Cut Short - Telecom NZ Sucks Shit

I was all ready to dive back into my blog again. Here I had finally fulfilled my dream of moving to New Zealand and well...the fact that I was gainfully UNemployed made the availability and desire to write a real reality. After several calls to the company that provides both phone and internet to all of NZ, and after also being repeatedly warned that things moved "at a slower pace" in our neck of the hick woods, we finally had someone show up to bestow upon us the painfully lusted-for technologies.

Nope, sorry, fuck off.

That was the basic message we got. To make a very long story short, that details infrequent technician visits, frequent phone calls to Telecom, and one very nasty email from myself to the company, we were told we would have to wait THREE MONTHS ...wait ... MAYBE... before we would get our internet service. Guess they've now got some BIG project to lay new cables down and past storms have wasted any previously-available cables.

I cried. Literally, I cried. No phone, no internet, and at that time, no television at all. Perhaps my crack-like addiction to the internet (I could have done without the phone and TV for some time) could be nastily labeled as my capitalist pig "habit."

Well, you try living alone in a tiny little house, no job, no friends, and no current prospects (considering the town you're living in is, disbelievingly, SMALLER than the rural mud puddle you just left in Missouri! Oh yeah, and my cat's still in quarantine, so I don't even have her furry ass to keep my company.

I guess I no longer have any excuses for not writing that great historical fiction novel I've always wanted to write. Too bad historical fiction novels require mountains of research in public libraries and other such facilities that are no unavailable/non-existent for me.

*SOB*

Anyway, the only way I am ever to get on the internet now is the following:

1) Currently i am on a pay-by-minute cyber cafe in Christchurch, New Zealand. I am typing as fast as my little fingers can (which is fast, but not fast enough when you are continually hearing *ka-ching* in the background). Now, the only reason I can even be in this place is because my hubbie Beau and I are on vacation in the south island of NZ for a week and Christchurch is a lovely, BIG city which has this sort of thing.

or

2) A couple times a week beg Beau (while stuffing him full of green curry to entice him further) to sneak me into the computer lab of the school he works at, and at 9pm at night frantically read my 85 new emails and reply to about 5 all before going back home for the night.

This blows.

I've even written several blogs already since I arrived, but have no way of transferring them to the computer lab computers since i can't email them, they don't take computer disks or cd's, and Beau is still waiting for that little USB-attached-thingie-that-holds-like-40mb-of-files that the school promised to give him. When he finally gets that, then I can post again.

Fart.

I hate being away from the internet. I hate missing its convenience. I hate not being able to do things like:
- Look for a job!
- check the NY Times or BBC website
- check quick facts about anything, a la Wikipiedia
- look up stuff on NZ
- quickly get recipes or check recipes i already know for ingredients
- look up a phone number or address of a business or a friend back home
- reserve things like hotel rooms
- check prices of things
- order something online
- do research
- post to my blog
- READ MY EMAIL

It's amazing how many times in a day my mind will quickly say, "Oh, I'll go check real quick on the inter....awww." It really happens a lot. Often it's just to check facts or do something really quick, and it's just not available anymore.

I miss you, Internet!

You suck shit, Telecom!

to be continued.... *sigh*

Wasted Tales from Hickville

It's really a shame I've fallen off the blog map, AGAIN. My five months in rural Missouri may not have been a roller coaster of excitement and adventure, but it certainly was worth about 10 blogs of giggles. Now I think I don't have enough motivation to catch up. See, I'd love to be a writer, and yet, my self-motivation is that of a three-toed sloth, which is why I'll:
- never be thin, just "not fat"
- always apply for jobs that are slightly too easy for me
- have started 10 oil paintings and only completed two (one only because it was literally "commissioned" and i was pressured to do so).
- always think I'll exercise when i get home from work and almost never do
- Am not now packing for New Zealand

And that's my fantastic news of the moment -- I'm moving to New Zealand!!!!!, for REAL this time. It's no longer a dream or a long-range goal, or 12 months of paperwork away. It's really happening. In fact, Beau is already there and has been for what has been an excrutiating four weeks. I stayed behind to take care of the monumental task of trashing, shipping, and selling all of our worldly possessions which is an incredible pain in the ass. Not to mention the ridiculous hoops of fire I have to jump through to get my cat to NZ (6 months of preparation and a couple thousand dollars in bills). In fact, I need to stop this writing and go pack now!

Bugger.

The end of The Roadhouse

So, I was pretty...aghast when I saw that I haven't posted since April. I mean, I knew it had been AWHILE, but April is like another lifetime ago. And at the time I had been so eager to post about that whole drama with my barmaid/waitress/bartender job, and now all the steam has left me. So, I'll give the short version. And I won't change the names to save the innocent.

