Shakira, Shakira

Work's been insane for the last few weeks. Everything coming down at once, 80-90 hour work weeks. So Shakira was a good treat. She played at the HP Pavilion in San Jose and it was amazing. A pseudo Britney Spears? Nope. She rocked out with her guitar, shook her hips, and sounded amazing. Wyclef opened. He doesn't have that much music I guess...he just improved and had a DJ on stage. Whenver he wanted to get he crowd riled up, he'd just scream Shakira.

Handjob, anyone. #2

We're giving the client a handjob.

Let's not do great work. Let's just give the client what they want. Do they know what they want? er–

My boss, who is supposed to fight for us and push to do great work instead has a conversation with me that goes something like this (part, if not all, has been editorialized for dramatic purposes).

Pipsqueak dorky pseudo boss: What you've done won't work.

Me: Why?

Boss: It needs to be like the other work already done.

Me: But that sucks.

Boss: Yes, yes it does. Yours is better but the client loves shit - let's give them shit.

Me. But we could do better - it's our job to do good work. Not shit.

Boss: The client LOVES shit. In fact, many of the people here love shit, too. Shit shit shit.

Me: Ok, so the objective is shit? Maybe we should admit that up front next time – it will save us from the 60 hour work week and ugly weekends. Cause hey, I can give you shit in an afternoon.

Hello benefits.

Miami is over. As frustrating as working with that partner was, I can't say I wasn't a little sad to go at the end of the two weeks. They ended up offering me a job –– and a lot more money than I expected. But in the end, I was also offered a job in San Francisco.

Holy shemole...deuling job offers.

My original plan was to get the job in San Francisco and have bidding wars between some other agencies to see who could give me the most money. But in the end, I'm all talk and accepted the SF offer. Orientation was today. Hello benefits, thanks for coming.

Update.

Ok, so it's really a strike. An immigration strike. On CNN. I am the last to know. But I doubt any of my coworkers actually participated in this march.

Last to know.

You know how there are some mornings when you just don't want to get up? Much less put the energy into getting ready to go to work? 5 more minutes. 5 more minutes.

Well I get up and drive my groggy ass to work, hit the elevator button and it won't light up. Everyone else's elevator button lights up. How embarassing. I try again and no lighty as the five other people in the elevator look on. So I look through my messenger bag pretending to have forgotten something in the car.

Damn, forgot it.

I get off and try another – this time empty – elevator and my button still doesn't work. Bitches.

I ask the security guard and he tells me my company is on strike. My floor is closed and I can't go up.

Whaaaaaaaaaa?

I missed that memo. I call the few numbers I have with me and no answer.

Oh well, I tried. Time for the mall and a new pair of shoes. I have a hunch the closed office has more to do with today being International Workers' Day and less with a strike. Nice going white security guard. You don't know!

Apparently, neither did I.

Nothing but a rooster at Key West

I had nothing to do yesterday so I decided to go to Key West in the morning. My company got me a rental car during my stay in Miami and luckily the rental place gave me a free upgrade to a convertible.

Unfortunately once I got there I couldn't find a hotel. Everything was booked. I parked the car at a random hotel parking lot, walked around, got some lunch, and drove back. This was the only picture I managed to take. A rooster and a hen in a random parking lot. I looked around to see where they could have come from. But found nothing. Weird.

I did get a tan. Well, half body farmer tan thanks to the 3+ hour drive each way.

Ice cream cones

Just a quick one. I'm in Miami doing some freelance work. The partner I'm working with at this agency has a tendency to stick his hand down his pants. Down his underwear. Constantly. And right in front of me. We drove to the McD's drive-thru to pick up some ice cream. The drive-thru cashier hands it to him and the moment I see his hand touch the cone I realize–

He hasn't washed his hands.

The cone is my favorite part.

Is Scientology such a scary thing?

All I know of Scientology is what I saw on South Park. And that Tom Cruise is crazy.

