..or how I can make $250 stretch until the end of March (rather creatively).

All is not lost. I've got four applications in -- three with Blockbuster, one with Family Video. I'm on the phone list at Fontbonne University's art department and I'm filling out an application with Washington University's Monday morning. Bob called me today and I have eight sessions with his Figure Painting class in April and May. There's a job fair at UMSL on Friday. I'm calling Lucas on Monday to discuss some article ideas, including one on the public transit stimulus bill that congress is voting on this session. I'm also biting the bullet and sending "Overkill" and "Angel Beast" into a couple lit mags.

I probably can't pay rent on it, but until I know whether I'm getting into graduate school or not, the Quentin Crisp-Randal Graves-Fran Leibowitz lifestyle will have to do.

And, because I do have a life apart from work: I had a great time with Aubrey last week. And last Sunday. And Tuesday. And Thursday. Yes, she stayed in town a few extra days, just to see me. Don't know what that means, but I don't think I'll mind seeing where this goes.

.. a bunch of them took the weekend off to go and see The Dark Knight, so I have ended up working Friday, Saturday *and* Sunday. Silly comic geek whores.

Not bad, in terms of money. In terms of morale, I could live without seeing a few of these people everyday:

Anna, the 20-year-old mother who smoked while she was pregnant, didn't work enough hours to qualify for family leave, lost her position, and is currently chomping at the bit for Aneesa (whose cancer has returned and is undergoing chemo treatments without insurance) to be demoted so she can take her place.

Sandy, the old leather bitch manager who since Aneesa was given the position has alternately accused her of stealing from the register, severely critiqued the way she does everything, and is now blissfully feeding "I told you so's" to both Ben and Mike who are reconsidering their promotion of her now that she's ill. She's also dumb enough to mistake my blank, 'I despise you' face as "you look like you're about to cry."

Ben, who gave the customer who cursed at me and threw his rental card in my face a free rental. Apparently I was being snippy. (Congratulations Ben, I officially fancy Val more than you.)

Give 'em Hell, George.

After this week, I've just about given up on humanity.

Anna came back to work at Blockbuster last month and, all of a sudden, we have a problem with the schedule. With Sandy gouging, none of the CSRs taking slated lunch breaks, there's not enough hours to go around. For the past three weeks, our store manager, Mike, has been making radical revisions to the weekly schedule less than three or four days before each new schedule begins, just to cut needed hours.

I have the work I'm doing for Existence Assistance, the modeling jobs lined up with Meramec in August through December, and I just finished a large piece for Vital Voice so I'm not complaining about my hours being cut. I'm writing on a semi-regular basis and I'm living in anticipation of payroll from a full-time job (which, when all the paperwork goes through, is estimated to be the end of July). I *am* however, irritated by the fact that last week, my Sunday schedule was changed from "6 to Close" to "5 to Close" without my being told. And I'm doubly irritated that when I got into work -- 20 minutes late -- I had Sandy the night manager patronising me when I suggested the schedule had been changed. "Oh no.. You just wrote it down wrong.. It's perfectly all right.. It happens.."

This week, I was originally scheduled to work "4 to Close" shifts on both Thursday and Friday. Once again, I played responsible employee and wrote it down in my little agenda book the day the schedule was posted (last Wednesday). Tuesday night, I'm in the middle of dinner at Panera Bread and I get a phone call from Ryan the Skinhead telling me I was scheduled to work *that night*. Mike had apparently revised the schedule and re-posted it on Friday. Aneesa and Ryan both seemed to understand and Nees finished up the shift for me that night.

So my next cheque -- my Ringo cheque -- is going to have less than 25 hours on it. Minus the money for insurance.

And my stimulus has yet to arrive.

To add to matters, I was in a car accident last Tuesday. The woman I was going to be interviewing gave me the wrong address for her office which sent me the wrong way up Laclede Rd. and, consequently -- because there's also no signs letting you know when the road ends, up *over* a walkway. Which pretty much obliterated my oil pan. I had to deal with SLU security officer, a SLU greenskeeper, a roadside assistance rep, a tow truck driver and the man in charge of repairs at Dave Sinclair Mercury all asking me "have you called your husband? is your father coming to get you?"

Um, Fuck. No. I love how many times I had to tell people that the car was actually *mine*. Title and everything. The person on the line from Roadside Assistance didn't have updated information on the title and asked to speak to "Mark Perlow". I may have screamed "He's dead! He's been dead since 2003! It's my car!" I may have.

As if a young, 5'4" woman can't possibly own a sports car or even pay for its repairs on her own. Which I am. Which is only making me anticipate my first cheque from Existence Assistance all the more.

P.S. just to be a shithead, don't ever, EVER, go to place called "Bubbletea." They're expensive and their drinks are terrible. Who the fuck wants chewy tapioca balls at the bottom of their lemonade?

I probably should have guessed what kind of week it was going to be when I split my pants on the way to the BP for a midnight snack.

Well, not split so much as *worn through*, right below my right butt cheek. I walked through the store, grabbed my saltines, my dark chocolate frappucino, paid my regular clerk (who chatted with me for a few minutes about how my new job was working out) and walked back out to my car -- walking backwards the entire time.

Well, at least now I know which pair of pants I'm going to be wearing to Pridefest in two weeks.

So I've been wearing my hippie journalist soldier gear the past four days: my olive drab cargo pants and combat boots with a variation of tank tops topped off with an open cardigan sweater. Grandpa hates the pants, my neighbour Norma says I need "a tan", Matt from work had some interesting things to say about the boots, some of it vaguely coherent amid the caveboy rambling. And it's only going to get more interesting because -- being busy updating the text for a client package, outlining a sales proposal for vendors, putting together an article for Vital Voice, wrestling with my computer over some new software, dealing with family crap, trying to get through Father's Day without throttling the hell out of the several people -- I haven't shaved in a few days.

*ticks off fingers* Combat boots, hairy armpits and legs... Am I turning into one of *those* lesbians??

(Possibly not if my recent crush on Tom Baker is any indication.)

I gave myself a present this week and ordered two books from Amazon: Doc and Fluff: A Dystopian Tale of a Girl and Her Biker and Public Sex: The Culture of Radical Sex, both by Pat Califia, the first of which arrived by Priority Mail today. About $22 and change after shipping. I'm quite pleased. The tightfisted little man that lives inside my head and fears being a good-for-nothing lifetime bohemian is quite horrified.

There is a method to my madness, for once: first, my birthday's next week.

Second, I got another job. Small grocery courier based downtown that's just getting started and needs someone to put together marketing packages for them. The owner is a Zen Buddhist who spent the first sixteen years of his life in Surrey, England. There's a total staff of ten people, all around my age, just getting started in the professional world, very enthusiastic. There's no office hours currently because there's no office *space*. But we're cataloguing our hours as we work on our projects. Payroll starts in three weeks and we're all being reimbursed for the work we're doing right now.

Needless to say, I have not given up my position as Video Maven for Blockbuster -- I just signed up for insurance with them, that would be bloody stupid. But this new development, combined with my decision to go for my MFA, Erica and Kassi's return, working on the book, hammering out my short stories and working on a lengthy piece for Vital Voice.. I feel *good*. Very good.

Good enough to buy myself a couple books on expedited shipping.

*metal-salute* Thanks, Ben.