More From Unemployment-Land

God, I love my cats. They are the most reliable source of entertainment imaginable. (Yes, that is my kitchen sink; yes, Snickers is in my kitchen sink; yes, the water is running on him. No, he really doesn't mind; in fact, he kinda likes it. Yes, he did stay there for several minutes after this picture was shot.)

In other news:

--Despite the fact that I've now filled out over 100 applications for employment, I have not had an interview in weeks. I wish this bothered me more, but I'm kinda getting into the swing of unemployed-ness, and I'm almost ready to actually start USING this time...which is a probable guarantee that a job will turn up within days. We can only hope.

--LJ: still here. If he does not come up with the truck payment, he may be asked to leave.

--Tim: still here. He has one job which doesn't start til April, and which is only part-time, but which pays well. He's still looking for other jobs, and though he's being impossibly selective about who he applies with, and when and whether he returns their calls, I really can't bitch at a man who's trying--and besides, he's still doing major housework to compensate. (And I've discovered that he makes a better grilled-cheese than I do, which I didn't think was even POSSIBLE.)

--Me: still here, only now there's a little bit less of me. I've been an EXTRAORDINARILY good girl. I am simply BURSTING with pride as I relate to you the following:

Somewhere about two-and-a-half weeks ago, I made a pilgrimage to Mom's, to steal yet another of her possessions. In this case, it was the vintage-'80's exercise bike, which had been acting as a very impressive clothes-hanger in her little "den" for at least the past three or four years. (She wanted to give me the treadmill, as well, but I had no room for that whatsoever.) I brought the bike home, had Tim carry it up to my room, and spent two days giving it dirty looks from the comfort and security of my bed. Finally, I got on the damn fool thing.

The first day, I did a little less than three miles.
The second day, I did a little over five miles (split into two sessions).
A bunch of days interceded, on each of which I did a bit more.
Yesterday, the twelfth day, I did twenty miles.
(So far today, I've done 17.5, but the night is young.)

This is despite the presence of The Most Uncomfortable Bicycle Seat EVER. As in, if I were a guy I'd be sterile right now. This thing HURTS. I've tried folded towels, foam mats, the works; I even went so far as to buy one of those squishy seat-covers, but of course it didn't fit. I'm now thinking I may just have to buy a whole new seat, since apparently seat-covers no longer come in size Circa-1984-Wide-Load. I also had to replace the odometer*; the original quit on Day 3, and after several efforts at fixing it, I finally gave up, but I wasn't too trusting of the whole mathematical method of calculating distance--the one that says if you go 15 mph for 20 minutes, you've gone 5 miles. It seems too easy.

Regardless, I'm totally proud of myself. I can't say for sure whether I've lost any weight or not--I don't have an accurate scale in the house--but if I'm going by the highly accurate Jeans Scale, I'd have to say I've trimmed down a leeeeetle tiny bit. The "fat" jeans, which were getting snug, are now baggy; the "too tight to sit in comfortably" jeans are still tight, but much more sittable. So progress is clearly being made, even though I haven't changed my diet--yes, I'm still the Sugar Queen. I console myself with the knowledge that at least I'm burning some of those calories, which I wasn't doing before. And I'm actually starting to enjoy the process, as well! I get up early, watch some kiddie TV and do 5 miles; then after I cool down, I go back to sleep til I wake up. Usually I do another 5 miles or so in the afternoon, and then more while watching TV at night. I've also learned that it's possible to read while cycling, which pretty much guarantees that I'll keep at it. Any exercise that also allows reading is my kind of workout.

For a life that's pretty much teetering on the precipice of destruction, I'd have to say I'm feeling fairly good. The foreclosure process is well underway now; the mortgage company won't give me a forebearance unless I can give them a date I'm going back to work. I've tried to explain that if I HAD a date I was going back to work, I wouldn't NEED a forebearance, but again, I appear to be the only one who understands my logic. All I can do right now is just hang on and keep trying, I guess, but that's going to be a cold comfort once the sale date gets set. I really, REALLY do not want to lose this house.