As I was walking around aimlessly yesterday taking pictures I came across a woman dressed in a nice suit and a silk scarf tied around her neck. She was handing out flyers. Most people avoid flyers but the least I could do is take one – she may have been standing there all day. As I kept walking she came in pursuit. You're not supposed to follow me. I take your flyer and keep going. But she started talking about Dienetics as she pointed to the Scientology church, building, compound, whatever on the corner. They have a 'show' every 15 minutes. She didn't even ask me if I had a few minutes to spare or if I was interested. She just told me to follow her. Um, crazy, I'm not following you. She was stern and tried a little longer to recruit. I was waiting for her accomplice to come up behind me and throw a sack over my head.

No means no.

Rain rain

San Francisco weather is slightly miserable at the moment. It's been raining just about every day for the past month and the forecast doesn't seem to want to waver. Every now and then, we get our periods of rain but this is crrrrazzzzy. It makes me want to lay on the couch and watch movies all day. While eating. A lot. Delicious little snacks and cheeses with crusty sourdough bread. And chocolate cake. Mmmm. Chocolate cake.

The rain reminds me of the only raincoat I've ever had. I was seven. Much to my disappointment and complaints, my mom took me to Broad Street in Newark. I hated Broad Street. The junkies, beggers, and crazies scared me. But she liked to shop there because there was so much cheap junk to browse through. And the knock-offs. Oh, the knock-offs. While on her hunt for something probably very ridiculous like a back-scratcher or homely multi-color knit sweater It began to pour. She bought me a red raincoat with a ginormous Coca-Cola logo on the back. I only wore it once.

Office with a View

I'm sitting in an office, with a large window, a couch, two computer monitors and privacy. Maybe that sounds weird when attempting to group all of the items into some sort of action but really it's just a description of my surroundings. Although, I could look at shirtless pictures of Colin Farrell all I want and no one would know.

I'm back at my old job freelancing for a few weeks. It's just temporary. But some important person is out so I get to sit in his office. This is what it's like? I've only had the pleasure of, gulp, cubicles. This is way better.

I've had two job interviews in the last week and a half. Which is pretty good, I think. One place in Minneapolis flew me out last week. Midwestern accents all over the place. Which is cool. But it's cold there. And then I had a videoconference with a place in Miami this week. If they liked me the next step is to fly me out and check out the office.

This whole unsteady employment thing does get old after a while. Bring on a contract – where do I sign?

Unemployment woes

I'm a jerk because I've failed to update this blog regularly. I'm sorry – to all three of you. Hi mom.

The Scotland thing didn't work out. At least I don't think so. I haven't heard officially about the job but I've got a hunch. Regardless, I don't think it's the best thing for me right now. You know how you don't know someone until you spend 24 hours a day with them? You know, for a whole week? No? Well, it's not fun. The partner I went with is cool but after all that time together I was ready to poke him into unconsciousness with a sharpened crayon. (I would have made that work somehow).

So I've been back for a while sending my book out and trying to make contacts. It feels like my full-time job for a long time now has been looking for a full-time job. It's probably the worst job to have - unless you can get the government to help out with unemployment. Which, of course, I'm not qualified for.

On the bright side, I spend most of my time in coffee shops with my laptop. Yes, it sounds boring but I love it.

Twelve-year-olds in the military

Whenever I travel internationally I always have this horrible panic session as soon as the plane lands...and for all I know it may be rooted in my childhood when my family would make me hide chorizo in my luggage. I was never really sure how wrong it was smuggling chorizo, but I had a hunch.

So apparently I look dodgy. You know, like a liar. A criminal. The kind that uses the last of the toilet paper but doesn't tell anyone. The customs lady in the Glasgow airport had a hunch I had used the last of the toilet paper sometime, somewhere...leaving somebody stranded, panicked, searching for something else to use.

Lady: Why are you coming into Glasgow?

Me: I'm visiting.

Lady: For how long?

Me: A week.

Lady: To do what?

Me: To visit!

Lady: What are you going to do while you're here?

Me: (what kind of fucking question is that. The same shit all other tourists do. You live here...you should know) uh...things. I'm gonna see things.

She escorted me (along with a guard) into a tiny interrogation room lit by horrid fluorescent lights. She questioned me further then left, locking me in behind her so she could corroborate my story. She looked through my wallet. Read through my notepad. Inspected my CDs, asked me how much money I had in the bank, who I lived with in the states. I couldn't be quite sure – maybe she was looking for a date.

