Who You Find on the Grind

In addition to sending out enormous amounts of resumes to random companies, I have been back at my old hustles...namely the old lady garment industry. For those of you new to this blog, I pride myself on finding strange, legal ways to get money. In the past, I've worked a traveling roadshow of 2-3 racks of clothes made of spandex, lycra-esque material outfits perfect for your Nana or prematurely aging mother or friend. Apparently the roadshow had made its rounds and came back to my town.

These fools called me up on a Tuesday night to work at 7:30 AM the following day, and like a dog in heat finding a mate unexpectedly, I quickly accepted and got suited up for the job.

I knew what I was getting into and rejoiced in obtaining some sort of income outside of my monthly allowance via my parents. I gotta do something to contribute to my eating and drinking habits, right? I like to feel like I'm at least 3% self sufficient with this moo-moo hustle; it is where it's at.

Unlike my previous roadshow experience, my second shift was marred by a random sleet storm. After consulting with my coworker, we both opted out on working that day. I called in, thought everything was cool and kept on keeping on. Though I admit it, I probably could have driven to work in my sedan, to make myself feel better I refused to get into any car that was not an SUV that day. If I didn't get into a normal car that drove fine on the roads, I could think that there was no way my Beefy Corolla could have taken that road... that's how I reason it, anyway.

I roll into work the next day and some chica is up in my biznaz tryna run my racks. At first, I was confused so I called my contact at the rando company. She apparently fired me and my other coworker who didn't come in that snowy day without telling us and apparently wasn't going to tell us. She hired some other bias via craigslist (only fueling my love-hate, mostly hate, relationship with craigslist) and they were all up on the schedule. She quickly said that since I showed up for my previously scheduled shift that day and only lived 10 minutes away that I could keep my hours. I was relieved mainly because I already bought my Christmas presents and spent more on them than the usual $10, thrift shop, hand-me down gifts I usually get for my family. So, I continued working.

Since I would now be working at the same time as these new chicks, I decided to get to know them and I thought I'd share with you the type of people you encounter while hustling random grinds around town.

The first girl, whom I will call Bsnooki (not to be confused with Snooki). Bsnooki was amiable and quick to tell me the facts of her life. Coming from a farm (she never said what the farm produced, so I assumed for myself what they grew), her dad was a pothead and her brother was in jail for selling the ganja. She herself was on probation for a DWI, being only 20. She moved out of her parents house at 15 (what, can people do that at that age?) and into a dude's house. Then she was in the army for a year, a year she apparently spent sleeping in her locker so as not to do work. She seemed reliable enough, though her boyfriend was apparently the jealous controlling type and they lived in the basement of his 109 year old grandmother's house. Bsnooki was a talker, and it kept me entertained. I played up my hoodrat roots living, saying I once lived in an apartment when I was young and had divorced parents. I tried to relate and thought I gave a pretty good impression of also being from a similar background. She talked of the rough life and paying bills, and I talked about how hard it was to decide which J Crew shirt to buy and which relative I would ask for money to make that purchase. It seemed a match made in heaven. The last time I saw her she was going to an audition for a dancer position from an ad she also found on craigslist. It's to be determined if this dancing took place on a pole or a stage, or a combo. More power to you, Bsnooki, you get through that probation!

The next lady was someone I'll call Belinda. She was a little older than the rest of us, but the pounds of make up she wore concealed her age...and quite honestly, her identity. She had a tranny glow about her, but she really was a sweetheart and her troubles were insane. She had high blood pressure, a heart murmur-type thing, her grandpa was about to die, and she seemed to live in an animal menagerie from what I understood about the amount of pets she had. Her thick Southern accent and odd colloquialisms (something "thicker than a cat's tail on Christmas day" is a good thing, right?) along with my Melly from the Block way of talking made communication difficult at times and I found myself nodding along as she listed what I assumed were her ailments. I became a little scared that she would pass out and I would not be able to do anything but rely on the sample-giver outers to CPR her back into working order. I don't think her health was helped by her cigarette habit, but she seemed okay with her way of life...well, aside from the fact that some medicine she was on would make her walk in her sleep at night and dig through drawers and boxes of cereal, or make and eat a peanut butter sandwich.

My favorite buddy was Bojangles. I don't mean that she was fat by using that name, but instead to imply that we bonded on our love of Bojangles biscuits. She was also a recent graduate from an accredited university and felt for my unemployed way of life. She hated being stuck in the Dash but also didn't know how to get out of it. We both had the same opinions about education, law, and sleep walking. In our 4 hour work shifts together, I got to know her real well and I felt like we were really sistas. Out of all the people I've met on the grind, she had to have been the only one I could have an intelligent conversation with and still laugh about the odd looking people that came into the store. Although we hugged as I left, Bojangles was the only person I did not get the number of upon my last day of work, thus dashing my hopes of having 3 friends in my hometown to hang out with.

I also met some weird people that gave out samples. I feel like I don't really need to describe them because, well, if you've ever been to a bulk store, you know the samplers are just plain odd (except for Bantwone). They will give you extra samples if you work with them though, which can be nice when you don't want to buy a day old hotdog from the club restaurant.

After all that, I'd say I'd do it again. I like the samples, the stories, and the money.

In a District of Columbia Non-State of Mind

Wow, how time has flown and yet nothing has really been done to remedy this unemployment predicament I am in! Jk jk, I'm on the job prowl and for that, I had to traverse out of my comfort zone and into the District. As for the delay in updating, I apologize. I know you four people have been patiently awaiting an update!

Anywho, it was to the good old Capitol town I went earlier this week. I've been there before, in fact, I had a wee bit of an obsession for most of my life and have gone at least once a year. Something about old statues and homeless people, along with the highest STD rate in the nation, just makes my heart skip a beat and I have to go back.

This trip was unlike my others because I was actually doing something productive by getting some interviews via my buddy Berica. In hard economic times like this, it helps to have friends who will pass your resume, and not your blog, to future employers. I had three set up for Tuesday and a Happy Hour with some real working girls afterward, aka the perfect day.

In post interview celebration and pre Happy Hour time, I headed to the subway to try and navigate my maybe future home. I took the long way to the metro stop and after an hour of walking, got on. Maybe not the best plan in 28 degree weather, but it worked. I looked at the metro map and figured I'd go to the Smithsonians since they were free.

