I got a little joy out of today from telling my boss that I won't be returning to work in January.
I've said before that she is a really kind woman, this wuzn't one of those "Fuck you! I quit!" scenes. It wuz over the phone, for one. (I am so bad at returning her phone calls. She called on Friday. And again on Saturday. And again on Sunday. I wuz walking down the hill toward home yesterday, as she wuz driving up the hill. I waved and smiled at her, she waved back, and slowed her car down. Presumably to stop and chat. And I kept walking. I got home and there wuz another message from her saying she wants to discuss my hours for January.
Today I phoned her back.
These little phone toys of mine only enable my dislike of telephones. Call Display, for example: It's function is to let me know who is responsible for the ringing phone noise that has interrupted me at that moment.
It also lets me know who wants to, but isn't going to, speak to me.
And on those rare occasions when I am compelled to answer the damn phone the call display toy's function is to test my acting skills when the person says, "Hi Chaara, it's ____ ".
And I have to say, "Oh, hi!" like I don't already know who it is. When I should be saying, "Look pal, I know who you are. Clearly you don't know who I am enough to know that I would not have answered this fucking ringing phone without due process. You passed an intense screening process my friend. Though just barely. Don't test me. Get to the point of this call now please."
Anyways, I called my boss today.
I got to say, "I'm planning on moving downtown by January, so I don't think I'll be around. I may not get a place by then but I think you should probably find someone else because I will be gone at least by February."
(I didn't add the "hope hope" that I wuz thinking)
There were some "Oh. Gee"s and "I knew this would happen sometime I just didn't know when" and I say "See you Wednesday" (my next, and almost last, day of work) and we hang up.
A few minutes later she's called again. She's wondering if I could possibly stay on till March.
I tell her I'll keep her updated.
She says "thank you" and I don't say "you're welcome".
(One of those habits of mine, that my mother gets on my case about. I don't feel I should say "you're welcome" when people thank me for things that don't deserve "thank you"s. "I'll keep you updated on how screwed you may or may not be with the care of these children that are so hard to raise good..." "Okay, thank you."
"You're welcome.")
At least I know that if I fail horribly in my 'move out and get good job' plan I can still fall back on that.
And a fall it would be...
She's kind, but her kids...
She's not the one I spend those long dull hours with. Her kids are.
I'm simply way past the whole 'kids are fab' vibe.
If I don't get the fuck on with my life I will be thirty years old and still living with my mom and walking ungrateful bratty children to and from school into eternity. And I'll be paid less than the first generation of kids I took care of will be in their own jobs. The ultimate low point end result I can see from that would be me begging an ex-under-my-care child to get me a job where they're working.
And still living with my mom.
And still living with my mom.
Still
living with my mom.
Beth Orton has come on now, with this great song that repeats that great line, "Why should I know better by now, when I'm old enough not to?"But this is not relaxing because I just do not belong in these dumb jobs and I am scared that I will go on living exactly like this, in varied guises. More stupid routines of work to keep working to work to keep working.
When all I want is my music.
I am scared out of my fucking mind that I will reach a point where I stop and I realize "This is it Chaara. That life you think you should be living is not going to start now and it is never going to start. This is all there is. And this will continue on and on till your dead. And no you are not some martyred Van Gogh. You are just another twit who wasted her life as a wage slave. No Dionysius orgies for Chaara!"
a joke gone too far
"work is a four letter word"
"Get out of my garden!"
Wuz on the phone with my brother today. Since he helped me with my resume he has interest in my getting a fucking job. So he's playing Mr.Social Worker to me and calling me up to see if I've been "pounding the pavement", as those social worker types put it. (that means "go out and look for a fucking job", in case you were unsure.) No progress yet, bro.
I have planned to dedicate all of Friday to public humiliation. That is, "job hunting".
Aiming for the areas of downtown that I myself rarely frequent. And hoping I don't run into ex-friends or acquantances or crushes or teachers or... social workers, who will undoubtedly ask what I'm up to. At that moment. With these resumes on my person. This person that is barely Chaara.