She was gone 15 maybe 20 minutes, giving me enough time to figure out an escape plane. She would come back and look through the small window but not find me. I would hide behind the door and soon as she opened it to inspect my whereabouts, I would knock her over and run. RUN. I would hop on the train and go to Spain where I would hide with my grandmother somewhere in the mountains.

My mom has this horrible habit of making telemarketers regret they called. She shares way too much information. Unnecessary information and then keeps them on the line longer than they really would like to be. I hate that habit and I was embarrassed when I discovered it was hereditary.

Customs lady came back and asked me why I had only gotten a one year passport. There were many honest reasons I could have given. It was cheaper. I'm receiving my European Union passport shortly. I don't need a 5 year passport.

But instead I gave her the dumbest one. Although an honest one, dumb.

Me: Because to get a five-year Mexican passport I have to get my Mexican military card. And to get a Military card I have to be clean shaven. I didn't want to shave my beard!

Why was it her business that I like sporting a beard and that without one I look like a 12-year-old girl? Regardless, she finally let me in with a special stamp. I was on some watch list to make sure I left the country when I told her I would.

Catching up.

I've been back from Jersey for nine days now. And it's like heaven. I'm able to fall asleep easily again. I don't toss and turn for 3+ hours before falling asleep on the bottom bunk. The weird sporadic popping sensation in the back right half of my brain has gone away. Seriously, I felt like I had something roaming around in there...like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens. I was ready to blast that shit out of my skull but thankfully I didn't have to get messy. There was no foreign parasite taking up residence. My mother isn't harassing me every 5 minutes. The weather is perfect in San Francisco – sunny and 65 degrees. I step out of my house and there is life. And there is public transportation. It's amazing.

San Francisco is the best place I've ever lived. And I may be leaving. Crazy...yes. But it makes sense when you take into consideration my erratic migration pattern.

I'm going to Glasgow, Scotland on Saturday for the entire week. It's freelance at an ad agency there but it's more like a one week job interview. At the end of the week they'll tell me if they love me more than my mom loves me or they'll ask the janitor to help me pack my suitcase. I'm trying to not get too excited just in case the janitor does have to sit on my luggage as I yank the zippers shut. But it would be so amazing – Scottish accents and all.

I had to cut my Jersey trip short because of a kind of job fair my school was throwing in SF that I had no clue about. I was planning to stay on the east coast for at least another month or two. But this was probably for the best. I was able to take a quick trip up to Boston before leaving. It was great. It reminded me of so much. When I moved to Boston eight years ago I had a lesbian haircut and not-so-fitted Gap jeans. Not to mention zero debt. My hair is much longer now and I have tons of debt. But I will not lie, there are a couple of pairs of those Gap jeans still hanging in my closet just in case I learn to love them again one day.

2006

Going out to the village for a drink or two.

Happy New Year everybody.

I should've had some resolutions all set to go. I might have to make them up tomorrow. But I've got one for now. Have more fun. I'll start on that one tonight.

Escape

One day two weeks ago I worked late. That's not very unusual. At my internship there were many days where I would work late. Nine, 10, 11pm. Once or twice until early in the morning. This particular day I had gotten off at around 4:30am. I was tired and all I wanted to do was go home and forget about having spent my night not in bed, but at the office, while the art directors on the projects had gone home a long time ago. So I left in after work mode. I didn't think of calling a cab. I walked the empty streets to Market Street where I normally catch the train - which has now stopped running. I'm almost at Market Street, halfway down the block when I hear a loud thud and the high pitched tension snap of the steel bus power lines. As I look 40-50 feet behind me I see a big lump that looks like an oversized duffle bag. I couldn't quite make it out (I didn't have my glasses) but in the back of my mind the truth raced. I slowed and stared. No possible way. Seriously, who dropped the duffle bag? A few cabs sped by and almost ran him over. No duffle bag. A man. He jumped or fell or was pushed from the 12+ story building under construction. I couldn't stop thinking about him. But there was no mention of him in the news. No blurb in the papers. I found nothing. Who are you? What happened?