As I got out of the stop, the wind had picked up and I realized I needed to get inside somewhere quick and immediately stumbled upon the Holocaust Museum. In an effort to get feeling back in my toes, set the mood for Happy Hour, and celebrate Hanukkah, it seemed like the perfect spot. It was free because it was the off season, so I ventured inside. I couldn't help but be reminded of a previous visit to the Holocaust Museum that I shared with my friend Bkelly.

I was visiting Bkelly as she spent the summer working for some non-profit. We couldn't think of anything to do, so we went to the Holocaust Museum's gift shop, naturally. We looked around at the menorahs, the Torahs, and the postcards to pass the time. We both spotted a tiny, ancient lady who seemed to straining to reach a book (at least I remember her playing up the damsel in distress bit) so we walked over to see if she needed help.

She motioned for us to follow her to the back of the store, and we did, thinking that something was just too high for her to reach in her Merrels. All of a sudden, a table appeared before us with a mound of books atop it and an empty chair behind it. The lady sat down and handed each of us a book. She explained that this was in fact her book about her experience in the Holocaust.

Moved by her words, I thumbed through it. There were pictures of her as a young girl and I genuinely was interested, but just not in buying it. As I looked through it, I tried to find the words of consolation for such an experience and also the words to say that I was just looking and not intending to spend $20 on her book, Bkelly sat the book down and walked away, leaving me looking like a putz.

Now, it's not that I didn't want to buy the book or didn't feel for the lady, but I was a college student with limited funding and limited time to read. Trying to politely get out of the conversation without purchasing the book, I proceeded to ask her to sign the book, thinking I could get her to sign it then walk away and leave it somewhere where she wouldn't see me put it down.

Unluckily, she informed me that I would have to pay for the book before she could write in it. This was a predicament indeed because there was just no easy out. I caved and put the book on my credit card then returned to the table and asked for it to be personalized. The lady did it with the biggest smile and quickest pen. I walked away feeling I had made this lady's day.

I met Bkelly outside, who was laughing at me for being a softie and buying the lady's memoir. I mean, how can you say "no" to a lady who has been through the Holocaust? It's just not right!

When I returned home after my trip, I opened the book, because I believed it deserved a read for both the lady and my $20. I never finished it because it was probably one of the most poorly written books I ever started. I felt like I should almost edit it then send a copy to her to republish. I read the back of it and got the jist.

I felt I did both her and I a favor by reading the synopsis, but I also remembered to not go into a museum's bookstore again unless I wanted a signed book or rock candy.

Okay, Maybe Not

I did not and will not be going to Korea. It came down to a game-time decision. It was reminiscent of a game-time employment decision I made a mere 2 years ago...

To set the scene, imagine a young girl on the cusp of womanhood who only wants to make a ton of money to replace her crappy IBM with a brand new Mac. A young, Latino man offers her an opportunity. He was an elusive young chap with a penchant for sales, smoldering eyes, and a pitch she could not ignore... whoa, I may be reading too many trashy novels... The job was in sales, though the it required door-to-door sales of school books and not of her body as she does when she participate in research studies.

As I got more into the job, I realized this Latino had a novia and I wasn't going to be making money and dating him, but it was okay because the whole second semester of school, I fantasized about how much money I'd make and be throwing over my head like Richie Rich and wondered if Ben Frank or Ol' Washington would be better to wipe my face with after bathing in quarters. I was hyped, I was ready, I wanted that green staining my skin. Everyone was like, "Don't kids get school books... in school?" and "Aren't children in St. Louis illiterate?" but my thirst for book sales could not be satiated. I was going to St. Louis and that was that. I had prepared my housing for the duration of the trip, my car for the ride and my mind for a long, yet hugely monetarily satisfying summer. I was one suitcase short of out the door, when I decided to go out one night with Banna.

I was explaining my exciting new job as Banna's eyes and mouth grew open in anticipation of a rebuttal. As soon as I finished my elated explanation, Banna grabbed my arm and screamed "DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT! I did it for a week and HATED it! I'm calling this dude who hired me and convinced me to quit right now to talk to you!" Granted it was at the end of the night and we were in Bski's, the speed with which she dialed a guy I'll call "Bernie" (mostly because I forgot his name), convinced me she meant business. She handed me the phone.

Bernie was pretty inebriated, as I detected in his slurred speech, but his message was clear. As I woofed down my AKski, I listened to this kid monologue me into the fear of leaving my house. He said the following:

"Imagine yourself in a city you've never been in, doing something you don't wanna do that no one even understands why you're doing it. You know no one and don't recognize anyone except the guy who drove by delivering pizza and you swear it's the Papa. You've just knocked on 50 doors, in 30 minutes, but no one has answered a single door or let you in. The temperature is rising and you're wearing a suit to appear legit, and you can't take off the coat. You find yourself sitting on the curb with cottonmouth from the night before when you drank away your sorrows and no water in sight. You're alone...utterly alone. Your dad told you to be a man and never cry, but you start balling anyway and snot's running down your nose. And this is only the first day, not even the first hour. You're alone, forever."

Well, as you can tell, it sounded miserable. I hung up the phone and shed a tear for the poor soul I had just spoken to. For a half second, I thought, "He must just be a really bad salesman, or ugly." But Banna was there to assure me that Bernie was hot and the job was really just that bad. She also told me that she had single-handedly convinced 10 other people to quit when she realized how bad it was, which made me wonder why she didn't stay and make boatloads of money if she was that good. In any case, I was convinced this was not for me and the next day canceled my plans and got a room in Banna's house for the summer.

That summer, I ended up working at a pool and spending a lovely two months with differently-abled individuals like M'Lady (who deserves her own book full of entries). Though I spent all the money I made on liquid food, it was better than sitting on a curb crying, alone...

Maybe this experience influenced my decision about Korea. The thought of sitting on a curb (does Korea even have curbs?) crying and being the tallest person in the city, though while fulfilling my fantasy of being an Amazon queen, really did not appeal to me anymore. I'm not knocking those who are there sticking to the teaching grind, more power to you, all I gotsta say is that it isn't for me, mainly because after reading my last entry, I REALLY do not wanna become Sister Bjoan...glass eye...ew.

Korea, There's An Idea

In an attempt to be witty, I may have actually not rhymed as I hoped in the title of this entry, but I still like it and therefore will use it (so THERE, Bmichelle!).

Anyway, my months of being the ultimate bum are quickly coming to a close as I say bon voyage to myself while embarking on a new chapter in my blogger/real life, but first, a little background.