But at least if I'm going to be homeless, I'll be homeless and skinny.
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* Allow me, for a moment, to toot my own horn--I am one amazing odometer-fixing machine, I am. The odometer setup I bought was made for real bicycles, not stationary bikes; accordingly, the first piece of instruction, "Secure magnet to spokes using set-screw," was an utter impossibility for me, as there were no spokes. I ended up stealing a magnet from a Magnetix kit I'd bought one day on a whim; it's exactly the right length to react to the sensor (mounted with a twisty and a rubber-band on a leg of the bike) and since it's magnetic at both ends, it sticks to the wheel of its own accord. It took me an hour to work out exactly how and where to mount everything so that it would work, and about the same to calibrate the odometer so it registered 280 revolutions as one mile--which I'd fortunately figured out back when the original odometer was working--but it works like a charm, and I'm contemplating a career as an alley mechanic. No one's home to be impressed by my genius, however, so I have to pat my own back.

Bonus

Bonus content from the last post:

Why Those "ContentLink" Ads Don't Always Work Out As Planned.

(Yeah, if I'm gonna "compare and save" it SURE as heck ain't gonna be for THAT!)

Memo To Someone Who Very Clearly Needs It

Dear "Famous" "Person":

It has come to our attention here at The Story of Why that you have recently chosen to make a major, probably ill-advised alteration to your "look".

Please note the following study in contrasts:

Someone for whom it works

You.

Clearly, between one bald-shaven skull and the next, there are orders of magnitude of difference. Sinead O'Connor's shaved head says "I am a talented person with a strange artistic temperament, expressed through my eccentricities of grooming." Yours, on the other hand, says "I could find no other way to remove that foreign substance from my hair."

Perhaps your shaven head would be interpreted more as an artistic gesture if you hadn't spun the following as "artistic gestures" as well:

--marrying (and spawning with!) this (Photo courtesy of the "Talentless Weaselly Coat-Tail-Riding Wastrels of America" media file)
--smooching this (Photo courtesy of the "Sapphism As a Career Move" Foundation)
--seriously, now... (Photo courtesy of Googling "britney crotch shot")

Regardless of your motivation, the sum of these attempts to preserve and reinforce your newly-minted non-bubblegum image can be clearly interpreted by the public at large, and it translates as follows:

"HELP. ME. PLEASE."

In closing: grow your hair back, put some panties on, quit hanging around with That Other "Famous" "Person", remember that you have CHILDREN, for god's sake, and also: Go away.

Thank you,
Gladys

The Second Best Breakup I Ever Had

I remember once, not too many posts ago, saying that when I was doing heroin, it was hard for me to blog about it because I was so disappointed in myself, and I knew others would be disappointed in me as well. I'm having a similar feeling right now, kinda, sorta...except not exactly.

When I talked to LJ yesterday, and told him that I wasn't so sure I wanted him to move back, that I was pretty much contented with things as they've been for the last few months, he was (predictably) less-than-thrilled. I told him that I had a lot to think about, and that he should call me on Saturday, and he said okay.

Well, he called me today, instead. And after a long conversation, I think we've cleared some things up--but curiously, the one who helped me clear things up the most was Tim.

When I got off the phone yesterday, I came downstairs and told Tim what I'd said to LJ--that I was happy with how things were right now and I wasn't at all sure I wanted to change them. And Tim thought about it for a minute, and said, "You know, I know it's not my place to say anything..." He went on to explain his opinion: LJ and I were still going to have to interact, based on the situation with the truck; just like a divorced couple with kids, we were going to have to interact for at least a while, and wouldn't it be better if we were cordial? Especially since neither one of us was actually trying to screw the other one over? He needed a place to live, and I needed someone to add money to the coffers, whether for the car payment or everything else; why not make the situation easier for everyone? "I mean," Tim said, "try to look at it from his side, too..."

Which is all very true. So I did a lot of thinking, and when he called today, this is what I told him:

1. The boyfriend-girlfriend thing is over. It just wasn't working for me, and so that part of our relationship is done.

2. Because the boyfriend/girlfriend thing is over, I can now treat LJ the same way I treat the rest of my friends--I can stop trying to be Ms. Sweet Perfect Girlfriend, and tell him when things are bothering me, and I can have the same expectations of him as I would have of Tim or anyone else.

