The months since my last post have been such whirlwind! As you will prolly remember from Facebook, this Fall was filled with teaching, knitting, a Colledge paycheck scandal, and a few fun excursions along the way.
Speaking of Facebook, you may remember that my parents & I fell out over a status update. I won't dwell on details but I will tell you that I have since spoken to both of them about it separately. I offered forgiveness and I think we achieved a measure of mutual understanding.
As the year ends, I find myself once again in a low place financially as the last paycheck from Colledge was December 12th. I was hoping that my twirl as the Witty Knitter at the Freret Market would generate at least enough cash to cover the upcoming holes in my budget, but alas I only went a bit past the break even point. I'm resourceful though, and have faith that even though I'm not sure this instant where the funds I need will come from, they will come, whether thru my knitting or another run of the #ProfeRealness T-Shirts or an angel friend or hell, who knows? Maybe even another game show appearance LOL.
I face 2015 with no resolutions per se, but with willingness to keep my head up and listen to what the Universe is telling me. I'm filled with gratitude for and humbled by the tremendous amount of love, respect and support I've received and (hopefully) reciprocated.
Praise Be!
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Not Another 9/11 Anniversary Post....
Mine's a bit different tho. On this day in 2001, I was a hot mess. Workin in a night club, supplementing my income with shenanigans, letting other hoes stay with me when I knew they were just as much of a mess as I was & could never live up to their promises of help with the bills. Someone called on my house phone & told me to turn on the TV & there it was. The towers, the planes, the explosion, the footage of the dust clouds all up inna street. Whoever was staying with me at the time woke up & started watching with me. He started crying. I don't remember if I cried or not. I just remember a feeling of surrealness as the same few minutes of footage started over & started over, with another voice taking a turn at narrating it. I remember needing to get out while my roommate kept watching, so I met up with my baby sis at Angeli on Decatur st. I don't remember what we talked about or ate or anything or much of the rest of the day. Odds are, I went to work in some form or fashion & got loaded in some way or another, but I'm not really sure.
However, a year later I can tell you precisely where I was. I was sitting on a metal picnic-style bench in an overcrowded receiving tier in Orleans Parish Prison., being bombarded by Public Service Announcements urging me & every other American to cherish our freedom from a TV bolted to the cinder block wall.
For the unaware, a receiving tier is a set of twenty 2-man cells, where prisoners are housed until they are allowed to see a judge. There were about 50 of us in this space designed for 40. In compliance with the laws of due process, no one is supposed to be in such a tier for more than 72 hours. As this is a relatively short period of time, the inmates have no commissary privileges. Without these, the only thing that anyone possesses is the "care package" issued upon arrival, consisting of a small bar of Ivory soap, a towel, a travel size tube of toothpaste and a Kafka-esque toothbrush. No one has any type of grooming equipment. Deodorant is only a distant memory and the laundry facilities are the single man shower stalls, where inmates hang the clothes they hand wash over the mildewing brownish plastic shower curtains. It was certainly no Oz--not the TV show & certainly not the infamous NOLA gay bar. I was one of maybe 5 white guys, but that is nothing new to me. I've been riding the bus in NOLA too long to be fucked up about being pushed up someplace with a bunch of black folks. I wasn't scared, just angry. Nobody was getting raped or beat up of any kind of foolishness like that, but being there definitely sucked.
According to the media, September 11, 2002 was a day for us to solemly reflect on our freedom as Americans. So I reflected on how I'd lost mine...
On September 27, 2000, I was out in the French Quarter one night (as usual) with my dentally challenged drag queen coke dealing roommate best friend succubus & some gal we'd met at the bar & a dancer from the Corner Pocket. The 4 of us got arrested in a parkin lot downtown just after getting spotted sharing a spliff & we were all charged with possession of the $10 bag of pot in the dancer's sock. I was released on my own recognizance and given a date to appear in Magistrate Court. When I made this appearance, the Clerk told me to report back at a different date. Upon my return, the Clerk told me that the District Attorney's office had refused the charges and I was free to go.
Between 2000 & 2002, I was turning my act around. I left the party scene and found a boyfriend, got enrolled at the University of New Orleans, been champion on The Weakest Link. I got rid of that awful roommate and had no contact with the legal system until Monday, September 9, 2002.
At 9:00 a.m., I was sleeping on the couch next to my window unit air conditioner in my boxers, under a thin sheet. My homework was packed in school bag & I'd been up late, studying for our first test. My alarm clock was going off, my phone was ringing, and someone was banging on my door like they were out of their mind. I staggered around, turned off the alarm, told whoever was calling I'd get back with them & opened up the door to a NOLA Sherrif's Deputy & Special Agent all up on my porch. They asked if I was me & asked if I remembered being arrested for drugs awhile back, as they had a warrant for my arrest for possession of "A Controlled, Dangerous, Substance."
I said, "But they told me those charges were dropped, I went to court a few times behind it."
All the officers could tell me was that sometimes "they" forget to take charges off the computer & that I'd see a judge soon enough. Mercifully they let me put on a pair of shorts & flip flops before they handcuffed me & led me out to their waiting police car.
By September 11, 2002, I still hadn't seen a judge and I was one bitter bitch watching those PSAs about freedom.Where was mine? No bond had been set, yet bail-bonding companies, eager to capitalize on my loved ones' anguish, sent them letters upon letters, asking for exorbitant amounts of money to ensure my freedom. I had no idea exactly what charges I was facing, nor how I got them back after they were dropped in the first place.
Other inmates had been in this receiving tier for several weeks by this point, and some told me that they'd been there up to 60 days on the same charges without seeing anyone but the guards. Sixty days. In sixty days, I'd be evicted from my rented house. In sixty days, I'd have failed all my classes. In sixty days, all my utilities would be disconnected & I'd be hit with disconnect fees if I ever had a house to use them in again.Gripped with fear, I called my parents and all my mom could really tell me was that the bail bonding agent she'd spoken with told her I wouldn't see a judge any time soon without a lawyer.
Even though I'd just won over $30K on The Weakest Link, I wouldn't have that check until February. My parents were kinda sick of me and my drama & I'm not 100% sure they believed the story about TWL until later, so they wouldn't help me get a lawyer. Feeling sick & sad & ashamed, I asked my boyfriend to loan me $2500 as a retainer for this lawyer my friend Swervella & I had used in the past. He went to the bank & got a loan to help me out of this situation.
