Tourist of my Hometown

Something I like to do on weekends (when I'd really rather not be at home) is tour my hometown in my trusty, air conditioned vehicle.

Today, I learned some fun facts.

1. In my town there is a stretch of road rarely traversed. As you travel down it, the world changes from the beige of summertime that I've grown to detest, into lush green. What is it? Simple. It is the street to the land of Oz! At least I think it is. I didn't follow it all the way, as I was worried I might hit a unicorn or something.
2. There's a shop called the X-Hale, in which the X is surprisingly similar to that of the Xbox. Is this a gamer's smoking bar? I have no idea, but I was impressed all the same.
3. Orchards tend to smell like the corpses you know are hidden there.
4. There's an abundance of "Jew 'Fro's" wandering the streets. I don't recall the hair style being so popular.. But this begs the question of how many of those wandering white-boy 'fros are actually perms?
5. Round-a-bouts are still probably the funnest things to speed through.

That is all.

A Flashback

Date: Oct 22, 2008 12:19 AM


I just found a stash of Post-it Notes in one of my drawers as I was packing..

I totally forgot that I used to pour out my insanity on the little yellow sticky-pads when I worked 55+ hours a week as a data-entry clerk.


I would sit down at my cubical every day at 3:30pm, plug in my MP3, (to either metal/rock music or Agatha Christie murder mysteries (because those were the only audiobooks I could find to pirate)), and check out of my mind for 12 hours as I keyed countless patient documents, insurance claims, and death certificates.


It was truly amazing how little I needed to pay attention to get work done. My eyes needed to be open, and my fingers needed to be poised over the F and J, as well as a clear 12 inches in which my right hand could slide smoothly to the number pad when necessary. That was it.


When my mind wasn't wandering down the hall to that cute guy with the messy "looking-like-I-dont-care-takes-me-hours-every-morning" hair, or wondering what the sun looked like, it would be fully engrossed in Ms. Marple's latest adventure in which someone near the ol' bluehair suddenly dies, and for some reason, this lady finds it her business to play detective and find the true murderer.


I would randomly, throughout my hours there, get sparks of what I then called 'inspiration'. I'd then sneak my notepad out of my desk and scribble on it furiously. We were'nt allowed to have pens or paper on our desk, because we had access to a database of social security numbers, and insurance card and driver's license scans, yet they still supplied us with pens and yellow sticky notes..
I'd leave every day with at least two fully covered Post-its.


This inspiration, I now know was basically my unconscious mind crying out for help.


Here's what a few of them say:

(Note that I was writing a movie, two main characters are Adam and Emma.)

Adam flashes back before getting dressed.

Nix hammer scenes.

Pennies found face up!
Before shots, they live near!
Adam in bed remembers Emma.

Penny bracelet!
Paperclip clips!
Emma proposed to at old folks home.

"I think we should ask your wife first.
"
Girl has random baby.

Torch! Foil! Gorgon!?
Fiction in truth!
Metal Hole Punch?

I Got Hay In Places Hay Should Never Be...

I had a job interview monday and tuesday at the Farm Sanctuary in Orland.
First day I was on doodie-duty, and it was like, 100 degrees out, with little shade, and lots of heavy labor.
I actually passed out. I woke up some seconds later with my "interviewer" holding my face, and a lovely rock collection embedded in my side. That, or it was merely sandpaper-ed as I slid down the side of the building I'd initially been leaning against, then the embedded gravel in my hip was collected on impact.
Either way, my shower was incredibly interesting as I removed foreign objects from my rather annoyed and pained flesh.