3. Therefore: IF he promises to clean up after himself, and IF he promises to pull his own weight financially and not try to give me the "oh, could you take care of this for me this month?" thing, and IF he understands that the minute he starts taking advantage of the situation, he's out on his butt...IF all those conditions are met, THEN he can come back and stay here. So he's got to pay his own way--in this case, that means paying the note on the truck and taking care of all needed repairs; he's got to clean up after himself (which he acknowledged not doing in the past, and which he says he understands a little better from the situation he's just been in); and that whole "Hotel Gladys" thing, where he and his friends come in and tear up my house and eat up my food and leave the mess and the bills for me, is completely and utterly dead.

I also told him that he's got Tim to thank for helping me see things from his side, and that I have no desire to cause him any problems or screw him over in any way, but I absolutely will NOT put up with how things were in the past. He seems to understand all that; we'll see what happens. But really, the deciding factor was this: if LJ had to rent an apartment, he most likely wasn't going to be able to make the truck payments--which would leave me with the whole burden.

I know this is probably not the most popular decision I will ever make--I'm only about 90% happy with it myself--but I'm trying to hang onto the house here, and every possible dime is a godsend right now. I've already got papers served on me regarding the foreclosure, though Neighborhood Housing Services says I've got about 15 more months before anything is irrevocable. If I can get my finances together, there's a better chance that I won't lose the house. LJ, no matter what else can be said against him, does have a regular income (his disability check), which right now is more than can be said of either Tim or me.

I'm mostly just relieved that the breakup conversation is over; all things considered, that was the second-smoothest breakup I've ever had. (The smoothest was with Seattle-Man, with whom I never actually broke up at all; we just stopped calling each other.)

I know what most of you are going to say; believe me, I know, because I've said it all to myself several times over. But Tim makes a good point, and the possibility of some money coming in makes an even stronger point...and the thought of having this truck situation over and done with for good, sooner rather than later, makes the most compelling point of all. Once that's done, I'll have no problem telling LJ "Okay--now that you don't have the truck payment, you can afford a place of your own--so go get one!" And having taken the "boyfriend/girlfriend" aspect out of our relationship, I'm now free to indulge my inner bitch and actually ASK for what I want--be that money, help around the house, or basic damn common courtesy.

What a relief THAT is!!!

Valentine's Day and Other Injustices

A sampling of wrongnesses, major and minor:

--I promised myself I wasn't going to get all NASCAR-ry anymore, if I could reasonably help it, but I will say this: I think the guys in the front office are overreacting here. I mean, even knowing as little as I do about aerodynamics and such, I question what possible advantage would be offered by a hole at the back of the engine compartment. But whatever--it sucks. Kasey is now starting the season with a score of -50 points; if he misses the Chase (or, heaven forbid, the championship) by less than fifty points, I'm gonna have a conniption.

--Speaking of conniptions, and cross-referenced with "things that suck": I have now been unemployed for 112 days.

--I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but Valentine's day? Can suck it. Seriously. And all the hype surrounding Valentine's Day can suck it twice. I do not need specially-themed episodes of all major and minor television shows. I do not need an entire aisle of every grocery store devoted to things Valentinian, which is not even counting the cards-and-tchotchkes aisle. I ESPECIALLY, for the love of God, do not need Valentine's Day marshmallow Peeps, which--aside from being pink, and heart-shaped, and WRONG, are also "strawberry-creme flavored". Make no mistake, my loyal friends; those who flavor marshmallows are indeed the minions of Satan. Peeps are not heart-shaped. Peeps are chick-shaped, though bunny-shaped is also a permissible style of Peep. Screwing with the fundamental nature of the Peep is not acceptable, and we as a society must stand up and draw the line SOMEWHERE.

And don't even get me STARTED about the shamrock-shaped St. Patrick's Day Peeps, which I know I have seen before even though they don't appear on the official Peeps page.

--Was it just me, or did the first "Hollywood Week" episode of American Idol cut almost EVERY SINGLE person they'd profiled in the first millon hours of audition episodes??