As an elementary student, day in and day out, I pledged my allegiance to quitting school when I was 16 and joining the circus as a gymnast whose only real talent was rolling around on the floor thinking I was doing a cartwheel (my talents are immortalized in my "MLC Reckless Tour" video which may some day go viral... thank God for my brother and his flare for theatrics). It sounded like a great plan and I believed it would make me money. Then, in third grade, freaking Mrs. Henderson (I think that was her name?) decided to make predictions about everyone in the class and their future careers. My friends got great predictions like model, doctor, geisha. I was eager to see mine.

Instead of recognizing my raw physical talent, Mrs. Henderson saw something in my stellar phonics scores and predicted that I'd be the principal of our Catholic elementary school in our podunk town. WTF? First of all, the principal at the time was a nun with a glass eye and drawing any correlation between me and this closeted lezzy was just wrong. I mean, I did have wide shoulders and maybe a tendency of wearing a habit, but seriously?

While I doubt anyone remembers this scarring prediction, I have fought it tooth and nail since I was 9. Yet, somehow, maybe through God and the grace of that dear Sister "Glasseye" Bjoan, I am entering the education field. But it's not a traditional, go to school to be a teacher type of job; it's teaching English in South Korea.

Now it seems crazy to some, but somehow highly logical to me. I mean, where are gymnasts born? ASIA. If I want to continue to pursue my aforementioned real dream career, I gotta learn from the best. Like I said, it's logical, right?

But on the real... I'm about to leave everyone I know and love while following the path I have tried to avoid my entire life: becoming a teacher. I know it's not Sister Bjoan-like to go to Asia to teach and it possibly won't put me back in Bmacon schooling chillans at my old elementary, but the similarities are becoming too eerie for me to handle. She was a teacher (or at least I am assuming she was...don't principals have to be teachers at some point?) and I'm becoming a teacher; if I keep mysteriously getting pink eye, I may lose an eye ball and gain a chunk of rolling glass; the only thing really missing is a large, mullety lady love with whom I go on "outings" to the local seafood restaurant. Too bad my mullety lover would be male and therefore unacceptable.

I guess the only real question is: when will I get thee to a nunnery? Do people even become nuns anymore? You just don't see 20 year old chicks romping around in a flying nun outfit with the lepers like you used to. At one point, I thought I could become a nun, but at another point I also thought that I may be the second coming of Christ. I mean really, if you're going to tell kids that anybody could be Jesus, how are they not supposed to think that they themselves can be Him and thus try to heal a scratch procured from the playground? The things Catholic school does to you.

Again, I lose my focus as I get wrapped up in my fear of the nunnery and being a principal. (Seriously, Mrs. Henderson, your predictions were both jarring and traumatic.) We shall see if South Korea either gives me an Asian, mullet-bearing manfriend or has already reserved a spot for me in the convent...

An Eyeful

I've heard that every anniversary has a different themed gift. Ranging from the paper anniversary, to the gold anniversary, to well, I think that's all I've heard of... But, I think these and other types of themes could also be applied to birthdays. Turning 21, it's the legal bar year. Turning 22, at least for me, it was the ghetto bar year complete with a Lil Wayne (yess he's free!) impersonator. And for my friend Banna, turning 24 was the strip bar year.

I made a trip away from home to visit my girl for her birthday celebrations, of which, at the time, I was not informed. As we ordered an obnoxious amount of food with way too many people at Ham's, I was let in on the game plan. We were going to go downtown and go to the strip club that Banna's sister managed, but maybe not in that order.

Now, my only experiences with strip clubs consisted of vague memories of seeing potted plants and then the gay strip club I went to in Key West. The only other time I've seen someone selling themselves was when I was in Amsterdam and dumbly strolled down the Red Light District during the day because it looked like a colorful street (true story). Needless to say, this experience was going to be different and all too memorable.

Though I generally feel sorry for strippers and can only think of what their mothers' think of their profession, I was curious about what the job really entailed, so Banna used this curiosity to get us all into the establishment, as well as the misleading statement that free drinks would be included when really the drinks were only free for her, the birthday girl.

The only people I knew at the celebratory events were Bmaddie and Banna, so I clung to Bmaddie as ventured inside the club. We sat back in a booth as Banna and her other friends sat around the stage. Bmaddie and myself debated the pros and cons of getting too close to strippers, and the possibility of contracting some sort of STD from sitting in a seat that close. I had told myself I wouldn't support the club other than the Shirley Temple I had just purchased, but when I saw Banna folding dollars into triangles, I couldn't help but wonder about the dollar's purpose. My curiosity trumped the possibility of contracting the siph.

Bmaddie and I went up to see what it was all about. Apparently, it's a common assumption that strippers can pick up dollars with their behinds; however, we learned it was based in the also false assumption that all strippers have ginormous butts. The triangular shape of the dollar was to incite an attempt at the clinch of the dollar, but instead these pretty unattractive and unfit ladies just plopped down and assumed something would happen. As I learned through the night, strip clubs are full of false assumptions and disappointing skills.

We never made it to another venue, and only one stripper successfully grabbed the dollar sans hands. We all ended up back at Banna's pad, nom-noming candy corn and watching "Golden Eye." I have now vowed to never go back because I was a little emotionally scarred not just from the poor life decisions those women had made that I had been witness to, but mostly from their lack of commitment to learning new skill sets to please customers.

Normal is Never Enough

October is my favorite month for a variety of reasons. Mainly my birthday, but also Halloween is my all time favorite holiday. Not only do we get to pretend to be people we aren't, we also get to dress up and gallivant around while eating candy from strangers, which is hardly ever acceptable.

This Halloween was certainly no disappointment. I decided to be my newest idol, Nicki Minaj, or so I thought. My outfit consisted of a pink wig, a set of glasses fully bedazzled so vision was completely impaired, my black shiny driving jacket and a tight black dress that I may or may not have actually worn to an event or two last year. Everyone thought I was Gaga. I think my lack of badonk was the cause of confusion, but I was willing to be confused for my previous idol, so I went with it.

Bmichelle, Bkristen and I rolled up to a party packed with graduated frat stars and expired beer. Apparently we inadvertently stumbled upon a frat house in the middle of Myers Park, but we were game because they had chili and pigs in a blanket.

A few hours later, we ended up at a bar/club downtown. I ended up ditching the wig because it was affecting my game and had a certain tussled, "drag queen" quality that I wasn't feeling anymore. It was time to hit the dance floor. Since I had recently become the 5th wheel to a 4 person party, I decided to mack on the most guido dude in view, who called himself "Lucas."