Further into that conversation with my brother, the motivational speaker, I wuz told how impractical and, frankly, downright impossible my wanting my own apartment is. Shared accomadations ought to be your aim. That's all you'll be able to afford. That's it. No apartment for Chaara.
I didn't want to hear this. What am I (not even) paying you for? Don't tell me what I can't do!
Dashed hopes shut me up and that conversation ended pretty quickly.
I think the main problem I have with the idea of shared accomadations is the shared part. Chaara doesn't play nice. Chaara doesn't share well. And my beloved computer! I can totally see these neo-hippie roommates (ostensibly loathe to such material things as computers) being all Floyd-in-True-Romance at me, trying to keep the pot smoke in as they cough out a "Hey Chaara, okay if I use your superfly computer?"
And if I say no, will these people go and use my sweet baby machine anyway? Will I get back to the house and find they've all communed together in mind, body, soul, and monetary thinking and sold my dear computer to buy a truck load of sage brush for some ceremonial smudgings? Or will they just take it apart and try to smoke it?
Will they want to borrow my guitars? Surely I'll want to borrow whatever instruments they may have, but I don't want their smoke-stained fingers on my fret boards.
Plus, I don't want to have to see strange people on the shared couch, in the shared living room making out in front of me.
I want to live alone cuz I'm totally self-absorbed. And I want no one to impede my self-absorption. Not in any way, to any degree. The words "comprimise" and "discussion" and "turn that down" and "please turn that down" instantly trigger in me the urge to get violent.
Nevertheless, shared accomadations it will likely be. I pray that I will live with a bunch of passive nerds, and not extroverted, wanna-be Rastafarian, Australian ex-patroit, potheads with dreadlocks who go to communism meetings in those fucking in-need-of-a-janitor cafe's on the dark and dull side of the city. I am so sick of those types. Oh you know who you fucking are. Jesus. What a damn tired cliche image to cultivate. And they are the ones who most trumpet nonconformity. What they should but don't add is the "I am the prime example of the treachery and deception of conformity! People like me are a dime a fucking dozen! The anti-logging protests are the same damn thing as a fashion runway in Paris to us. Don't buy what I'm selling you. I'm a moron in home-made clothing. I attend pot rallies for fun!"
Anyways, I'm not sure why these types piss me off so Goddamned much but they fucking do.
I want to live with quiet people who don't care at all that I myself am not a quite person.
"Wow Chaara, that music is fucking loud. You go girl!"
I will record nothing but soft and guarded little songs if I live in shared accomadations. I won't feel very comfortable with the screaming loud mad songs.
Jesus I am bored with that topic. Moving on.
PJ Harvey wailing; "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair. Gonna take my hips to a man who cares!"
It's your fault I'm bored.
Fuck, now I'm all hyped up on that cake. And this rant that is not at all pleasing me. Not at all. And I'm thinking about that fucking wedding tape that I watched out of at first vague curiousity and then obvious, painful obligation. I don't want to watch wedding videos! No one does! Weddings are boring. Home videos are boring. The combination is an insult to human intelligence and a waste of time and brain cells and a test of my fucking breaking point. "When will she snap?! What is her limit?"
And I am thinking about the degrading task at hand. The job fucking hunt I must embark on alone. I feel like getting mean-spirited on this and convincing someone they would benefit greatly from wandering the streets of Vancouver with me and a flask of whiskey while I hand out resumes to indifferent never-to-be-my employers. Come on, don't you think that would be fun? I go in and do the whole "hicanItalktothemanagerAreyouhiring" thing, and you act like you don't know me. Fun.
I would do anything to avoid this part of the getting a job thing.
It's a phobia of mine that I am presently obsessing over.
Shut up.
Stole that. Feel This Book.
Also got that one. Fuck, it's funny.
The Janeane Garofalo and Ben Stiller book.
I needed this book. This is my kind of 'self help'.
Let me try that again:
I signed out "Feel This Book" and it is good. It is funny. It is ...good. Chaara likes this book. Oh fuck you.
I am completely fucking useless now. Nothing to say write be.