After impressing my boss after working a week at the bar/restaurant, where I was, as aforementioned, a waitress/barmaid -- all jobs I had never done before (but had been curious about), and was increasingly getting better at -- I was offered the golden ring -- the bartender position. There was already a bartender, a really cool woman who worked 7 days a week, 15 hours a day, I shit you not. They started preening me for it, it wasn't that hard, though it was very fast and frantic on the weekends. They kept telling me how Sunday would be my big day when I'd work alllll alone and give poor Dana (bartender) her first day/night off in 3 weeks.

Anyway, on Saturday night I was doing the barmaid thing and making some pretty good tips, despite the ardent competition of my barmaid coworker. With about 2 hours left in the night, the owner suggested I go behind the bar, and give Dana the chance to have a seat, a smoke, and a drink, and me to get my feet even more wet. I was up for it.

It was frantic, fast, and fun. I was enjoying myself. At one point, I had accidentally punched in $22.50 instead of $2.50 for a beer, but let it fly, writing it down on a piece of paper to tell the boss later. There was no time to fix it then. I had done the same thing earlier, and it was somewhat slower and Dana had been able to fix it. This second time, there was just no chance for that. There was a band, and the bar was packed with fishermen who drank like...fishes *giggle* After a couple of hours, the last drunken slob was kicked out, and after frantic cleaning and restocking of the bar, I near collapsed into a bar stool along with my fellow barmaid, while Dana and Evil Owner began to count the night's earnings. I counted my own tips, which equaled about $135. Not bad. Especially for someone who had started out making about 50 bucks a night.

So Dana and E.O. counted....looked at each other and muttered quietly...then they counted, and counted again. Barmaid and I were basically prisoners since we couldn't leave til "released." It was obvious there was a problem. Their faces were unnecessarily grave. Then I spoke up, and told the E.O. about the mistype in the register. There started a 10 minute lecture on how awful I was, because of the rules of the State of Missouri, liquor licenses, inability to change the books AT ALL once the night's final receipt is printed out, etc.

Two things followed which made the whole event completely unbelievable:

1) The E.O. kept insinuating that the discrepancy in the receipt (which was about $38) was due to "missing cash" and not the very obvious clerical error (which was easily found on the receipt since you don't usually ring up $22.50 of beer, since all beers are rung up individually as soon as they're ordered). I kept trying to tell him, there is no missing cash (which of course, insinuates we stole it), but that it was an error on paper. He just could not comprehend this, which in turn, made him all the more incomprehensible to me. It wasn't rocket science, and this guy runs a business! And to top it all of, he was completely pissed at me that I hadn't told him early enough, despite the fact that he had been there all night and saw my fast-moving, non-stop ass working itself into the ground. He was indignant that I didn't KNOW that once this receipt is printed out, it's the word of God and he can't change it by law! To this day, I wonder if this is truly correct. Is the State of Missouri's liquor laws so incredibly rigid that they completely disallow any kind of explanation for errors in accounting?? I'd love to be set right on this one way or another. And since the E.O. never told me about this rule, I'm not sure how he expected me to follow it knowingly. But then, it was not a night of logic...

And so...

2) Now E.O. starts saying that the money "has to be replaced." That whatever is on that receipt needs to be coughed up for the State of Missouri. Again, implying that we (bartender, me, barmaid), need to produce such money. At this point, not only am I shocked to near stupefaction, but I'm outraged. He's asking us to PAY him our tips for the difference? Is he fucking KIDDING me? When you work a 12 hour shift, all on your feet, with NO breaks and NO food, those tips are pretty damn precious to you (especially when you're only making $3/hour). I have had several "customer service" jobs in my lifetime, and the drawer being short is a fairly common occurrence (as well as it having a bit of extra cash). Sometimes it's a few cents, sometimes it's a few dollars. Once in awhile it's a big amount (which usually leads back to clerical errors such as this). In every job I've had of this nature, the company eats the loss (or keeps the gains). If my drawer was over $5, I've never been asked to pay it back, nor have I ever been handed a 5-dollar bill when my drawer was over (what a way to encourage shortchanging people!).

And this feeling started to come over me. This guy's not only an idiot and a crook, but he's just not someone I want to work for. As the minutes are ticking away, and I'm trying to have a level-headed argument with him (that's really just turning into an argument), I'm thinking, "I need to walk out of here." The bartender and the other bar maid both kinda shrugged and said they'd chip in to cover the short drawer, but that to me was ridiculous. For one, *I* was the one on the register, so it was my drawer that was short. Hell if I'd let this Evil Boss take their money. Then E.O. had the gall to say, "What, you don't expect *me* to pay for it, do you?" Secondly, AGAIN, it wasn't about missing money, but I had been banging my head against the wall long enough.