He seemed cute enough, maybe a little wrinkly, but his abs were intact and I was interested.

As we danced, I shouted my life story but when I asked for deets on his life, he declined. I asked him what he did for a living to which he replied "You know, I really don't want to talk about it, it's not exactly kosher"; when asked about his age he replied "You know, I thought we weren't going to talk about it"; when asked if I could go to the bathroom, he replied "Really? Are you still trying to talk about this?" Maybe he didn't actually hear me.

When we finally made it off the dance floor, I asked him again what he did for a living and told him that I wouldn't tell any narcs. He said, "I know you want to know, but I just don't think it's important. And don't worry, narcs don't deal with this kind of business." The only possible conclusion I came up with: he was a male gigolo, just like Deuce. Sick.

I quickly grabbed Bkristen and insisted on a swift departure, which luckily occurred. Though I had taken a bite from a stranger's hot dog on the street earlier in the night, I couldn't have been more grossed out by my choice of dance partner. There was not enough soap in the world to clean the gigolo's scent off my driving jacket, something between Axe and Abercrombie and Fitch's cologne. Ew.

My Life Lately

I feel I offer my readers (all 3 of you), an explanation as to the recent decline in postings. Well, the title of my blog is not as accurate as it once was in that I am currently employed... though at a local Halloween store... and have been putting it to the grind for over a week now. In a constant effort to make some sort of money, I have demoted myself to true townie status as I don my orange smock.

Don't get me wrong, the people I'm working with are not that bad, though I do question my future as I'm only almost 23 and these people are 30+ and we have way too much in common. I'd much rather work at the local Banana Republic, they however, did not ever call me back... it makes me wonder what employers really think... Yet, there are some perks to working at a Halloween store. The main attraction to this job was to see what people are thinking when they buy horrendous costumes, and believe me, I have not been disappointed, especially while working the dressing rooms.

The fact that people are donning leotards and tutus in full intention of wearing it in public just cracks me up. I myself have worn some atrocious items in the past for shits and giggles, but the things these people say in the dressing room takes the cake. "I mean, if it's too short, just wear underwear" and "I really wanted to be the Candy Corn Witch to match with my daughter, but I know that after I start drinking, that outfit will not give in the belly" and similar comments keep me laughing on the inside all day long. I've found myself saying ridiculous things to people just to get them to buy that adult wizard costume and I don't even work on commission. It's just funny to see what people say in response.

Take this situation the other day. About 30 or more people come in and try 6+ outfits and don't buy a thing, so I got used to returning discarded items and listening to dressing room gossip. These two chicks, one of which was a spitting image of Snooki and the other who looked like a Nicole Ritchie wannabe came in and gathered 20 costumes each to try on. This turned into a fashion show that the fathers in the store were all too keen to enjoy while the more liberal mothers told them they needed to show more cleavage.

After 2 hours of walking around in the slutty nurse costumes, they didn't buy a thing and my male manager had to excuse himself for a "cigarette break." I felt ashamed but slightly sad that my 30% discount hasn't started yet and I therefore couldn't purchase anything yet either.

I feel like this job should supply me with more funny stories, but most of them just make me sad. You get some people that'll drop $100 for a single costume, then you get the down-and-out of luck ladies who can't buy their little boy a $5 vampire cape. It's a tangled web we weave as we prepare for a one day celebration of which decorations and costumes will tossed the following day.

My main observation has been that while millions complain of unemployment, I boast that you can be employed... if you're willing to do anything, even if it means telling the plus size chicas that their rippling rolls do not show in the medium size Perky Pin-Up costume.

A Regular Nine to Five...Sort Of

Since graduating, I've become really good friends with the job and childcare section of craigslist. I've visited every day, sometimes even twice a day in hopes of finding a gem of a job amid a sea of "at a glance" wanna-bes. Though I contemplated taking a man up on being his female companion to the movies, "events," and dinners (I'm still at a loss as to why this was listed under what I thought were legal jobs), I held out for a job that wouldn't land me in jail.

It wasn't until recently that craigslist and I became true friends with benefits. Usually, craigslist would call back me back and give false hopes of something more, but this time was different. This time would be magical, or as magical as a side hustle can be.

My first time having success with landing a job through craigslist proved to be more random than my typical way to make money. Instead of babysitting, giving blood, or not brushing my teeth, I would actually have set hours and have to clock in and out and perhaps even have to pay taxes. Yikes. Considering I haven't done such a thing in over 4 years, I wasn't sure if I could handle it, but the prospect of having some income was too good to pass up. However strange the job may be.

Ever heard of a traveling rack of clothes that goes from warehouse to warehouse of bulk items for 10 day stints? Yea, I hadn't either. All I could think was that there would be Blake Lively handing me her magical pants that America Ferrera had managed to squeeze into. Much to my dismay of not finding jeans that would in turn find me a husband, these traveling clothes were anything but, yet much more believable.

I signed up for the job having no clue what kind of clothes I'd be shoveling down peoples' throats in the hopes of a commission. As described most aptly by one girl close to my age as "moo-moos," the clothes job was gonna be a doozie, and not the good kind.

It was me manning three racks of fabulous granny clothes for the past 10 days and by manning it, I mean wandering around eating samples and trying to flatter people into purchasing some heinous fashion failures that old women love. Yes, I was selling clothing made of spandex and some synthetic known as acetate, something stretchy and apparently "ready for travel." When asked why I wasn't sporting the gear, I simply replied that I couldn't afford it... I thought about saying I was saving money for my three year old son with a bum leg, but the commission rate wasn't worth the pity buys.

However, I did convince a few people to buy the clothes, but due to the fact that the warehouse didn't usually sell clothes and thus lacked a dressing room and the fact that people wouldn't be able to exchange items after the roadshow left, and the simple fact they were uglier than sin on a stick, it was a hard sell.

Yet, I did get to eat many a meal off the sample carts that littered the warehouse floor day in and day out. I made friends with Bantwon who even saved me some taquitos after his shift was done. I'd say it was a successful hustle... or at least it will be once I get paid... if that happens.

Aside from the fact that I now have pink eye for the second time this year (though the circumstances leading to the infection are NOT the same as the first time, for those of you in the know), I felt more productive and I may even dabble into selling spa quality sheets at the same place.