On tuesday, I was on feed-duty. I figured pouring some turkey chow and pig slop would be relatively easy-peasy compared to my previous day.It wasn't.
Feeding was somehow harder work. I had to walk across this huge stretch of land from one barn to the next, on hilly terrain no less. Collecting the food wasnt hard.. Appropriate scoops into the appropriate bowls into appropriate pens.. The work in between that was backbreaking and at times, sort of ridiculous. We had to separate some animals from other animals, such as a pig the size of my car, and a "small cow" (who's shoulders towered over my 5'8" frame).
I think the worst part was the hay-feeds.
I wasn't previously aware of the fact that I'm extremely allergic to hay. My throat was closing up, and I had hives all up my arms, on my chest, and oddly enough, on my legs (I was wearing jeans). Still, we had to load 16.5 bails (devided into two trips) onto a trailer-- from a barn filled to the rafters with bails of hay! It was really neat, actually---, and drive out to the cow fields.
On said fields, I had to sit in the back of this trailer, on top of the hay, while we were driving around in circles on extremely bumpy hills, and toss out flakes of hay.

I got hay in places hay should never be.
That day's shower was interesting as well, I assure you.

Other than the heat stroke, and my aching muscles, and throbbing feet, I did have a lot of fun. The animals were amazing, and the entire sanctuary was inspiring.
I met a goose with no eyes! And a sheep with three legs! ... And a disabled bunny (I got to feed her carrots on break.. She was adorable!)

I'll definitely go back to volunteer, but I just couldn't do what they needed me to.
Plus, I blew half a tank of gas in 2 days!
So yes, I'm still job hunting.
And yes, I'm extremely desperate.
Just not willing to kill myself, or damage my brain further by frying it in the sun.

Static Cling Meets Perverts in Jumpsuits

I just got home from a long day of running around doing nothing.
I went up to Paradise, and half way there, Bitchcar's gaslight came on. So I had to rub the nipples for luck.. The Bitchcar's nipples-- Not my own.

Can you imagine what it would be like to be going 60 on a winding two-lane highway, and buzz past some chick frantically rubbing her nipples? Wiierd.

It's more of an inside joke between a friend and myself.. On our many road trips, we've developed sorts of superstitions.. One of which is rubbing two certain points on the dashboard whenever the car starts acting up... And it always seems to work!

Anyway, I got into Paradise, and pulled into the well placed gas station right in the entrance of town.. Where I nearly ran over an extremely attractive painter, then was forced to struggle with this super old school gas pump, during which the rest of the painters all stood about 20 feet away and simply stared in my direction, until I looked at them, and then they would turn their attention to their paint-spattered boots.
I felt like a possibly less whorey Marilyn, because the wind kept blowing my shorter-than-usual skirt up, and all I could do was back against the car and attempt to wrangle it's frilly edges down, while cooing a little "Oooh!" here and there for effect.
Not like the "ooh" as in "oooh, bright light bulb", but like the "oooh, what an awkward breeze in my nethers".
In the midst of my skirt-wrangling, I realized what the painters were looking at. It was another of those bastards on a cherry picker getting a real good look down my top. Fortunately for him, I wore my 'upper' bra.I chiefly put the gas hose back, returned the gas cap, grabbed my receipt and dove into my car. Cherry-Picker-Painter-Man gave me a wave before I wasted all the gas I'd just bought in a gravel flinging escape, and continued on my way up that damn hill.

That was the highlight of my day. I don't know if I'm simply noticing this creepy attention more, or if I've finally blossomed to the point of womanhood where balding and most likely married men are attracted to you, like old socks after a tumble in the dryer without one of those cling free fabric softener paper towel/things.

I need me a job.

I need to make my great escape.

I know there's often befuddlement over what I babble about, so to clarify.. About my fleeing the country..
I know you all take what I say lightly, due to my habitual venting. I bitch about how awful our country is. How hellish the government is, and how people are suffering. I bitch about how I'm somehow the butt of it all, and how terrible my life is.
This is the problem.
I'm all bitch with no fix.

... No, not the 'Street' kind of fix...