On Friday, September 13, 2002, I learned about the kind of freedom that money can buy. I was woken up at 4:30 a.m. to go to court, along with about 30 other inmates. We were brought to cells of varying sizes (none of which qualify as large), shackled to one another for transportation, unshackled and the herded in sections between four holding cells whose only furniture consisted of a metal toilet/sink combo bolted to the wall. When the prisoners for my section of court were called, I was cuffed by wrist & ankle to a black guy in his late teens & we were led alone into yet another holding room, but this one was not so lavishly decorated. There was a drain in the center of the floor & a bunch of Dixie cups on the floor with varying levels of urine in them. My chain partner told the lady guard in charge of us that he needed to pee, but by this point it was time for us to go into court. She told him to use one of the cups. He told her they were mostly full but she just said "Piss on top of it and come on!"
I will never forget the sight, smell & sound of this poor unwashed kid's water overflowing the cup, and how that cup tilted over and how hard I think we were both trying not to cry and failing as the yellow froth splashed both of our OPP flip flops.
The Guard Lady came in & grabbed one of us by the elbow & said "Come on ALREADY" and the metal ankle cuff smashed again into my ankle bone as I was led from the stinking room & down a filthy cinderblock corridor & into a brightly lit, carpeted courtroom, just after being separated & single-cuffed. When I saw my lawyer, my heart leapt. I knew the day was saved.
My attorney informed me that a subpoena had been sent to my former address & when I'd not appeared, a warrant had been issued. He was an older gay man with a shock of white hair and a tough-love attitude.He fussed at me for getting myself in trouble, like an irate grandparent, asked me why I hadn't informed the court of my change of address. I replied that it never occurred to me to do such a thing as I'd been under the impression that the charges were dropped. It would seem to me that if my new address could be found to have me arrested, the certainly it could have been found for the purposes of sending me a subpoena. Apparently charges being refused is not the same as charges being dropped & the DA has the right to accept them for some miscellaneous amount of time, and someone was trying to look "Tough On Crime." I was brought before a judge in Section C, who sent my case back to Magistrate Court & ordered me released around 10:30. He said a subpoena would be sent to me. At this point my attorney felt it wise to read my latest address into the record. I was taken back to the "docks" (yea those gross ass rooms) and from there back to the receiving tier around 1:30pm. I did not actually walk out of Orleans Parish Prison until 3:02 a.m. on September 14th, according to my paperwork.
The Magistrate court kept pushing my court date back & back & I didn't actually go to trial until the March 17, 2003. I was angry about this delay at first, but glad that I was able to hand the judge a copy of my previous semester's transcript showing my 4.0 GPA from UNO. I was given a 6-month suspended sentence & a $500 fine, with a payment plan. On April 21, 2003, I made my last payment and the case was CLOSED.
So much has happened since then, but this is what September 11 means to me. Not the horrible tragedy that has been forever immortalized by the 24 hour news cycle from 2001 but a more personal tragedy from the following year, when I was just another broke bitch who couldn't seem to get it right.
However, a year later I can tell you precisely where I was. I was sitting on a metal picnic-style bench in an overcrowded receiving tier in Orleans Parish Prison., being bombarded by Public Service Announcements urging me & every other American to cherish our freedom from a TV bolted to the cinder block wall.
For the unaware, a receiving tier is a set of twenty 2-man cells, where prisoners are housed until they are allowed to see a judge. There were about 50 of us in this space designed for 40. In compliance with the laws of due process, no one is supposed to be in such a tier for more than 72 hours. As this is a relatively short period of time, the inmates have no commissary privileges. Without these, the only thing that anyone possesses is the "care package" issued upon arrival, consisting of a small bar of Ivory soap, a towel, a travel size tube of toothpaste and a Kafka-esque toothbrush. No one has any type of grooming equipment. Deodorant is only a distant memory and the laundry facilities are the single man shower stalls, where inmates hang the clothes they hand wash over the mildewing brownish plastic shower curtains. It was certainly no Oz--not the TV show & certainly not the infamous NOLA gay bar. I was one of maybe 5 white guys, but that is nothing new to me. I've been riding the bus in NOLA too long to be fucked up about being pushed up someplace with a bunch of black folks. I wasn't scared, just angry. Nobody was getting raped or beat up of any kind of foolishness like that, but being there definitely sucked.
According to the media, September 11, 2002 was a day for us to solemly reflect on our freedom as Americans. So I reflected on how I'd lost mine...
On September 27, 2000, I was out in the French Quarter one night (as usual) with my dentally challenged drag queen coke dealing roommate best friend succubus & some gal we'd met at the bar & a dancer from the Corner Pocket. The 4 of us got arrested in a parkin lot downtown just after getting spotted sharing a spliff & we were all charged with possession of the $10 bag of pot in the dancer's sock. I was released on my own recognizance and given a date to appear in Magistrate Court. When I made this appearance, the Clerk told me to report back at a different date. Upon my return, the Clerk told me that the District Attorney's office had refused the charges and I was free to go.
Between 2000 & 2002, I was turning my act around. I left the party scene and found a boyfriend, got enrolled at the University of New Orleans, been champion on The Weakest Link. I got rid of that awful roommate and had no contact with the legal system until Monday, September 9, 2002.
At 9:00 a.m., I was sleeping on the couch next to my window unit air conditioner in my boxers, under a thin sheet. My homework was packed in school bag & I'd been up late, studying for our first test. My alarm clock was going off, my phone was ringing, and someone was banging on my door like they were out of their mind. I staggered around, turned off the alarm, told whoever was calling I'd get back with them & opened up the door to a NOLA Sherrif's Deputy & Special Agent all up on my porch. They asked if I was me & asked if I remembered being arrested for drugs awhile back, as they had a warrant for my arrest for possession of "A Controlled, Dangerous, Substance."
I said, "But they told me those charges were dropped, I went to court a few times behind it."
All the officers could tell me was that sometimes "they" forget to take charges off the computer & that I'd see a judge soon enough. Mercifully they let me put on a pair of shorts & flip flops before they handcuffed me & led me out to their waiting police car.
By September 11, 2002, I still hadn't seen a judge and I was one bitter bitch watching those PSAs about freedom.Where was mine? No bond had been set, yet bail-bonding companies, eager to capitalize on my loved ones' anguish, sent them letters upon letters, asking for exorbitant amounts of money to ensure my freedom. I had no idea exactly what charges I was facing, nor how I got them back after they were dropped in the first place.
Other inmates had been in this receiving tier for several weeks by this point, and some told me that they'd been there up to 60 days on the same charges without seeing anyone but the guards. Sixty days. In sixty days, I'd be evicted from my rented house. In sixty days, I'd have failed all my classes. In sixty days, all my utilities would be disconnected & I'd be hit with disconnect fees if I ever had a house to use them in again.Gripped with fear, I called my parents and all my mom could really tell me was that the bail bonding agent she'd spoken with told her I wouldn't see a judge any time soon without a lawyer.
