Office babble

I’m sneaking in a quick and completely unnecessary post from work, simply because I can (ha HA!)… but because I’m at work, and because it’s Tuesday (production day), and because I’ve spent the last 7 hours straight doing nothing but pagination, I’m pretty brain-dead and have declared myself incapable of forming substantially coherent sentences.

More or less.

Kevin Spacey, by the way, is unbelievable. UNBELIEVABLE. I don’t know how the audience, especially those sitting right next to the cage, restrained themselves from leaping onto him and smothering him with various forms of affection. He was everything anyone would ever ask for from a live entertainer– charming, witty, and my god, was he talented. And for some reason, listening to him sing the songs I first fell in love with when I listened to Ella Fitzgerald’s renditions was, in a transitory sort of way, like getting to watch Ella perform live in concert, something I will always wish I could have had a chance to do.


My bosses just walked back into the office with an ice cream cake from Ben & Jerry’s for my birthday and I’ve been getting phone calls throughout the day from well-wishers, so even though my mom had to fly home this morning to Honolulu with my grandparents because of a health emergency– and I didn’t find out until after they’d left as I was up in Summerlin last night– which means I don’t know when I’m going to see her again and I was looking forward to going out to dinner with her tonight, this isn’t turning out to be so bad of a birthday, after all, as much as  I stressed out about it last night.

And that whole paragraph? It’s one sentence. Some things apparently aren’t affected by the aging process.

I’m 21! I can buy booze (legally)! I can buy booze for the new refrigerator that was just installed in my new place this morning, then spill it on my clothes which I can then wash and dry in my new washer and dryer, also just installed this morning.

AND IT’S RAINING. It’s like there’s a god somewhere who’s trying to make up for all the shit I’ve endured these past couple of days.

Yay for friends and more-than-friends and family and rain and new appliances and the fact that tomorrow I get my paycheck. And yay for today being nearly over.


This is just a tribute

Sean deserves a ginormous amount of praise and applause and other laudable sorts of… um… things… because he is a BAMF in all aspects of Dane-Cook-ery. And for those of you who know not the orgasmic genius of Dane Cook, that would be a Bad-Ass Motherfucker.

So, thank you, Sean, for helping me move all my crap these last three days, for not smacking me upside the head like I’m sure you were tempted to when you realized there was a good possibility that I would be buying two couches which would subsequently have to be carried down a flight of very twisty and narrow stairs, or when you realized that the television stand I bought, which needed to be assembled (though you did ask me if you could put it together), had neither the proper tools to assemble it (obviously NOT from IKEA) nor the proper hole sizes in the boards for the provided screws and therefore had to use my shoe to hammer the screws in deep enough. And you uttered not a word of complaint, ever.

You are the BAMF of all BAMFs. And may the world keep this in mind the next time it tries to insult the Cubs.

Baby o’ mine

I need another television to put in the living room so I can abscond into my bedroom with this one that I bought today from Best Buy. Oh, those shrewd salesmen in their persuasive blue polo shirts! Oh, the way they’ve been trained to seduce an innocent girl into purchasing such a television, as if they somehow already know about the leather couches and are thinking to themselves, "Dude, we can totally screw her up by getting her to buy this set because once it’s in her living room and hooked up to the DVD player, she’s REALLY never going to leave that couch, and can you imagine what’ll happen once she gets digital cable and she becomes exposed to all those Discovery channels and BBC America? In HD no less!"

The other dotted line girl

I’m discovering (again) the joyous thrill of coupons, especially coupons that get doubled on special Sundays and make really cool toothpaste only 50 cents. Whoever said coupon cutting wasn’t worthwhile, obviously never lived in California, where both Vons and Ralphs double coupons every day.

On the flip side of this, there must be some part of me that thinks I’m another character on "Friends," something along the lines of a coffee shop waitress who manages to afford living in Greenwich with really nice furniture and other stuff to boot.

(Translation: I just bought a television set. Like, a really unnecessary television set. And one side of my brain is saying, hey, not only was it reduced to nearly half of its original price, but I also got them to knock the price down by a lot more because it was an open-box item, and it’s a good investment and it still fits in the trunk of my car, so it can’t be THAT excessive… and the other side of me is like, dude, you don’t even WATCH T.V. To which the first part of my brain replies, but I watch a lot of movies, and did I mention it’s a 30” widescreen hi-def?)

Wednesday needs to come already so I can feed my dying checking account, because there’s no way I’m touching any more of my savings.

Two more days till my legality. At the rate I’m going, my expected life span had better be something like 32.

Bragging rights

The Guy managed to snag the LAST TWO tickets to see Kevin Spacey perform at the Stardust on Monday night, and he’s taking me for my birthday present. How cool is he? And how lucky am I? Let me tell you, when it comes to picking out birthday gifts, we are so all-encompassingly suited for each other.