I complain constantly about how 'THEY' need to fix this, and how 'WE' need to do something.
"We"..
You know what "I" do every day?
Here's a small breakdown.
I wake up around noon, if I'm lucky. I check my email and Myspace. I feed my pets before stumbling to the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and maybe brush my hair if I feel it's in a state it can be revived from. I then return to the internet. When I get bored or lonely, (around 4-5PM), I drive across town to my mother's home, where I fetch coffee, chase children, and play the Legend of Zelda on my Gamecube. Hours later, I watch Ninja Warrior whilst toying on the internet. Amanda and I eat Chinese food while she plays on Neopets, and I colour in a Hello Kitty colouring book. Around midnight or later, I go home, bathe, and fall asleep around 5AM.
Toss in fighting with my parents, a phone call to my dad, switch Hello Kitty for Strawberry Shortcake depending on my mood, and that's about it.

Did you see "punch the president", or "save the world" in there?
Me either.

What you're supposed to perceive from this -- I'm all talk, no action.

Inspired by the immortal words of our fallen King, "A little less conversation, a little more action", I've decided to take the plunge.
I'm applying to the Peace Corps.

I've been dying to make a difference in the world. Why else am I here? To live a life where I go from home to work, from work to home, and in my down time, watch bad reality television? This is the epitome of failure to me. I need out before I'm swallowed up by the expectations of my family, and of our ridiculous culture. I need to make my great escape.

So the secret is out.
If accepted, I'll most likely be going to Cambodia, Thailand, or China to teach English or aid in agriculture, or provide HIV/AIDs awareness in Mongolia or Africa. To be able to help would be amazing, and would really allow me to be proud of myself without feeling like an asshole.
Fingers crossed!

"Where sound leaps from your lips only to crash to the floor."

So, I applied to Longs last week-- well, technically, I dropped off a resume, because "Longs doesn't give out applications..no..uh. More.."
Well I dropped off the damn resume-- that is, after I went in no less than FOUR times with the fecking paper at hand, then all the bastard employees just shrugged and made a "Bob da manager no here" sort of grunt, and told me to come by later.
Anyway, some time last week, I FINALLY handed it in to Doug the assistant manager (whom I saw there every time I previously attempted to drop it off), and he told me to come by in a couple days to meet Bob the Manager and let him put a face with the paper. A week later, and FOUR MORE trips to Longs before I actually met the elusive manager, and I'm offered a flat "I don't know."

Let's go step by step, shall we?

This morning, (let's say at about noon..), I wake to an incredibly obnoxious ringtone. It's my mommy, ready and very willing to bitch me out about being unemployed.
Here's the thing with my mother-- if she's stressed out, it's her one enormous aim to share the love. I dont know why this is, and why she's not considerate enough to bottle up her emotions until she goes mad and shoots out a high school or two, rather than spread the hatred along to her loved ones. If only.
So, 30 minutes later, I'm up and attempting to make myself look somewhat presentable for another hit & miss with the mysterious manager. My cell phone was going off every 2 minutes, and I was more than willing to ignore it, as it was mother dear yet again.
At about 1:00, I step out of my house into the melodious trickle, practically slide all the way down the stairs, and trudge like an eskimo with electric fly-swatter snow shoes out to my car-- which is out of gas.
I step back out and into the rain in order to jump up and down on the rear bumper of my car to slosh around what liquid is left in the tank. To my neighbors, I'm sure I looked like a very confused, and rather ruttish rhinoceros, but I'll play sweet nonetheless.
Back in the car. It starts! Hooray!
Thirty bucks later and I'm standing at Longs, waiting for the clerk to call Bob the Manager to the desk. Finally, I'm going to meet Bob. Finally, I may actually have a job. Finally, I may make rent! --- "Bob's out to lunch. Come back later."

.......... What fuckery is this??