I said, "I don't think I'm comfortable working in an environment where every time my drawer is short, you're going to take my hard-earned money." He then said in a disgustingly smug voice, "Well, this will be good for you. This will be a lesson for you. It'll be a good lesson for you. Now you won't do it again."

What a prick.

So, very calmly, I took a piece of paper, wrote down my name and address and phone number. I took $20 from my tips and handed it to him with the note. I said, "You can take the rest out of my final paycheck and send it to me. Thank you." Then I walked out.

That final paycheck had a lot of hours on it, since I was working 12 hour days at that time, every single day. It may have only be $3/hour, but it was hard-earned cash.

I never got that final paycheck.

I suppose I could have confronted him, made a big stink, maybe even reported him. But in the end, I just wanted to wash my hands (and hair) of the place. And also, it turned out to be a good thing. I ended up getting a great job at a wonderful non-profit and I absolutely love the people I work with. I leave every day at 5pm, get an hour lunch, and when I get home, I don't smell like a big, fat, cigarette.

Life is good.

“The First Time I’ve Walked Off A Job (the bastard!)” or “My Short Drama Living Out Two of My Six-Month Jobs” – Part I

There are certain jobs in this world I call my “Six Month Jobs.” These are jobs, usually blue-collar in nature, that I’ve always been curious about. Jobs I’ve always wanted to try out – BUT – just for six months; they’re not the kind of jobs I’d want to make a career out of. Being a waitress, a bartender, or driving a semi across the country are some examples (how sleepy ol’ me would drive a semi for hours and hours is beyond my comprehension).

In my new little town of Danzig, as I’ve mentioned, jobs that aren’t in some sort of construction vein, are scarce. So scarce that my joke about ending up as a greeter at Walmart had/has become a dangerous possibility. But, as small as this town as, and as minute as the opportunities for a girl who’s been a comfy office administrator or teacher most of her life, I still had to make money. School loan payments are not so sympathetic to my “plight.”

Every morning, so early that my body has yet to forgive me, I drive Beau to work where he drives the school bus before he begins his day teaching (good extra money for an hour’s work). As we cross a bridge over a beautiful river, you can see a large bar/hotel/restaurant perched on the edge of the water below. I won’t give the title here, but let’s just say it matches that of a Patrick Swayze movie where he was a bouncer. *ahem* Guess I’ll call it “Swayze’s” here.

“I’m going to work there!” I exclaimed one morning.

Beau grimaced. He didn’t like the thought at all. He told me all the stories about the men here, particularly the throngs of fishermen who flock from all over during the various seasons. They’re in town for a short time, away from home and wives, and are fairly scummy to a woman working in a bar. But right now, all I can think of is “tips, good tips.”

That day I noticed an ad in the paper for Swayze’s, wanting waitresses. Wow, fate? I got home and strategized my outfit. Going in with my typical, pinstripe business suit was probably not the best course of action. I would have to dress down, but still look presentable, professional. Most hourly jobs I had gone in to apply for have hired me on the spot, so I knew if I could get this right, in a town who’s culture I didn’t yet know, I could hurry up and get a job. It’d been over a week that I’d languished (though at times happily languished) in our home without work. There’s something so relaxing and peaceful about staying at home, but there’s also the guilt, the nervousness, and the agitation of not doing anything constructive and not earning any money, especially when another person is involved (as well as two cats, a mangy curr, and student loans).

So, I donned a simple flowery dress that hung to my knees and threw a small navy blue jacket to cover my exposed shoulders. Made sure my legs were shaved and slipped on some simple black sandal/heels. Walked in, asked for an application, and sat at the bar with the bartender while I filled it out. Again, filling out the application became a strategic undertaking. I was not going to put that I was making over 40k total a year in NYC or $16/hour teaching ESL. The highest paid job I had EVER seen within a 60 mile radius was for about $8-$9/hour, so I knew that I couldn’t truly be…honest.

Funny, I’ve never downgraded myself before, but I knew if I wanted to work in this town, I’d have to. So, when I filled out the portion on my non-profit administrative job, I wrote $30,000. As for teaching ESL, I listed it as $10. I knew they’d have to take into consideration that it was NYC anyway. I wrote down my high school and undergraduate degree, but completely omitted my master’s degree. As I continued to fill it out, I chatted with the bartender who looked like Celine Dion if she had curled and teased her hair out, applied thick black eyeliner, and had had a bit of a rougher life. The woman, whom I’ll call Dana, was cool, and I enjoyed talking to her. She described the job to me somewhat and I admitted to having no waitress, cocktail waitress, or bartender experience. I made sure to write on my application though that I “worked hard” and was “dependable and reliable” which is all true. I knew they could count on me to be an asset to them – I’ve busted my ass at every job I’ve ever had.