I have to be honest, I have thought about it before. They say everyone has. A solution, an escape, an answered prayer. Flight. A flight to take us away. I remember moments in my past riddled with helplessness and hatred and confusion. I remember wanting it so badly but being too scared. All I could think now is was he helpless and hateful and confused? What was he getting away from?

Home again

I always forget what it's like to come back to my parents' house.
And it's funny because new jersey is not a forgettable place. But it seems that each time I leave (even though I promise myself to not return for too long a period) I come back thinking it won't be so bad. Sure thinking about sitting on my parent's couch, watching free DirecTV, and eating like a pregnant whale (no really, a whale – from the ocean) seems like a good idea. It'll be a nice break, I say. But the anal-retentive control freak in me comes out. Not slowly. Not just a little. But in a walloping explosion of i hate this i hate that blah blah blah. BOOM. Yes, stupid. Yes, selfish. But after not living anywhere near mom and pop for so long, adjusting to those old ways is hard.

I also forget how much my mom likes to feed us. Right now in my house there are so many tempting things to eat. Maybe tempting is the wrong word. It suggests the uncertain outcome of provocation or attraction. Maybe I should say in my house there are so many things I have eaten. Yes, as in they tempted and succeeded and there's no going back. The custard cups, creme-filled donut, cheeses, prosciutto, breads, guacamole, candies, plus all the Christmas leftovers. I've lost all will-power.

Greener. Much greener.

I've always been a person who believes that the grass is always greener. I always think there is better out there than what I've got. And I'm trying to hunt it down. After seven years I'm still roaming because something always seems to try to guide me to this greener grass.

For the past seven years I've been moving an average of twice a year – and I'm not just talking apartment numbers here, sometimes states, sometimes coasts. Thirteen addresses. Yes, I counted and I've had 13 addresses since I was eighteen. Plus all the in-between times I've had to move back to my parent's house, this time being the 4th. Where am I going? And what the hell am I looking for? It's no longer wanderlust. One thing is for certain, I'm getting tired.

This makes me wonder if I'm just too picky. Do most people settle? Settle with their jobs. Settle with life. Do they know something I don't? Like the perfect job doesn't exist, never will – neither will the perfect life. But I'm not even looking for perfect. Just something non-depressing.

...........

I've been sitting here for the past twenty minutes trying to figure out where to go from here. What to write, how to tidily sum up this post. And I have nothing. Maybe this is a cop-out, but I guess I can't make sense of everything until I know what new direction I'm taking. Maybe I'll figure it out from my next address. Who knows, perhaps it will have a backyard with much greener grass.

Thanks for the pigeon

I sent in my petitions to reverse the charges from the fine city of San Francisco Department of Parking and Traffic. You see, I got 3 parking tickets and had my car towed. What did the citations say? Resident complaint: blocked driveway.
Was my car blocking the driveway? No. Some angry bitch decided every time she got in and out of her garage, that my car was too close to her ugly face. She called DPT and had my car towed.

When I spoke with her on the phone she proceeded to lecture me and rambled about how nice she's been about it and how she did everything she could to notify me. Oops, i must have missed the carrier pigeon she sent with a note.

She was able to get in and out of her driveway...she said so. And she still had my car towed. I'm so angry. I'm going to the junkyard, paying $100 for some rusted piece of junk and parking it early in the morning before she heads out for work. I'll show her a blocked driveway.

X3

So they have finally released some pics for the X3 movie. And there's a trailer. And Halle Berry has decided to return to the third installment. Yes, she won an Oscar and is now a legit actress. Yes, she's been bitching about how she didn't want to return to X-Men because her roles in the first two movies weren't big enough. And after such success and of course spectacular acting skills seen in Catwoman it must've been very difficult to return. Welcome back.

The Carver is back on Nip/Tuck. About time.

Rolling

Thanksgiving was delicious. Except that upon parking on a lovely San Francisco hill, my car jumped back, hit the car behind me which caused that car's brake to disengage, making it propel backwards in a semi-circle, jumping the curb and driving itself across the street to finally come to a lovely, um, stop against another car on the other side.

