this is not fun anymore

today i got another job rejection.

so far, in the six months i have been here, i've applied for probably 50 jobs, had about 10 interviews and 10 rejections. i can't go out or do anything at all because i'm broke and i've had to ask my parents for money twice. i hate calling my casting and temp agencies and begging them for work almost as much as i hate the work they find for me. all my friends who moved out here at the same time i did have jobs by now. i don't understand what i am doing wrong. i'm not happy here anymore.

something i have been thinking a lot about lately is how much longer i can take this before i give up and move back home.

i am an angry criminal

so i got pulled over and got a ticket today. only i wasn't driving. i was walking to the library and i got a JAYWALKING ticket. yeah, that's right. apparently it is an infraction to CROSS THE STREET AT AN IMPROPER TIME. there were no cars coming! i looked both ways! twice! but no, that is not good enough in california.

i crossed when the light was red and even though there we no cars coming in either direction a cop car pulled over and stopped me. i politely tried to explain that i was unaware that it was such a CRIME TO CROSS THE MOTHERFUCKING STREET, GODDAMMIT!!! well, fortunately i didn't use that type of language but i was very angry indeed. i was then issued a ticket by a very rude and unsympathetic cop and i have to APPEAR IN COURT next month. apparently this is much more serious than a simple parking ticket; i can't just pay a fine and move on with my life. no, dangerous criminals such as myself need to be repremanded by a judge and undoubtedly ordered to pay a rediculously hefty fine. god forbid we jaywalkers get away with our evil scheme to take over the world, one crosswalk at a time.

when i got home i spent the rest of the day watching the first 14 episodes of season 1 of the show 24, so at least the day turned out to be quite productive. and thus ends today's bitch & whine session. goodnight.

email of the day

last night at midnight my prehistoric, zach morris-ish cell phone took it upon itself to dial my parents house twice. they're on the east coast, so it was 3am their time and obviously my mom freaked out. she heard my voice in the background and realized it was me and called my phone. i was just walking into a bar with some friends so i aplogized quickly and said i had to go. this morning, i find the following email in my inbox:

Spent from 3 am to 4 am last night thinking you had really been taken hostage and couldn't admit it. Called you back but your phone was not on.
Call or email me (if you are alive)
mom

so how long should i ignore her emails and phone calls to let her think i have been taken hostage? i'm thinking a week would be fun.

i miss the temp job i hated

So I got a phone call yesterday (Sunday) morning before I even woke up telling me that my temp "assignment" was "completed" and I shouldn't show up to work today. Great. Really Fucking Great. Thanks for telling me this on FRIDAY, when I could have done something about it, like call my other temp agencies and casting agency and try to line something up for this week. But instead, I am sitting here in my apartment not working, wondering how I'm going to pay $625 rent for next month with no money in my bank account.

Not that i'll miss that job at all. I was answering phones for a publishing company, specifically for 3 of their specialized magazines about cars. If you know me, you will find this humorous because there is probably nothing on earth that I am less interested in than cars and car parts, with the possible exception of publications devoted entirely to cars and car parts. And for some unknown reason (okay, it’s probably pretty obvious), it seems as though the only people who call obscure car magazines are red-state redneck hicks with an IQ range of inanimate object to single-celled organism. Sorry for the descriptive redundancy. Anyway, this is how one, sadly typical phone call went down:

Me: “Good morning, (name of car magazine), how may I help you?”
Red-state redneck hick: “Hi, my name is BillyJoeBob [or something to that effect] and I’m calling from Hicksville, Kentucky [or someplace like that].”At this point they always pause, like I’m somehow supposed to have a reaction to this information. Little do they know that I don’t give a fuck what their name is or where they’re calling from and the only information I need is who they want to talk to, which, ironically they NEVER know.
Me: [Rolling eyes] “Okay…”
RSRH: “Well I was reading an issue of (car magazine) from 1983 about (some kind of car or car part, I can’t even tell and don’t care).” Pause.
Me: “Um, yeah?”
RSRH: “Well I was wondering if I can talk to someone about it?”
Me: “Okay, do you have the name of the person who wrote the article?”
RSRH: “Oh… no, I don’t know who wrote it.”
Me: [Banging head against computer monitor] “So you’d like to talk to someone, but you don’t know who, about an article that was written over 20 years ago?”
RSRH: “Yeah.”
Me: [Super-extreme eye-roll that I reserve for special occasions] “Okay, let me transfer you to someone.” Punch a random extension into the phone and make a silent mental apology to whoever has to deal with this guy next.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I think that there is an obvious lesson to be learned from this experience that was my life 8 ½ hours per day, 5 days per week (which i now actually MISS), and that lesson is: never graduate from college.

