Long days of staying busy

Here’s either how sick my mind is or how obsessed or nervous or otherwise engaged: I had a dream last night/this morning about hearing back from a job lead.

I’m fucking dreaming about my job search. I guess Freud was onto something with that “wish fulfillment” shit. I’m going crazy.

I hope to hear today from the assistant to someone who is looking for a one day a week project manager and who called me the other day and said we should set up an interview. That job actually seems to have potential, and I don’t mind the one-day-a-week thing. It facilitates my master plan of diversifying my soul, so’s not to be owned by one company. But, I do hate waiting for a call.

Next week, I’m having my first interview ever for a retail position since I left my 20s. I’m only applying for jobs at stores where I love their stuff. For this one, all I’ll say is I love French-milled soap, especially the stuff that is trop cher for me to buy.

As for temping, it’s bumming me out that that well seems mighty dry. Right now, I’m waiting to hear about a possible data entry stint for one month. But, they need to do a criminal background check, understandable in these bleak times. Worse, they probably will want to set up an interview. A fucking interview for one month of tap-tap-tapping in their little bits of data.

I remember the good old days of temping. When I would show up fressh-faced, clean and bright, and the clients would audibly sigh that I seemed in compos mentis and shit. I swear anything short of prison tattoos on your face back in the day, and temping was easy.

Other than that, I’m a tad mad at myself for not pushing harder to drive to open mikes and whatnot. However, it is damn hard settling in and figuring out where to go and what to do. Most especially when I want to make sure I’m in sync with M. (Not like so in sync that it’s creepy and co-dependent, but caring and cognizant.)

Right now, he’s in the middle of working out the new VC-funded version of his job and pressure abounds. He probably doesn’t need the nut-kick of my forcing him into going to late night open mikes. At the same time, if I go alone (which is the likely course), until life seems more comfortably settled, I’m not in love with the vision of my taking off after a day of relative leisure while he comes home after dark to eat Raman noodles alone and go to bed.

I’m sure it will all shake out, but I guess my big fear is obtaining the right balance of rationalizing how I’m currently spending my time and being honest. I’m impatient to get a job and get started in the “comedy scene,” but when I breathe, I realize there’s time.

Yesterday’s rationalization to stay home and work on a ton of web stuff actually was vindicated by the local news. I went outside and checked the mail in rain that poured in drenching sheets I had never seen. I thought to myself, “Fuck that, I ain’t driving to SF for a crappy open mike in a fucking monsoon. I’d start crying in fear the minute I was out and exposed and on the much-discussed and very intimidating California freeways.”

Later, I’m watching the news, and they mention that San Jose was severely hit by the freakish weather, and somewhere nearby a funnel cloud was looking ominous.

I doubt I’d be sent to Oz, if the tornado formed.

Since I’m boring as shit and discussing the weather, I got to say this — Fucking New Englanders don’t know shit about “severe weather.” Sure you got all your seasons and all, but since leaving home, I’ve seen some weather.

Hailstones battering my car in Tecumcari, snow falling so deep so fast it closed highways in Santa Fe, where 18-wheelers gave up and parked on the side of the disappearing road, rain drops so big they hurt and wind sheering so hard off the prairies, you have to white knuckle your hands at 10 and 2 to keep your car pointed straight.

Comparably, New England weather seems so manageable. You can put on a sweater and maybe light a candle if the power fails, but you’ll probably live to talk ad nauseum about that last big storm.

Talk with me. Please.

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