The best part was all the kind area residents stopping to say "Quite a way to start Thanksgiving."

Ha ha ho.

I drive my car once I week to move it for the weekly street cleaning. That is all. And I take it grocery shopping this one time... Surprisingly, the damage was minimal. And no bystanders (there was an extended family standing at the corner) were killed. Car number 3 is kind enough to not pursue it any further. Luckily it was just a dent against the door. His car was old already so he didn't seem very concerned. Plus he was a nice man. Car number 2 seems to want to pursue this. The damage was a few scratches to his bumper and a dented light but he wants to get a quote.

Can someone steal my car and rid me of it? My car company won't allow me to break my lease. Unless of course I pay a penalty equivalent to the remaining payments. (There are 13 months left on the lease).

I should move to Arkansas just to have a reason to have the car. Or better yet, New Jersey.

Friends of mine

I'm walking to the train to get to work (already late). I see a cracked out homeless lady walking to me, swerving madly like a drunk driver behind a car. So I swerve in the other direction to avoid the crash. Oh but wait, I see her scratch her greasy head, inspect her fingers and dash towards me, arm outstretched, with a slurred "Excuse me sir" as she purposely wipes her fingers on my arm and walks away.

Hello, caller.

I was recently flipping through the channels. I flip fast and even faster through those middle Local access, Home shopping channels. But for some reason I stopped and landed on QVC. The well-kept host with her perfect Texas Beauty Queen hair and florescent smile was selling some lovely necklaces. They were made of small silver hoops interlocking to form the spectacle displayed on a mannequin neck. The Beauty Queen was speaking about the beauty of the necklace with a caller who recently purchased one. You see, the caller liked it so much she was about to buy another (they came in three different sizes). The caller sounded delicate. Alone.

The host propped the necklace in front of different colored cloths to demonstrate how well it complemented any color (especially blue, the caller's favorite). As the host displayed the shiny necklace around her perfectly manicured nails, she asked who this necklace was for. The caller said it was for herself.

"Thanks for loving yourself," beamed the host, condescendingly.

Immediately, sadness emanated from the screen. The fake set, the fake jewelry, the fake host.

"Nobody else does–" replied the caller.

The statement, registering before the caller finished prompted the host to ignore it. But more than that. Almost interjecting. As if embarrassed or annoyed. This caller will not ruin my show. On she went dismissing life going on around her and focused back on the beautifully fake necklace being sold for $29.99 plus S&H.

Thanks for calling. Click

Toyota Pulls Ads From FX's Nip/Tuck

According to Mediaweek, Toyota, along with other sponsors, have pulled their ads from Nip/Tuck. Too much sex they say. Hello, it's cable TV. And have they seen The Real World? There's some real freaky deaky going on there.

On a slightly different note, what happened to The Carver on Nip/Tuck? I don't care about the damn new after surgery spa...where's the Carver?

To the Brazilians, who don't speak Brazilian

I spent my weekend at work my internship doing something that should have taken just a few hours. But people can't seem to make up their minds so it took all weekend.

I did get to go out with friends on Friday night. Dinner was delicious at a Chinese place on Polk Street. Probably the best Chinese I've had. I can't say the same for the few Bud Lights I had after – I may have to give it up. But the company was amazing. The Brazilians, whom I met in school, have left and gone back to the motherland. They've become some of my favorite people and the few friends I had in San Francisco. Unless of course you count itchy crotch boy and one of the blonde Trifecta from school. Cause I don't.

I'm sad. But hopeful I hear from them again.
"Whatever. Chill out dude."

Links

I've added a links section to other blogs!

I hate Makras Real Estate, 1193 Church Street, in San Francisco.

They're rude, unhappy people. I went to pick up keys for the new front door. There are two of us in the apartment but they would only give me one key. They checked my ID and verified my identity in their computer system. Saw that there are two of us in the apartment but refused to give both keys for security purposes. Like I'm going to take the second key to my apartment and give it to the random guy on the corner who makes non-stop moaning sounds. I'd love him dropping by unexpectedly.
Regardless of their policies, they were assho*** about the whole thing. Never do business with these people.