Double Header

Though I was virtually unknown in high school (see prior entry), I did have a group of friends whom I had the joy of reuniting with this weekend over the nuptials of Bcourtney and Bill (damn, my way to hide identity is faulted).

In true form, we started Friday evening at our local haunt, Big Shotz. Most consider this place a restaurant serving beer, however, for us, it is a bar and the location of the infamous $400 tab, so it was a natural choice for the evening. Yet, after having been labeled a townie, I had to point out that despite the live music and 40+ crowd, this was not the place to be for the evening. So we headed downtown after eating dinner.

Not truly being a townie, I still do not know where youngin's my age hang out so we ended up at another 40+ crowd kinda place, though this one did not serve French onion soup. We went downstairs to avoid being seen through the windows in the front and to get in on some prime darts real estate.

A few waters later, we decided this place was not for us and we should stalk some 22 year old looking people to another place. We quickly saw a fratty hopping bar and clambered up to the door to be let in. Considering it was 1:30 AM, they wouldn't let us in unless we paid a cover, obviously. So we looked to each other for a viable option but lucky for us, a loud and observant man gestured toward us and we followed.

He promised a dance floor and no cover. We were quickly ushered in and got our dance on. The music was bumping for our group of 6 and we loved it. Then some sketchy dudes started to sandwich Bcolleen and I did my girly rescue rescue by pulling her away. She apparently was not asking for help, like I had thought, and instead was enjoying the bump and grind of the strangers and thus returned to dance floor. We were owning this place. It felt good to both start and end the party at a bar.

The next morning I checked my account to see the damage only to find a charge at a Thai restaurant that I was certain I had not eaten any $6 worth of food. As it turns out, downtown restaurants in addition to suburb restaurants, become clubs once the sun sets. I'm learning things as I settle into my townie status.

Later the next day, Bian, Bcaro, Bandrew and I set off for the matrimony. We were 20 minutes late in leaving because the boys couldn't tie their ties, so I sped down the highway to the wedding and failed to notice that down a gravel road, you're supposed to go 20 miles per hour instead of the 40 I was doing. We pulled up in a cloud of dust as the parents of the bride reached the front of the aisle and everyone looked over to see what hooligan was rolling up so cacophonously (I'm studying for the GRE so I might be putting some large words in here to review).

Despite our raucous entrance, the wedding went off without a hitch and was beautiful. If anything, it reminded me that I've been slacking on my man hunt and need to get out there more.

It was a great weekend that ended on Sunday with Lady Gaga concerting and spreading her business as she asked Jesus to show her his teeth. Very eventful and disturbing.

A Local Celeb Encounter

Throughout my life, I've come to know many people only by the nicknames they either acquired via others or by my brother and I. These people included Scary Terri, Harriet Potter, Stache, Black Rob, and Big Lorey. After I moved home, for some unknown reason, I assumed everyone was either gone figuratively (like to another city) or literally (deceased). If I hadn't seen them in the past 4 years, they were gone...I learned this was an untrue statement and many of the rumors I may have inadvertently spread were false.

In keeping with finding places to play trivia, I ended up at a pub downtown with Bpotter. After sucking at every round, we were gonna call it a night, that is until Big Lorey was spotted. I had been convinced he had Tupac-ed out years ago and this sighting was like seeing Harry from "Harry and the Hendersons." I had to get photographic proof that he did exist.

Not being particularly acquainted with BL, I had to get a Guinness to gear me up. Bpotter and I sat down and awaited the perfect time, but exhaustion was coming quickly and I wasn't sure if he had peaced out (in this context, I mean from the bar). He glided past us and I took the opportunity to grab him from behind to get his attention.

I may or may not have stuck my nails in his back while I exclaimed "LOREY!" He turned around, completely not recognizing the girl who had just attacked him. I quickly went into the conversation with a sense of acquaintance-ness. He followed suit and said, "Oh wow, how have you been??" I was on his good side.

After a minute of chit-chat, I threw the camera to Bpotter and requested a quick photo opp. He stared at me and asked if I was going to put the photo on facebook, for some reason my reply of "Oh no way, this is just for memories!" seemed appropriate. Had he been paying more attention, he would have asked what memories he would want with a girl he didn't even know...luckily, after the photo, I began to complain about being unemployed and he told me about his job that he has to support his 3 year old daughter. I was a little jealous of his income, so I had to leave.

To this moment, I'm positive BL wouldn't be able to identify me even if I tagged him on facebook and friended him. Oh, the joys of having been unknown in high school.

A Musical Night

I realized I hadn't written in a while and was shocked that I've left out a very momentous and memorable night.

I decided to start my own Make a Wish-type foundation for those recent grads who didn't do some certain and necessary things while in school. My first wish to be granted was to take my friend Bmark to a concert, since he's never been to one...which in itself is crazy enough to me because I used to be the scene kid in high school posting up at the local joint, Ziggy's, listening to music I had never heard then commenting on the wicked rifts and guitar solos...totally emo.

No one I knew was coming to play in the area, so we settled on an unknown yet myspace approved artist showcasing his lyrical stylings and all together too tight pants at a bar/club. As soon as we stepped on the scene, it was all teenie boppers then some weird older couples that I determined were either looking for someone to swing with that night or just waiting on their kids. I quickly remembered my days of getting my mom to drop me off at shows while I made sure my butterfly clips were in place so I fit in...yea...

We quickly grabbed beers to both assert our non-teenage-ness and that we were there for a party. It was a good move.

The bands were pretty okay, but the night was ending at 10, and this is just unacceptable for a weekend night at my age so we moseyed over to a hole in the wall that was offering $2 PBR, the drink of champions and the choice of the night. Before scoping out our surroundings, I ordered us one and then turned around to see only lesbians aged 40+ and a random dude getting his jollies. Apparently we'd stumbled upon the stronghold of older hippies without realizing it. There was a band playing a song that was called "Sin, sin, sin, sin to be saved," if that gives you any sense of what this place had in store for us. The lead singer was about 4'10" and wore a rocking flannel shirt as she eyed her large and in charge guitarist lady. It was a match made in heaven. But alas, we downed the drinks as quickly as possible to avoid getting hit on then headed on.