After turning in my application, I drove down the road to the high school and picked up Beau. I informed him of what I’d done and he appeared grim. He knew about my struggle to find a job, and how most were in the $5-$6/hour range, but he also was uncomfortable with me being a barmaid in a fisherman’s bar. Beau’s a good guy though, and did his best to take it all in stride. Just one of many reasons why I think he’s the bee’s knees.

By the time we’d reached home about ten minutes later, Swayze’s was calling me. A woman we’ll call Betty talked to me about the job. One of the first things she said, hesitating, was “Well, you were making such good money in NYC.” I knew then that my instincts had been right. I am no fit to this town and will have to present myself in a different way. A master’s degree in anything but engineering is completely useless where I am now, and looked at with some degree of suspicion and distaste. I was then told I could do both waitressing and cocktail waitressing and that I “had the figure for it,” so I’d be fine. Uh oh. I was to come in the next day to get started. I could wear jeans and a t-shirt (yes!) and “no skimpy tops.” I think I can handle that.

Betty, along with her husband Tom, ran the restaurant (and were the cooks) and the small marina below that sold bait and other supplies to the fishermen who would dock and come up for some grub and beer. She was very friendly and did a good job on showing me the ropes. Her and her husband seemed close and in control, though she panicked a few times when she was left in the kitchen to cook alone when orders began to trickle in a bit more steadily. Overall, business was slow and I only earned about $35 in tips.

The second day I came to work, I was greeted again by Betty, but in a dramatically different way. Immediately upon laying eyes on her, I noticed her puffy eyes, makeup-free face, and rather dour expression. I thought perhaps she had had a tough night, she did mention how hot it was up there (her and her husband lived up in one of the hotel suites above the bar), or thought perhaps she had had a fight with her “old man.” I didn’t inquire. You don’t do shit like that on your second day.

The rest of the shift she was irritable and distant. That was fine with me, as long as I could do my job on my own, which I did, though I cringed every time I had to ask her a question. Later that night, a young local girl came in to work with me, let’s call her Savannah. She was about 23 and had just given birth two months ago. Once the restaurant closed at 9pm, we both moved over to the bar where we would be cocktail waitresses. We worked with Dana, the cool bartender, whom I was to later find out worked every single day from 3pm to 2am.

My first night as a cocktail waitress was interesting. Part waitress, part whore, you go around basically prodding people to buy more drinks as soon as your, what soon comes to be, hawkeyes peer through the smoke haze and gleen a beer bottle even remotely near empty. But though young, Savannah was experienced, and I spent the first night eating her dust as I came upon table after table with a newly-refreshed beer bottle grasped hungrily in each hand. Damn! Picking up their empty beer bottles and dumping out their full ashtrays, I began to feel like her lackey. As the night shuffled on though, I did begin to click a bit better, and my competitive nature helped shove me along and earn more tips and less empty bottles.

I noticed how friendly she was with many of the customers, and learned quickly that’s the name of the game, but was pretty surprised to learn at the end of the night that many of these “customers” were actually her friends, as when she told one “…and after my brother comes over tomorrow, bring him here…” Well shit. Competing with a local girl in a small town is gonna be rough.

At the end of a very long night, where tips were somewhere sadly around $50, I reflected on the weirdness of the job. As a couple days had passed I noticed a few startling facts -- there were no breaks, and you didn't eat. And what completely blew me away was that all employees seemed completely unfazed by this. Every now and then I'd make some comment like, "Oh, don't you get hungry?" or "Gee, I could really use a break, you?" All I ever received were apathetic shrugs as the person dragged on her (they're all women) cigarette.

So, that reminds me, there are "breaks," if you count a smoke break as a break, and since I am the ONLY person in the entire bar, counting waitresses, bartender, cooks, owners, and all customers that does NOT smoke (and the two rooms in the restaurant are "smoking" and... "smoking"), I didn't get my 60 second break to puff away. Coming from NYC where cigarettes are banned from bars (which I actually don't agree with) and every other place I've ever lived where there have been distinct smoking and non-smoking sections, it's rather comical (and somewhat irritating to the eyes), to see a bartender pouring a drink with a cigarette dangling from her lips, or a waitress calmly pushing a vacuum across the floor with her right hand and smoking a cigarette in her left. Even the cooks would venture out every hour or so, sit at the closest table and puff serenely away at the cigarette until a new customer came in. I never saw them wash their hands, though I'm going to assume they did.