Why my yesterday sucked worse than yours

I never made it to work yesterday. This is going to be a very long story about me and my car, so perhaps we should preface it with a picture?


Yep, that about sums it up. I love my car, and I’m pretty sure it loves me, but we don’t always communicate very well with each other. I don’t always know what it’s thinking, so it’s hard for me to help it. Case in point: yesterday morning. So I’m driving down Highland as per my usual route to work, screaming along to Brand New on my ipod, which feeds to the car stereo through a tape adaptor. And when I say screaming along, I mean screaming. I really get into it, even at 8:30 am. And speaking of Brand New, I am so fucking excited about their new album. I recently rediscovered Deja Entendu, and I can’t stop listening to it. But I digress.

All of a sudden, the sound started flickering in and out, and I began to panic. I tried switching tape adaptors, examined my ipod, played around with the radio. This problem needed to be fixed immediately, as I’m fairly certain that I am physically incapable of operating a motor vehicle without the aid of music played at eardrum-damage-causing decibels. Then I lost the stereo altogether. Then I felt the power in my car beginning to die. All of a sudden, I realized that ignoring the battery light on my dash the previous night did not, indeed, make the problem disappear, as per my initial plan of action. Shit. So somehow I managed to pull off of the main road onto a side street and right into a parking spot just as the battery died completely. I made some phones calls. One to my buddies at AAA (“Oh, hi Betsy, what’s the problem this time?”), one to my temp agency explaining the dilemma, and one to my Dad’s cell phone. My parents and brother are currently in Florida visiting my grandparents, so I thought it would be fun to leave them a little message to say hi. “Hi Mom and Dad. My car broke down and I don’t know what the problem is so I’m stranded in the middle of Los Angeles waiting for a tow truck. I hate my life so fucking much. Hope you guys are having fun in Florida, say hi to Grandma and Grandpa for me!” They still haven’t called me back.

After a few minutes, Non-English-Speaking-Car-Guy-Who-Helped-Me-Yesterday #1 showed up. He jumped my car and then we had a conversation that went a little like this:
Me: “I don’t understand why the battery died! That’s a new battery and I didn’t leave any lights on or anything.”
NESCGWHMY#1: “Well do you use cellphone charger in your car?”
Me: “I have an MP3 charger.”
#1: “How often you use it?”
Me: “Well it’s been plugged in since I got it about… five months ago?”
#1: “Five month?!? No wonder battery die. And another thing. This battery. It no good. How much you pay for this battery? Sixty, seventy?”
Me: “Uh… yeah, something like that.” Later investigation into my checkbook reveals that on September 27th at Juan’s Automotive and Tire Center in Burbank I spent exactly $80.35 on the battery.
#1: “Well it no good. This is cheapest battery you can get. You get ripped off.”
Me: “Great.” Damn you, Juan! Note to self: stop being young, naïve, blonde girl with car problems.

Anyway, I thanked my friend and was on my way. I called the temp agency and told them I was going to make it to work and then got back onto Highland. A few minutes later, the radio started flickering again. Shit. I tried to pull off onto a side road, but then the radio came back a little bit and I optimistically thought that I might be able to make it to work. Ha. Not so much. So I’m at the intersection of Fairfax and Beverly (each street is very busy, five or six lanes each, middle of morning rush hour) and my battery dies again as I’m at the very front of the left-hand turn lane. Shitshitshit. The little green arrow lit up and everyone behind me starts honking and yelling. I tried to wave them around me, but where could they go? Around me on the left, into oncoming traffic? Around me on the right, a solid wall of cars, two lanes deep? Meanwhile all the cars behind the one that’s directly behind me have no idea what the hell is going on, so being the polite and understanding commuters that they are, continue honking and yelling out of their windows. I call my AAA pals again.

Me: “Hi. Yeah. My car died again.”
AAA: “Okay, where are you?”
Me: “Actually, I’m right in the middle of a really busy intersect- [honking and yelling] CAN’T YOU SEE THAT MY FUCKING CAR IS DEAD!!! GO AROUND ME YOU PIECE OF SHIT MOTHERFUCKERS!!!”
AAA: “Hello?”
Me: “Oh, sorry.”