We ended up a fratastic bar with a little guy playing piano. We sat down and immediately saw a couple bound to bed. This couple was extraordinary because you could tell neither of them usually let loose. The chick donned a cardigan and a below the knee skirt whilst the man-friend wore the usual frat uniform of a button down and khaki slacks. The girl's cardigan was unbuttoned for extra exposure and her Indian suitor followed by showing off his belly through an unbuttoned Oxford. They were dancing the night away but as the boy broke away for a pee break, the girl sat down and was visibly contemplating whether she should escape or leave with the round fellow. She squinted her eyes and stroked her chin but as the boy came toward her, she stepped up to him, kissed the heck out of him and they immediately left. Yet another match made in heaven/ the Crunkleton.

The rush of emotions throughout the evening can be summed up as follows: old, young and out of place, jealous. I think you catch my drift.

You Know You Live in the Boonies When...

Now I've never considered myself a Southerner, though I've lived in the south my whole life, but this weekend I got to see the pinnacle of Southern hospitality I've ever witnessed as I attended the Great NC Beer Festival with my mother and Bsarita.

As we entered the festival, cut off tees and overalls dotted the landscape of hick-ery that was out in full force. I can't say I was in my Sunday's best (donning running shorts and a t-shirt), but I can say I was shocked at the utter disregard for bodily coverage that many a person displayed. Mid-drifts gone awry with piercings and tattoos, not to mention the stab wounds that were making appearances. I wasn't too surprised since it was a beer festival, after all, but it definitely gave Lindsey Lohan a run for most exposed.

As we walked around the in sweltering sun, Bsarita and I commented on the array of disarray. I saw a few people dressed cutely that I knew from high school, though their names escaped me, but then there were those people I just couldn't place, which was probably for the better. My mom did see someone that we knew in middle school, whom she swears she thought "should have been a man by now."

Since we got there well into the festival, we didn't have to worry about conversation starters as the already tipsy attendees said things like, "Daaaayuummm," or "So how many samples have you had?" My favorite was (after Bsarita got beer spilled on her) "Well if you do end up taking off your shirt, I'm sure you'd make enough money to buy these ribs to eat." This was coming from a pair consisting of 5'2'' white dude with stabbing scars galore exposed due to his shirtlessness who was pushing a guy in a wheel chair....the comment of course came from the seated friend.

People were rocking out to some music and eating $10 sandwiches as we tried weasling around the half-clothed scalawags to get to the beer booths to get our samples before they were out. The temperatures reached what felt like 150 degrees and the people were getting restless, as exemplified through one hillbilly's rant about how Obama wasn't even really black but still didn't deserve to be President. Not only did I want him to stop fist pumping the air but I also wanted to throw him a proper shirt to cover both his gut and goatee but I was at a loss for what garment would do both.

Moral of the story: I need a pair of jorts and a child's size tube top if I'm going to continue living at home.

Retirement, My New Frontier

Since I've had so much free time as of late, I've been trying out different types of living. The student life (just exited that phase, sadly..), the bum life (still employing some of those methods as I couch surf my way around America), the mother life (babysitting...sometimes), and now the life of a retiree. The last one sounded luxurious and just up my alley. No working, living off of someone else's hard-earned pension plan, taking naps at 10 AM, and eating whatever because you're too old to keep up with the calorie counts associated with foods from the Waffle House... in a nut shell, the perfect life.

In keeping with my bum life, I traveled down south to visit some family and sleep on their couches/beds, whatever they could provide. I ended up spending most of my trip with my grandmother because she is about to have surgery but still offered to make every meal I wanted to eat...for free. With no other commitments waiting on me at home, a 3 day trip turned into a 5 day trip, only furthering my interest in skipping employment and hopping right into retirement.

On our list of activities, number one was visiting our old friends at church, followed by seeing more at our favorite restaurant. I started using the "we" and "our" form of possessive just to see how it really felt to be one of the elite retired. It was amazing how, when retired, you can sit at a restaurant and gab for hours and not be worried about missing something. The after church gossiping, in line with true Catholic doctrine, was what the something you might miss. We especially didn't have to worry about missing TV shows since the DVR was set to record the best: "America's Got Talent," "Regis and Kelly," and "The View."

The gossip was by far the best. Myself being situated at the end of the table with my grandmother and her dear friend of ages past, I heard the majority and even got to comment on a few. I learned about various peoples' cholesterol, grandchildren, and bad hip replacements. I found that if I threw in a "Oh no, did she really sit on her reading glasses?" or a "We all know she's gray underneath that brunette Q-tip," I fit right in. It was a refreshing switch from talking about who made out with who or what outfit we were going to wear that night...these topics from my former life were mostly off limits because, with this crowd, the nights consisted of falling asleep in front of the TV and if you weren't married, you weren't making out with anyone.

The crowning glory of my retired life was beating the crowd at Outback by eating at 5 pm. When you become retired, everything gets pushed back 2 hours and the prices get cut in half...a combo that's hard to resist.

The wine was flowing as our happy hour glasses remained full and our early bird specials were chased away with the best house merlot. Having a buzz equates to putting all topics on the table, at least in my family and as I was learning, at any age. Somehow weird innuendos and tones turned seemingly normal phrases into comments that made me want to be 10 again and not understand. For example, to give it context, my grandmother was talking to her boyfriend about how the people at his church never gave her a chance and didn't really know her...to which he responded "OOOOhhh well I KNOW you"...I could almost hear him wink with his inflection and the word Biblically following the phrase.

Somehow this didn't phase me, but I did decide I couldn't hang with this crowd for too long and I might need to find my own retirement community near my house so as not to mix together the business of being retired and the pleasure of not knowing what my grandmother was up to when I wasn't around.

Nonetheless, one the way home, it did not surprise me when we were discussing someone they both knew and my grandmother said, "Well you know ugly doesn't get you anywhere."

Not Quite Buried Alive...

As part of my life cleanse, I chose to spend yesterday rearranging my mess of collections at my mom's house. For those of you that don't know, for the past 8 years I've been collecting random pieces of paper and other bits in hopes of making a banging scrapbook documenting my life. While this seemed a valiant effort, it never came to fruition and instead of using my time to scrapbook, I instead clogged my closet, masking my borderline hoarding disorder....needless to say, it was time for a personal intervention.

As I began my work, I really started to ask myself if it was worth it. There were approximately 7 shoe boxes full of crap and I had no idea what most of it was supposed to signify. I didn't know where to start, or ultimately if it would ever end. All I could think was, I do not want TLC finding these piles 20 years down the road while my kids, being unable to have friends over because I was keeping newspapers from 2000 on the couch, complain that the hoarding kept us buried alive. This kind of motivation told me I could handle it.

