were to circle one of these. I circled the smiley face every time. What else could you do?
Mrs. Wilbur didn't quite know what to do with us. When two boys got carried away with teasing me at the beginning of reading circle one day and I had a real meltdown, crying and screaming and all, we were kind of on our own. It was up to them to get freaked out by my reaction and apologize, and up to me to accept it, while she looked at us like we were interesting bugs.
Mrs. Wilbur taught me the important lesson that an adult could dislike me, could be as viciously unfair and two-faced as the mean popular girls were. I will never forget the first time I realized this. A second-grader doesn't know much about diplomacy, and it was early in the school year, and so when I noticed that one of the words on the day's spelling list was misspelled I didn't even think twice about pointing it out to her. I don't remember what Mrs. Wilbur said. I remember that Mrs. Wilbur smiled, and it was the scariest thing I'd ever seen, because a smile in my experience was not supposed to telegraph "I hate you. You little bitch. You little nothing." I remember that after recess, the spelling list was erased.
I pretty much stopped doing any work at all in the middle of the fall, I'd guess. I'd read instead, book hidden behind my workbook or tucked into my lap under my desk. If Mrs. Wilbur caught me, she'd yell, but she never took the book away and she never mentioned the growing list of overdue work. But then. On the last day of classes before winter break, Mrs. Wilbur pulled me aside and, with that smile, told me: "You know Hilary, you're going to have to make up all that work while you're on vacation, or you probably won't get into the third grade." I believe she even had a list prepared for me, presented with another smile, written in her neat and perfect schoolteacher handwriting, of every single piece of work outstanding. So thoughtful.
I experienced mild synesthesia when I was a kid, and Christmas break exists in my memory as greasy grayish-yellow: the colors for failure and dread. Of course, I didn't do a single bit of the missing schoolwork; at that point it was way too big to even think about. Also of course, I didn't say anything to my mom about this. I knew enough to know that I was in deep shit here.
This brings us to an interesting point - one that interests me, anyway. I wonder why it was that my mom didn't find out about this whole deal until school started up again in January, and I cried every morning before leaving the house? Why only when I started getting physically sick, running out of the classroom to throw up in the bathroom (or on one notable occasion, into the basin of the water fountain right outside the room, yeah, I was that nasty throwing-up girl now on top of everything else), only when my mom called a meeting with my teacher to discuss all this did Mrs. Wilbur happen to mention that I hadn't done any work in months?
At the time, it just seemed like The Way Things Were. It was something between me and my teacher, who smiled that smile at me, whose trust I had betrayed by not using all the independence she gave me wisely, whom I was not good enough for. If I had just done the work during my break as she so kindly offered, no outsiders would have needed to know.
I have some new theories now, though. For example, now I know that one of the first things Mrs. Wilbur said to my mom upon revealing my huge backlog of classwork, after pretty much ignoring me for the first half of the year, during their first one-on-one meeting, was "I think Hilary is having a delayed reaction to your divorce." The divorce that happened when I was two? Yeah, that divorce. And there is just something about that statement, something that makes it fit very neatly next to the memory of how Mrs. Wilbur used to look at me as if I were less than the sum of my parts.
When I started ignoring Mrs. Wilbur and my classwork, it allowed her to fit me more neatly into the "troubled, neglected child from a broken home" box. If she had to hide what was going on from my mom in order to fulfill the "neglected" part, well, that was a better option than facing the fact that she was a crappy teacher who hated kids. Kids who corrected her spelling. Kids who asked her questions when she was trying to teach. Kids who didn't get along with the other kids, who threw up, who got made fun of a lot and who were weak enough to get upset about it. Kids who were smart enough to be bored and dumb enough to show it.
Of course I'm projecting here, just guessing. But you'll never be able to convince me, not with a signed affidavit or a lie detector test or anything, that Mrs. Wilbur did not hate me. It's pretty easy to fool kids about a lot of things, but there are some things that they are very good at picking up despite your best efforts to hide them. Mrs. Wilbur might as well have sprouted horns and fangs, the way she smiled at me, and I am as sure that that memory is real and objective as I am about anything.
When Mrs. Wilbur suggested to my mom that I go to the counselor, she made sure to prep him on my issues. And so I spent a lot of time that winter in Mr. Spoon's office, playing with dolls and wondering why this strange, pinched little man was asking me if the mommy and daddy dolls ever fought in front of the kid dolls.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Wilbur focused her creative teaching skills on making sure that I was able to finish all my work. She asked the class to "help" me stay focused by telling her if I was slacking off. A few days later, she announced that from now on, I would have my own special box for turning in homework, still with dutifully circled smiley faces, separate from the other kids' box. Oh, I was destined for popularity, I tell you.
It's funny, but I can't really remember how it all ended. I do remember that when it was determined that I wasn't improving under the watchful eye of Mrs. Wilbur and Mr. Spoon, an expert was called in from outside the school. The new person asked questions that I could make up my own answers to; she seemed to actually be listening to the answers. At the time, I only knew that talking to her was a great relief compared to sessions with Mr. Spoon, with whom I always felt like I was taking a test I hadn't prepared for. Now I know that this new psychologist took one look at the their theories, laughed her ass off, and told them that instead of worrying me about my parents' divorce they ought to be finding me some interesting schoolwork to do so I could catch up with the rest of the class.
