My plate is empty

It was the summer of 2004. Officially a university drop-out (I had given up on my political science degree after only one year), I gave away my pet iguana and spider plant, left my beloved broken couch in the alley, packed up my Edmonton apartment, and drove north home to Cold Lake. I had no job waiting for me, no idea what I was going to do the following fall and no direction.

The first week at home was unbearable. I sent out resume after resume. But jobs in Cold Lake are limited, to say the least--unless, of coure, you're willing to work at Walmart, which I am not. It wasn't like I was unemployable--as a Cold Lake local, I had tons of volunteer and work experience, was well-known in the community, and I even had one-quarter of a degree. (Hey, that had to be worth something!)

By week two, I was crying in the shower. Having no source of income and no work is my worst nightmare. I like my plate best when it's way too full and ending up with a bloated stomach is the only option. (This is more than just a metaphor.) And then one day, getting out of a tear-soaked shower, I got a phone call. He was the owner of a lawn care business, and had heard I was looking for work. He was looking for someone to answer phones. Oh, and I could do basic accounting and payroll, too? It seemed too good to be true.

And it was. I ended up spending the summer in a dark, dank office on a 486 computer, responding to phone calls from anal, angry lawn owners wondering why we weren't cutting their lawn--in the rain. My employer regularly called me at home at 10 at night with questions like, "What was the address of that guy who wanted that thing done to his lawn?" I changed my phone number and didn't give him the new one. During the day, the quiet of the office was sometimes punctuated by my staff dropping in for their next assignment--usually drunk or stoned. And I, as a 20-year-old, with an $8/hour income, was responsible for disciplining them. It was pretty awesome. It got even better when I realized that I was literally allergic to work--I had an adverse reaction to the black mould that was growing on the carpet, and had to drive myself to the emergency room early one morning. My employer offered to bring me medication--from his wife's veterinary clinic.

That summer was a well-learned lesson in what happens when you don't have a plan (or a job lined up.)

And for first time in four years, I'm finding myself in a similar situation. School ends in two weeks, and after the last magazine launch party is over, I don't know what I'm doing. I have no job, no source of income, no direction. I have had three job interviews, and today I got another phone call: "You interviewed great and we really liked your clippings, but I'm sorry to say we can't offer you the position. There were a lot of qualified applicants. We enjoyed meeting you and hope you'll apply again next year."

Right.

I want to say that I know everything will work out fine. But the last time I went with that mentality, I ended up with a job thats perks included access to horse tranquilizers and the chance to perfect my solitaire skills.

Employability

J-Source linked my RRJ article on alternative media. At least someone (other than Karon) read it.

RRJ is in production right now. McClung's went into production this Sunday. And yet, despite my superior multi-tasking abilities, I'm still unemployed. Anyone want to hire me for some solid writing and the added bonus of witty banter?

Memo

Just so everyone knows, I was not the whitest girl at the KRS-One concert last night. Granted, I was one of the smallest people there, swallowed in a sea of linebackers nostagic for late '80s hip-hop, but I wasn't the whitest girl there.

The girl who stood directly to my right for the majority of the show took that prize. She was a Lisa Loeb look-alike, who clapped along like she was at a Jason Collett show and she lacked in the booty-shaking rhythm that makes me a little less white. Her boyfriend was wearing a Richmond club district worthy white Diesel zip-up.

My boyfriend, on the other hand, is homeless. It's the ultimate street cred, so to speak.

KRS-one-one-one!

Oh, and RZA came up to perform. It's too bad I don't like Wu-Tang.

(Truth be told, every CMW weekend keeps getting weirder. Two years ago, I met Nando at MSTRKRFT. Last year, I watched Fefe Dobson and Jackson Soul. I was glad I didn't have to work this year. With record snowfalls, I don't think any amount of free shows would make hawking Rogers products in the blowing snow enjoyable. Plus, what's Diamond Dog without Alice?)

Semi-charred kind of life

Click here or the image for a PDF version of the D. Dodd's article that appeared in the eyeopener this week.

Baby Toys for Girls and Boys

This my friend Jordy:
Jordy and I work together at the university. She's pretty awesome. Do you know what the most awesome thing about Jordy is? See that AK-47 she's holding? She made it out of felt.

Check out the rest of her work at http://www.softcorps.ca/ Although I do like the brass (felt) knuckles, my personal favourite is the grenade rattle:


It's unbelievably soothing.

Pants on Fire

We went to look at a place for Alex on Saturday up by Summerhill station. Here's the funny part: he might be moving into a basement apartment in my prof Tim's house. For real. At first it made me a little nervous, until I found out that sound doesn't travel. (C'mon. Wouldn't that be your first concern, too?) However, it might be a little awkward if Tim and I leave for school at the same time in the morning. Like, would I take the subway while he drove to school? Would he offer me a ride to school? I can't decide which would be more awkward.

Today we met up with Laura from the eyeopener and did a rooftop photoshoot. (This, after our Ryerson press passes yet again failed to impress. So instead of shooting pictures directly in front of the buildings, we had to improvise.) Climbing up an ice-covered fire escape is not a hangover-friendly activity, though.

Haha. This picture is too funny. The look on Alex's face is, "Haha, suckers, your apartment burnt down." Alex, that was your apartment, too, little buddy. (Seriously, click to enlarge. It's worth it.)

Oh, and did I mention Melissa came with her portfolio for OCAD? My favourite part was an awesome painting featuring a monkey with a penis. (Not that monkeys don't have penises. Clearly they have genitalia. But I just don't think that they're typically featured as sexual beings in art. Jane Goodall docs discluded, of course.)

We were walking home today when we saw the litter guy. Alex told me that once he gets his own stuff together, he wants to buy the litter guy a new pair of shoes. (My boyfriend is sensible. To him, a pair of shoes with good arch support is a gift from the gods.) It was then that I confessed to Alex that I have a hard-on for the litter guy. (Granted, I told him I had a crush on the litter guy, but quite frankly, why not build up my reputation as the girl who is willing to date semi-homeless guys?) "That makes me jealous," Alex said. "I can't believe I'm jealous of the litter guy."

"But," he conceded, "he is pretty attractive."

I've got mail.

I can't open my mailbox.

I can see mail in there, its white envelopes poking suggestively through the little window. But my key won't turn. Alex can't get it to open. Natty can't get it to open. I can't get it to open.

It's a daily tease.