It was about 6 PM and considering my whole day was pretty unproductive, I decided to venture down memory lane. To give you an idea of the items I found, I picked a few of the real gems that, unfortunately, I have no idea why I kept.

1. a piece of a tennis ball- perhaps at one point in my delusions of my athletic grandeur, the piece gave me hope that I could slam a ball and rip it like that, or I just thought my boxes of memories was trash

2. an unidentifiable piece of flora- I would like to think it was some sort of flower a guy once gave me, but considering the other flower parts I found were sealed in plastic bags, this prior assumption proved faulty and thus I used gloves to remove it from my memories

3. programs from every Dance Concert from every year I was in high school- all I need to say is that I was never in dance class and never performed in the concerts that occurred twice a year

4. two sets of chopsticks- I don't really need to explain why their appearance in my memory box was alarming

Luckily, all the boxes and scraps took only 6 hours to organize. Since I'm still looking for a job that won't involve me shaking my money maker, this 6 hours was totally worth it.

Neighborhood Watch

Last night was trivia night, per usual when I'm at home, and it somehow devolved into a $400 bar tab (over the course of 6 hours with 6 people and food, seems a little out of character, but not wholly unbelievable). This was not an usually crazy night, but instead just a good time with some expensive tastes. We eventually took the party aka people passing out to my house for a movie. I had long switched to drinking water and was stone cold sober and not in the mood for Nicole Kidman, but I thought I'd entertain to the best of my abilities.

Eventually, we all agreed it was time to call it quits. It was about 1 AM, not a rager but not too shabby, and a respectable bedtime. My friend, Bpotter, was driving Bian home, so I went along to pick up a car we left earlier. Bpotter nearly missed a couple of hooligans who were staggering into the road. The two teenagers lingered in the streets with an eye for vandalism and I was shocked that their parents let them out at that hour. I'm 22.8 and I was barely awake that late!

On my way back, I saw the couple strutting their can't gain a pound, teeny bopper stuffs around in the middle of the street. I slowed down, real creeper like, and decided to help them out by saying, "Hey kids, you shouldn't walk in the middle of the street. You could get hit and no one wants that!" They guffawed and as I drove off, I saw the moppy-headed boy walk right in the middle of the road.

I understand teenage rebellion, but at the cost of life? Maybe I'm turning into a mom since I have been having a lot of dreams where I have a baby, but I really don't understand that mess, so I guess that's what prompted my next action.

As soon as I got home, I called the popo. Drastic? Maybe. But I'm not about to let some hoodlums mess up my town! I quickly told the operator about the couple and how I thought they were on drugs and up to no good. She almost giggled as I described the boy as "a lanky, no good, blonde-wavy headed thug." I needed a good description so the cops would know exactly who I was talking about. Who dare disrespect my good advice?! I'm taking this campaign to the streets!

I think this was the ultimate follow up for my attempt at calling the ALE on a bar serving minors that wouldn't let me, a legal drinker, in with no cover. What is the world coming to?

Inception Spoiler Alert

Having seen "Inception" twice in one week, it was heavily on my mind as I went out in Madison, Wisconsin. Why Wisconsin? Well, the male population around here is slim to none when it comes to marriageable material, so I packed up my fem weapons and visited my gal pals in Madison with whom I had gone to Peru with almost two years ago. They were certainly aware of my man hunt and wanted to show me what the Cheesy State had to offer, besides curds.

The night started well enough, a fish bowl here, a coke there, and on to the next bar. Our last stop was a bar much akin to one in Chapel Hill, I immediately began my fratstar search. Where there are frat guys, there is money, and where there's money, there is marriage...clearly. I dropped my number to a few guys, flirted my way around, but nothing was very promising...mostly because the only two guys I found attractive were named Justin and Dustin. Even though they didn't know each other (presumably), the rhyming names were too much. We headed home.

As is my vagabond way, I crashed on the couch at Bemily's and Buzanne's apartment (names changed so no one can stalk them). When I awoke, I was no longer on the couch but instead in what can only be described as a "Wisconsin cheese closet" (as I later texted to my friend). There was no light on and I had no idea how I got there. For those of you who have seen "Inception," this immediately startled me and made me think I was in a dream where someone was planting ideas in my head. Of course, if I had no idea how I got there, I couldn't be sleep walking, it HAD to be a dream.

I scrambled around knocking everything down as I searched for the door. I felt the knob...stuck. Complete darkness and a stuck door led to sheer panic. All I could see was the sliver of light peeking between the door and the door frame. I knew my only way out of the dream was to get through this crack and began clawing to no avail. I was NOT going to be stuck in limbo for 50 years. Especially not one in the dark without any hamburgers. I took to banging on the door.

Bemily and Bitika, as sane people would, thought some lunatic was at their front door at 5 AM and tried to ignore the banging...until it got too loud. They finally got up and went to the front door, which lucky for me, was next to the bathroom aka cheese closet I was stuck in.

As they opened the door and I breathed in the freedom of being released, they asked how long I had been in there. All I could say was "A long time..." Another factor leading to the conclusion I was in a dream: I lost track of time and a few minutes lasted hours.

Moral of the story, after watching "Inception" immediately make your own totem so an occurrence such as this does not happen to you.

Uncharted Waters: Gingers

Yesterday we celebrated Bastille Day and my friend's birthday by going out to trivia at our favorite bar. Since unemployed is still my status, trivia is quickly becoming one of my new hobbies and hopefully one that will produce a man of marriageable material. With that said, I went into the evening with high hopes of meeting a man with the perfect storm of attributes I like: dark complexion, midget, and a red-head. The last detail has been a recent interest of mine, probably stemming from having just traveled to the motherland of gingers, Ireland. Having never dated a ginger, I think it's high time I give them a try.

We sat down in the only place available, seats around the pool table that we then shared with a group of guys. The ginger immediately caught my eye. His height was undetermined, midgety qualities were not apparent but I'd make do. Since he had at least one attribute, I kept my eye on him. Towards the end of the game, he struck up a conversation that I entertained because of my good nature and secret interest in marriage.

He began by guessing my age. Immediately I thought of the circus and was even more intrigued than before. A ginger carney would be a trophy husband for sure. After his tricks, he said something about his job with General Electric, which I then kind of tuned out the details when I noted that he might also be well-off. I thought of how I would tell our children, "Yes, I'm sorry that daddy gave you the ging genes, but he seemed rich when I met him at the bar." Needless to say, I was interested.

The trivia was coming to a close as we wrongly guessed Lady Gaga's real name (I feel like I need to do some sort of penance for this obvious offense...alas..), and the ginger still hadn't made motions toward the bar, but I wasn't too worried because the chemistry outweighed this tight-wad oversight. I could tell my friends were itching to leave and were not as enthralled by his antics as I was, so we decided to leave. I stood up at my humble 5'7" but quickly realized that I had become an amazon.

Carrot top had to have been at most 5'3'' and was NOT a little person. Total deal breaker. I could tell he was a bit aghast as well, or maybe gingers just make that face, but I knew it was time for a quick exit. We bid our entertainer adieu and filed out, still single.

The one thing this interaction taught me was that I need to stand up to correctly gauge a guy's height before engaging him in conversation, especially if he does not appear to be a midget at first glance.

My Living Situation

In attempts to assert my independence as a recent college graduate, I have up till now refused to move home permanently. In doing so, I've gotten myself in a pickle of sorts. The first few days, I bummed from friends under the guise of having to work or just to visit people. I realized this couldn't go on forever, and thus began subleasing for this month from a friend.

Seemed harmless enough since a gym membership and a pool were included and it was a steal at the price of $150 that I low-balled her at, yet it's less than ideal. I'm living with two rando dudes and thus sequestered to my room whenever I am not making my friends hang out with me.

Normally, this isn't such a big deal because I find something to occupy my time. My daily activities range from staying in bed till I don't hear their movements outside the room anymore or simply going to Target and walking around, acting like I need to buy something. However, my few encounters with the roomies have driven me to blogging.

First, one roommate is a big, black football player type guy whom I've seen once, the day I moved in two weeks ago. The other is a small white kid with quite a high voice and an affinity for cooking. My first encounter with the latter was coming in on him and his lady munching on watermelon, which I declined because our other roommate wasn't there and I think he really would have enjoyed some. My other sightings up until today have been through a crack in his door that I pass as I leave. Seems normal enough, though the girlfriend is around more than him... I really wonder what his daily life is...that is, until today.

He was going for a bike ride and let me know there is 900 miles (a fact which I highly doubt) of trails close to our apartment. I quickly responded, "Oh that should keep you busy all day." It seemed to make sense to say this but I later thought that it had undertones of me wanting him gone all day. Then after I said it, it reminded me of the time I was at the airport and the security guard looked at my ID and commented on me being newly 21 to which I responded, "Yep, fresh off of the boat!" as if that made any sense whatsoever. I think I should just stick to staying in my room so as to avoid any contact with anyone that may or may not be staying in my apartment.

There's a Harry Potter marathon on ABC Family anyway, so that should keep me busy for at least 3 days.

Swindling: Something I need to be better at

On my official second day of unemployment, I had a side hustle planned as to garner some money for the past weekend's squanders. Per usual, I signed myself up for a sesh at the EPA worth $75. Seems reasonable for coughing up sputum, right? I thought so too.

As I've been known to do in the past, I had perused the EPA website and found a general screening that I possibly might have already done that was worth a possible $75 that they might have already given me...granted it was 3 years ago this might have happened, I assumed I was due for another round. I made the appropriate calls and emails and had this baby booked 2 weeks in advance. It was like I was making a dinner reservation for my birthday; that's how on top of it I was. Needless to say, I was looking forward to this cash influx.

I got to the building 5 minutes before, my hands already itching for the cash. A French lady greets me and takes me in for a few general questions. She asks if I had participated in studies before. Me and my veteran test subject self got too cocky and told her I thought I had. I didn't think ahead and ask myself what my good friend and fellow EPA regular, Bandy (names changed to protect and help future swindlings at the EPA happen), would do (which is lie and get the money). This apparently sent up a red flag and she dialed her coworker to check the files... whoops. Who knew the EPA kept files for that long?

Unfortunately, and a good 45 minutes later, I am told I cannot participate or do anything today because my samples and results were still on file and had been labeled as "inactive" but were now changed to "active." I didn't know there was an inactive phase nor an active phase. I thought that after a year, everyone was eligible again. They should really tell you THAT instead of the possible side effects when debriefing you.

All this was told to me by another woman, who looked vaguely familiar and had an air of superiority. The French lady mentioned something about this lady cutting me a check, but was quickly put down because "well, she hasn't done anything." She told me they might need some sputum later, since I was a good producer (normally this would make me happy, but since I wasn't getting paid for my time, I was just annoyed) and I might be eligible for some blood draws. I guess that's okay.

The French lady was mega nice and promised to email me when more studies opened up or blood was needed; heck, she even gave me TWO instead of ONE parking vouchers. I suppose my next move is to sell this unused voucher to someone on the street at a reduced price that will still add money to my wallet.

First Day of True Unemployment

Well, I didn't think it would come so soon, but here it is: the first day I truly have no obligations to anything, not even my side hustles. Generally, since my first days of unemployment, I did like any other bum would do and went around spending money and traveling to visit my friends in other cities. Naturally, that had to come to an end as I realized that these friends, like normal productive citizens in America, would have to return to work and my crashing on their couches was no longer a feasible way to keep from facing the truth: I am careerless.

Since it's been a short few weeks since I graduated, I know many other people are in this boat. I didn't really have a problem as I donned my grad cap in May because I assumed someone would find me on the street and would offer me either a spot on the next America's Next Top Model season, a job as Simon Cowell's replacement, or simply $1 million. I don't really have any skills that are marketable right now, so this assumption seemed valid that life would just hand me what I deserved because the Bible says "Ask and you shall receive" but I have yet to receive a personalized invite from Tyra or Randy Jackson. Considering it's July and this has yet to happen, it might be time to do something, hence this blog.

For whoever ends up reading this, you should go to my older blogs and read them, if not, I might get so inspired that I just reblog what I already blogged there to make sure it gets some action as well. I spent the better part of this day (basically from 3 AM to 4 PM) laying in bed half asleep, I thought I'd give the public what it wanted, since life was denying me my desires, and so now I'm writing again!

This is just an intro into what I can only describe as a journey through the eyes of Melissa. I often have thoughts about life and the people I encounter, but no outlet to share them. I'll try my best to update this more than I did in Europe and at somewhat of a scheduled pace, but chances are that I won't because I'll be too busy finding kids to babysit, not brushing my teeth for $250, or playing around with the disabled. (disclaimer: theses have been my side hustles for the past 4 years and will likely continue to be as long as I have no job).

For now, just leave this with the thought that the next entry might be more entertaining.