Moving update: something somewhere has made the main area of the house– everywhere except the bedrooms, my bathroom, and I think the laundry room– smell ultra-funky, and when I say "funky," I mean, I think there’s an invisible man who’s just eaten ten pounds of Mexican food and broccoli and is taking out his resulting intestinal complications ON MY HOUSE, damn him. This odor wasn’t there on Friday, so maybe it’ll go away again, but if it persists I am definitely going to have to invest in some Glade air fresheners. Plug it in, indeed.

Another sign that my couch investment won’t be a total loss: After I finished moving this last batch o’ stuff, I sat down on the loveseat, leaned against the armrest and pulled my legs up, then didn’t move for at least half-an-hour because I was so darn comfortable. These couches, along with the pretty-smelling candles which were given to me as gifts and which I therefore cannot bring myself to burn, are going with me to the grave.

And Christmas morning, day, afternoon, and evening were much, much better than last night, so everything is okay now. Also, I watched "Calendar Girls," and oh, it was all so… pretty.

This house is honestly a perfect example of the end justifying the means. I don’t really think it’s that far from "civilization," otherwise known as massive commercial districts, but something the drive through Anthem wearies me. But then I turn into my neighborhood and I drive to the end of the street and I see my house, and the thrill of it all instantly wipes away any resentment or worries the driving distance might have induced.

I really miss California right now, though. Especially its abundance of IKEA stores. But mostly, I miss the neighborhoods of major cities like L.A. and San Diego, or even San Francisco, but I don’t know the intricacies of that city very well. I love how San Diego had its cultural districts like Little Italy and Old Town, and then Normal Heights and University Heights and College and, of course, Hillcrest. Not to mention Ocean Beach and all its gorgeous little indie shops and restaurants… we just don’t have this stuff in Vegas.

Though I predict we will once California sinks into the ocean. So hurry up already with the earthquakes!


So I’ve been moving things into the new place all day today– the landlord was generous enough, and trusting enough, I guess, to *give* me my keys today, even though the lease doesn’t start until the 28th. So I have complete access to the new residence.

Everything is going pretty well, I guess. I bought a couch from this woman up in Summerlin on a sort-of whim; like the house, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about this couch and what it might be like, ever since I read the listing for it in the classifieds. It’s "off-white" and supposedly leather, though I hardly know enough to know whether or not this is true, and it’s actually a sofa AND a loveseat, and I love them dearly and I got her to drop her price by $100, which makes it sound like I’m some expert bargainer but really all I did was ask her if she’d let me take them for a certain amount and she looked at the ceiling for a few seconds, then agreed. I think she was really anxious to get rid of her furniture.

Anyway. So everything was fine, I was packing and unpacking, arranging and rearranging, hanging up coats and dresses and putting away towels, and then I came home to shower and get ready to go out (the family is in San Diego right now but will be back tomorrow afternoon, so I’m spending Christmas with The Guy and some others), and now, an hour later, half-an-hour before I need to be somewhere, I’m crying, and it’s not sobbing or anything, but there’s that inconsolable ache in my chest and I just want to hide under my blankets and make the world disappear, but my blankets are at the new house.

And I don’t really know what happened.

Except I guess I’ve had this nervous anxiety all day, ever since last night, actually, that this is a giant mistake. A giant and very expensive mistake, that I can’t do anything right, that I made a bad choice and this won’t turn out to be a good thing at all. And I guess someone said something that possibly confirmed this suspicion, that suggested that I could have made a much better choice and that this may perhaps cause an unhappy disruption in my life. And the word "sad" was used and maybe that triggered this, too, I really don’t know– all I do know is, it’s Christmas Eve and I don’t have my family with me and I’m crying, feeling like an utter failure who obviously has no common sense.

And then there’s another part of me that’s thinking, maybe I’m tired of always accomodating people, and maybe I just wish that for once, I could be accomodated, even if it means having to make sacrifices, because by god, the sacrifices I have made for certain people just so they could be happy. And maybe part of me is scared that I’m only wantable if I’m convenient; that when it becomes difficult to access me or my attention, I’m quickly abandoned.

And maybe I’m thinking, why do I even bother caring? Because I know I’m going to keep doing exactly what I’ve been doing these last few months– what I’ve been doing for years, actually. I’ll go the distance, figuratively and literally, and accomodate them. And I’ll never utter a word of complaint to them.

So maybe I’m crying because I hate myself for this weakness but I know it will likely never change.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

Movin’ right along

So I signed a lease and my official move-in is Tuesday, though the property guy is being kind enough to let me start moving my stuff in Friday.

And there I will be for a year.

