Home

ride a cowboy

February 27, 2009

I see via craigslist that Duke’s is hiring a mechanical bull operator.

I feel that this sentence is self explanatory, and that you should all join me (late, but better than never) in a resounding bout of the giggles.

Advertisements

go marching one by one

February 26, 2009

Everyone in my house is antsy. The cats are skittering between every room with bits of feather and string, and I’m wandering squares around things, tidying spots that are already tidy, watching the clock, waiting for the laundry to be done, because then I can go out and be active. The weird thing about not having a job to suck eight plus hours out of every day is the amount of ingenuity I have to employ to fill up every empty moment of every day. I have things to do, sure, I volunteer at two separate places and I paint sometimes and read too many books and hang out with friends and devise all sorts of ways to go out and do things without spending money, but gah. I spend every day in bursts of nervous energy, trying to find something productive to do with myself and generally failing by my own standards. Some people were just built to work their lives away, and I’m discovering that I’m one of them; leisure is a damned liability. I can feel my body and my brain softening at the same slow pace, although I read through college textbooks and online news sites and work out every day, and can for the first time in my life tell you the exact location of Israel and the complete life story of Alexander the Great. I feel like there’s an edge I’m losing, I’m becoming more of a half assed intellectual slash artist type than a brilliant hard working all staff problem solver, and I always thought that I’d love the opportunity for this kind of change and I’m finding that I don’t. I like to work. I spend my life in pursuit of busyness, whatever my hand finds to do I do it, and lately there hasn’t been an awfully lot for my hand to find. Oh god, the boredom of never having to do anything you don’t particularly want to. Christ, the inspiration born of mundane work-a-day adversity. Sweet Jesus, the loss of virility in every limb of my underused body and cell of my underused brain.

DAMN DAMN, in short.

There are too many hours in the day to fill, and not enough work with which to pad the sharp edges of long minutes. I never really considered myself a salt of the earth type, I always figured that someday I’d find an alternative lifestyle niche and fall comfortably into it, kiss goodbye forever hard work and service industry stress. Now, I’m fair convinced that what I want most in the world is my nose to a grindstone of some sort, where I will not so much lose the skin off said nose as polish that damned stone into a diamond of over achieving brilliance.

I know I’m whining here, y’all, but that laundry will take its sweet time and I’ll jitter around my clean empty home like a nervous dog refusing to settle, and all I want is some more to do. I feel like an eager bum on a street corner, cardboard sign in hand, Will work for something to do with self.

Must drink less coffee.

It was a bright and sunny morning, and I forgot the laundry soap. So I had to run back upstairs for it, and it was a brand new box, and I had to open it. Since I have smallish pointy fingers that jab with more violence than precision, I broke the pour tab on the box and now there is a fine layer of detergent silt coating the inside of my hamper and everything I’m wearing, and I predict that so it will be, amen, until the end of this box. It’s a bright and sunny morning, and three happy loads of laundry are currently washing, but; I smell like the sneeze inducing detergent/dish soap aisle of Winco, and this is my least favorite aisle of Winco ever, because: sneeze inducing. Life never comes at you perfect, I always say.

Yesterday was my first day volunteering at the People’s Food co-op, and although the entire experience was rockfabulous enough to make me wish through star crossed fingers every moment I spent there that this was in fact my job and not just a volunteer gig, I was struck by nothing so strongly as the fact that working retail is quite like learning to ride a bike. Once you’ve mastered the broad and subtle mechanics of it, pedal pedal oh god BRAKE, customer customer thank god BREAK, you can stay the hell off it for years at a time and randomly get back on one day with every miniscule skill intact and ROCK it. I haven’t been in a retail setting in anything other than a find shit, collect shit and pay for shit capacity in approximately five years, but yesterday all my long forgotten love and undeniable chops for customer service came flooding back in the most ecstatically heartbreaking way. I love customer service. I bagged groceries, carried out groceries, bullshitted with customers and coworkers, restocked some tea, (my exuberance for which left me coughing up tea dust and picking it out of my eyelashes for the next half hour), faced pretty much the entire store, wrangled shopping carts, and had overall the time of my little life. My feet started aching about halfway through my shift and my body remembered well before my mind did that I walk and stand far too solidly on my heels at all times, and that sometimes I need to compensate by walking on my tiptoes for as long as I can. When it finally occurred to me that I was walking everywhere on my toes I laughed all over myself and enjoyed a sweet, sweet feeling of being back where I belonged. I fucking miss retail; I miss having a job at all. I could work at a Plaid Pantry and love it, I’m pretty sure. I’ve got proprietorship built into my bones, I think; give me a store to run and I will own it. There’s something so infinitely satisfying about running a well faced shop, keeping up to date on favorite customers’ life stories and self righteously exceeding the unreasonable expectations of querulous, nit-picky regulars. ARGH. Someone somewhere set me up shop. Baby, I was born to run. (a storefront).