So I leave, and I scurry down the sidewalk to prance around in Michaels for an hour before returning to Longs.
Michaels is really boring when you can't spend money.
I bought a tattoo last week and a tank of gas today, I'm absolutely broke..... But.. is that 50% off of $40 acrylics? That couldn't be two treated canvases for only $5!! And-- is that a candle that smells like roses and baby's ass? It IS?!
I had to get out of there, quick. Instead of waiting in the nice warm store, I wandered outside in the 40ft stretch of covered sidewalk where they keep the sale bins and the carts. Then something happened that hasn't ever happened before----

Some guy gawked at me! Usually I'm gleefully ignorant to people showing any interest in me (except of course when the person staring is a child, because my Spidey Senses warn me of danger, and I bust a move to get out of sight). I'm then informed of my admirers at a later time, by friends or what have you.. Which is awesome, because I'm not used to having admirers, and if I didn't notice it myself, it may or may not be true, and I can believe in whatever I choose... Which seems complicated, but really, it makes sense.
Anyway, this creep in a bronco was staring at me as he slowly drove by. He was unbuckled and practically hanging at the window, with a wide-eyed grin that looked like he was a toddler driving past a Mrs. Fields Cookies shop, or like he just made a doody in his pants. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind before everything actually processed in my brain, and that was "EEW!"A finer moment for me and my wannabe labrinthine vocabulary.
I shook off the image of the gawker as best I could before scampering through the rain back to Longs. I got inside and the nice lady from before calls me over saying Bob was in, and that she'd radio for him.

Suddenly, my head was flooded with panic.
"This is it! I'm going to meet Bob the manager! Am I ready for a job? Are my boobs sticking out too much? Oh god, what if Bob's gay, and my outfit isnt cute enough?? And my boobs aren't going to be appreciated at all! Tuck 'em in! Hide the boobs!... My hair is frizzed out in every direction.. My makeup is leaking, I'm sure of it.. What if he sees my tattoo, and hates it? What if he's an asshole?"

The lady's voice brought me out of my inner doomsday, and she instructed me to go into the back and wait for him.
So I did. I crossed the threshold of "Employees only, DO NOT ENTER". In the dark distance, I saw two men, backs to me, shuffling around. I called out, but my voice didnt reach them. Instant terror. I'd suddenly entered a negative space in the present, where sound leaps from your lips only to crash to the floor in front of you.
The Twilight Zone.
I decided to flee.
I turned on my heel to exit, and my heart sprung out of my chest like a Cuckoo clock bird. A short, angry looking man with his hands on his hips was standing there. We chatted for a second. He said he had my resume somewhere, and it might be a few weeks before any calls. I was offered that deadly "I don't know".


Well.. That was a FANTASTIC waste of two weeks.
Rent's due in just two more.
Unless I can get a job this week, I'm so screwed.
I may have to go into prostitution.
Then I'll still be screwed, but I'll have rent money, for sure.

Penis-less and Boob-tagless.

I've been subjected to the quiet of my single apartment for months since quitting my 60 hour/week job in November. Though I was hunting for new work before I had quit, back then I was picky. I wanted something with access to at least a little asetaline torch.. A big plus would have a plasma cutter and a MIG welder, but a simple torch was all I'd ask... And maybe an uncounted collection of 16g. copper sheets and sheet solder.

I applied to a scrap yard on the outskirts of Oroville, as the Dismanteller. I'd have full access to a beautiful plasma cutter, not to mention all the odd bits and ends that I'd tear off of surrendered vehicles. Little did I know, my brother also applied there about a month or so after I did. Guess who was hired.I cant say if it was simply due to my current (and hopefully rather perminant) lack of a penis, or if it's because the owner is a very flamey homosexual man... Which would still make it about my non-penis state, but I could be a little more understanding if it was because he wanted to sleep with my brother instead of me. Mind you, I'm not the kind of girl to jump a man for a torch and some copper... Only if he had silver sheets too.

Anywho, as it turns I'm still fantastically unemployed, but now I'm not so picky. Before, I didnt want anything in which I'd have to wear a uniform.
I'd look like such a douche in some little polo with my name embroidered on my left breast.

But looking at my bank account, and at that adorable monthly fee of five-hundred-something dollars to keep my exquisite, third story, ladybug infested victorian, I'll gracefully accept a boob-tag.

So I've applied to just about everywhere in town.
Not a one call back.

Bastards.