God saw fit yesterday to present me with an image of what the next several years of my life will look like, as Rich and I ran across a man pushing a baby jogger containing a small thug dawg. The thug dawg did not appear to be impaired in any way—only, the man explained, quite bossy and pampered.
Gallant, on the other hand, has been poorly lately—sleeping even more than usual, limping, licking his paw. It’s only a matter of months, I imagine, before I am wandering the streets of
Other blessings that one might choose to meditate on, if one were a disciple of that Sarah Ban Brethnach lady (fuck—I’m so unhappy that I was able to remember her name without the help of Good Lord Google), include a new house, with a double lot (and not much else to recommend it, but still: house! Double lot!) Which means that Rich and I can soon get down to the business of living together, with “together” meaning in this case “with all our crap around us and out of storage bins and boxes.” Oh, our poor books and tchotchkes! They must miss us so.
The double lot will allow us to leave the thugs outside most of the day, when it’s nice out, at least, and much has been made in my own mind of the opportunity to buy a small pool for them to sit in. Nothing better than a sopping-wet thug dawg on the deck! There’s a country hit right there, I tell ya.
The other nice thing about the house is that we have finally procured a fucking house, which means we can stop all further efforts to procure a fucking house. Whew. Now, onto the job search! Yes, in an effort to look as though I am “responsible” and “not a giant greasy mess of a human being,” shortly after starting the house hunt (which at first entailed me emailing prospective landlords from Craig’s List with a long list of my faults as a tenant, such as, “I have no job! Also, not a long rental history! Also, two thug dawgs!”, and then never hearing back from them), I began working on my resume and cover letters and sending them out into the dark darkness that is the Saskatoon job market, 2007 edition. Anyway, I figured, even if we can never find a rental house that accepts such people as ourselves, perhaps with a little scratch in the bank and a steady income, I can procure a mortgage loan and buy a house for the thugs and ourselves. But, as things have it, I have found myself mulling over, well, not a job offer (or anything like it), but the possibility of a job offer and the subsequent going back to work full-time that would lead from it. Like the house hunt, a lot of resume submissions resulted in silence. Chirp chirp!, as my stoner friend from Crestone would say. But I had two interviews yesterday, and another one set for Monday, and I won’t say for sure, but it sounds like the money might be enough to make me consider leaving my current position, here, on the couch, next to Gallant’s arthritic bones. Not that it’s good money or nuthin‘. But when I consider that other possibilities include working part-time stacking produce at the whole-foods grocers down the street, or what seems like a glamorous position at a fast-cash check-cashing establishment that I saw advertised last night, ummm … well, the grocery clerk position seems okay. That bunch were voted “sexiest staff” in by the
So, everything appears to be going nicely, at least in so far as I feel remarkably effervescent right now about my chances in life. I recently read about a web site that publishes every time the words “I feel” occur on any blog, so I don’t want to say anything as pedestrian as “I feel good,” you see. “Effervescent” isn’t quite intellectually honest, but, it’s at least a little bit unusual. Incidentally, other ways I am recently include: I feel hotdoggy. I feel shockingly hatted. I feel raw and itchy below deck, if you know what I mean. I feel like starting a web site that records all online occurrences of the words “I feel” is a craptastical waste of time.
More about that strange, new feeling of improvement: After my last interview yesterday, I received an email from the interviewer, saying that I was to come in Monday to interview with some more freaks, and that he was sure they would be impressed with (among my many positive attributes) my “delightful personality.” Now, whether or not he was being sarcastic is hard to discern over email. (The quotation marks are mine. I would have been quite pleased to see a message filled with such forthright sarcasm as, “I’m sure they will be impressed with your ‘delightful’ personality, lol.”) But the point remains that I am easily won over by such cheap tactics, and as quick to believe wonderful lies told about myself as I am to dismiss those who would tell the truth as horribly mean meanies who should take a look at their own glass houses, thank you. For most of the early part of this week, I spent my time saying hello to the various animals and insects I encountered, and having them say hello back to me in a dopey voice, so pleased was I when Rich furnished the voice for a bird or some such thing I had greeted Sunday. “Hello, Pillbug,” I would say in my own voice, and then, in a deeper and thus inherently stupider (right?) voice, “Hello, Aunty.” Well, that’s all over now. My new thing is, “I am supremely delightful, personalitywise! Why, you must certainly be impressed by my remarkably delightful personality!” Luckily, this conversation is happening mostly in my head. Otherwise, Rich would certainly have moved out by now, or perhaps simply conked me over the head with one of those rusty sharp farm implements he’s always going on about.
Current mood? I feel … cautiously optimistic. Also: procrastinatey. Mr. Middlebrow will know to what I am referring, but I’ll have that done next week. For the rest of y’all, I leave you with Stella D’ora breakfast treats. I hope you choke on it. (I’m delightful, goddammit! Delightful!)