After submitting...well, more resumes than I could even count (after you send out 20 or so, you lose count, y'know?), on Monday morning I finally got two nibbles. (I really, actually, unconsciously just typed "two nipples" and had to correct; I already had those.) I set up both interviews for Tuesday, and then spent most of the night flipping around quite sleeplessly, and unfortunately sexlessly, in bed. Really, the last time I was on that side of a job interview was sometime in the last century. "Nervous" doesn't even scratch the surface of what I was feeling; I think a combination of "panic" and "terror" might be more accurate.
Tuesday I rousted my dolphin-sized ass out of bed around 7 and undertook some seriously overdue grooming. I realized, as I labored to make myself presentable, that I had neither shaved my legs nor worn any makeup since Molly and I split. It's a wonder one razor did the job, and that I didn't put mascara on my lips or something equally fucked up. Sasquatch bitch needed a makeover. I also weigh a lot more than I did last time I wore dress clothes, and I couldn't find my damned waist cincher to save my life. My good winter coat has a lining that tends to make any shirt I'm wearing hike up underneath it; I don't just mean a couple of inches at the belly - I quite often wind up with the bottom of my shirt up to or over my tits by the time I'm done driving somewhere. So there was something else to add to my general sense of distress; the last thing a potential employer needs to see from me is an expanse of bare belly and bra-clad bazongas. I'm too old and out of shape to apply for jobs where those things would be an asset. One more thing to remember: make sure body is covered before entering interview venue.
After all that worry, my morning interview was short, sweet, and surprisingly smooth. I was all set for an intense grilling, and instead, I had a nice, informative chat with a sweet (and very, very cute) young lady. Of course, my nerves were still playing volleyball in the pit of my stomach, and by the time I'd thanked her and exited the building, my bladder was making an urgent pitch for immediate drainage. I drove toward the main drag, several miles away, where all the fast food restaurants and their lovely public bathrooms were just waiting for me, trying all the time to think about something not pee-related. It just wouldn't do to wet myself, at least not until my second interview for the day was complete. Call me old fashioned, but I just don't think it makes the right impression on a potential employer to see an interviewee with a soaked crotch (again...not applying for jobs where that would be a plus). All the way to 28th street, my thought process went something like, "Hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm, I sure don't have to pee, nope, not me. Hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm raindrops keep fallin' on my head...NO! Hmmmm hmmmmm hmmmm hmmmm not peeing, not peeing, not peeing. Think about cats...cats step on my bladder...hmmm hmmm hmmmm hmmmm...dry bladder, dry bladder, not peeing, not peeing. Hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm..."
I've never been so happy to pull into a goddamned Wendy's in my life.
After taking the Best Piss in the World, I had a couple of hours to kill before my second interview. Normally, I'd have gone to the sushi restaurant and lingered over some miso soup and crab warships, but my finances are too fucked for that right now. I'm a little familiar with downtown Grand Rapids, but not totally confident of where I was going, so I decided to just head in the direction of the second appointment. I thought about checking out the gay bar that was on the way - I figured I could afford a bar Coke - but when I pulled into the parking lot it was...packed. Pun fully intended; sorry, it had to be said. I drove on. It took me quite a while to decide exactly where my destination was, as the office building in which it's housed has no number displayed and the name of the company is nowhere on the doors. I finally called and had my destination confirmed. Still an hour before the interview, and my nervous bladder was starting to bedevil me once again. "Bitch," I scolded my bladder, "I just took care of you at Wendy's. Why you gotta do me like that?" And my bladder said "PEE. NOW. OR ELSE." I drove back down the road, probably for a couple of miles, before I found a gas station. My car whipped into a parking space almost of its own volition, and I bolted out and up to the door...where I beheld a sign which informed me "No Public Restroom" with a definite subtext of "Hahahaha, we enjoy watching you wet your pants, fuckers!" I limped back to the car and headed back to the interview. Though I hated the idea, I was going to have to beg the interviewer to let me use the bathroom. I know that they know that everyone has to pee, but it just makes me feel unprofessional to bring it up when I'm begging for a job.
I entered the building, intent on finding the correct office for my appointment, and very nearly missed the giant "Restrooms ----->" sign next to the stairs. Oh, hell yeah! My dress boots made a quick-time KLONK KLONK KLONK on the wooden floors, in perfect harmony to the SLOSH SLOSH SLOSH in my about-to-say-fuck-you-and-void-itself pee reservoir. There it was, the angels were singing like they had to go as badly as I did, and after locking the door with trembling hands and navigating what seemed like half the length of a football field to get to the toilet at the back of the room, I experienced the Best Piss in the World for the second time in one day. Did you know that was possible? It's a new one for me. I started to wonder: Will it be like this every time I interview for a job? If so, somebody better hire me pretty fucking fast here, because my dress pants are too snug to hide Depends.
