Hurricane I

For some weird reason, the circuit breaker panel for our apartment is in my room. And for reasons unknown to me, it is a two-and-a-half long panel on a wall in the back of the room. This would be fine, but the room is small, and it's where I want to put a bedside table. Today, we had to call the pumbers to fix something with our hot water pump, and we had to switch off the thing that makes the water hot, so I had to move the little table. Rather than sweep the alarm clock and the picture of my mother on to the bed and throw the bedside table on top of them, I took my time. This was not good enough for Mr. Picky.

I'm supposed to keep that area more accessible in case of emergency. What, I ask you, is the kind of emergency that requires instant access to the circuit breaker board? I can't think of any, which is why many circuit breakers are located in basements or far away outside walls. So I think I will ignore this instruction. I'm already not allowed to have popcorn, I will concede defeat in the rest of the apartment, but I will arrange my furniture according to my instincts, not his pretend firecode obsessions.

Otherwise, I'm going to have to rebel passive aggressively and leave a spoon in the sink.

This morning I had a 15 minute phone interview with the HR people in head office in Atlanta for the job that I've already had two interviews for and that I was desperately trying to send a fax to on Monday morning. It wasn't as much of a slam dunk as my other two interviews, but two points it two points whether you dunk it or it rolls around the rim for a while and finally drops. It also didn't help that my cell phone hung up on us during the course of the conversation. I should also mention that my cell phone hung up on me during the first phone interview for this job. (Side note: I hate Cingular. I hereby swear that in the rest of my cell phone life, I will never, ever go back to this company. My children will not own Cingular phones, and any company that I have a controlling influence on will not use Cingular. In fact, one of the questions I will use to screen employees will be what service they use, and if they use Cingular, well, that's just a tick in the "no" column.) I may have to go yell at a Cingular person in a store and throw the phone at their head. That should solve my dropped call problem.

I have no idea when they will get back to me. I asked that question, and I got a non-answer. That's never a good thing. Also, I have not yet met the people that I would be working with, which is a serious oversight in the application process in my opinion. That was the other question I asked, and I couldn't get a real answer to that either. That's kind of bad for a company, and does not make me want to go sing their praises to the masses. But if they offer me a nice job, that's a different story entirely. It's my bird in the hand.

(The birds in the bush, if you wondered, is that I have a job interview on the Hill next week. I have a feeling I'll get offered the Bellsouth thing before the end of the Hill job process, and yes, I'd take the Bellsouth job if offered. Hence the bird hand/bush metaphor. And it just occured to me that this metaphor is kind of sexual. I need to get out more.)

For those of you that don't read Dan Savage religiously (and you all should, he's fabulous) -

Last week you gave good advice to a 15-year-old boy who wanted to know how to get girls. How about some advice for us 15-year-old girls? Surely you must know something about getting a guy. ;)
Girls Also Longing

The first bit of advice I have for you, GAL, is this: Don't abuse semicolons and close-parentheses like that. It's extremely unattractive. God did not give us those useful punctuation marks so that teenage girls could fashion them into winking smiley faces. Is that understood? Good. As for advice on getting a guy, I would like to invite my adult female readers to share their insights. Ladies: What do you know now that you wish you knew when you were 15? I will print the best three responses in an upcoming column. [FIN]

I love it.

And on the subject of things that I wish I knew when I was 15 - the apparent fascination with boobs will not wane, though they will get better about hiding it. And no, not all of them will manage to grow up, so it's a good idea idea to practice guy friend triage and focus on those who will. Also, keep in mind that some of them will get significantly taller, so use your temporary size advantage sparingly. (On a related note, they will not get smarter. But they will get larger, so use your intellectual advanage sparingly as well.) But don't worry, college will rock, and then whatever happened in high school really ceases to matter.

So last night I was dorking around on the internets, and my good friend Kristen sends me an IM. As she is never on line, this was neat in an of itself, and then she said that she had news.

"Really?" I said. "Are you pregnant?"

"Yes," said Kristen, thus weirding me out much more than any number of friends tying the knot. I mean, half of my friends are pretty much already married, just lacking that ceremony and the paperwork. So it's no big deal when that last hoop gets clear. Exciting and fun and worthy of a massive celebration, yes, but not so much jaw-dropping. People my age should not be making babies, and to be making babies intentionally is just amazing.

