Q was going to run to the gas station the other night for smokes, and, because I’m so nice, I offered to go with him and keep him company, even though it was late and I was already in my pajamas. I didn’t feel like putting on socks or tying my shoes, so I pulled a box out of my closet that contained a two-year-old pair of never-been-worn sandals and put them on.
Before I tell you what happened next, let me give you some backgound on these sandals and my cheapness and my hatred for shopping so that you can sympathize with my side of the story and not his.
My mom talked me into buying these sandals two summers ago because my favorite flip flops were falling apart. And also gave me blisters. Which I endured because I’m cheap and also I figured they’d eventually turn into calluses (the blisters, not the flip flops) and then I’d be fine. So, my mom tricked me into going shoe shopping one day, and I was getting irritated because it was apparently the summer of the girly flip flops and I couldn’t find anything that didn’t have rhinestones and flowers and beads and hearts and glitter and bows and sequins and china patterns all over them in the first ten minutes at any given shoe store.
So, we end up in Off Broadway Shoe Warehouse, which is completely overwhelming to me, because there is literally a sea of footwear, all in rows, all about elbow-height, so you can see every single shoe in the whole goddamn place by standing in one spot and spinning around in circles, and my mom holds up these sandals from several miles away and yells, “These are cork! You’ll love them! They’re so comfortable!” I’m not a huge fan of sandals, but I can see that they’re plain black, praise Jeebus, so I leap over several rows of shoe displays, try them on, and hot damn, they actually are pretty comfortable, now let’s pay and get to the liquor store before it closes. I get up to the register only to find out they’re SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS. I look at my mom like she’s betrayed me, and she rolls her eyes and is all, “They’re worth it. I have a pair that have cork soles, and they’re so. comfortable.” So I pay. And we leave. And then they live in my closet for two years because 1. I still don’t really like sandals, and 2. I’m actually afraid to wear them because I paid so goddamn much for them I’d be really pissed if I tripped and busted a strap or something.
But by now, two years later, I figure I can’t return them, and it’s actually worse that I let them keep sitting in the closet than accidently busting a strap, so I may as well wear them.
So, I’m putting on my new old sandals the other night, and Q sees them, and suddenly he’s all waggling his finger and going, “Oh no, honey, those are not Tevas. Please tell me you are not wearing Tevas. Those things are fucking awful.”
Me: “What are Tevas?”
Q: “Those stupid things on your feet.”
Me: “YOU’RE WEARING CROCS.”
So then we get in a big argument about who’s the bigger douche, me for buying an expensive pair of hippie sandals, or him for wearing a pair of clown shoes that were a gift and so he therefore did not actively acquire them like that makes them okay.
You look at the pictures below and you tell me–
I have been computerless for A WEEK AND A HALF. I was starting to lose my marbles. I even went to the library to use a computer. I even tried to post from my phone, which didn’t work and will probably cost me like five bucks anyway because I don’t have any sort of plan for internet usage. But now I have a computer, praise Jeebus! At last, my arm is complete again! Y’know, like Sweeney Todd? Except with a keyboard, not a razor. And I type with one hand, so it would be sort of accurate if I stood by the window and held my keyboard up and squinted into the gloom and shouted, “AT LAST, MY ONE HAND IS COMPLETE AGAIN!” Man, I really like that movie. It’s so gory and it’s really weird to see Johnny Depp singing and I skip all the songs when I watch it. Except the one where they’re singing about putting people in meat pies. Meat pies is people!
So, I got fired a week and a half ago. You may or may not know me, but if you don’t, let me tell you, I am not the kind of person you fire. Okay, so I might be a little biased, being me and all, but I care about my job, no matter how lame, boring, mindless, or tedious it may or may not be, because it’s my job, and I’m getting paid to do it. I try to do my job well because I want to feel like I deserve my paycheck.
I didn’t get fired for how I did my job. I got fired because someone above me, who didn’t even work in the same building, didn’t want me there, and care though I may, no one is perfect, and if you make it your job to look for a reason to fire someone, you can almost always find one. I won’t bore you with the details. I shouldn’t post the details on the internet anyway because I’m still trying to figure out how to fight it, and if I even want to bother. I’m going back and forth between wanting to stand up for myself and wanting to just put it behind me and move on. I feel betrayed and angry.
It’s been a bad week. But now that I have a computer I can start righting the situation. Somebody give me a job. I like office work because I’m a dork and I love to organize things, and type things. I don’t have a degree. I learn fast. I’m good with people. Can I fax you my resume?
This week wasn’t all bad, actually. I got to spend a ton of time with Q, and we went to the aquarium which was AWESOME. When I get more familiar with this Mac thing, maybe I’ll post some pictures. Jellyfish, sharks, and rays, oh my!
Keep your fingers crossed for me in my job hunt. Life is too serious right now. I like to think everything happens for a reason, so maybe this is a good thing. It sure is stressful though. At least I only have myself to worry about, no kids or any other sort of dependents. Except the kitties. But they’re low maintenance and they probably won’t mind living in a back alley with me when I can’t pay my rent and get evicted from my wonderful apartment and oh god this sucks.
It’ll be okay. At least I’m pretty.
Haaa, I’m kidding. I’m totally not like that. A used to say every day when she came in, “Hola, Sarita! Como estas?” and if I ever said anything negative, like I’m tired, or I’m getting over the flu, she’d be like, “At least you look good.” And she meant it. And I thought it was funny. I don’t know about you, but I’d much rather feel good than look good.
Me: (at the movie theater, shifting in my seat, sighing, rolling my eyes)
Q: “There’s not nearly enough killing in this movie.”
Me: “I know!”
Q: “That’s why I love you.”
So, Yesterday Q and I saw X Men: Origins: Wolverine: The Movie With A Multiple Part Title: Not As Good As You Think It’ll Be: We Should’ve Just Called It Wolverine: And Cut Out All The Dramatic Facial Expressions: I Hope That We Can Make It Up To You When We Make X Men: Origins: Magneto: But Really: If We Couldn’t Make Wolverine As Awesome As It Should Have Been: Don’t Expect Magneto To Be Better.
I’m not going to give you a movie review here. Yes I am, a little bit. It was good, but not as good as I thought it would be. I better make this one of those “Read the rest of this entry” posts, because if you haven’t seen it, I’m totally going to ruin it for you. Cut!
(There’s a poll at the end. You like taking polls, don’t you?)