p.s.

February 19, 2009

I just applied for a fully fabulous sounding job, so if the internets all want to cross their radiantly sexy fingers for me, well, the internets are just welcome to do so. (hope hope hope).

So I totally didn’t get that job. Sorry to leave you all hanging like that, on the edges of your seats as I’m sure you were, but no. No job for Tabitha. The (possibly untrue, but nonetheless very sweet) explanation I received was that they needed a bilingual employee, and they got one; and my own Spanish, it is not so fluent. I can eventually Yoda my way around any question or statement, along the lines of ‘your hair I like because it is large and yellow,’ but I suppose that while such statements go over in a big fine way at bars and dinner parties, it is not necessarily a highly rated professional skill. Phooey. Also phooey, I have suffered another onslaught of The Pestilence, most frequently referred to as the common cold. It would seem that all of life’s unfairnesses are stacking up against me, with the cruel dismissal of my faltering Spanish skills and my overall snot filled fatigue, but life has been pretty sweet lately. I found a ton of fifty cent books at the bins, all of them worth reading and most of them ancient British novels, (yay), and I finally got the first sketch for my next painting just right. My cats and roommates have not antagonized each other to any sort of breaking point this week, the recycling has been taken out, and I have an entire bunch of soft, succulent bananas. I am very full of snot, but I’m hoping that will be over soon and life will go on as normal, normal being a time and place when I can breathe through my nose again. Cheers to you all; Earl Grey clinks all around.

the complete life of

February 9, 2009

I am convinced of quite a few but probably not quite enough things in this life of mine, and of these things my current favorite is the unquestionable wack genius of my sleeping mind. Yes, I am going to tell you about another dream of mine. You will like it.

Zombie epidemic! Oooh god!

In my zombie epidemic dream, I was clearly the hero. Everyone around me was succumbing like meek little lambs to the slaughter and I was all dodgy and uninfected and alive. In all honesty this was mostly due to the peculiar characteristics of this particular epidemic: when a person was infected, they would get very sleepy and eventually have to lie down somewhere, anywhere, and sleep for a while. This made them easy to avoid; just stay away from the sleeping people. When they woke up from their nice sleep on the sidewalk or what have you, they were full on zombies with an insatiable lust for blood. I think my mind may have mixed zombies and vampires a bit, because these zombies had no interest in brains or actually eating people, they just wanted blood. You could tell a zombie easily, because although they woke up from their infection naps they never fully woke up again. Their pupils dilated and took over the entire irises of their eyes, and they shuffled along like limp wet noodles, surrounded by others but alone in their half waking world. This also made them easy to avoid. You could see a zombie staggering down the street toward you, and all you would have to keep from being blood sucked was stay out of their way. They were way too sleepy to crave the blood of a fully awake person unless said blood was about a foot away from them. Then they would suddenly wake right up, jump straight for the jugular, and boom. Dead person. The zombie would finish up the blood snack and have to go right back to sleep immediately, wash rinse repeat.

This was ok. I was very smart and figured this all out very quickly and became a superlative zombie dodger. I was getting ready to rest on my laurels and enjoy my long life as the number one zombie dodger of all time when it occurred to me that this infection was clearly not spread by being bitten by a zombie, because no zombies were actually dead and the bitten people definitely were, and stayed as such. Therefore, the virus was still out to get me and it was up to me to find…an antidote!