I’ll rave more about the house later. I’ve just gotten home from a disgustingly late poker game (it’s 2 a.m. right now) and I had a very, VERY long day today (the half-day of work was just a myth and I didn’t get my "Felicity" fix, though I did get to go ice skating after work) and the whole process of signing a lease just seriously drained me. Mentally, anyway.

The reasons I signed the lease even though I’ve yet to get a roommate are:

1. Though I know most people are shying away from renting the property because they think Anthem Highlands is "too far away," I didn’t want to risk losing it to someone. I’ve been pining to live in this house since before I even saw it. And,

2. Target.

I went to Target today when I had some free time (I know! it happens!) and I was walking through the home department– bedding, kitchenware, accent pieces (photo frames, throw pillows, lamps, etc.)– and I suddenly realized how much I want a blank slate of a space to make my own. And no, renting isn’t owning, so this house won’t be entirely *mine*, not permanently, but I can pretend to a great extent, and for a whole year to boot! (at the very least)

So, yeah. Christmas Eve Day will be spent moving. Quite like how I spent Spring Break my college sophomore year.

And I love the fact that my move-in date is on my birthday. 🙂

Happy Friday, ever’body.

!oh oh oh

…said the dyslexic Santa.

Notice how this one isn’t filed under "Alt.Moods." That’s because I’m not all pissy like I was when I wrote yesterday’s entry. I had a really decent day at work, nobody invaded my bubble in the least, I didn’t have to revert to headphones for the majority of the day, I got heartily complimented on my front-page layout, I got to meet the New Design Guy we hired to make our paper look more paper-y, and he’s not only from the Society of Newspaper Design, OH NO, he’s also the News Design… Guy… over at the L.A. Times. The L.A. Times! The L.A.-fucking-Times! I WORSHIP the majority of that paper’s A1 designs and have begged it several times to let me have its babies. I drool over its verticality and brilliant distribution of column width. Not to mention its blatant lack of double-line rules.

And basically, the New News Design Guy we hired isn’t, as the other paginator and I thought, giving us formats for the entire paper. Really, all he did was change the fonts and rules (lines) and spacings. And that may not sound like a lot to the layman’s ears, but when he showed us what our new style sheets and libraries are going to encompass, I wanted to tackle him to the floor and smother him in hugs and kisses and tears and tears of joy.

On top of which, I broached the issue of our calendar with him, and it came up that I’ve already been working on a redesign, so he took a look at it and told me that it was good, so we’re going to use it when we launch the new papers next month. My calendar! My baby! And for all the ideas I cautiously proposed to him, he gave me a green light. This, among other things, includes the standard for open-page vertical rule white space, the elimination of the double-line rule and the replacement of it with a 2-pt. solid line rule which extends only the length of the story below, as opposed to several side-by-side stories or the entire width of the page, so if there is more than one story, than more than one line used– really, this new "design" is more like new tools with which Aleza and I have nearly complete freedom to do whatever the hell we want in our pagination.

And eventually I’m hoping to jump onto Panorama and start busting out the mad art ideas I’ve gleaned from the pages of various SND "Best of Newspaper Design" books. Plus more.

So, my job in the long run thrills me. My job in the short run, which would be tomorrow, just kind of makes me go "eh." But I think it says something, either for it or for me, or maybe both, the fact that I’m going. The fact that I’m waking up at 6 a.m. tomorrow so that I can be there by 7:30, even though I technically don’t have to be there until 8:30. I think it says something, the fact that even during and after the Monday Episode, the desire to quit never once crossed my mind. NOT EVEN THE DESIRE. That’s worthy of a "you’ve come a long way, baby," for a girl who once quit one of her jobs because she wanted to go out of town on a weekend she couldn’t get out of working.

Anyway. I worked nearly 11 hours today straight– count ’em, ELEVEN, with no lunch break– and I’m really tired and it’s going to be massive chaos tomorrow in production and I’ll be counting my blessings if we get all the pages sent out by deadline, so that’s another night I don’t get to watch "Office Space," but Thursday is a half-day and I have to leave even earlier because of a doctor’s appointment, so let me tell you what my plans are for my very-free Thursday afternoon:

"Felicity: Season One" DVD marathon. Possibly "Season Two" on Friday. Friends and The Guy be damned, ain’t nobody finding me until I’ve at least gotten past the episode where everyone’s playing Assassins.

The only thing that could possibly make my life better right now is a roommate. (Got that, Santa? Did you write that down, Magic Birthday-Wish Granter? ROOM-MATE.)

Exquisite crescendos

Now, you think that’s silence you’re hearing, but really, it’s the sound of my brain screaming and screaming and screaming, screaming for hours on end and not stopping, shrieking and hollering and firing off multiple variations of the f-word in rapid succession.