Coming home from such a smoker's paradise was difficult. I walked in the door each night with my own black cloud...one of guilt. The stench of smoke was so thick. It clung to my clothes, which I peeled off each night as if they were doused in radiation and dropped them disdainfully at the foot of the washing machine. I would crawl into the bathtub, squatting down (we have a shower head, but it's one at the end of a long snake-like handle which you must hold the entire time you're showering), and clean myself with some degree of shame. I just felt dirty. And the worst of all was that I couldn't wash my hair. My hair, which hairdressers have complained has a mass equal to 2-3 full heads of a normal person's hair in thickness, is not to be washed at 2:00am. I will just be sleeping on thick, wet hair that will not dry, and I will wake up uncomfortable with a damp, cold, tangled mess and an itchiness at the back of head, above my neck. So, poor Beau, forced to sleep with Medusa and her snakes of smoke each night. I tried to tie my hair back in a tight bun to minimize contact, but my hair is not always so willing to stay put.

Not to mention that, again, POOR BEAU, who has to wake up at 5:30am every morning to go to the high school, could be found at 2:30am each night, dozing in the car in the parking lot of Swayze's, waiting patiently for me to emerge. It really wasn't fair. And then 3 hours later I would wake up with him to take him to work. At least I got to come back home and crash.

Anyway....the drama was just beginning....when I arrived on the THIRD day....

... continued in Part II. Coming soon!

Funny Sights and Quotes from Rural Missouri

I'd like to add to this post every now and then as I come across stuff, and will just keep putting it at the front of my blog. Here's to many more...

"I sold it."
"You sold...it?"
- When walking toward the "TV Antenna" section in the local version of Radio Shack, I was stopped and informed that the sole TV antenna he had had in stock was sold out recently.

"I am Adecco."
- When inquiring for the Adecco Temporary Staffing/Employment office (the same temp agency I had used in NYC which had about 5 large offices there). This one consisted of a woman in a small room inside a trucking warehouse on the side of the highway.

"Dirt for sale"
- Sign at the edge of the road on Route 65.

Rural Missouri - Welcome to Danzig

So, I've only been here a few days, and it seems much longer. You may naturally think that means I'm not too thrilled to be in rural Midwestern America. You would be wrong, but you'd also be right.

I shouldn't be writing this, but I know with my alzheimer-like memory, I'll forget these observations quickly (I still read stuff from Bangkok that I've totally forgotten). I should be looking for a decent job, as I'm trying to avoid ending up as a waitress at the Chuck Wagon restaurant, despite the fact that "they make really good tips!"

GOOD STUFF
Let's start off on an optimistic note, shall we? The good stuff may not be funny, but hey, it's still...good.

The Guy
- So Beau, as I’ve renamed him, is here, obviously, and he’s pretty fantastic, otherwise, why the FUCK would I be here?

The House
- Tiny, square, and peach-colored. Two bedrooms, an expansive backyard with a nice porch step we sit out on, a deck for kicking back in and BBQing, and all those birds (see below). I love it. It’s been a very long time since I’ve lived in a house, and it’s nice, real nice.

The Weather
- It's like 70-78 degrees every day (so far) with a gentle, locks-lifting breeze. I'm in heaven. 59-79 is like my perfect temperature range.

The Beauty
- Okay, so it’s no New Zealand or Scandinavia for breathtaking, “I wanna live here!” views, but already green with Spring, covered with wildflowers that you feel sinful stepping on, and surrounded by lakes (including the biggest one in state which seems to attract copious amounts of “men with boats” as my mother so hatefully called them, Danzig is fairly easy on the eye. This morning while driving Beau to work, I saw a sunset that knocked me out – the Sun a flaming ball of startling beauty.

The Birds
- I'm no ornithologist; I've always found birdwatchers to be a bit...wacky. There was a professor I knew back in grad school who had a story about how he went bird watching in southern Arizona (a rather desolate and sweltering area), where he sat on a small boulder, facing some sort of raptor, who likewise faced him, and the two, sitting on their respective rocks, stared at each other for the likes of an hour or two. After that, the professor, quietly thrilled (professors are not keen on any kind of robust emotion except when their academic egos are attacked), stood up, and left, thoroughly content with his day. Though I find that story amusing, I also find the thought of that kind of bird watching about as exciting as cleaning out the refrigerator.

And yet, during my dreamy five minutes of hanging clothes on the line a couple days ago (see below), I saw five different species of birds. Robins bounding jauntily along the grass like little kangaroos, Starlings screeching in the air, two large Doves cooing and nuzzling on a branch, a gracefully gliding Mississippi Kite, an Eastern Bluebird whizzing by, and a real live Woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatting away on the branch above my head (it's pretty loud stuff! But cool as hell). After years of pigeons and sparrows, the urban rats of the air, it’s nice to see, and hear(!) other birds. Oh yeah, and of course, there’s a slew of squirrels here too, “rats with better outfits” as Carrie said on Sex & the City, but I’ve always been kind of fond of them (except for that time when one got out of its live-trap cage in the car with me and I suddenly could only see in my mind’s eye it’s giant claws and it getting caught in my thick hair).