Alright, I think I'm done discussing urination. For now. I reserve the right to return to the topic as the whim strikes me.
My second appointment was with an agency who'd indicated a need for employees to handle a variety of jobs, including several kinds of clerical work, which is what I'm seeking. However, once I sat down in the office for my interview, it became clear in short order that they weren't hiring anything but salespeople. Sales just aren't my thing. I'm not slick enough for the kind of bullshit talk that most sales jobs require. I initially accepted an offer to return the following day and work alongside an established salesperson to see if I was suited to the work, but the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I was with the idea. That interview in the morning was brief, but the sales interview was like a bad speed date. The guy did all the talking - fast talking - never gave me the opportunity to ask him any questions, and made me feel completely hustled. I began to have doubts about my doubts: Was I just being a big pussy about trying a new kind of job? Can beggars really be choosers? I was awake until after 4 a.m., flipping around and tossing and turning and watching really bad TV. When my alarm went off at 8, I decided I'd call and decline the offer. I think I can get fucked in the ass without driving all the way to Grand Rapids for it.
So, I'm hoping for a callback on the first job, and in the meantime I'm whoring my resume all over the Internet. You think I should start mentioning my $2 tricks? Maybe having "Whore" on my resume would catch somebody's attention.
In other news:
Chris vs. Rami on Project Runway this week. Each had to show three pieces to break their tie for the third spot in the finale at Bryant Park. As if they weren't planning to pick Rami all along. I liked Chris' collection waaaaay more that Rami's ugly, clunky dresses and that ridiculous coat that looked like the shameful love child of a Jillian and Christian design tryst. Why was Rami's fugly gown with the pods attached to the hips described as acceptable because it's a "fantasy dress" when Chris was criticized for designing clothing that's all drama and not ready to wear?
Also, I'm puzzled why everyone seems so grossed/creeped out by the use of human hair on Chris' work:
People clip other people's real hair into their own for extensions all the time, and I've never heard that referred to as creepy. People wear animal fur on their clothing, and to me, that's a lot more disturbing than human hair; at least no one, presumably, has to kill the humans to acquire the hair. I would call the use of human locks on clothing unexpected, but if anything about Chris' presentation was creepy, it was the models' makeup.
Hmmmm...I really thought I had another topic or two for this, but hell - it's nearly 5 a.m. and I have shit to do today, so I should probably attempt to sleep.
Per Susie's request, I've compiled my own "bucket list" - things I'd like to do before I straddle that handbasket and floor it all the way to hell.
Travel. I've done a little, but I'd like to do a whole lot more. New York, San Francisco (I've been there, but it's been over 20 years), all the places in Europe where I can see timeless art and architecture, and misbehave without ending up making ugly drunken mugshots. I'd love to go back to New Orleans again and take in my beloved French Quarter and the ghosts of its seamy underbelly that haunt the streets when the sun goes down and the nightlife fires up.
Publish a book. That one I'm actually working on. Slowly. Very slowly. The cats keep sneaking onto my computer and adding chapters about my abusive behavior toward them. I'm so offended; their spelling is atrocious.
Make a CD. I've made "albums" before, back in the day when cassette recording was the high-tech solution for home recording. I've got the equipment now to make a decent digital recording, and I've already got a handful of songs that have never seen the light of day outside live performances, so now all it would take would be a little patience for my lazy ass to put it all together.
Finish painting my house. I finished my bedroom, then ran out of steam about halfway through the living-room project. Now that a bunch of the boxed furniture is assembled, it will be easier for me to finish that job. I have paint for the kitchen, too. Once I get those done, I can decide what colors the office and music room need to be. I have a really soothing color in mind for the office; the music room may end up being a little more...out there. Maybe you can all come over and draw on the walls with magic markers.
Make sweet, sweet, dirty, filthy love to Kelly Monaco.
A girl can dream, can't she?
Own another bitchin' Camaro. I've had two, and I want another one. However, I will never make the mistake of having a sports car for a year-round ride, ever again. Come summertime, though, I keenly miss zipping around in that gorgeous little red ticket magnet.