Even though I'd just won over $30K on The Weakest Link, I wouldn't have that check until February. My parents were kinda sick of me and my drama & I'm not 100% sure they believed the story about TWL until later, so they wouldn't help me get a lawyer. Feeling sick & sad & ashamed, I asked my boyfriend to loan me $2500 as a retainer for this lawyer my friend Swervella & I had used in the past. He went to the bank & got a loan to help me out of this situation.
On Friday, September 13, 2002, I learned about the kind of freedom that money can buy. I was woken up at 4:30 a.m. to go to court, along with about 30 other inmates. We were brought to cells of varying sizes (none of which qualify as large), shackled to one another for transportation, unshackled and the herded in sections between four holding cells whose only furniture consisted of a metal toilet/sink combo bolted to the wall. When the prisoners for my section of court were called, I was cuffed by wrist & ankle to a black guy in his late teens & we were led alone into yet another holding room, but this one was not so lavishly decorated. There was a drain in the center of the floor & a bunch of Dixie cups on the floor with varying levels of urine in them. My chain partner told the lady guard in charge of us that he needed to pee, but by this point it was time for us to go into court. She told him to use one of the cups. He told her they were mostly full but she just said "Piss on top of it and come on!"
I will never forget the sight, smell & sound of this poor unwashed kid's water overflowing the cup, and how that cup tilted over and how hard I think we were both trying not to cry and failing as the yellow froth splashed both of our OPP flip flops.
The Guard Lady came in & grabbed one of us by the elbow & said "Come on ALREADY" and the metal ankle cuff smashed again into my ankle bone as I was led from the stinking room & down a filthy cinderblock corridor & into a brightly lit, carpeted courtroom, just after being separated & single-cuffed. When I saw my lawyer, my heart leapt. I knew the day was saved.
My attorney informed me that a subpoena had been sent to my former address & when I'd not appeared, a warrant had been issued. He was an older gay man with a shock of white hair and a tough-love attitude.He fussed at me for getting myself in trouble, like an irate grandparent, asked me why I hadn't informed the court of my change of address. I replied that it never occurred to me to do such a thing as I'd been under the impression that the charges were dropped. It would seem to me that if my new address could be found to have me arrested, the certainly it could have been found for the purposes of sending me a subpoena. Apparently charges being refused is not the same as charges being dropped & the DA has the right to accept them for some miscellaneous amount of time, and someone was trying to look "Tough On Crime." I was brought before a judge in Section C, who sent my case back to Magistrate Court & ordered me released around 10:30. He said a subpoena would be sent to me. At this point my attorney felt it wise to read my latest address into the record. I was taken back to the "docks" (yea those gross ass rooms) and from there back to the receiving tier around 1:30pm. I did not actually walk out of Orleans Parish Prison until 3:02 a.m. on September 14th, according to my paperwork.
The Magistrate court kept pushing my court date back & back & I didn't actually go to trial until the March 17, 2003. I was angry about this delay at first, but glad that I was able to hand the judge a copy of my previous semester's transcript showing my 4.0 GPA from UNO. I was given a 6-month suspended sentence & a $500 fine, with a payment plan. On April 21, 2003, I made my last payment and the case was CLOSED.
So much has happened since then, but this is what September 11 means to me. Not the horrible tragedy that has been forever immortalized by the 24 hour news cycle from 2001 but a more personal tragedy from the following year, when I was just another broke bitch who couldn't seem to get it right.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Out of the Proverbial Frying Pan....
The first week of teaching 4 sections of Spanish 101 at Colledge went pretty much as expected. All of my classes are in different classrooms, albeit in the same building, but unfortunately not every room is created equal. My 1st class is a small amphitheater equipped with a table & a few chairs, a dry-erase board & an old-school tube TV mounted to the wall; my 2nd is a computer lab, with a raised lectern and a computer/projector setup with the tables turned towards the dry erase board; my 3rd was originally a small room with 9 rows of 3 sets of desks, no table, 1 chair, a lectern, a regular chalk board & a tube TV, and my last one is quite spacious, with plenty of desks & a table & chair & a lectern, but again with the chalk board & a tube TV. Each of my classes had a full roster of students, so that 3rd classroom had everyone feelin kinda claustrophobic. I asked my dept head, Miss Woman, to see if she could get me moved, as there were not enough desks for all of the students. She said she'd make some calls & the next day, she gave me another room. This one turned out to be another computer lab, but with the tables in a sort of U-shape, so the students have to turn to look at me and the few that have books have to hold them in their laps.
I am not sure who is deciding where to place these classes but I would love to ask them a lot of questions, starting with "WTF is wrong with you? Are you not able to count? Have you seen these rooms or even been to campus?"
But I digress.
The text we are using has an online component, which requires the student to use the Class Key included in their book & a Course Code, which I sent out in an email blast titled "Course Code" & as of yesterday, 15 students replied to that email with some variation on "I tried to get into the website but it say I need a course code. What is it?" Minus the punctuation & capitalization, I might add. It took a lot of effort not to reply with "Scroll down, stupid." But I am nice, right?
In class, I try to keep the tone light, and let the students know that due to my Math Phobia, I can understand that Spanish is not everyone's cup of tea. For the most part, they seem engaged, but lawd whoever said "There's no such thing as a stupid question" clearly never taught at Colledge. The one that sticks out most in my mind is when this one kid asked "How hard is this class?" I took a second and said "I really don't know how to answer that. It's a beginner course, you don't need to have taken Spanish before," and I continued with what I was saying. She interrupted again: "But how hard is it?" SIGH. I think I managed to re-iterate my previous statement in a reasonable manner. I'm just glad I didn't say what popped into my head....
With the 1st week out of the way, I started Monday feeling pretty OK about things, but as you will remember from my last post the money round here has been pretty tight, being that I'd been off work from Med Skool Glam for a bit & quit Ho-livier's, so I checked with the Dept Secretary to get the list of Pay Dates for adjuncts. After Miss Woman's assurances that since I was already in the system, there would be no delay in getting the first paycheck, I was shocked beyond all reason to be handed a piece of paper showing that the 1st check wouldn't be direct deposited until October 3rd, AKA 6 weeks after the beginning of classes. Miss Secretary sort of shrugged her shoulders about it & suggested that I call Miss Lady in Payroll about it. I went outside & gathered my thoughts & made the call. Miss Lady confirmed that this schedule was correct, and sort of tried be empathetic at first & said, "Yea it's hard," before passing the buck on to the state administration in Baton Rouge. When I said, "I wish someone had given me this information BEFORE I signed the contract, because honestly I would not have done it."