Oh yeah, and I almost forgot, there are Buzzards. I am NOT shitting you! The things circle in the sky overhead and are both impressive to look at, and stomach turning when you remember that they are not majestic hawks or eagles, but carrion trolling for prey.

The Dog
- Molly, the mangy curr that has belonged to Beau for a couple of years after she sprinted into his life, a stray unclaimed by the community, and I think I know why. Both completely the definition of a scruffy mutt and so frickin’ cute it nearly knocks you over, I don’t think I have ever witnessed so spastic and fanatical an animal before. Her love for Beau is so intense it starts to make me evaluate my own love for him, and so codependent it then makes me cease the evaluation. When he comes home, she is literally bouncing off furniture and will actually leap into his arms, a wiggling mass of ecstasy at another day where he DID NOT LEAVE HER! I love having a dog; I love dogs. The only reason I haven’t had one all these years is that living alone and frequent travel has made having one inconvenient to impossible. I always knew once I got to New Zealand I would definitely get one, but that’s several months away. For now we have Molly, who although won’t be following us to The Land of the Long White Cloud, I will be finding a great deal of enjoyment with her in the meantime. Already, she accompanies me on nearly every car ride, and follows me stalker-like all over the house, nestling up close and aggressively scraping a clawed paw down my leg whenever I ignore her for too long. I like her though – she’s fun, and loyal to the point of cultism.

The Zen of the Washline
- When I was a kid, growing up in suburban Arizona, my grandmother (who raised me along with my grandfather) had a substantial closeline in the backyard where all our clothes were hung. She said with the Arizona heat, she didn't need a dryer, which is true, but also, we were just dirt poor. I don't remember helping her to hang clothes that often, so I don't remember how I felt then, but as a child, I avoided any form of household chore as much as possible. By the time the government bought our home (to knock down to make a freeway which was eventually carved out instead much further east into the Pima Native Americans' reservation lands), we lived in apartments with their own laundry rooms, including dryers.

After only being here a day, Beau and I purchased a new washing machine. To make a long story short, a woman who had bought a new one, moved into a new apartment that already had a new washer/dryer set installed. Serendipitous for us! So, I happily handed over 50 bucks and got my first, my own, washing machine. Thrilling, really. In NYC I had to walk 2 blocks, UPhill (yes, it sounds like your grandparents’ uphill-in-the-snow story, but it's all true), to a laundromat out on Broadway that was long, but about as wide as a hallway and was always crowded, particularly with harried mothers and their screaming, under-your-feet kids.

So now, after having done about 10,000 loads of laundry already (when you move, you feel like everything's dirty by the time you get there), I've been outside hanging clothes on the line in a completely blissful state. I don't know what it is...the weather (which IS blissful), the slow, methodical peace of hanging clothes, the mangy curr, Molly, that scampers around sniffling and snuffling wildflowers and chasing squirrels in our sizeable backyard (holy shit, a backyard!). But I find the act of hanging clothes to be undeniably calming and ...blissful. Now, going back out there and taking them down, and folding them, THAT'S another story...

BAD STUFF

No TV, no really, NO TELEVISION!
- I have said it before - I am a total TV junkie. I make no excuses about it, and I feel no shame. And I love cable. LOVE it! Especially digital cable with its minimal bells and whistles. Beau has an old school big screen TV *cheer* but ...but...but it doesn't work! *SOB* I mean, it works, but it doesn't. It's one of those things that if you don't have cable, you don't have much in terms of reception. And to add insult to injury, I went to evil Walmart and purchased some rabbit ears, only to realize that there wasn't even a damn antenna on the roof of the house, so I basically was spending a lot of time, effort, and some money for NAUGHT. Now my little tiny TV is perched shamefully atop the mammoth big screen TV, they both don’t work, and I feel all white trashy.

To make matters worse, the cable company only comes to Danzig on Wednesdays (Oh LORD!), and the next available spot isn’t until April 26^th. Wait a minute, no cable, and NO TELEVISION for another three weeks? What am I, a pilgrim? An 18^th century explorer? An old school Marxist? Shit, even the makeshift, super-temporary and unstable construction crews that made about 2 bucks a day back in Bangkok had their TV’s set up. I saw the sick glow from their sets as I’d ride by on my motorcycle. I’d love to call up the cable company and threaten to go to the other cable company…but there isn’t one.

The Weather
- Beau keeps reminding me, over and over, that the approaching summer months will be HELL, and yes, each time he mentions it, HELL is in ALL CAPS in his voice. I don’t do well with hot weather. But that’s really in the future, so I shouldn’t bitch now, right?