I just had the worst day of work I have ever had in my nearly 21 years of living. Worse than the days when I worked at the vet clinic and had to deal with countless poopy growly cantankerous dogs in the kennels and I hadn’t eaten anything for a few days and was subsequently a Cranky Bitch. Worse than the days when I worked at a childcare center in the school-age room where there was a little fucking terror of a male specimen who would rally the other boys to run amok and cause chaos by hurling, and I mean full-strength HURLING, solid wooden blocks at the other children, girls included, and hit and punch and scream, and I couldn’t do anything about it except say, "NO," because we had a hands-off policy, and I hadn’t eaten anything for a few days save for three or four daily meals consisting solely of more than the recommended dosage of diet pills, and was a Cranky-Ass and Dizzy Bitch who had to Keep Her Shit Together for the kids’ sake.

I don’t suppose that it helped any that this is Week Three for me, also known as the monthly Hell Week, also known as PMS. And usually I’m not this irritable, though I do tend to get emotional (read: easily provoked into tears), and I was on the verge of crying pretty much all day today because I was so fucking stressed out, and then I had to convert an obituary picture into the right format, and it was of this really young woman and she was so beautiful and suddenly there were tears in my eyes because it just didn’t seem right that she died so young, whatever the cause of death was, and also I was listening to Tori Amos’ "Little Earthquakes" on repeat all day, and I know you’re probably thinking, what a stupid choice when I’m emotional as-is, but LET ME TELL YOU, if I hadn’t had that CD and the ability to drown out the rest of the office by utilizing my nifty new headphones (thereby letting myself pretend none of it existed), there would’ve been a couple more pictures for this week’s obits that I would have to have converted into TIFFs tomorrow morning.

I won’t go into the details as to WHY it was such a bad day, but suffice to say, YES, it was really THAT BAD.

Thankfully, I didn’t come home to a very stressful environment, because by god, I just might have imitated that little bastard and started hurling solid objects at random targets, albeit I would choose inanimate ones because I happen to actually like the members of my family. And I managed to have a productive conversation with my mother, who whole-heartedly supports my (theoretical) bid to leap out of this nest (again) and, now that she knows I’ll be taking a good portion of this house’s contents, thereby freeing up a lot of needed space here for her, she’s actually *nudging* me out the door quite enthusiastically.

And you’d think that would cheer me up, and it did for a little bit, but her full permission to move out, which I would have done even without her permission, but having it takes a lot of potential guilt out of this situation– her full permission only makes me more anxious about this whole goddamned roommate business and I’m just thinking, holy fuck, why is it so hard to get a roommate (or two)? And I know it’s only been two days since I’ve heard from Potential One and Potential Two, but I really hate waiting, especially when I’m so paranoid that there are other people looking at this house that I want, and I don’t want to call either Potential because it makes me feel overbearing, like I’m nagging them into renting with me, but DUDE, I know both of them are desperate for a room to rent, so what is the deal here?

And I can’t even indulge in watching "Office Space," which I FINALLY bought on Sunday because it was on sale, because now it’s late and I have to be up early again tomorrow so I can stress the fuck out for another nine-and-a-half hours straight with no lunch break.

I’m going to cry. I could really use some de-carbonated Diet Sierra Mist. But that would involve a trip to Vons, and how pathetic is it that I’m not willing to drive a whole half-mile to Vons, especially when this house I’m looking at is, like, a 7-minute drive to the nearest food-and-beverage supplier, and that’s only a Walgreens, and the nearest grocery store is at least 10 minutes away? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO THEN??

Oh. Wait. I have an unopened bottle of Diet Sierra Mist in the garage. Or in the trunk of my car, one of the two. See? I can be prepared. There’s hope for me yet.

Secret agonies of Big Brother

Sometimes, I feel really sorry for my parents. I don’t know what it’s like to be them, obviously, being a single young adult with no children of my own.

I don’t know what it’s like for them to have to live with me. I complain about living here still, about having lived here for six months, about pretty much anything and everything about this house, but when it comes down to it all, I think they’ve got the worse deal. I can’t imagine being a parent and having to watch, having to live with your daughter fuck up her life day in and day out, and pretend like it’s not even happening. To have to pretend that everything is fine, and to have to talk to her and ask her questions about her day and her life, to have to look her in the eye and watch her every motion and not acknowledge the fact that she is so seriously fucked up in the head.

It’s just one more reason I want out of this place. Partly because then I don’t have to reciprocate and pretend as well like everything’s fine and dandy and normal with me, but also partly because I’m tired of inflicting all of my shit onto them and I know there’s no self-revelation coming in the near future that will render me sane and healthy.

I need to get away. For my sake and for theirs. Out of sight, out of mind.