But at the same time, I am thrilled for them. It will be weird to think of Kristen and Will as "parents," but I cannot wait to see this beautiful blonde baby. And I'm also looking forward to seeing Kristen all fat and pregnant, as this will be the one time in her stick-figure life that she will weigh more than I do. And she is very, very excited, which is also nice.

As of now, she's 9 weeks pregnant with a due date on Halloween. Which means by the next Vanderbilt Homecoming, there will be one more tiny band baby.

Congratulations Kristen and Will. I wish you all the best.

Seriously. The pictures make the article as funny as Marlin and his cock.

I'm hanging out in the office that I used to temp in because I've been trying unsuccessfully to send a fax all morning. It's the signed application for the job that I'm so close to capturing, and so I'm sort of freaking out. And it doesn't help that my sleep cycle has shifted several hours forward. I've seen 6:30 am several times recently, I've just been on the other side of it. Little bit jittery. I'm out of alternate solutions, and it's raining, and I'm loathe to run around the city searching for a working fax machine. (It may happen anyway. I'm seriously freaking out.)

So to amuse myself while I wait for a call back to determine if I've even got the correct number, I decided to check my blog stats. Quite a few people have found the blog by searching for some variation of "flip," "fuck," and "bed". I hope I helped them out. If I picture is worth a thousand words, then I've provided 3,000 on the subject. I rock. (Why won't the fax work? Why does the Universe hate me?)

Also, one person found me by searching yahoo for "naken women's body [sic]." First of all, why are you using yahoo search? And then why me? I have no naken women here.

And does anyone else think it's odd that Blogger's spellcheck doesn't know the word "blog"? I mean, duh...

First: Read This I have nothing more to say on that matter now. Maybe tomorrow. I'm too busy laughing.

Second: I'm putting a new blog on my blogroll, and I feel like I should explain. You see, this is the kid who writes oh so interesting articles every Wednesday for the Crimson White.

I love reading this kid because he is dead serious. He seriously thinks the gays are the devil and that I'm going to Hell. As my good friend noted, he is a "permanent vegetard." So I'm linking to him.

His blog is not as awesome as his weekly columns (I've been trying to get the above mentioned friend to run a "Wednesdays With Marlin" special, a la Wonkette, but he [not Marlin] pointed out that it would be rather dull. All the remarks would be basically translated to "I'm a Homophobic Giant Douchebag with My Head Up My Ass." Or something like that.) On the other hand, he posts a picture of the family chicken. (Make your own joke about the homophobe putting his cock on the internet. I went with a Jeff Gannon reference myself.) The chicken's name is Camo. I'd have named my cock something different, but I've never had one so I guess I don't really know. (Sorry, I felt it was really good enough for two jokes.)

So Marlin belongs on the blogroll. I'd link to the the column, but there's no permalink. Alas.

(Hat Tip: Charlie, without whom I would have missed Marlin entirely. And that would be sad.)

Links in this post: 6. Would have been 7 but I declined to link to hotmilitarystud.com, a la Jeff Gannon.

It's Friday night, and I ain't got nobody, I got [no] money because I [have no job yet]. (The song works better with the original lyrics, it's true.)

I am so bored, and it's getting worse because I'm getting lethargic. No one called me, so it didn't occur to me that I have people I could have called to hang out with me until now. But that's okay, because I haven't showered today either, and that's just really too much work.

There's nothing good on TV, and I have no DVD player in my room. I don't think it matters, since neither of my roommates are around (duh, it's Friday night) so I could run around naked if I so desired. (It's a little cold for that). But I'm becoming hermit-ish, and I don't want to leave the lair. Except that I'm going stir crazy, so that's kind of contradictory. Or not, I've never talked to a hermit, so maybe it's part of the package. And there's a DVD player on my computer, but the Blockbuster is so far away...

I have been outside today. I went to the Kinkos, and all the computers were taken so I wandered around for a while. And, I went to Quiznos. (Tasty). But I had to think about whether or not I've been outside today, and that's bad.