30 Miles from Everything
- Okay, this tiny town has a Walmart, and despite my guilty feelings for using my consumer dollars at this evil giant, I have gone there, a few times already in order to get a few things that literally are NOT available anywhere nearby. Danzig is small, and yet strangely spread out in a slew of industrial business that involve large trucks (I think I may be one of the only people NOT driving a pickup), and though the town can also claim a Sonic (a fast food place I was not previously familiar with) and a Subway, several gas stations, a few roadside hotels, and a couple BBQ joints (Hello Chuck Wagon!), that's about it. 30 miles in either direction will bring you to mid-sized towns which offer, horrors, ANOTHER Walmart, a modest movie theater, a slew of fast food restaurants (Arby's, JOY!), a JC Penny's, and a K-Mart that was so empty it creeped me out. There was a Mexican Restaurant called Los Portales that I had really come to love in my past visits, but it seems to have come under new management who have closed it up for “improvements.” *sigh* You know that these improvements are rarely just that.

If you want to drive instead for a total of 90 miles, you can reach Springfield which is larger and somewhat cosmpolitan. St Louis and Kansas City, giant by Missouri town standards, are both about two hours away. With gas prices being the way it is and Beau and I already freaked out about our cash flow, I don't think that will be happening too often, though we already have plans for going to a big Scottish festival this coming weekend which I'm uber-excited about.

The Dog…and the Cats
- So, I have two cats, I always have. Currently I have Sabina who is coming up on 12 years old and Seamus, who has just passed four. I’ve had them since they were two and four months respectively and love them deeply. I believe in taking your animals with you wherever you go, even if it is abroad (to live, NOT for vacations!), and of course, I’ve brought mine with me this time, and plan on lugging them painfully to New Zealand (the process to get them there is six months long and costs a shocking amount of dough).

Of course, introducing two cats into a small house that has already been occupied by an insane dog is..a challenge. It’s not fun to have fucking Wild Kingdom going on in your living room at any hour of the day. In one particular incident, one of my cats, whom I was trying to SAVE, lashed out and hooked one front claw into my shoulder blade, and the other, get this, IN MY NOSE! Can you imagine the excruciating sensation of a single, curved and sharpened cat’s claw snagged quickly and deeply just inside your right nostril? I thought I was going to lose my mind at that moment, and nearly killed the cat I was trying to save. Seamus was on my shit list for almost 24 hours after that, as I saw my bloody shirt and surveyed a body now covered in holes and scratches (a rather impressive one across my inner thigh).

Jobs
- Okay, so I knew before I came that Danzig was not a sprawling Metropolis filled with administrative jobs or a vibrant NGO sector. I had already resigned myself to working some half-assed job to pay the bills (particularly that FUCKING huge Department of Education loan). But now that I'm here and taking a look around, a feeling of dread comes over me when I envision working at "RJ Roofing" all day long. In the end, I'll do what I have to do, and I am actually curious about the experience of waitressing at Chuck Wagon restaurant (it's on my "Jobs I'd like to try out for 6 months" list), but I'd also like something that doesn't just make me feel ...low. I'm not saying there's shame in these jobs, there's not, and I'll be the first to admit that half of them are fucking hard. When at the temp agency today, the woman said the only immediate jobs she had was for "assembly work" and I cringed. Assembly work was the only job I ever had in my entire life that I just flat out quit after a couple days. Every single other job I've ever had I've kept, usually for a minimum of a year and usually have only left when I was leaving the geographic area. But assembly work is hard, it's repetitive, and I found myself at the end of the day, covered in grease, hands cut up, and with a feeling of general exhaustion and loneliness. After two days, I apologized profusely to the temp agency, told them to give me anything else, and spent the next several weeks until grad school started working happily for Hardee’s restaurant manning the drive-thru window until they offered to promote me to manager (I chose grad school instead).

Tomorrow I will drive the 90 miles to Springfield in hopes of procuring a job they advertised on the web for an hourly rate that would have made me pause in NYC but is considered wildly generous here. I think I may be a bit late for that one since it was supposed to start today, but it’s worth a try. I feel torn – if I get this good-paying job, I’ll be commuting an hour and a half each way each day – and I am NOT a fan of commuting, in fact, I found my lengthy subway ride to and from work in Manhattan to be at times agonizing and only the constant splurging on pop culture magazines and an engrossing trade paperback would save me from throwing my ADD ass onto the tracks. Stuck in a car with no reading material and only a tape deck deeply concerns me. I could play the radio, but then I’d be subject to the one rock station’s choice of music (my god, they play a lot of Kelly Clarkson and Rob Thomas), as well as a parade of Christian rock and Country music stations. Well, if I get the job, I’ll splurge on some sort of adapter to play my cd’s off my walkman. It’ll be worth my sanity.