And now, the cherry on the Valentine's Day sundae of misery and badness:

--Guess who called today? And guess who called today and wants to move back the first weekend in March, because the cousin with whom he has been staying has now apparently pissed him off past the point of no return? So guess who this leaves with the task of telling him that really, I like my life better when he's not in it, and that Tim and I have our own little platonic microcosm which has been working quite well and which doesn't need the addition of a third person--especially not a messy, rude, unpleasant person who doesn't support himself, let alone the common good?

Unlike Notable Others...

...I am still alive.

My first reaction when I read this news was, like many others, "WTF?" Not because it was such a surprise; I mean, if I were inclined to construct a Celebrity Death Pool, Anna Nicole would have been placed in the Exceptions category--the ones put to the side with the understanding that they could go at any minute. You know, along with Courtney Love, Keith Richards, and Pete Doherty.

Mostly I was shocked because of her age--she was only three years older than me--and her recent omnipresence in the news. In the space of six months, there haven't been too many weeks without an Anna Nicole story; her death has guaranteed that there won't be too many weeks without one over the NEXT couple of months, as well.

There are very few positive things to be said here. It's already a given that her poor little baby girl, Dannielynn, is going to have a lot to deal with in her life. Sadly enough, her mother's death may have only swapped one set of problems for another, and even more sadly, I don't think anyone can tell which set of circumstances--living mother or dead--would have been worse, in this case. There aren't many people I would feel comfortable saying that about.

But Anna Nicole was a train wreck. Which was much of her celebrity, in truth; her reality show was based almost totally around her slurring, chemically-addled misadventures. I saw one episode and couldn't bring myself to watch any more, but I read recaps of a couple of seasons and it didn't seem like it was improving. It wasn't funny, to me; it was sad, a case of "there but for the grace of God and the absence of a few bazillion dollars go I."

Which is why my only real hope for the outcome of this case is a selfish one: I hope, when her cause of death comes out, that it's got nothing to do with methadone.

When Daniel Smith, her son, died in September, tabloid-news reporters waited anxiously for the toxicology reports, and they were not disappointed. When it was revealed that Daniel had died of a combination of two common antidepressants and methadone, it set off a spate of "investigative" reports with titles like "Methadone: the Death Drug" and similarly overheated, factually-distorted garbage "news" stories. Apparently the tabloids didn't want to go after Zoloft and Lexapro; maybe Big Pharm's pockets are a little too deep for them to want to concoct similar lies about two well-known prescription drugs. But methadone, I guess, was fair game...only treatment counselors and methadone patients would dare to defend THIS drug.

Lost in the misinformation were the real facts: that methadone for drug treatment is diverted much less often than methadone prescribed for pain, and that drug-treatment programs and their patients are monitored much more stringently than pain clinics and those who prescribe for them. There was the fact that no one could trace where Daniel got this methadone, and the suspicion that he might have gotten it from his mother--who was not, to anyone's common knowledge, a patient in a maintenance-treatment program. Facts don't matter as much when there's a celebrity involved; no matter what the circumstances really were, methadone was now "the death drug", and there were calls to ban its manufacture and sale. Nevermind that there are hundreds of thousands of people who rely on methadone to help them keep off street drugs and help them keep their lives on track--because a celebrity's son died, having combined two other medications with methadone he got from who-knows-where, suddenly methadone was a danger to society. The worst of these "news" stories very nearly gave the impression that giant orange disks of methadone were roaming the streets in packs, possibly armed, looking for innocent throats to jump down, innocent children to poison. I can't remember ever screaming at the television as much as I did in the immediate aftermath of Daniel Smith's death.

So I hope, whatever the facts of Anna Nicole Smith's death are found out to be, that methadone is in no way involved; that it's nowhere to be found on any tox-screen, that the cause of death is so conclusive that there's no cause for speculation, no possibility of another outcry. I hope there's not going to be another spate of anti-methadone propaganda, aimed at those who don't know--or don't THINK they know--anyone who methadone has helped.

Of course, Anna Nicole's history being what it was, I'm thinking maybe I'm hoping for too much.

Regardless, it's a tragedy; for her family, at least, if not for Anna Nicole herself. From what I know of her life--admittedly, no more than the rest of the tabloid-crap-consuming public, which in the grand scheme of things is practically nothing--but from what I know of her life, I can't imagine she was a very happy person. And while I feel bad for her daughter, and for the people (there must have been some) who actually, truly loved her as herself--while I feel sorry for those who loved her, somehow I wonder if maybe she, herself, might not be better off.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Having spent the past two days doing the wake-and-funeral thing, which was not only emotionally draining but which has also engendered a great deal of thought on my part as far as my wishes for my own death...anyway, having done that for the past two days, I feel a need for one of those embarrassing-foibles posts. And I've got a doozy.

I'm fairly sure I've mentioned, in the not-too-distant past, my affinity for Little Debbie Swiss Rolls. Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, for the uninitiated, are small, "chocolate"-covered snack cakes, rolled up jelly-roll style with "cream" filling. Some people think of them as low-budget Hostess Ho-Ho's ($1.25 for a package of 12 Swiss Rolls vs. $3.49 for the same number of the Hostess brand), so much so that between Tim and I, we have evolved a shorthand of referring to them as "Ho's". To my mind, however, they are far superior, for reasons I cannot pinpoint. Maybe it's the price thing.

Tim, though he professes loyalty to Star Crunch Cakes, has lately joined in on my Swiss Roll food-fad, to such an extent that in order to keep any for myself, I've created a small secret hoard in a drawer of my dresser. Tim knows of its existence, but doesn't know where it is, and anyway he wouldn't dream of invading my space to THAT degree. However, any 'Ho's not in the hoard, placed out in a public and visible area of the house, are agreed to be up for grabs.

Owing to my continued joblessness, my sleep schedule is completely wrecked; I have taken to indulging my night-owl proclivities, to leaving the TV on, to falling asleep with an open book on my chest and the light still on. I'll have to un-learn all this in the unlikely event that I ever get another job, but in the meantime it's been kind of like an extended summer vacation, only in winter. And so, a few nights ago, very very late, I was watching TV in bed, as is my habit, when I was struck with a taste for one of my snack cakes.

Snack cakes, as you know, come in packs of two, and I will admit--to my everlasting humiliation--that I've got a snack-cake-eating ritual--first peeling off the outer "chocolate" coating and eating that, then unrolling the cake bite-by-bite, and last of all, nibbling away the center core of cake and filling. *

But apparently, I was a little sleepier than I thought.

I woke up a couple of hours later, from a dream of hanging on to something--a pole or a chain, something I could wrap my fist around--to discover that something WAS, in fact, in my fist. And when I awakened, I was trying--and almost succeeding-- to shove it into the pocket of my pajama pants. Groggily, I raised my hand to where I could identify it...

...as a fistful of mangled cake and chocolate, with cream filling oozing out between my fingers. And not only was my fist full--my pocket was full, and my shirt, and a decent-sized area of my sheets, and almost everything else in a two-foot radius.

After performing the next logical act--licking my palm clean--I brushed off my shirt as best I could, consigned the pajama pants and the bottom sheet to the laundry hamper, and went into the closet for some cleaning rags and the vacuum cleaner. In about thirty minutes, my room and my person were once again devoid of snack-cake detritus, and I was able to go back to sleep.

I'm sure there's a moral here somewhere, but I'm not up to ferreting it out at the moment; however, I have removed the snack-cakes from the immediate environs of my bed. Better safe than sorry, after all. (Or, as Tim phrased it, "Sleeping with 'Ho's only gets you in trouble.")

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*Yes, I AM ashamed of myself. After all, I'm THIRTY-SIX YEARS OLD, for Pete's sake, and this is more the work of a not-too-mature eight-year-old--on a par with smooshing your ice cream into mush with a spoon, which I also do. My only defense is that I was never allowed to play with my food as a child--never allowed to make mashed-potato volcanoes with gravy for lava, or to flick peas off a teaspoon at my father--anything like that. And that's a weak defense, at best, so maybe I'll just stick with brash defiance: I like 'em that way, is all.