After much dodging and searching I found the antidote: parsley. In my dream it looked exactly like celery, but we called it parsley. I bought copious amounts of this parsley and broke the stalks up into convenient bite sized chunks and went off in search of zombies to cure. The very first person I encountered was my boyfriend, who was just waking up from his zombie nap. He staggered toward me and I was afraid of losing my blood but I stood my ground bravely and threw a couple chunks of parsley at him. He was too sleepy to notice them. ‘Of course,’ I thought, ‘it just couldn’t be that easy, could it?’ He was within a foot of me now and I could see his body wake up. I shoved a stalk of parsley between his teeth and nearly lost all my fingers. He leapt for the sweet red blood in my neck, and then stopped. I held his face in my hands and watched his pupils dilate back and forth, cured and not cured, zombie and not zombie.

‘Ellis!’ I yelled, because his name was apparently Ellis, ‘parsley! Parsley, Ellis! ELLIS, PARSLEY!’

I woke up with a shock, ELLIS PARSLEY running through my head like a life saving mantra, and my sleepy eyes focused on the autobiography on the bookshelf across from me. Elvis Presley.

HipOppoTamus

February 7, 2009

This week of the living dead, with the aforementioned internet that seems bereft of life, displaying full rigor mortis for ages and ages on end and then, when one has reached the desperate end of one’s rope, having given up all for lost but willing to have one last fling at the Mozilla button, miraculously resurrects for a deplorably short wellspring of hope and activity only to plunge once more into rage inspiring inertia, has been a remarkably busy one. I ought to have posted seventy kabillion blogs this week, and now I will never be done playing catch up. This here and now is my attempt, and we can only hope I will be as brief as possible. Come on, we can try to hope.

Firstly, I have not yet been given the job which should so rightly be mine, as we were formed for each other in our mothers’ wombs, etc; I was supposed to receive the life altering decision on Friday, but the person in charge of bringing in and sending away was out sick. This means that I now have to wait until Monday for anything like pop the champagne cork celebration or abysmal defeat, and it means that I am still in that fervently cranky place known as Mental Limbo. I pride myself on being very flexible in most regards, but bending over backwards has never been my forte, whether under a real life party bar or a waffling abstract edict. I would drink to improve my spirits, (ha!), but I can’t afford it; I would take up jogging or something to improve my endorphin levels, but I can’t spare the energy. So I read lots of books and smoke lots of cigarettes and snuggle my cats to distraction.

My friend Nitya came to stay with Holly and me for a while on Wednesday, and that was an ordeal and a half. Moving out of the Western Rooms is no short order, as I know from grievous personal experience. However she is apparently not quite as bad a pack rat as I am, because where it took me every last second of a month’s notice given to get my shit together and out, we managed the whole of her apartment in one slightly frantic day. She has been sleeping on our couch ever since then, and her three suitcases have been obstructing my access to my dresser and closet. I therefore have been wearing only the most easily accessible clothing for the last several days, to my general detriment. I mean, I’m fine and I like having her here, but those suitcases, man; people such as myself who struggle to look decent even at the best of times, those times being when the full force of their wardrobe arsenal is available to them, cannot really afford to dress in what even they consider a mish-mash manner. Summing it up, I tend to look like crap lately. However, there have been quite a few good times rolling, we have had an actual fruit pie in the house, (mmm), and I can definitely deal with looking mostly like an unmade bed if I can simultaneously shovel down large quantities of pie in the company of cheerful people.

I have also spent most of the week loosely wrapped in the coils of a halfhearted unnamed sickness, one of those nasty things with few symptoms other than unending fatigue and unending snot, which, ugh. My friends have been very sweet to me, though, not only allowing but encouraging me to spend all my time on the couch under a blanket, and this is nice. Moving Nitya out of her place and into mine was kind of a trying ordeal, and left me stark eyed as a zombie and limp as a wet noodle for the next twenty four hours, but other than that I have left the couch pretty much exclusively to pee and eat pie, and check the internet in a hopeless sort of way. Also, cough drops are gross. Just so you know.

I have more things to say, but I have not been brief and I know it, so I will now leave you here, hanging, begging for more. Right? Exactly.

Oh, and I also dyed my hair black. Yay!

Oh, and I also dyed my hair black. Yay!