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.