Her response? "So whatcha gonna do? You gonna keep teaching?"
All I could say before hanging up was, "I'll have to get back to you on that."
I held it together in front of the next 2 classes I had to teach & sort of kept it together when I went to Miss Boss Woman's office and questioned her about all of this. Like I sort of managed not to cry when I told her that I would be homeless by the time the 1st check came. She played it up like she had no idea the date would be that late (YEAH RIGHT), even going so far as to say "This is immoral! Asking people to work for six weeks without pay! I'm going to talk to the Dean about this, and see if we can at least get you an advance."
Mysteriously, the Dean had just left. She said she'd talk to him & call me today after 1PM, and I left campus somewhat mollified but still devastated. Almost choking on the feeling that I have made a gigantic mistake. Like I should have listened to that gut feeling that made me turn down this job in the first place. Wondering if I should go back to working at Ho-livier's on the weekends until October. Wondering how this old carcass of mine was gonna be able to do it.
Thanks once again to the magic of social media, a dear friend stepped in & offered to loan me the $ missing from my budget until October & I accepted. I am so grateful for it but still outraged and sad to be in this fucking position AGAIN. Incredulous that I'm having to re-apply for food stamps while I have two jobs & umpteen college degrees.
For now I'm just going to try to breathe deep and not get all overwhelmed. To be centered and figure out what the next step is. I know things will get better. They always do. Until then, I'll just keep looking at the world thru my beautiful Big Freedia glasses, to me they represent how much so many people love me & wish the best for me, even when I'm feeling all lonely and scared and irate and unable to be in public for fear of a meltdown.
I'm publishing this so I can look back later and be glad that I got through this fresh round of Colledge Fuckery. To remind myself not to get tricked again, and to let other hoes know not to get involved in this whole adjunct game unless you don't need the money.
I am not sure who is deciding where to place these classes but I would love to ask them a lot of questions, starting with "WTF is wrong with you? Are you not able to count? Have you seen these rooms or even been to campus?"
But I digress.
The text we are using has an online component, which requires the student to use the Class Key included in their book & a Course Code, which I sent out in an email blast titled "Course Code" & as of yesterday, 15 students replied to that email with some variation on "I tried to get into the website but it say I need a course code. What is it?" Minus the punctuation & capitalization, I might add. It took a lot of effort not to reply with "Scroll down, stupid." But I am nice, right?
In class, I try to keep the tone light, and let the students know that due to my Math Phobia, I can understand that Spanish is not everyone's cup of tea. For the most part, they seem engaged, but lawd whoever said "There's no such thing as a stupid question" clearly never taught at Colledge. The one that sticks out most in my mind is when this one kid asked "How hard is this class?" I took a second and said "I really don't know how to answer that. It's a beginner course, you don't need to have taken Spanish before," and I continued with what I was saying. She interrupted again: "But how hard is it?" SIGH. I think I managed to re-iterate my previous statement in a reasonable manner. I'm just glad I didn't say what popped into my head....
With the 1st week out of the way, I started Monday feeling pretty OK about things, but as you will remember from my last post the money round here has been pretty tight, being that I'd been off work from Med Skool Glam for a bit & quit Ho-livier's, so I checked with the Dept Secretary to get the list of Pay Dates for adjuncts. After Miss Woman's assurances that since I was already in the system, there would be no delay in getting the first paycheck, I was shocked beyond all reason to be handed a piece of paper showing that the 1st check wouldn't be direct deposited until October 3rd, AKA 6 weeks after the beginning of classes. Miss Secretary sort of shrugged her shoulders about it & suggested that I call Miss Lady in Payroll about it. I went outside & gathered my thoughts & made the call. Miss Lady confirmed that this schedule was correct, and sort of tried be empathetic at first & said, "Yea it's hard," before passing the buck on to the state administration in Baton Rouge. When I said, "I wish someone had given me this information BEFORE I signed the contract, because honestly I would not have done it."
Her response? "So whatcha gonna do? You gonna keep teaching?"
All I could say before hanging up was, "I'll have to get back to you on that."
I held it together in front of the next 2 classes I had to teach & sort of kept it together when I went to Miss Boss Woman's office and questioned her about all of this. Like I sort of managed not to cry when I told her that I would be homeless by the time the 1st check came. She played it up like she had no idea the date would be that late (YEAH RIGHT), even going so far as to say "This is immoral! Asking people to work for six weeks without pay! I'm going to talk to the Dean about this, and see if we can at least get you an advance."
Mysteriously, the Dean had just left. She said she'd talk to him & call me today after 1PM, and I left campus somewhat mollified but still devastated. Almost choking on the feeling that I have made a gigantic mistake. Like I should have listened to that gut feeling that made me turn down this job in the first place. Wondering if I should go back to working at Ho-livier's on the weekends until October. Wondering how this old carcass of mine was gonna be able to do it.
Thanks once again to the magic of social media, a dear friend stepped in & offered to loan me the $ missing from my budget until October & I accepted. I am so grateful for it but still outraged and sad to be in this fucking position AGAIN. Incredulous that I'm having to re-apply for food stamps while I have two jobs & umpteen college degrees.
For now I'm just going to try to breathe deep and not get all overwhelmed. To be centered and figure out what the next step is. I know things will get better. They always do. Until then, I'll just keep looking at the world thru my beautiful Big Freedia glasses, to me they represent how much so many people love me & wish the best for me, even when I'm feeling all lonely and scared and irate and unable to be in public for fear of a meltdown.
I'm publishing this so I can look back later and be glad that I got through this fresh round of Colledge Fuckery. To remind myself not to get tricked again, and to let other hoes know not to get involved in this whole adjunct game unless you don't need the money.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Once More, With All Kinds of Feelings.....
As you will probably know from Facebook, Saturday night was my last shift at Ho-livier's Restaurant (name changed to protect the trifling) for the foreseeable future. I got an offer to teach 4 sections of Spanish 101 at the Colledge where I used to work, starting August 18. I initially rejected the offer, mostly based on the bad experience I had there previously. However, after another in a long string of restaurant shifts where I was scheduled to work & got sent home due to over-staffing, I reconsidered. I put my math phobia aside and looked at the money; teaching as an adjunct is not great pay, but it is consistent whereas the pay at Ho-livier's has been a crapshoot at best. I also considered how an MWF daytime teaching schedule would work with my Tuesday/Thursday schedule at the Med Skool. This is before I even tell you how much my body has been aching after those long restaurant shifts. However, I haven't forgotten all the nonsense that I went through at Colledge last time--not getting the 1st paycheck until the 2nd pay cycle, having problems with simple things like getting an email password, very little in the way of professional support from the department chair. So I'm kind of ambivalent about Colledge on one hand, but on the other, I'm glad to have a way out of the service industry. My last shift at Ho-livier's may not have been the worst one ever, but it definitely confirmed that leaving (or more precisely, not returning when the restaurant re-opens in a few weeks after maintenance) was the right decision.