And, I've conquered all the fun Yahoo! games. NOW what am I supposed to do with my weeknights? Read?

So, I've had both a phone interview and an in person job interview. They both went quite well, and I'm hoping for all kinds of good things. The funny thing was when they gave me a computer test. Computer tests always make me giggle because they include questions like "Save the Document." Um, right. Now, on some of these computerized computer tests, the questions can be complicated, and sometimes I don't understand what they are asking me to do. But I still score in the 80s because I grew up with computers, and I've spent way too much time on my laptop ever since I've owned one.

I have trouble not laughing at them when they ask me if I can use MS Word. I want to respond, "I graduated ten months ago. Do you honestly think I could have made it through a Top 20 University without masterful knowledge of MS Word? And do I really need a typing test? I can type in my sleep - I know this, because I've done it. You write some crazy stuff when you're typing in your sleep, I tell you what."

But I can't say that. And they don't really care, the test is mandatory. But this test was given to me by the IT guy, and I got a perfect score. He confided in me that I was miles ahead of the girl he tested yesterday, she couldn't even create a new folder on the C Drive. I think he was biased because he's from Tennessee, and he liked that I went to Vandy. Of course, he's not a Vandy fan himself (he's from Knoxville - shudder) but still, in the job market business, I'm strong enough to keep my mouth shut. So I made some noncommittal noise and switched to basketball. This might be why he gave me a perfect score - I made mistakes, but he liked me. We shall see.

And in other news, I bought a desk. So now I have a bed with no mattress, and a desk with no chair. I'm awesome. But furniture is exciting, I'm starting to feel like I actually live here. All that's left (aside from the mattress and chair) is a dresser and wall art. All the things that I brought with me that can go on the wall say "Vanderbilt" and while I may use some of it, I'd like to get some actual framed, non college affiliated stuff on the walls first. Good times.

UPDATE: The interview did in fact go quite well. It's now a reference race between me and another person. My references aren't calling back, which is sad. Well, except for Dr. Sagen, once again making band work-stucy one of the smartest moves in my college career. I rock.

Speaking of not dying, be sure to check out a website that explains the pictures the government uses to protect us against a terrorist attack. It's really quite useful, I had no idea that I got so many of them wrong.

Slate has an article today about some kook who wants to make it so that we don't age and that we don't die. Now, here's the real kicker: is this a good thing?

I'm of the opinion that it is not. I don't think that getting older has to be a bad thing, and the funny thing is, I think that most people agree, except for the physical appearance thing. And it might be because I'm 22, and I know that I'm going to keep all my hair, but I don't think that the physical appearance thing is such a big deal. If 50 year old people looked like they were 25, I'd be freaked out.

But seriously. I think the life cycle exists for a reason, and it would be a lot more useful to enjoy each part that to wish for the other stuff back. In Greek mythology, the reason the gods meddled in human affairs is that the gods were bored. Eternally young, eternally beautiful, eternally arrogant, the gods were bored and had to make mischief among people who could die. I think dying and the knowing that this is temporary is what makes sentient life different/better from/than anything else.

I have a full day ahead of me, and it's off to a rough start. Yesterday was everyone's favorite drinking day, and I definitely partook (partaked?). But that's okay, I drank my water, and I'm not hungover in the slightest.

This is key, because I have a 9am meeting, and I have to leave at 8:30 to make it on time. So I got up at 7:15, took the Metro-Ride-Of-Shame, got home around 7:45, ready to bust into full Wet-To-Set-In-45 minutes mode. Alas, I've been foiled. My roommate is in the bathroom, blowdrying her hair on low. And then turning it off. And then putting it on low again. I do not understand this. Put the thing on high, blast your hair, and then move on with your life. It's not an exact science. Your hair isn't going to look that much different, it's not like roasting meat.

I should not be irked. Normally, I am not alive before 8, but then, she usually isn't either. I don't know what she's doing in there, but we're now at the point where I'm lucky if I get to put on my contacts and makeup and still make the meeting on time.

And I'm going to smell like bar. Greeeeat.

UPDATE: It turned out to be okay, because the woman I was meeting seemed disoriented (hungover? who knows) and then mentioned that she was all out of sorts because she spent the night with her boyfriend and left all her jewelry at his apartment. Ha. I may smell like ass, but I had makeup and jewelry.