I called the temp agency back and told them there was no way in hell I was making in to work at all and after what seemed like about 3 years, Non-English-Speaking-Car-Guy-Who-Helped-Me-Yesterday #2 showed up with a tow truck. He seemed very nice, but unfortunately I had a very hard time understanding what the hell he was trying to say to me. After noticing that my car is four-wheel drive, he connected the front of my poor, dead Subaru to the back of his truck with a big chain and instructed me to put my car in neutral and steer as he pulled me out of the intersection. At least I think that’s what he told me to do. Anyway, as he pulled to a stop next to a gas station on the other side of the intersection, I braked but nothing happened. I don’t know why my car didn’t stop but at any rate it kept right on going, right into the back of his truck. He pulled forward a little more and got out of the truck.

#2: “You heet mah truck! You heet mah truck!”
Me: “I’m really sorry! I don’t know what happened!”
He bent down in front of my car and pulled my crumpled front license plate off the bumper.
#2: “I haf scroodrifer. I fix it.”
Me: “Oh don’t worry about it, I’ll fix it later.”

I threw the mangled license plate in the backseat of my car. I wasn’t about to explain to this guy that his scroodrifer wasn’t gonna reattach my plate, since I didn’t have the right parts for attaching a front plate and had just jammed some leftover furniture assembly screws into some rubber pieces in the bumper and hoped it didn’t fall off. Apparently, my hoping-for-the-best approach to car maintenance is inherently flawed.

My friend #2 told me that a flatbed truck was on the way and I should wait in my car, and he went to wait in his truck. So I sat in my car and, having nothing better to do, started crying. #2 came over and opened my door.
“Eeeeleeezabef! Why you noh happeee?”
“I can’t afford to fix this. I have no money.”
“Noh moneee? Where you wohk?”
“Uh, I don’t really have a job.”
“Ahh I seeee. Weel mahbeee I win the lotereee las’ night, I heeelp you.”
“If you win the lottery, you’re gonna buy me a new car?”
“Shuh, shuh.” I have a sneaking suspicion he was just saying that to cheer me up and did not, in fact, have any intention whatsoever in using his lottery winnings to buy me a Prius. Oh well, you gotta give the guy credit for trying. He then began a long and inspirational speech, which from what I understood of it, had something to do with me looking to Jesus Christ my Savior to get me through this difficult time. I started laughing. But the mental image of Jesus in a pair of coveralls, bent over the engine of my dirty old car with a wrench and an oily rag is enough to make anyone laugh, am I right? I didn’t have the heart to tell him that even if I did believe in God, that I’m pretty sure he had better things to do today than help me fix my car.

Finally, NESCGWHMY#3 showed up with his flatbed truck and hoisted my poor vehicle on the back of it. I climbed into the front of the truck with #3, who probably weighed 300 pounds and was even more English-language-impaired than #2. I began to worry that if each man I encountered on this journey was more difficult to understand than the last, I would need to resort to some primitive form of sign language to ever get my car fixed. I told him where I wanted my car towed, and we set off. This was not an enjoyable car ride. This man came within fractions of an inch of hitting EVERY SINGLE CAR we drove in front of, in back of, or next to. I gripped the door handle with white knuckles as he screamed into his cell phone in some language that sounded like 50% Spanish, 30% Chinese, 10% Russian, and 10% French. If anyone is familiar with this dialect, I would be interested to know what it is. At one point in a break between phone calls, he attempted to have a conversation with me. I had no idea what he was saying, so I tried to do that thing where you make an ambiguous response grunt and hope for the best.

#3: “MEHF BURBLFRUUUMN DEESTRIB NESTRAANDF VIRTEB EL SECUOUNE MINCTOUR LES FROOMD!!!!!”
Me: “Mmnnn.”
#3: “EH LESTRIBE LES NOPKLEW VIRTEED MOY CHERN!!!! ROLFDE LAY BURTYD REDMPIE SOY!!!! GREENP MEN LOS SLOURNE!!!!
Me: “Yeah…”
#3: “EL GRIBTLE WEORN VIRLUMM TOI!!!! HIRNSH PLOIY FREN WHEERN!!! EL W-2!!! W-2, HA HA HA!!!!
Me: “Yeah, I don’t understand taxes either.”