And somehow I did. There was no triumphant ending, no day of celebration to mark my last moment in that classroom. Just a gradual lessening of the dread and stress and guilt, and the lingering knowledge that you can be wrong, and bad, and mean, and still get all the power.
So I guess I won, but it has never felt like it. That is probably because nothing I did ever made Mrs. Wilbur stop smiling that smile at me, or admit that she was wrong, or congratulate me on making it through that period at last. It's not the biggest deal in the world. But what's really too bad is that almost everyone has a Mrs. Wilbur of their own, the experience of realizing that someone who is stupider and pettier and altogether worse than you holds all the cards and there's nothing you can do. The human race could really use a litmus test for teachers and bosses and cops and all positions where authority can be wielded subjectively, to keep the Mrs. Wilburs out.
Posted by hilatron at 07:10 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
October 03, 2003
No More Miss Crankypants. Well, Less of Her, Anyway.
My goodness, it has been a real vent-o-rama around here lately. I'd like to apologize for that. I made a secret, somewhat conceited vow when I started this that I would not have one of those blogs, the kind where you are all "today work sucked and i can't believe beth said that to me and i am so tired," etc. Clearly, I have not been living up to that goal, and I'm afraid that I am not one of those people who can make high art out of life's little foibles. No. I fear instead that I am just a whiner.
In the future, I will try to do better. Some things that will make this easier: I have today off. I am going to a fair on Sunday (keeping fingers crossed for good weather). It's fall! There have been a few chilly nights, but last night, boom, no more messing around, time to shake out your fuzzy sweaters, woodsmoke in the air, crunchy leaves underfoot. This morning is the same temperature as yesterday morning, but this morning was clearly the morning to start drinking tea hot instead of iced. Who could be grumpy about that?
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October 01, 2003
My New Favorite Word is "Done."
Pbbbbbbft.
The theme of this week is "projects that will not end." I have approximately fourteen million Very Important Things to do and they are all, every one of them, clinging to me like backward children, refusing to get their damn lazy butts off of my task list and go out into the world and make something of themselves. Meanwhile, I feel as though I am moving in slow motion, trapped in resin, unable to resist the onslaught or turn my puny, exhausted will against the forces of inertia. Among the things that I am so ready to let go of are:
The magazine project. First it was the ads that people kept being unresponsive and/or bitchy and/or last-minute about. I finally finally got the damn thing laid out, got it to be a multiple of four pages, said no freaking way to a last-minute addition that would have required the finding of another three pages of filler, got it proofread a million times by everyone, figured out why the text of one story kept appearing under the heading of another, etc. I survived the disastrous first attempt to send it to the printer, where my slow little sleepy computer decided to go all crashy from the stress just as the courier was arriving to pick up a disk. Snapped at my boss. Was repentant. Was forgiven. Then we get this...thing back from them, this dishrag, this landfill candidate, as a proof. I do not know what they were thinking. The images: printed wrong. The Very Expensive Ad on the back cover: streaky. The fonts: screwy. All of it, despite their vigorous claims: pretty obviously not my fault. I am in no mood to talk to the printing guy, a guy who goes from defensive to condescending to conciliatory, all the while cracking bad jokes, all in one sentence, all in the same tone of voice, which makes me dizzy. I am in no mood to do this all over again. I do not need this. What I need is for this damn thing to be done, distributed, and out of my hands.
The coat project. The fall coat is almost done. Except that the fall coat has a hem, a hem that must be hand-finished to look right, and it seems that I have created a fall coat which defies the laws of physics. Lay out the fall coat and measure the hem, and the hem is maybe five feet, total. Take up needle and thread and start stitching, and the hem expands to fill the universe. All there is is hem behind me and hem in front of me, as far as I can see, for ever and ever amen. And it is getting cold out, man. And I am having Project Paranoia, wherein one suddenly feels as though what one is doing is totally crappy, not worth the time at all, doomed to fail and look bad and be unflattering and I probably should have thought twice or three times about the material I picked out, cotton twill, what am I a moron, don't I know it rains here? and blah blah. So what is with all this hemming anyway?
The pants that fit project. Back in July I optimistically bought a pair of warm, flannelly, charming gray pants for $9 that were the same amount of too tight as my other pants, because surely by the time the weather got cold I would fit into all of them. Well, here's a dieting tip for you: really really wanting to fit into your pants is apparently not a good substitute for exercise and the reduction of snacks. I should write a book. I could make a mint.
Speaking of which, the solvency project. I keep setting deadlines: by X time, I need to be getting Y number of freelance editing/writing/whatever, fucking typing even jobs, or that's it, I will work at Starbucks. But then I get a little tickle, a little job here or there, and even though it barely counts as pocket money I tell myself that this is a sign, that I should keep going because if I take some minimum-wage counter-jockey job in addition to my current job I will have to work so many hours to make ends meet that I will never get anything else done, never have time to get ahead. And while this is true, really, it's time to make a living again. I am so tired of the monthly bill freakout, the cycle of promises, betrayals and recriminations I go through with my checking account. My Fleet statement is starting to give me that look, the one that means it's wondering if this is really forever, if it made the right choice, if it should maybe be looking for someone a little steadier, someone salaried maybe, someone who doesn't horselaugh and head for the recycling bin when it offers up a "Your Investment Options" brochure.
So, yes. Frustration abounds. Hopefully next week's theme will be "winning lottery tickets for everyone I know" or something.
Posted by hilatron at 10:44 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack