Had a bit of a chat with the new boss today about the job-o. Turns out that when they hired someone with my length and breadth of experience, they fully intended to exploit it.

And, here I’ve been reveling in the glorified secretary of it all. Sure, I’ve been trained at the new gig (trained being an overstatement of shown stuff) by a sort of traditional support person, although that is possibly over-reaching or poorly stated, because her youth gives her a certain je ne sais quoi. You know, like, today she’s into just doing the job and punching the clock and not being overtaxed and shitting on the boss in predictable eye rolling ways. But, you know, being 20-something and still in school doesn’t last forever, it’s not terminal.

But, I digress away from my favorite topic–me, of course.

Anyway, I’ve been grooving on the simplicity of typing business cards into Outlook and printing and photocopying and filing shit. Mega-good-fun. Seriously, I love the flow of the mundane. You’re stepping forward, but it ain’t exactly a stretch. (I imagine it’s like the satisfying weight of a spade full of earth and the invigorating heavy sweat, muscle churning of a well-dug ditch, without all that messy ache and grime.)

Not a status quo they are looking to maintain. Interesting that, since I have to say I have any unhealthy (for my slacker soul) fascination with the name-dropping clout and agenda-setting cache of some of the world’s big agenda setters. The realm of the folks with and for whom I work is littered with multi-billionaires, celebs, politicos, celebrity multi-billionaire politicos and all sorts of Tom Wolfe in his later years worthy subjects.

It’s one thing to read and talk or hear about the people writing Op Ed pieces on foreign policy and advising or criticizing the current, war-mongering dink in the Whitehouse. It’s another to have them on the other end of the phone. (Although, clearly, I ain’t sharing my insightful analyses (although who’s to say one day it wouldn’t be solicited). Or to be chatting about their personalities casually.

And, the place that’s handing me a paycheck is well-linked to all of the media. You know like the media shit I all but bathed in at a major journalism school. Or the media of which stand-up comedy is a step cousin or poor bastard child or vital part, depending on who’s talking.

Fucking hell, shit and damnation. How is it I find myself continually with multiple doors and some kind of sense of expectation (as in the “fails to meet” category that occasionally got checked in report cards of my distant, grade school self)?

I heard a couple of reports from last night’s Naked Comedy Show back
in Cambridge. It’s a little bittersweet for me.

The man with whom I reside seemed quite pleased that I was 3K+ miles
away and except for a shower, draped with fabric. Turns out he has a
little old world in him, despite his jingoistic American posing.

Not only does he not want me hanging out in the altogether publicly
(for art, don’t you know), but there’s more. (Begrudgingly, I’d have
to say he might have a point when he mentions a difference between my
past naked forays and the show that went down last night. Something
about someone going to a theater to pay cash money to see my
breastages on stage catches a little stripper cache.)

The more part on the apparent, previously undetected prudishness
manifested itself last night. After work, I worked out in those
stupid spandex-stretchy shorts. My booty doth offend M. when we
regrouped for dropping off my VW at the dealer for some much needed
inspecting and tuning. Apparently, you could see my contours a tad
too vividly for his tastes.

Like many a third-world woman kept down by the harsh condemnation of
the local menfolk, I wrapped the sarong I had handy around my feminity
and avoided further scorn.

Mens. They be puzzling some time.

I think the best thing I will post this week is the picture of my
sailor boy-o. The best part of the picture is he looks good and
action-packed and like a real sailor.

Apparently, cameras can lie.

Also in the line of vision, my new glasses. A while back, I had
bifocals (well progressive lens), but they were scratched and the
frames were stretched and I lost my love for them.

I replaced them with much cheaper single vision glasses. =20

Thanks to fabulous new benefits, which include vision care and
computer vision care for anyone using a computer (which is all but the
chick who restocks the plentiful snacks), I’m back with the old lady
bifocal dealios. But, I can see. I can SEE!

This may very well be the most boring post on this website to date.

The only thing of interest, really, is not my news but a friend’s.=20
Has me thinking about feminism, a little old thing called choice
(which isn’t just about abortion but about choosing a baby), my own
mortality and biological clock (I don’t feel any biological imperative
to breed), my mother’s life as a single parent, the probably not
entirely coincidental fact that both me and the fabulous M. grew up in
single mother households and just a whole lot of things.

Most of all, in my less selfish and introspective modes, it makes me
think how much I wish happiness, peace and all sorts of candy cane,
puppy dog, lollipop, rainbow good shit on those closest to me.

(The only downside being my wish for M.’s happiness would have to
include his dream of mega-Americana. You know the house in the
suburbs I grew up resenting. Ah well.)

Also, if anyone in Boston is looking for a bound to be interesting,
wild time tonight, head on down to the Improv Boston Theater in Inman
Square. The irrepressible, cute as a button, funny Andy Ofiesh is
taking his "Naked Comedy Show" public. Headlining the full frontal
will be Reverend Tim McIntire (can’t link, but check out
www.reverendtim.com). Also featuring Randy Winn (funny and a cancer
survivor) and Happy the Sad Clown (amazing and surreal in costume,
naked is just something else and beyond). Possibly also featuring
Chris Walsh of the fabulous Walsh Brothers, who I love comedy-wise and
otherwise (www.walshbrothers.org).

I had to leae Boston, because I saw too many comic naughty bits.

I have a few pics of the Golden Gate enshrouded in fog. M. and I walked across it last weekend. It’s pretty disorienting and unsettling to walk through a cloud unable to see much above, below or beside you.

(Click the pic above for an unorganized album of this July’s adventures)

Looks like we are heading off to Berkeley Marina today, where a friend might take us sailing, depending on the state of her vessel or the possibility of getting another boat for the day.

I generally haven’t been on many boats that weren’t owned by a brother, so it will be fun to not be the kid sister. Mocked for my lack of sailing skills and, well, just being me.

The only downside is my fear. M. was a huge fan of the Scott Peterson trial. He brought me by the Marina on one of my first visits to him when he moved here. Not sure, but I think there was an implicit “you’re next.”

I have been involved in preparing and FedEx’inga letter to a man in
the US power structure. He is one of the minions of GW’s evil empire.
I do not like this man.

I also cannot erase from my mind, while completing this task, the
scene in Fahrenheit 9/11 when he essentially jams an entire comb into
his mouth in order to slick his unruly cowlicks back.

Through all of this, I am fighting the urge to write obscenities and
whatnot on the FedEx package. I’m assuming the powers that govern my
paycheck would frown upon that.

Muffins are basically cake for breakfast. That is there main
strength. And, being as I ain’t the skinniest mother around, I
shouldn’t be eating them.

But some mornings, on alternate muffin/bagel days, there they are
oozing warmth. They speak to me. Literally. I can hear a distant
muffled, muffin murmur. (I should be killed for excessive
alliteration just there.)

So, today I dine on muffins, free muffins at that, and reflect that
there are worse jobs.