Get my teeth beautified. Someday, porcelain veneers will be mine. Then perhaps I will smile with my mouth open in pictures once in a while. Of course, by that time, I may well be skipping over the veneers and shopping for dentures. Who wants a little gum, baby?
Sit front-row center at a Tom Waits concert. Every time I see him, my seats are farther and farther back in the venue. I want a ringside seat next time around.
See the shows for which I've had tickets but, for one reason or another, didn't see the concert. Amy Winehouse, Primus, Joss Stone, Rob Zombie...I'm sure there are more, but those are the most recent one.
Write a post that isn't a list. I'm sure you'd be happy about that one, too. Maybe I'll get myself all worked up over something and post a rant. Let me go watch the news for a while and get pissed off.
A headline that will live in infamy, found here: Historic beef recall: West Michigan schools pull meat
I hope they're not all doing it at once; we'd run out of Kleenex!
Addendum: Apparently, someone at the news site was paying attention, because the headline was changed to something less masturbatory. Damn, I wish I'd gotten a screen capture of that!
My Sweet P got auf'd last week on Project Runway. I'll bet she wins the fan favorite competition, though. If you don't like Sweet P, we're gonna rumble. Of course, you'll easily beat my ass, but I will put up a pitiful but heartfelt fight to defend Sweet P's honor.
This winter it's snowing here like it did when I was a kid. I'm nostalgic about a lot of things, but getting dumped on repeatedly with ridiculous amounts of snow is not on that list. After a couple of days where the weather wasn't sure which outfit to wear, the rainy one or the snowy one, my driveway looks like a tiny mountain range, and a blizzard is a-brewin' as I type. I almost let the neighbors see how graceful I was when I walked to the mailbox on sheer ice Sunday (if anyone was looking, they did get to see a fair amount of flailing followed by a sheepish grin).
If any gamers here haven't played GTA: Vice City Stories yet (I know, the game is old news...but I like my games that way, old and cheap), I urge you to rent it just to listen to the VCPR station on the radio. The radio plays alone are worth the price of admission. "What's that whistling? Pablo, you old dog!"
Speaking of which, I am currently being driven absolutely bat-shit crazy by a helicopter mission where I have to lower a magnet onto a stationary object (tricky enough where it's situated between buildings), then a box on the back of a slow-moving truck (tougher still), and finally, bitchiest of them all, a whole moving car (the car is moving fast, too, because it's being chased by bikers with machine guns, and I have to pick it up before the car explodes from all the gunfire). So far, the guy in the car is a dead man every time. The moral of this story is: never hire me to be your helicopter bodyguard.
I'm going to be trapped in a blizzard with no beer and no Coca-Cola. It's a damned good thing I stocked up on chilled monkey brains.
My last name isn't actually Barzedor - it's my pen name, if you will (my keyboard name?). I realize not everyone is familiar with the phrase upon which my name is a play. Katy Barzedor is a twist on the phrase "Katy bar the door!" which means, roughly, hunker down 'cause the shit's about to hit the fan. Now you know. (The "Katy" part is totally real, though, I promise!)
Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that I am not a millionaire, and I own neither a mansion nor a yacht. Yet.
Aw, yeah, bitches - my girl Amy Winehouse may not have made a sweep at the Grammys last night, but she sure as hell cleaned up.
Cleaned up in more ways than one: not only did she receive a trophy in five categories, she's also on furlough, as it were, from rehab. It was great to see the academy focus on her music instead of her much-publicized personal spin out of control. 'Twas even better to see Amy put on a coherent and charming performance of You Know I'm No Good and Rehab (although everyone online seems preoccupied with her lack of dancing skills...no arguments here, but jeez - if every singer had to be a dancer as well, there'd be a lot fewer singers out there), and then look like she'd been smacked upside the head with a two-by-four when it was announced she'd won Record of the Year for Rehab.
I haven't watched the Grammys since...damn, I don't even remember the last time I watched it. I stopped watching because of the necessity to wade through waist-deep dreck in order to get to the very few good parts of the evening. Nothing has really changed since there. Even with the writers on strike and no host, the show went on for an interminable amount of time. Award bloat. It's Grammy's 50th anniversary, so there were roughly 999,748 Lifetime Achievement awards given out. Luckily for me, I watched it on DVR, so there was much fast forwarding during much boring bullshit. Aside from Amy's performance and numerous wins, some of the high points for me were:
Beyonce and Tina Turner's duet of Proud Mary (though my favorite part of that whole performace remains Beyonce's introduction of Tina). I think Tina is a vampire. It's the only way to explain the fact that a woman who's close to 70 years old still looks like that. If that's true, then we can only hope Beyonce is also a blood drinker and will look this good for all eternity. Can I get a Hallelujah! for Beyonce's silver minidress?