I was assigned to the "good" section and so I started off thinking it was gonna be a cute last hurrah. Then I started getting tables & they were every waiter's worst nightmare. My first table was an older Midwestern couple who ordered a round of cocktails & told me they "were in no hurry" and that they were going to be ordering each course separately. Right about this time, a family of 5 took a 7-seat table--allegedly they were waiting for some other ppl who never showed. Actually only 3 of them arrived at 1st, an older lady and her 2 daughters in law. The lady's sons were parking, so I went to the table and offered them cocktails or wine, which they rejected out of hand. They also asked for some take-away menus as well, & it seemed to me like they were comparing those menus to the ones they'd been given by the hostess. The 3 of them sat around, looking at the menu, and after 10 minutes or so, the 2 gentlemen arrived. These men barely looked me in the face throughout the whole meal. I asked the table if they had any questions about the menu, and the matriarch asked for a recommendation between 2 of the dishes, and I gave it, and she said she'd most likely have the Vegetarian Pasta, but wasn't ready to order yet, so I let them have a few more minutes with the menus. I checked on the Aging Midwesterners, who finally ordered an appetizer to share & the gentleman ordered an Absolut Vodka Martini, "shaken not stirred" and then felt the need to tell me some story about how he & his wife had gone to some Absolut Bar someplace where everything was made of ice. I think I looked engaged and made some banter but honestly I could not for the life of me understand why he thought I needed to hear this. I went back to the family of 5 at the table for 7 and asked if they were still waiting on their other guests, and one of the daughters in law said she didn't feel like waiting any more & she was ready to order. I think I started with the Matriarch, she started SLOWLY asking me a ton of accusatory questions "How big is the Shrimp Scampi? I bet it's a small portion. Which one is bigger, the Crawfish Etouffee or the Shrimp Creole? What vegetables come with this? And that? And this other thing over here?" She ordered one thing, changed her mind & just paused for a minute and a half before ordering something else. I took the rest of the table's order, and actually one of the women ordered for her husband, since he couldn't be bothered to deal with me.
Did I mention that the kitchen was apparently out of all sorts of things? Apparently they ordered minimal supplies due to the planned closure, but this was really weird because there was initially only 1 actual menu item that was on the "86 list" but I noticed that the dishes didn't have certain things--for example, the mushroom appetizer is meant to be topped with fried leeks, but they were out of fried leeks & just sent the dish out without them. The steak is meant to be accompanied by potatoes & homemade steak sauce, but SURPRISE they were out of that stuff as well. Naturally, someone at the 5-top had ordered the steak. After this huge ordeal with the cooks, some potatoes were found, but of course they didn't start cooking those until the rest of the food was ready to go out. I was actually still waiting on one of the entrees as well, but my manager told me to run the rest of the food & he'd be right behind me with the last item. As I was dropping the food off at the table, I told the gentleman with the steak that the potatoes were coming right up, and I let the person whose entree was coming up that her stuff would be right there, and it showed up while I was putting down these people's entrees. This man started questioning me about where his potatoes were, and thankfully his wife said "He just told you they are coming right up." I went back to the kitchen in search of this man's sides.
This is the point where the hostess came & told me that they pulled out those damn paper menus they'd asked about before and started comparing the descriptions to what they actually had & someone noticed that they steak is meant to be accompanied by asparagus, which the kitchen clearly forgot--or prolly didn't know about. By some miracle, they had some asparagus & so I brought it to the gentleman, along with his potatoes, minus steak sauce. They didn't give me a whole ton of problems once everyone had all their food but they penalized me when it came time to pay--a $20 tip on a $217 check. Those old-ass Midwesterners didn't tip much better, and that pretty much set the tone for the whole evening. I had two foreign tables that left 10% tips, and only one good 4-top that had a decent size bill and they left an appropriate tip. It got crazy busy with large parties in our upstairs area at one point and the kitchen "crashed" so we had to stop taking tables for about half an hour. Once the kitchen was ready to go, it started to rain quite heavily, so there weren't too many more tables after that & the kitchen was out of so much stuff that we ended up taking the last table around 9 and putting up the "Closed" sign. That last table was mine--2 parents, 3 small kids, & me having to explain what we were out of. They were pleasant enough, and left a whopping $20 on a $137 check. Even though we closed an hour early, we still didn't actually get out of there til after 11, bones aching & bitterness in my heart.
Sigh. I guess you could say this week is my vacation, but actually it's just more unpaid time off. I have Tuesday & Thursday scheduled at the Med Skool, but I'm definitely stressing the money thing, as I'm already running short due to taking off a weekend for my baby sister's visit & my lil cousin's wedding in mid-July. Also, I'm not sure if Colledge is gonna keep me holding for 2 weeks on that 1st paycheck--my dept head says no, but a friend who works there says "prolly so." I guess we'll see, but damn it would sure be nice not to be livin on the edge like this.
I was assigned to the "good" section and so I started off thinking it was gonna be a cute last hurrah. Then I started getting tables & they were every waiter's worst nightmare. My first table was an older Midwestern couple who ordered a round of cocktails & told me they "were in no hurry" and that they were going to be ordering each course separately. Right about this time, a family of 5 took a 7-seat table--allegedly they were waiting for some other ppl who never showed. Actually only 3 of them arrived at 1st, an older lady and her 2 daughters in law. The lady's sons were parking, so I went to the table and offered them cocktails or wine, which they rejected out of hand. They also asked for some take-away menus as well, & it seemed to me like they were comparing those menus to the ones they'd been given by the hostess. The 3 of them sat around, looking at the menu, and after 10 minutes or so, the 2 gentlemen arrived. These men barely looked me in the face throughout the whole meal. I asked the table if they had any questions about the menu, and the matriarch asked for a recommendation between 2 of the dishes, and I gave it, and she said she'd most likely have the Vegetarian Pasta, but wasn't ready to order yet, so I let them have a few more minutes with the menus. I checked on the Aging Midwesterners, who finally ordered an appetizer to share & the gentleman ordered an Absolut Vodka Martini, "shaken not stirred" and then felt the need to tell me some story about how he & his wife had gone to some Absolut Bar someplace where everything was made of ice. I think I looked engaged and made some banter but honestly I could not for the life of me understand why he thought I needed to hear this. I went back to the family of 5 at the table for 7 and asked if they were still waiting on their other guests, and one of the daughters in law said she didn't feel like waiting any more & she was ready to order. I think I started with the Matriarch, she started SLOWLY asking me a ton of accusatory questions "How big is the Shrimp Scampi? I bet it's a small portion. Which one is bigger, the Crawfish Etouffee or the Shrimp Creole? What vegetables come with this? And that? And this other thing over here?" She ordered one thing, changed her mind & just paused for a minute and a half before ordering something else. I took the rest of the table's order, and actually one of the women ordered for her husband, since he couldn't be bothered to deal with me.
Did I mention that the kitchen was apparently out of all sorts of things? Apparently they ordered minimal supplies due to the planned closure, but this was really weird because there was initially only 1 actual menu item that was on the "86 list" but I noticed that the dishes didn't have certain things--for example, the mushroom appetizer is meant to be topped with fried leeks, but they were out of fried leeks & just sent the dish out without them. The steak is meant to be accompanied by potatoes & homemade steak sauce, but SURPRISE they were out of that stuff as well. Naturally, someone at the 5-top had ordered the steak. After this huge ordeal with the cooks, some potatoes were found, but of course they didn't start cooking those until the rest of the food was ready to go out. I was actually still waiting on one of the entrees as well, but my manager told me to run the rest of the food & he'd be right behind me with the last item. As I was dropping the food off at the table, I told the gentleman with the steak that the potatoes were coming right up, and I let the person whose entree was coming up that her stuff would be right there, and it showed up while I was putting down these people's entrees. This man started questioning me about where his potatoes were, and thankfully his wife said "He just told you they are coming right up." I went back to the kitchen in search of this man's sides.
This is the point where the hostess came & told me that they pulled out those damn paper menus they'd asked about before and started comparing the descriptions to what they actually had & someone noticed that they steak is meant to be accompanied by asparagus, which the kitchen clearly forgot--or prolly didn't know about. By some miracle, they had some asparagus & so I brought it to the gentleman, along with his potatoes, minus steak sauce. They didn't give me a whole ton of problems once everyone had all their food but they penalized me when it came time to pay--a $20 tip on a $217 check. Those old-ass Midwesterners didn't tip much better, and that pretty much set the tone for the whole evening. I had two foreign tables that left 10% tips, and only one good 4-top that had a decent size bill and they left an appropriate tip. It got crazy busy with large parties in our upstairs area at one point and the kitchen "crashed" so we had to stop taking tables for about half an hour. Once the kitchen was ready to go, it started to rain quite heavily, so there weren't too many more tables after that & the kitchen was out of so much stuff that we ended up taking the last table around 9 and putting up the "Closed" sign. That last table was mine--2 parents, 3 small kids, & me having to explain what we were out of. They were pleasant enough, and left a whopping $20 on a $137 check. Even though we closed an hour early, we still didn't actually get out of there til after 11, bones aching & bitterness in my heart.
Sigh. I guess you could say this week is my vacation, but actually it's just more unpaid time off. I have Tuesday & Thursday scheduled at the Med Skool, but I'm definitely stressing the money thing, as I'm already running short due to taking off a weekend for my baby sister's visit & my lil cousin's wedding in mid-July. Also, I'm not sure if Colledge is gonna keep me holding for 2 weeks on that 1st paycheck--my dept head says no, but a friend who works there says "prolly so." I guess we'll see, but damn it would sure be nice not to be livin on the edge like this.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Wizard World Comic Con NOLA 2014
As most of you already know, I usually only attend one Sci-Fi Convention per year, Gallifrey One. I scrimp and save and pay for things like airfare & acommodations as early as I can to get the expenses out of the way. It's a good thing I do it like this, especially given that since mid-December my waiter job has been trifling with a side of tragedy in the form of 2 of my 3 weekly shifts turning out to be days when management calls and tells me not to come in due to zero reservations, and the 1 shift I do work turning out to be a less than $50 twirl.I've had a bit of extra work at the Med Skool, and some extra income from peddling my fine knitwear, but not really enough to offset the $200 or so hemorrhaging from my weekly budget. I was (and still am, to be honest) worried about coming up $$ for meals and autographs at Gallifrey when Wizard World Comic Con New Orleans announced that Matt Smith (srsly if you don't know who this is by now, Google him, HUNTY) would be making his 1st US Convention Appearance since his last episode of Doctor Who here!
My hearts just broke. I was so hurt to know that I'd be going to Gally right after Matt Smith was in NOLA, and I wouldn't get to see him. I couldn't afford a 1 day, no-frills ticket, much less a $325 VIP Matt Smith Experience, which included a 3-day pass, one (1) photo session and (1) autograph session, as well as head of the line privileges to his Q & A session. In sheer desperation, I started a Go Fund Me page, offering custom Doctor Who Scarves in exchange for making one fanboy's dream come true.
In 7 hours, I was $10 above goal. By the next day, I was $130 past goal!! I was flabbergasted. Absolutely fuckin gobsmacked that so many people were so quick to help me out like this. My fingers trembled as I clicked that mouse a day later and purchased & printed out my VIP barcode. I got update emails about the event that contained the FB quotes about the event. The passes sold out and by the past week, ppl were offering to pay any price for Matt Smith VIP stuff. I swear, I felt like the Boy with the Golden Ticket.
As my nerves cranked up about this (and of course the upcoming Gally), I found myself in a state of SQUEEEEE that led me to knit Matt Smith a present, a Season 18 Doctor Who Scarf in beautiful Lion Brand Chenille Yarn, along with a card, thanking him for coming to NOLA. I tried my damnedest to come up with something reasonably intelligent or at least not too-scary-fan-sounding to say to him when I gave him my gift.
Well, today finally came & it started off great! My Public Knitting Partner, Eva, called and asked if I needed a ride & she dropped me off at the Convention Center in my 9th Doctor costume (grrl I told you I was broke, I couldn't afford a Matt Smith costume), and wished me well. I stepped into the building, ready for Glam. What I got was sent down a line marked off with colored tape on the floor, and sent to pick up my Swag Bag, containing a lithograph of Matt Smith, as well as a ticket with two smaller tearaway tickets for Photo Op & Autograph Sesh. I was informed that I was in Group F. As in there are a bunch of hoes in Groups A thru E and you will be in line behind them. I walked through another entrance, where the security ppl were berating us to show our left wrists the whole way down the hallway, past a warning that SyFy's tacky Heroes of Cosplay show was taping) and into a giant-sized dealers room. A heartbreaker for a broke bitch, but I headed over to the autograph area and past the 400 or so other VIPs into another set of Scotch tape runways and I waited. And waited. There was a lot of chatting amongst us, and as Groups A thru E headed thru, I got a ton of great pics of fans in costume, the usual. The anticipation mounted as the lines hustled on by into the curtained off area that ppl were continuously being admonished not to look through. Eventually, my line started moving and I went past the curtain and into the place where the magic would happen. I put my stuff down on the table, and walked over to Matt Smith, sitting on a stool and flashing the peace sign to the camera. He sort of looked at me as I walked up, but didn't say hello or anything, and turned to the camera and the cameraman said something, the flash went, and the handlers were giving me a claim ticket and I grabbed my swag bag & his gift bag and kept walking.
I was pretty off put by the whole experience. In fact I was kinda pissed, and headed outside for a smoke & called my BFF to vent a bit. I tried to put a good face on it, and reassured myself that the autograph sesh would be better, and at least I'd get to say hi & give him my gift and maybe the Reader's Digest version of my lil speech. Surprisingly, the 8x10 of our photo op was ready, so I grabbed it and headed past Groups A-E, and lined up with some other folks for some crazy talk and people watching. More heady anticipation as we played a sort of Red Rover thing, everyone taking two steps over to the next set of Colored Floor Tape, as the Con staff passed out Post-It notes. I questioned them about it, and they told me to write any personalization I might want on it. I used my Sonic Screwdriver Ink pen to write my name. As we got to the rat maze tensa-barrier area, the Con Staff were getting increasingly loud about keeping things moving. As I got up to the front I noticed a long table with Matt Smith at the end, and about three handlers talking to the attendees, who handed up their items. When I gave my photo, the Post-It was peeled off and discarded & I was informed that there was no more time for personalizing, so I'd have a generic autograph. I watched the handler slide down my beloved photo, and Matt Smith smeared a sort of signature on it and pushed it down the line to another handler, who in turn pushed it over to me.
 |
| I have to say, it's a good picture |
One of my friends was in the General admission line, and as I walked out she asked how it was. All I could say was "Grrl this fuckin SUCKS. $325 & I didn't even get to make eye contact with him." I walked out, fuming. My lil speech unsaid. My gift bag still in my hand. The rest of the day was similarly marred by the concessions stand running out of any po-boy fixings besides fried shrimp (no thanks, I'm allergic) and the nearby restaurant having no clean, empty tables, and a sort of line of famished-looking attendees, but no hostess or anything like that. I was so angry I could have puked. I wanted to apologize to every single person who sponsored this trip for not having more fun.
It did get better though. I ran into a friend in the front of the Alleged VIP line for Matt Smith's Q & A session, and I was glad to finally get to sit down and hear the man talk.Well, after we sat around for about 30 minutes, Wizard World Shill, I mean, MC, Tony Kim came out and announced that Sony was doing us a big favor and letting us see a trailer for their umpcoming blockbuster, Pompeii.
I spent most of the time watching the projection screens on either side of the stage because I was sitting behind a tall dude and would have had to lean over the Ho that fell asleep in her chair next to me to see. Also, some dude with an analog camera was clicking photos on high speed film sitting behind me every few minutes, while prolly a 3rd of the audience were taking video of him like they were videographers. UGH. Well, eventually we got to the questions. He fielded such hot topics as "What is your favorite animal?" (he had a list of 5, including otters and badgers) and "What other show would you want to be on?" (this is when many other fans felt the need to suggest things, like Sherlock, the Real World, oh bitch I don't know what all), and pretty soon, I was walking out and ran into a casual friend who was kind enough to give me a ride home.
 |
| Srsly this bitch was sleeping |
I wish this wasn't the story I had to tell. I wanted to be able to tell you all that today was everything I hoped it would be, and more. I'm still going back tomorrow, perhaps my lowered expectations will lessen any residual disappointment. I just want to say again how grateful and glad I am that I did this though. As my wise friend KC pointed out, it would have been so much if I hadn't gone & had to wonder What If for the rest of my life.
In the meantime, anybody wanna buy a scarf?
Friday, January 17, 2014
Strange Reunion
Last week, I got in touch with Big Laurel, a close friend from my pre-Katrina life. We used to spend a lot of time together, during those golden days when life was an honest breath taken in good faith. She was instrumental in finding me an apartment (where I'm still living) during that chaotic time in January 2006, when I discovered that my previous landlord was living in the apartment I'd planned to return to. She stayed here that Spring, after I'd had surgery and was forced to spend the semester recuperating in Hahnville with my grandmother.
The last time I saw her, in late May of 2006, my mom & I met her for lunch and we had a nice time. I remember a lot of laughs and a good meal. I moved back into my apt a week or so later, and never heard from Laurel again. She stopped answering my calls, her voicemail got full, and I was left to wonder what I'd done wrong. I called her number from time to time, just to see if it was still connected, but I can't tell you when the last time is that I tried.
We have a mutual friend named Amy that I occasionally chat with on Facebook, and Amy recently told me that Laurel wanted me to call & gave me her number. I called Laurel & all she could really say about not being in touch so long was that she "went crazy for awhile & didn't call anybody" which isn't really an explanation, but rather a faux-pology. During the course of the conversation, I found out that she'd been working at a bar room in our old neighborhood up until last year, and that she's not working steady right now, but she'd love to re-connect. I told her I'd be free on Tuesday, after 5 & we planned for her to pick me up & take me to her place.
I was really looking forward to this. I got nostalgic, thinking of all the times we shared. She brought me to my first Peaches show, we watched foreign films together, she was just there when I needed her. Until she wasn't.
She picked me up from work, and as we were driving thru the French Quarter, towards her place in Mid-City, she got a call from this guy called Rory. This is when she told me that we had to pick him up. I asked, where are we bringing him? She said, well, he's staying with me, so we're taking him back to my house.
I was more than a bit taken aback by this. I was even more taken aback when she informed me that she has an old lady named Zelda staying in her spare room, and she'd be joining us for dinner.
This seemed like a really strange way to re-connect, but I went with it. Rory was at a bar in Quarter, still having fun, so Laurel said she'd just pick him up later & we went back to her house & I met Zelda, a 60-something lady sitting on Miss Baby's couch in her housecoat, talking about cleaning the kitchen. Rory called again and said that he had left the bar and started walking towards Laurel's house, so Laurel & I took a ride to pick him up.
We got him from in front of the Esplanade food store on N. Villere & Esplanade, where he was drinking a beer from a can that he crushed & threw away, before grabbing his guitar case & putting it in Laurel's car trunk. He regaled us with stories of his day, watching gutter punks get money for panhandling while he played his guitar and didn't get anything. Well, I guess he must have gotten something, because on the way home, he asked Laurel to stop at another store so he could buy a big bottle of Skol vodka and a fountain cold drink.
Once we got in the house, I sat in a recliner in the living room and resumed knitting, while he sat in a loveseat across the room from me, with Laurel & Zelda on a couch to my right. Rory started taking alternating sips of his Skol and his fountain soda, and then he told that story about the gutterpunks again, but this time, the gutter punks got in a fight with some old man in a business suit, and Rory intervened and kept the peace.
I remember being really confused about what was going on here. Then he started questioning me about gay stuff--who is on top, who is on the bottom, who is the bitch, who is the butch. All of these ignorant personal questions that I really NEVER understand why people feel free to ask me. I refused to participate in this. I just kept responding, "Why are you so interested in this?" "You can look this stuff up on the Internet if you really want to know." and other sassy repartée, designed to deflect this sort of thing.
I remember telling Laurel a story, and he kept trying to derail me, but erry body knows that some quasi-homeless bastard sipping on a Skol Drink is no match for the Witty Knitter. I could see he was getting frustrated that he wasn't getting to be his Alpha Male Self with me, but eventually he & Laurel went into the kitchen to cook dinner & Zelda and I sat around, watching Helix on the DVR & chatting.
Laurel & Rory came up and served us dinner (after having to ride to the store to get more macaroni), and he was on what I'm sure he thought was his very best behavior. He even served me a Skol & Cranberry juice cocktail, but I opted to keep drinking my lil bottle of water.
Dinner itself was simple but delicious! A green salad, fried pork chops, mac & cheese. Trailer-Tastic perhaps, but damn tasty.
Ooh I just realized I didn't mention that Rory didn't eat, he just kept swiggin from his bottle & sucking thru his straw as the rest of us had our feast on TV trays.
After dinner, he was still playing the gracious host & picked up our plates and brought them back to the kitchen, before resuming his spot.
At this point, Zelda & I are chatting and he & Laurel are talking & I'm not sure exactly what they were talking about, but I could see that he was getting sort of animated, and he got off his loveseat and came across the room & stood next to me and proceeded to call Laurel's name and say "What if I did this?" and grabbed me by the head.
He put his hand flat on the top of my head, with his index fingers pressed flat on my forehead and his thumb over my ear.
I froze. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to stab him with my knitting needles, but they were plastic & I didn't want to get blood all over my Blue Beauty 4th Doctor Scarf, and I just froze. I looked at Laurel, who was just looking at him, dumbfounded.
After...30 seconds? 45? He let go & crossed the room to Laurel & started telling her something about how he was trying to make her laugh & then he looked over at me & said "Sam I'm sorry I wasn't trying to disrespect you (oh how he made those words drip with falsehood) or invade your space, I was just trying to make my girl laugh. I wasn't trying to piss you off or anything"
"Well what reaction did you expect from me?"
He sorta mumbled something & then staggered out of the room, towards the kitchen.
"Well what reaction did you expect from me?"
He sorta mumbled something & then staggered out of the room, towards the kitchen.
I started throwing my stuff into my knitting bag & I told Laurel, "I'm really ready to go now. Either you bringing me home or I'll walk to Broad St and get the bus, but either way I'm outta here in the next 50 seconds"
Zelda, in the tradition of Southern Women, acted like nothing had happened, and gave me a hug & said "Well, I hope we'll see each other again real soon! I'd love to introduce you to my gay nephew"
All I could say was "We'll see" and I walked out of the house, with Laurel close behind, keys in her hand.
Zelda, in the tradition of Southern Women, acted like nothing had happened, and gave me a hug & said "Well, I hope we'll see each other again real soon! I'd love to introduce you to my gay nephew"
All I could say was "We'll see" and I walked out of the house, with Laurel close behind, keys in her hand.
We got in the car, and I honestly did not know what to say to Laurel. I could barely even look at her face.
"Baby, I'm sorry that happened, but he was really just trying to make me laugh," she told me.
"No. That is not the only thing that was happening there and if you don't see it, then you are stupid or willfully blind. He felt threatened and wanted to dominate me in some way to prove some point and he did it. And you let him. FYI, me being taken, by a woman I trust, into a situation that I did not create, without my consent, and some man putting his hands on me is exactly my childhood and I am not going to re-live it with you. Not with you, not with anyone. I love you, Laurel, but this is not ever going to happen again. Maybe I can deal with you socially or in my house, but this will. Not. Happen. AGAIN."
She said "I can't apologize for anyone else's actions, but I am sorry you got upset" and continued on with the litany of minimizing that I remember so well. We talked all the way to my house and she even came up & we hung out for quite some time, but I never really got what I needed. Not a real apology for 7½ years of absence, nor for putting me into danger.
I had resumed my old role, as well, letting myself be pacified or talking about other things. There was even some talk of my meeting up with her next week for Fat Falafel Glam in Mid-City, but now I don't think so.
I don't think so at all.
I'm angry that this happened. But I'd be angrier at myself if I let it happen again.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Unmanaged, not Unmanageable... So Far
Some of you may have noticed that I posted awhile back on Facebook about seeking counseling. Suffice it to say that lately I've been stressing hard & working harder, and found myself overindulging in past vices that have no place in my life today. I reached out to my so-called wife & she has been gracious enough to help me get to my appointments in the burbs.
I felt for so long that my life was at a crossroads and lately it's starting to feel more and more like a dead end.
Without the structure and accountability of being in skool, I feel as if I'm just treading water, like there's some other, more important thing I'm meant to be doing. I've never felt like this before. Even when I was raving hard I always felt like that's what was supposed to be happening. These days just feel like drifting from one job to the other, tired all the time and getting the blues behind it all.
But like Tracy Chapman used to sing: I'm not breaking down/ I'm not falling apart/ I just lost a lil faith/ when you broke my heart.
In my journey towards making peace from my broken pieces (no copyright infringement intended), I'm coming to see that I have to honor my gifts, my passions: specifically writing & knitting & Doctor Who. To that end, I'll be updating at least one of my four blogs every day this month.
So fasten your seatbelts, Gentle Readers, it's bout to be a bumpy ride!
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