Post-its

I'm 25 years old. I'm well educated. I have a nifty little degree and after an additional two years, a decent creative portfolio. (Perfect for working in a creative ad agency). But apparently, I'm a complete idiot. You see, the fact that I did go to school and oh, I don't know, I'm a human and not a rock, is not enough for simple instructions.

The far superior non-rocks who work here seem to disagree. I love post-its. They're amazing. You can put 23,000 of them in a book and give one simple instruction and somehow, magically, have that instruction apply to every post-it.

But since I am a dumb rock, I really don't understand that the little yellow sticky tab on a page means I should scan that page. I thought it meant scan the page that's four away. I'm so glad someone sat me down and showed me the 28 different pages with post-its and one by one told me which ones to scan.

He left a business card, it must be legit.

The US Census Bureau has randomly selected my apartment to include me in an employment survey. Are they hoping I'm unemployed? The lovely field rep, Dan, has stopped by several times last week (during the day. You know, the time most people are at work) and once he even left me a $5 Starbucks gift card. Can't they leave a survey under the door? Why must he talk to me? It seems quite obsessive. He even stopped by Saturday and Sunday but I was away. I'm worried one day he'll really find me at home.

Lemonade 25¢

When I was 10, I worked at my parents' New Jersey grocery store Rosa Maria Food Center (named after my older sister). I worked as the cashier. Yes, I often manned the register on my own while my father was way in the back butchering, or doing whatever it is that butchers do. Cutting meat.

I was in 5th grade, hardly able to reach the Marlboro Lights and Parliaments stacked high on the shelves but I was able to sell them. I managed frequent customer's credits in a rinky dink 3 ring binder (not everyone could pay so my parent's gave customer's a tab allowing them to pay later...a very noble but very foolish gesture on my parents' part.) I bagged, I stocked, I served as loss prevention specialist and did 'busts' during busy after-school times. I did everything but cut the meat.

And this didn't phase most people. Adults treated me as an adult. A little 10 year old adult who could sell them smokes and who knew the characteristics of more odd vegetables than an average American male. I didn't really enjoy it, especially because I couldn't go out and play as much. But I hated it because of the teenagers.

I hated when the high school kids would come in. Yes, I'm ten fucking years old. And yes I work in a fucking grocery store. And of course I love getting fucking made fun of because of it. And remember the whole Give me five, but woah, I'm taking my hand out when you go give me five trick that was so fucking cool. Yeah, they liked to do that. This is when I would bitch to my parents and tell them I was going to call social services because forcing your underage kid to work in a damn grocery store was illegal. And then they would laugh at me finding it cute that I would threaten to call the cops.

I think my past grocery store clerk experience has established the dysfunctional path of all my future employment. Like there's something restless or rebellious in me that refuses to stay at one place too long. Since I had no choice as a child, I'm using my choice wildly and carelessly as an adult. Most people stick at their jobs even if they're unhappy until something 'better' comes along. At the first sign of unhappiness I get out.

Some of my glorious short-lived experience includes dry cleaners - I rubbed chemicals onto the yellowed underarms and necks of men's dress shirts. I lasted one afternoon. Accounting services in college, office assistant for psychologists- I hated the stupid receptionists I worked with so I cut my weekly hours from 20 to 6, computer lab monitor, weed-puller, bulk concert ticket buyer for company that would then sell them at twice the price to hardcore fans, ostrich-poop picker upper and highway garbage cleaner (enforced by the state of Massachusetts), Royal Caribbean cruise checking-in agent, horrendous server at gay steak and burger restaurant, data entry for Gap, Inc., assistant at the national headquarters for some big church establishment where I saw parishoner's kind donations going into extravagant meals and fancy hotels for the religious heads, Donna Karan financing department in which I misspelled Donna Karan in every fax I sent, receptionist at a construction site, marketing assistant at online dating site with asshole boss who would sexually harass the female interns, housekeeper for business convention dorms and for the special olympic atheletes, art director at an ad agency with too many unhappy people. Oh and I did have a lemonade stand once. I may have missed some but none lasted very long.

Now I'm interning at another ad agency as a creative assistant. I'm feeling restless.