What makes March 17 so special? Well, green beer is only a small part of it. Today also marks the founding of Vanderbilt University, the only school in the nation to be a ranked party school and academic instution. For more information about what makes Vanderbilt great, watch a rap video made by some Vandy seniors.

Kiss me, I'm a Commodore.

(Hat Tip: Everyone's Favorite Admissions Counselor)

If you have a clue who Rick Santorum is, read this (I don't think you have to have a subscription, but I'm not sure).

It. Is. Awesome. And this is why I'm marrying TNR. I will be the trophy wife of the magazine.

Tomorrow at 4, I have a phone interview to some Admin at some telecommunications corporation. I often have a problem when I interview for corporations because I can't seem to not give the impression that I really want to work on the Hill. I mean, I do want to work on the Hill, but I also want to eat and live inside. So I need to come up with answers that tell the truth but also make me sound like I want to answer the phones and order more office supplies and that I won't bail at the first indication of something better. This is complicated.

I will be taking a nap today. I had trouble getting to sleep, finally to drift off around 2. Then, I was awaked at 3 and at 3:30 am from a random phone call to my cell phone. When I tried to call the number to yell at someone for calling me at 3 in the moring, the nice recording told me that the number I called was an outgoing number only. Then at 7, I was awakened because the city of DC, in its infinite wisdom, decided to insert a tree in front of my apartment. Note the word choice - insert. I have never seen a drill used to plant a tree.

It is Thursday. I have not left the house since Tuesday evening. See, I would leave the house, but it's been really windy, and wandering about in the wind for no good reason is not fun. And I have no good reason to go any where. I'd go shopping, which is mostly indoors, but that requires funds (or at least being okay with signing my soul over to the credit card people). I'd go talk to people about jobs, but they're all busy and do not have time for me. And while I do need to go the grocery store, I don't want to walk there in the wind. So I'm eating cold pizza and drinking water.

I am going crazy. I crave meaningful human interaction, but I fear that all too soon, I will not. Then I will turn very pale, start going to the tanning salon, die my hair blonde, and get a boob job. Then, my transformation to future trophy wife will be nearly complete.

I kid you not. Slate has an article written by a Yale law professor about how labled one-seater toilets are unconstitutional. And because I'm awesome like that, I give it to you.

For the first time in my life, I have a television in my bedroom. This is sort of a good thing because it allows me to hide out in my room for long periods of time. Hiding out allows me to avoid random and boring conversations about cleaning the kitchen.

My male roommate - henceforth known as Mr. Picky - definitely talked to me during the West Wing yesterday. I responded with "mmmmms" a lot, but I'm going to have to say something about the "No Talking During West Wing" rule eventually. It wouldn't be so bad if it were important, but it was weird details about why he disconnected the internet so that he could dust his room more thoroughly. Um, not checking my email during the West Wing anyway, so I don't care. But I had to hear aaaaaall about all the past internet problems, including some issues with the last wireless account that was not password protected. During a commercial, I mentioned that a) I have a Mac and b) I'm not worried about most viruses. He shakes his head and says that I should be vigilant, since viruses attack all machines equally. I let the subject drop, but it's a HUGE pet peeve of mine when Windows people think they know all about my computer. I promise, you don't understand, and I don't hold it against you. I may not let you use my machine, but I don't hold it against you. But Macs are not the same as Windows, they don't have the same operating systems, and they work differently. Deal with it. But can I say these things? No, because they are rude.

I spend my days on the computer writing things, and usually the TV is also on because two glowing screens make me feel less insane. But also this appears to mean "I'm not doing anything, please engage me in meaningless conversation."

I'm just stir-crazy. If I don't get a job soon, I'm going to change my career goals to "trophy wife." If I succeed at that goal, I imagine my days will be much the same, only with less computer and more shopping. (Come to think of it, why I haven't I seriously considered this before? Oh yeah, neverending, unrelenting ambition. If I could only transfer that to a desire to be "Voluneer of the Year," I'd be in business. Smith Point, here I come!)

Oh. My. God. I am so bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.