That seemed to go over pretty well, and eventually we found the auto shop. And lo and behold, the guy who worked there appeared to speak English AS A FIRST LANGUAGE! Maybe Jesus decided to help me out, after all.

The guy at the shop explained to me that my alternator was broken, which was why my battery hadn’t recharged after the first jump. To replace the part was going to cost me a little over $200, including labor. Shit. He also said that it would take about an hour and half to fix, so one of his car shop guys could give me a ride home while they worked on it. Cool, thanks. So he picked the creepiest guy possible to give me a ride, and this guy tried to hit on me the entire ride to my apartment. It was like a really bad, really awkward first date. I found myself missing NESCGWHMY #s 1, 2, and 3. Finally we pulled up in front of my door.

“Shit.”

My keys were still in my car. Which was back at the shop. Shit. So we drive all the way back, and I told them I’d just wait there til the car was fixed. I sat on a gross, dirty couch in the dingy little waiting area and watched some really low-budget home makeover shows for an hour. Then the owner of the shop came over and informed me that they were still waiting for the part and it was going to be another few hours before the car would be done. Great. So my creepy friend drove me to my apartment once again, and this time I brought my keys. Of course the minute I got there, I remembered that one of my roommates had the day off and had been home the entire time, so I could have gotten in the first time. Fucking wonderful. Anyway, I napped on the couch for a few hours til they called me and I got the car back.

New alternator + labor = $229.84.

I immediately went home to check my bank account. After paying the auto shop, I had a balance of exactly $0.19. Nineteen cents. And my next payday is next Thursday. I had twenty dollars cash to last me a week, and no groceries. So yesterday I began a new diet called “I spent all my grocery money on a new alternator.” And last night I spent 3 of the 20 bucks cash on beer, so I’m down to 17 for six days. This should be fun.

Well this has been unnecessarily long and boring, so for all the skimmers, here is a summary of my story:

• AAA saved my sorry ass yet again.
• Never go to Juan's Automotive & Tire Center at 224 N. Victory Blvd. in Burbank. Ever. And if you want to prank-call Juan, his number is 818-842-9512. I hate you, Juan.
• Don’t let its proportionally tiny size and monetary value fool you. In the age-old battle of car ipod charger versus car battery and alternator, the ipod charger will always kick ass.
• Given the smallest amount of money possible to survive on, I will ultimately spend that money on beer.

The End.

it's true

hello. let's start with my life story, shall we? it all started in the early eighties, when i was born in eastern pennsylvania. then my parents got married and had some other kids, and then i graduated from college. well there was some other stuff in between there, but who cares about that? moving right along. our story begins in may of 2004 when i graduated from college with a degree in communications (aka the most ambiguous course of study since english and sociology). having sucessfully completed four years of studying, working my ass off, and logging countless hours as a very active student leader, i was excited to see where my experience and my $120,000 diploma was going to take me. shortly thereafter i moved to the los angeles area and discovered the wonderful world of Being Someone's Bitch, and have been an active participant ever since. a brief history of my Bitch positions and duties:

Camp Counselor (aka Underpaid Babysitter Bitch)

• removal of spiders and other "scary bugs" from camper tents
• taste-testing of burnt and/or dirt-covered cookout food
• mediation of petty, child-like arguments (among both children and staff)
• bear, skunk, and poisonous snake lookout duty
• making up rainy-day activities on the spot ("hey kids, let's play Who Can Go The Longest Without Talking Or Moving! winner gets a popsicle!")
• rescue of goggles, towels, shoes, and other miscellanous items from bottom of scummy lake

Film Extra (aka Dime-a-Dozen Bitch)

• waiting around
• listening to other extras complain
• waiting around
• "acting" (standing in the background, sitting in the background, walking in the background)
• being herded around the set
• waiting around

Temp (aka Everyone in the Office's Bitch)

• answering phones
• sorting mail
• making copies
• spending 8 hours per day surfing the internet

i am currently temping as i continue my quest for a "real job," where i will likely be answering phones, sorting mail, making copies, and spending 8 hours per day surfing the internet. the obvious difference between temping and being officially employed being that my mother, 3,000 miles away, will be able to sleep better at night knowing that i am no longer one of the 43 million americans without health insurance. hooray for bachelor's degrees!