During an acceptance speech, Kanye West started talking about his mother, who passed away last November, and the people backstage started playing the "get off the damn stage" song. He stopped his speech and mentioned that it would be in good taste to stop the music now. The crowd cheered that one. I mean, come on - it's one thing to use the crook to pull somebody off the stage when they're being long winded. But he wasn't, and the happy "OK, stop talking now" music was completely disrespectful, given the subject matter.
Herbie Hancock and Lang Lang teamed up on twin grand pianos to lead the orchestra in Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue. The first clarinetist was really enjoying himself and his lickin' stick, if you know what I mean.
Jason Bateman is a douchebag. No, that wasn't a favorite part of the show; I just felt the need to throw that bit of information in there.
I now know, with great certainty, that I need never spend my time or money attending a Cirque du Soleil performance. They took perfectly good Beatles music and performed their "What the fuck was THAT?" mimery to its accompaniment. A woman in a flowing red dress swinging through the air, a little boy being moved around in a bed...now I'm very, very confused. Why can't those fuckers just walk against the wind and leave the Beatles alone?
Morris Day and the Time reunited for the show! More than 20 years post-Purple Rain, and Morris Day can still have an onstage groom in the mirror without looking any more ridiculous than he did Back in the Day. No pun intended. I just got lucky.
Cyndi Lauper! No, she didn't perform, but she was a presenter, and I love her. A Cyndi sighting is always a good thing in my book. Katy's Big Book of Fucking Awesome.
I really wanted Amy to win Record of the Year, but if someone besides her had to win it, I'm glad it was Herbie Hancock. A lot of folks online were pretty upset about that today, but you have to remember that the awards are a product of the academy voters' opinions. I think people were just miffed because an album they'd never heard won The Big Kahuna.
Mardi Gras is exactly the kind of holiday I like: overindulgence is not only tolerated, it's actively encouraged on that last binge as you skid into Lent. Go on, drink fifteen hurricanes and stick your dick in a trannie hooker, 'cause you know you can't do it again for 40 days. Cavort today, get ashes smeared on your throbbing forehead tomorrow. Ain't it grand?
Booze, beads, and boobs. It doesn't get any more festive than that, folks. Throw in a few dozen paczkis and I'm thinking it's a celebration that should be stretched out over a week. Yeah, I could wallow in that bloated bastards' paradise for days on end.
So how did I spend my favorite of holidays? What wild, spirited activity did I undertake in the spirit of do it 'til you're satisfied?
I shopped. For groceries. I played Liberty City Stories. I watched Millionaire Matchmaker.
No paczkis, no boobs (well, I did peek at my own in the mirror and then threw myself a strand of beads, but that makes today no different from every other day of the year), not even a drop of alcohol has sullied my liver today. What the fuck, people? I need an intervention!
Please send bazongas, alcohol, and fat-laden donuts to the Cotillion Clearinghouse.
I don't know if it's because I live alone or if I've always done it and just never noticed, but I talk out loud to myself all the time. I'm starting to catch myself doing it in public more and more often, which makes me wonder just how soon I'll have to start dodging the butterfly nets. Nobody warned me that my scant social graces would run down the drain in midlife.
Friday continues to be his weird little self:
I could go for a couple more of those 45-degree days like we had in between snowstorms last week. Of course, when the snow melts, it reminds me that I still have a shitload of leaves I have to rake. I'm sure my neighbors just love me. At least I don't have a car up on blocks in the driveway, or a goat tethered in the side yard. (I keep my goat in the shed.)
It's not just my yard, either; I'm also the world's worst housekeeper (source: the opinion of me and everyone who visits me, although those folks are too polite to say it). When I get rich, I'm adding a maid and a personal assistant to my entourage. Oh, I'll probably need to get an entourage first. Adds "get entourage" to bucket list.
If I'm going to have an entourage, though, I would prefer to call it a posse. That sounds more like they actually like me, whereas "entourage" suggests to me that my friends are paid for their time. Plus, it's more fun to say "posse." "Have you seen my posse?" "Hey, my posse ran into your posse last night." "Nobody can lick my posse!"
No new Project Runway this week. I'm having slight pangs of withdrawal. Damn, it's more addictive than a soap opera. And 54% gayer.
Diarrhea. Nothing about it, really; I just felt the word hadn't been used here nearly enough in recent memory.