Thursday, March 16, 2006


Whole lot of nuthin' (fun):

Going on job interviews, which were pretty grueling (I couldn't even get the first interviewer to crack a smile at all, she just kept firing off questions like a damn cannonade) followed by lingering sense of impending doom. Fretting and fussing and making retarded "pluses and minuses" lists in my head, which is highly goofballish, considering nothing has actually happened yet.

Fighting and then making up with Cranky Well, I still don't know if we've truly made up, but he gave me food and took me and the gatito to the doctor late at night, so good enough. Besides, it was my turn to be the asshole.

Going to the vet Iddy Biddy needs an ultrasound. His blood tests came back normal = the good news. The bad news = my vet, who has more nervous tics than a fly-infested Appaloosa and is possibly just a highly functional tweaker, is now mystified. Also, does anybody know if they make cat diapers? I would use Huggies or some shit but there's no hole for the tail.

Dialing 9-11. Twice, when three miscreants from a rave next door (although personally? I think they sounded more like raving queens/bears from the gay bar down the street) smashed themselves/each other into our security gate, caving it in and almost breaking the glass front door. (Not that we were exactly surprised, especially considering how they usually end a gathering/quincinera/wedding reception: by firing their guns off into the air until the police helicopters come. Klassy joint.)

I never actually had to dial 9-11 before I moved to Los Angeles, and now it's old hat, however troublesome. Don't you love how some of the operators actually make you feel more panicky than you were before you called? Not to mention that my first call got disconnected while the operator was yelling at me ("Ma'am...MA'AM! I NEED YOU TO TELL ME IF THAT PERSON IS BEING HURT!!! YES OR NO, MA'AM!?!")(I had no idea, as we were only hearing crap through the door and did not feel especially inclined to get close to the glass in case they had guns.) That, plus the disconnect, plus the fact that I usually get the busy signal when I call, and all 5 (or so) times have been true emergencies, makes me hella-nervous.

(The trick, I think, is to snag that 9-11 operator job in Beverly Hills. The pay is really good, and you typically don't have many emergencies involving gangbangers or other bad elements. Well, not until some rich athlete or etc. decides to kill his wife.)

At least the gate is fixed - Cranky talked to the man who owns the place next door, who happens to be Ukrainian. He said he'd take care of it, but blames "those Oaxacans-!"

Ah, ze cultural diversity. Especially since everyone, regardless of whether they, themselves, are some kind of weirdo space alien basket-hat wearing crustacean llama farmer/nudist with six heads and ten legs, is prejudiced against everybody else...I love L.A. (sometimes), between bouts of dialing 9-11.

In sum: job search, a couple of assholes, pissy p*ssy, cat diapers, bigoted Ukrainian club owners, and gate-crashing queeny Oaxacan gangbangers.



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