workteeth

The work I’m currently doing is often frustrating. I shoot and edit for a wee start-up of dubious organization. I see myself bailing sometime during the coming semester and finding an internship for the spring– although for the moment it’s enough to cover rent, touch Final Cut Pro, and work with friends.

The company is going to fail because our project manager is leaving for a prestigious grad school. Everything will dissolve into chaos and the boss– who knows little of our day-to-day workings– will micro-manage us ineptly. Today the project manager was caring for his sick daughter and working from home. He gave me instructions for the day’s tasks by phone. An hour later the boss said we had enough of the type of clip I was creating. This is blatantly untrue, as 30-50 of those unique clips are needed for every project, and any excess clips I created could be applied to the next. He had never even seen any kind of catalog of the number of clips already created, so his statement was mind-bogglingly ignorant.

Also there was a used q-tip in the restroom that stuck to the bottom of my foot. Retch-worthy!

There are still upsides to the job. I work with friends, I’m within biking distance of my apartment, and there is a kitchen (not clean) downstairs. Also, on Friday I had my wisdom teeth (all 3) removed, and all concerned have been very kind. I didn’t go in at all yesterday and only half a day today. The pills to kill the pain make me nauseous, and it’s hard to endure without them.

Drummer is a prize boy. He took a half-day yesterday to take care of me. Both times I’ve woken because the pain-killers wore off he comforted me until the new pills let me sleep. In a few hours I’ll be hugging him again– and enjoying marinated artichoke hearts he’s bringing!

home-maker

A certain emo-rock kid has taken up sewing baby clothes in prep for his upcoming baby. Am I the only one who actually finds this kind of kitsch gender-role bending adorable?

Rant, rant, anxiety.

Rant: While perusing the Facebook, tanned female crotch caught my eye on an old friend’s profile. The cause? A “What kind of lingerie are you?” quiz. Okay, _______ is a g-string. How fascinating. Only it wasn’t a g-string, it was labeled as a “v-string”. Ready to lol at the clueless code-monkey who made the typo, I googled the term. Victoria’s Secret is trying to deny that if it looks, walks, and quacks like a duck… Meh.

Rant: When did Threadless.com become so high-end? My first purchases from them were made at $10/shirt. Now they’re touting $25 sales. Good for them, but bad for those of us likely to blow $50 on five shirts a year or $0 on a potential two shirts. Damn hipsters.

Anxiety: Flatmate. Heard through the reputable side of the grapevine that he may have done some physically invasive things to at least one female while drunk, while having a girlfriend of his own. No good. May be considering locks on main and bathroom doors, just in case. I trust him not to be creepy while sober, which is 90% of the time, and I feel fairly safe as Drummer has been over (or I at his apartment) most nights of the week. He has been a solid flatmate so far and has shown no signs of ever disrespecting my space. There is also a chance that the flatmate has been confused with his former flatmate, who really was an alcoholic skeeze. I am hoping this is the case, and am gathering information to confirm that more reassuring hypothesis.

Passing On

I remember the earthy, dense smell of my mother’s menses in the old bathroom. By the time I was twelve the smell was gone. An addition to our house added two bathrooms, and she ended her fertile years just as I hit mine.

I remember wondering if she was aware of the strange odor that came from her a few days a month. I doubt she was, because now I am unable to detect my own period-scent.