21 August 2009

A Moment With Jaime's Livejournal

Twittered two hours ago: I am the picture of pending unemployment, scouring craigslist jobs in underwear & a wifebeater in an unairconditioned apt on a Friday night. I have since transitioned to boxery shorts and a sports bra. I don't feel any lovelier, any cooler, or any more employed.

I was told a few weeks ago that as of September 1st, my job would be becoming part-time. Thanks, global economic collapse! Today my co-workers were officially told, and so I'm finally free (the delay was, granted, my choice) to live-tweet the soul-killing enterprise that is the craigslist job listings.

I need a more elegant word for half-laid-off, the equivalent ease of "halfsclamation point," which is, obvs, the imaginary grammatical notation for something between a humdrum period and the embarrassingly enthusiastic exclamation point. But "half-laid-off" means what it needs to mean. Its meaning being that shit sucks right now.

So I've been spending tonight in various states of pajamaed semi-dress, in various computer perchings on my bed, listening to baseball on the radio (20-11, what the fuck?) and helping Meg get acclimated to the new cat. (Yeah, I got a new cat. More on him in a moment.) This no-AC thing, though - I am a freaking martyr for the environment. And for my bank account.

So yeah, looking for part-time work, and got a new cat. ( This is the most amazing blog post ever.) Quickly on the new guy*: Meg'd been all meow-y and needy since Stella died - did I mention I had to put her to sleep a few months ago? surprise liver failure, fun times - and I knew someone with a cat who needed a home. He's been here a week, and things are fine except when he walks over to Meg, and she hunkers down and growls while he meows at her, and then sometimes he attacks. My cat has amazing social skills.

She also apparently has the inner thermometer of a lizard, as she's sleeping pressed up against my leg right now, and I have caught her napping in sunbeams during this heat wave.

If I raised a cat this weird, god help us if/when I procreate.


Okay, right after this goes up I'm gonna blog about some podcasts, bury this awful talk of me sweatily looking for a part-time job in a sweltering, cat-filled apartment.

"Crazy cat ladies are many things—single and living in unclean cat-hair apartments littered with kitty litter, etc—but they're not dumb. They're intimidatingly smart. That's why they're single. Well, that and the cats." --Emily Gould

I should amend it thusly: "Well, that, and the cats, and the blog post above."

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*I mean the cat. Don't freak out. At the big family BBQ last weekend, I got my annual "I want grandkids! Okay, how about a wedding! A boyfriend? What about a date?" from my dad, and my dad got his annual not-realizing-how-close-he-came-to-getting-smacked-in-the-face from me (with love).

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