I'm seriously considering adding the following to the bottom of my cover letters:

If I can answer further questions or provide you with additional materials, please contact me at 202-XXX-XXXX. I look forward to speaking with you, and please hire me before I lose my mind watching "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" reruns.

Seriously. Today I watched Seasame Street. Elmo had a parade. Originally, it was the "Little, Red Furry Monster Parade," but all his non red, furry non-monster friends wanted to join, so it became the "Everyone Who Wants To March In A Parade Parade." And then I learned about the letter F.

Last week in Savage Love, Dan Savage answered an email from a kid whose "friend" was knowingly spreading HIV to internet-dating partners. Dan was really irate, and said that he believes in a "paternity" law that would make the infector pay 50% of the drug costs for the newly infectee. Understandably, this week's Savage Love is all about that one particular email.

Personally, I'm torn between thinking that's a good idea and "blaming the victim" so to speak. Yeah, if you go around infecting people, you're a major dickwad (pun intended?), but if you agree to unprotected sex with a stranger, I think you're really taking your life in your hands. So I'm not sure if I think you only get 50% responsibilty for that action.

There was a letter a few weeks back from a guy who demanded that his internet partner use a condom, but later discovered that the condom "slipped off." That's not cool, and that's really not what I'm talking about. In a case like that, I'd probably be in favor of criminal proceedings as well as full financial responsibilty. Yeah, the infectee was taking a risk by having sex with a stranger, but the disease is sufficient punishment for that.

I suppose my view is slightly colored by the fact that I'm a chick and I don't tend to have sex with random people. I don't really understand the urge. So I'm open to thoughts and other opinions.

In a related issue, I'm also pro-choice and in favor of strict paternity laws. In other words, You Fuck It, You Bought It.

Then you put two of them together, and put a fitted sheet over them, and look it's a bed!

So, first it was a chair. Now it's sort of a bed. First you flip, then you fuck.

Describing a flip'n'fuck with words was complicated, so I decided to make use of the digital camera.

So I have moved into my own apartment, and out of the Mansion. (Interesting note - the day after I moved out, one of the guys set fire to a pan of oil on an electric stove. I have no idea how this happened.) For those of you DC folk, I'm now living in Eastern Market, about two blocks from the market itself and not much further from the Metro. It's a small apartment; my bedroom is definitly bigger than a Vandy single, but I'm not really sure it's bigger than a Vandy double. But it is cheap, and I'm within walking distance to the Capitol Hill office buildings. Thus, when I do manage to get employed, I'll be able to walk to work. Hooray!

I'm living with two random people from Craiglist. One of them is a 50 year old union worker from West Virginia. The colors he picked from the living room are bright yellow, orange and pink. Yesterday, when we were at Ikea, he picked up some random things and said that he needed to get a new girlfriend so he could buy "gay" things. Um, right. He also picked up matching flowers for the living room. He talks a lot, slowly, and a lot of it is boring. And he talks when I watch TV, so I think this is going to be a problem while watching the West Wing. I don't want to be rude, but there is no talking during the West Wing, and I'm not sure how to bring up the subject. And I no longer have TiVo, so I can't just back it up. He's also a clean freak, and picky enough about how things should be properly cleaned put some people to shame. There is a black binder with all the proper procedures. (He does most of it himself, since most roommates just don't care. I'm okay with this system because as long as the trash isn't getting thrown on the floor, I'm golden.)

The other chick is 22 and foreign. She's from Belaruse, or something like that. We haven't talked much. We share a bathroom, and most of our conversation has pretty much been about that. He doesn't like her all that much, but she doesn't really pay any attention to him. She also doesn't like cleaning, apparently.

So I've moved into my own room, and I'm sleeping on two flip'n'fucks shoved together with a sheet over them. We went to Ikea yesterday and I bought a bed - regular price $250, my price $140 from the "As Is" room. I rock. Only, I'm missing the screws, and I have no matress, so it's still the flip'n'fuck for me. But owning it makes me feel warm and fuzzy. (Ignore the fact that I don't really have $140. I have plastic. And good credit...for now...)

I'm slowing checking off the list of things to do to make me all grown up. The last big thing is the job. Ironically, the first thing on the list will be the last to be checked off. Mmmm, irony....