From a New York State of Mind to a Missouri Bluebird

Hi,

Yes, as usual, it’s been eons since I’ve written. The answer is simple – the fu*$kin federal government raised my student loan payments to $572 a month. Yes, let me just say that again, FIVE HUNDRED SEVENTY-TWO DOLLARS, not Pesos, nor Baht, nor Kwacha. Dollars. And, to keep myself from utter starvation, I’ve taken on a second job. The long and the short of it is that I have been working all day at my regular job in the non-profit world (and by non-profit, I mean non-profit for MYSELF as well), and have taken on a night job as an ESL teacher. The job is fantastic, I love teaching, but it also means I leave my house at 8:30am each morning and don’t get home til about 11:30pm at night. Needless to say, such a schedule, and the fatigue that follows, seriously inhibits any desire to write, and additionally, any more chances for NYC adventures.

BITE ME U.S. DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION.

That’s the shitty news.

Furthermore, I had an IRS refund of $1100 that the Dept of Ed quickly snatched from my salivating self to apply toward my student loans, as an "involuntary payment" (no shit, Sherlock). Despite the fact that I have faithfully been paying them for about nine months, they say the first six months didn’t count (because I was paying a PALSY $325/month then! Not the required $572!). Anyway, I hate the Dept of Ed even more. Good luck coming from a low-income family and getting an education and not remaining deeply-set in poverty for the rest of your life. What the hell is an education for if you’re poor? To keep you poor? I feel like I'm living in some sort of cruel Republican loop of madness.

Now, let’s get on to the better news.

I’m leaving NYC. And yes, that’s good news. Well, not immediately good, considering my first stop. But my second, and final stop, is rather exciting. The Cowboy whom I’ve mentioned in the past, and whom I’ve been dating for about seven months, is going to take in this eccentric woman as his partner – see, cowboys are brave! I’ll be living in Missouri with him until the end of the summer, and assuming all goes well, we will be moving to New Zealand in late summer.

New Zealand, yes! A dream come true! (almost, not quite yet). I’m so totally excited about it, and so is he. He’s always wanted to go there too. We will both teach (he biology, me ESL, and then later English/Lit), and live happily ever after.

Well, maybe.

Having lots of love experience is great (and was a lot of fun), but it sure gives you a whole buttload of doubts for all future relationships. I go all 12-step when it comes to love, “One day at a time.” I no longer look at happily ever after, we’ll be in love FOREVER, etc. Now I think, “Wow, this is great, it’s going really well, I really love this guy, good. I hope it lasts.” And I try not to project too far into the future. Well, maybe just a few years. ;)

Anyway, I suspect that this TEENY TINY town I will be moving to in Missouri will pose a significant challenge for me who has always lived in either large cities or sizeable suburbia. I’ve been there several times already, and although it’s a somewhat pleasant place, it’s really not my bag, baby, and I know I will have to really try hard and fight my own prejudices of the “small town.” The last few times I went I felt as if I was being stared at. I guess when you’re an outsider in a very small town, there’s no blending in. Damn it! I’m all about blending in, and have always been (though that was challenging *cough* in Thailand). Blending in in Boondocks, Missouri might just be as tough. I guess it’s not like France where I’d just switch my white shoes to brown, put my hair up, and try to subdue that American exhuberance the Euros spot instantly. I’ll figure it out; I always do.

So now it’s about 1:30am and I’m waiting somewhat impatiently for my man to arrive. He’s currently somewhere in mammoth Pennsylvania, in the disgusting minivan we’ve rented, since there doesn’t seem to be any other way anymore to move cross-country (U-Haul et al has skyrocketed into mind-boggling charges for cross-country or one-way trips). Normally, I spit on a minivan or SUV when it goes by (that’s a LOT of spitting, believe you me!), but this time it’s the only way I can attempt to cram my pathetic life into a mobile space. I have been desperately giving away pounds of books, clothes, cd’s and other wares. Not to mention the large bags of crap I’ve left out on the sidewalk, and in my neighborhood, that stuff disappears before you can even start your stopwatch. At least I know it’s needed.

And in a few days I’ll be out of NYC. A place I always wanted to live, but never wanted to settle in. I have no regrets. I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do – Broadway shows, been to The Daily Show three times, seen every single major tourist attraction (three times atop the Empire State, loved it), eaten in dozens of incredible restaurants (latest was kick-ass Ethiopian), brushed against celebrities (oh Hugh Jackman *swoon*), become a frequent visitor to the glorious Bronx Zoo and infrequent one to Coney Island, and touched down in every single borough (though Staten Island – barely). Two and a half years have gone by and I am satisfied. I would have loved the freedom and opportunities that more money in a big city can provide, but I am not leaving with any major wishes undone.

In just days I’ll be out of this shithole of an apartment with its raging army of cockroaches, ruthless steam heat, and nearby-exit-ramp-unrelenting-traffic-noise. I’ll be doing something I haven’t done in a very long time (live with a guy), and something I have never done (live in a rural area), and I’ll be jobless and broke.

Damn, I’m looking forward to it!