resume building

Friday, feb. 27, 2004   |   0 comments

Saddest story ever: I had a dream last night that I accidentally got married. To some faceless tuxedo man in … a hot air balloon? And during the blinking, baby-mouse moments between deep sleep and full consciousness, I actually thought to myself, “Oh now THAT’s something I can type about on my online internet website!” Gross, sad.

It isn’t that I have nothing to write about — I’ve been very busy with this non-stop thrill machine life of mine. It’s just that my brain is being a complete asshole these days. The usual torrent of ideas and thoughts are there, but nothing is clumping together in any cohesive order. Not exactly unusual, of course. Right.

So, without further ado, I give you, in no particular order, a quick rundown of all that’s been on my mind and chest as of late. Here:

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It’s been a very long time since I did laundry, like since the last voting day (granted voting is something we seem to be doing on a fortnightly basis here in San Francisco just now). Forced to dig deep in my closet, yesterday I wound up wearing an unfortunate combination of light cotton pants over knee-high socks. The pants were so flimsy that they couldn’t hold their own against my thick and strong socks, which gripped the pants from the inside and tugged them slowly, slowly down as I walked. Desperately my pants tried to anchor themselves to my underwear, but since they, too, were another bottom-of-the-drawer choice, they were constructed of some mutinously slick and probably flammable fabric, which offered nary a foothold.

That’s it. No verb to that story, really. Just, “wow, irritating outfit.”

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Last Friday, Jill, Liz, and Liz’s friend Douglas came over for pizza and television and Swedish Massages (of the imbibing variety). I got home from “work” about a half hour before everyone was scheduled to appear, and the second I opened my door, the stench of cat urine assaulted me with a wallop of near-faint-prompting strength. For some reason — Marbles does not appreciate the color, or the fact, of her new collar? Marbles is jealous that she had to share Valentine’s Day with a mass of other people? Marbles can not contain her excitement over Dirty Dancing Two: Havana Nights? — she’s been peeing all over the entry way to my apartment. Again and again. I clean it up, she pees, I clean it up, she pees.

I imagine her strolling past the spot and, upon finding all her hard work undone (not that you can really ever erase cat urine, yay), stopping up short. Sighing, she bunches up her haunches indignantly and unleashes another river of piss as “Working in a Coal Mine” plays. And then in I rush with the scowls and paper towels. 10 goto 10. (See that? Computer programming? Circa 1978? Take that, resume!) Actually it’s happened just twice, but even two cat urine sessions are enough to feel sisyphusian.

So there I was, seconds before people arrived, on my hands and knees, rubbing a wedge of lime all over my front hallway. (Huh? Yeah, I think I read somewhere that fresh lemon combats the smell of fish, so, I don’t know, lime and cat pee? Maybe!) And then lighting a bunch of candles. And opening all my windows up wide. And leaping around with some eau de “I’m no crazy cat lady” air spray.

Anyway. We watched some scary red, blue, and yellow Disney special about a plucky herd of cheerleaders, then we watched some Jill-taped Arrested Developments (because my love is the kiss of death for all quality television, I will say only that I would happily bear that show’s children) as well as the very special and insane “muppet” episode of Angel.

At one point during the evening, I was unanimously voted “world’s worst fast-forwarder,” and to my complete discredit, this sent me into a momentary self-pity spiral — my pending job search, I think, has me a little sensitive about my many shortcomings (the very worst of which being my ability to question my self-worth based on a critique of my VCR-management skills). But don’t worry. As of next Friday, I’ll be dedicating every ounce of my essence, and its metric equivalent, to becoming the world’s BEST fast-fowarder! Take that, resume!

After we got our fill of television (as if such a thing were possible, shit), the four of us met up with Ivan at Clooney’s, where we basked in the unflattering marvel of that bar’s lighting (which dinges your face the color of a white bra accidentally mixed in with a dark load) and established “Tusk!” as our collective safeword.

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Last week I discovered that for the past YEAR I’ve been holding my Sidekick upsidedown while using its cellphone feature. Holding it upsidedown and COMPLAINING about the sound quality. Take THAT, resume!