I've just completed what seems to be around my 50th massage.  Throughout the past few months, I've had numerous willing victims to practice my skills on and it just keeps getting better.  One to two massages a day is much easier than the average amount of a career massage therapist, but I've gotta ease into that rigorous schedule or I'm a hurt myself!  Definitely getting stronger as I go...had 2 clients of 200+ poundage over the past 4 days.  That's me and a 5th grader.  Learning techniques to maximize pressure on the biguns. 

I am deeelighted at this point.  The past several victims have used words like "awesome" and "amazing" to describe their experience, which couldn't make me happier.  Oh yeah, in a few months time I'll make actual money for it!  I have received some tip money which is OH SO nice for 1hr of work (hard work, mind you).  Over the past two weeks, the clients and I have approached some level of "connection" during the session.  The best way to describe this feeling is just that the giver and receiver exist on the same wavelength throughout the hour.  The most appreciative victims are those who haven't experience massage, and it's even better when those who have say it's the best they've received.

Now on to studying for that national exam...

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Star 011

Tonight marks the end of my first week at work.  I have done the unthinkable, and am yet again a barista.  This was the absolute last job I'd set out to do in my search, but health insurance is quite the commodity...and there's also that whole eating thing.  Bar none....this job is much more fun than I ever had sitting at a desk for 8 hours a day.  I recently had a conversation with a friend who made the keen observation that the more you enjoy your work, the less you get paid.  Seems like a realistic ratio.  I wasn't paid well as a marketing coordinator, but standing behind any sort of register isn't likely to make the big bucks.  Or the medium bucks even.  Just the Starbucks. 

You may notice my shoes aren't visible in this shot... that's for a reason.  They're the most horrible shoes to come to fruition in the history of footwear.  Other than that, I love my uniform.  I think it's adorable, and vow not to live in black from head to toe (also a popular choice of "starbots").

In other news, massage school is coming along swimmingly.  If that whole practice makes perfect thing is true, then I'm on a roll.  Unless my hands mutate and begin developing porcupine like spikes, I should be good to go.  This is the best line of work for me to have chosen...you basically exercise all day, doing what I call "modified push-ups".  It's a great way to stay in shape and receive immediate gratification from the people you're helping.  More and more my guinea pigs are falling asleep.  I love this.  Even though my career change choice brought with it lots of stress, I know now it's going to pay off.  I can't communicate enough how important it is to do what you want, even if it takes 40 years to decide. 

*Hey Dave-good to see you today.  Sure I'll see you again soon!  Iced double venti whole milk latte?  Ehh?

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Cat and I popped over to the Carborro Music Festival today.  We spent the majority of our time in Roulette - a vintage store co-owned by Kara who I met through Ele.  Before browsing (for me at least, Cat got a cute top) we grabbed a bite at Tyler's Tap Room.  I'd only experienced this festival once before two years ago, when I headed out to see some friends in Nola play.  That day was pretty much wrapped around them, so I didn't explore much apart from catching a great bluegrass band after they finished.  Cat and I had no idea it would be such a hippiefest, which is fine with me, I'm just not too into the jam band genre.  I'd have really enjoyed it as a freshman in college sans bra sporting patchwork skirts and birkenstocks, but now notsomuch.  I still maintain that Phish is a decent band, contrary to indie cool opinion.  We listened to snippets of music that seemed to go nowhere and stopped to check out the "hola hoop girls".  There were lots of these.

All in all, it was just great to catch up.  Cat also hooked it up with some tapes to tide me over until my CD player is installed.  Fugees, John Lennon's Imagine, funk compilations, and the motion picture soundtrack from Basquiat.  Also, was able to borrow smoking hot cocktail dress for upcoming Works of Heart.  Thanks Cat!

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There's always a light at the end of the tunnel.  I've yet to be blinded by the sun's rays, but I must say things are looking up.  The light source being closer to a travel size Mag Light rather than glimmering shimmering sunlight.  After you go through a series of unfortunate events (see previous blogs), in a theraputic effort, friends quote countless lessons learned from books like "Chicken Soup For The -insert appropriate- Soul", and explain that things will be that much better after it's all over with.  I don't necessarily think that this is true, however I do believe that people grow from hardship and that graditude is built from loss.  Perception is realigned and breezing through a green light in 5:00 traffic becomes a tiny blessing that you choose to recognize.  Blah blah blah.... It's gotten quite old talking about losing my *** and wrecking my *** and losing my *********.  I'd rather talk about something much betta....

I got my new car.  My 98 Passport is completely new to me.  I specifically didn't want an SUV or a silver or gold car.  Well, the Passport is silver.  None of this really matters anymore though - it was a great deal and is perfect for carting around a massage table.  I DO feel a little badass in it because of the size, but that's along with every other soccer mom that drives a 4-runner, Yukon, CRV or whathaveyou.  The car buying experience went by pretty smoothly,  myself attempting to appear as a real grown up, fully knowledgable of car purchase protocol.  The seller's name was "Haroon".  He was a very nice guy, and he let me slash the price a bit.  I've always named my cars- first car was a mercedes by the name of Adolf, and the second was Boris the black jetta.  Boris was named after the car salesman, a dark skinned man of Russian decent.  Boris (the man) was short and portly with a kind demeanor.  In honor of him, the jetta was deemed Boris.  Haroon was a nice man yes, but it just doesn't quite roll off the tongue like "Boris".  I thought of honoring the jetta by naming new car "Natasha", but it's just too long.

Top Candidates to date:

Winston

Zip

Jazz

Any suggestions?  *A Passport looks just like an Isuzu Rodeo with an "H" where the Isuzu emblem would go.

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These were the exact words that found themselves on my lips last night.  On my way back from working out with Jamie today, my history as a perfectly safe and sound driver ended.  Abrubtly.  I was coasting along Capital when this van butted itself into the lane obviously occupied by yours truely and smashed into me.  We both pulled onto the side road that the driver meant to turn onto in the first place.  I took a moment to scream, decide whether or not to cry (I didn't), and eventually open the door to get out of my car.  I couldn't.  My driver's side was hit so badly my door wouldn't open. 

I looked back at the driver, a woman in her late twenties/early thirties histerical and shaking, tears streaming down her face.  A woman who appeared to be her mother approached my car and told me that there were 3 children in the van.  I asked if they were okay, and yes, they were, and yes I was okay as well.  I climbed over the gear shift and got out of my car.  One of the little twin girls was still sleeping!  The mother managed an "I'm sorry" between tears.  I tried to calm her and asked her to get her insurance information.  At this point, I wasn't the least bit upset.  I was relieved that no one was hurt, and it was quite obviously her fault.  Oh, and a policeman happened to be parked just across the street from us that very moment.

We hung out by the cars while the officer wrote up a report, and I chatted up her 5 year old, Carina. The kids were a bit bummed because they were headed to Playspace, and this was pretty much the opposite of Playspace.  Carina snapped her fingers for me and I whistled for her and then we both took a hand at rubbing our bellies and patting our heads simultaneously.  Eventually the officer finished the report and confirmed that the driver's insurance would take care of the cost...I then pictured my reaction as a sitcom character.  I imagined myself jumping into a lunge, pumping my fist in the air hissing, "YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" as if I was a 9 year old who just got a 100% on her multiplication test. 

*This is the 2nd time in less than 2 months that some yahoo has run into my car.  Here's hoping for another sweet ride of a rental car.

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It's been a while since my last post.  One would think that not having a job would lead to more blogging.  Perhaps I have less aggravation to write about?  Regretfully, I have to say that I'm not doing too well.  At least for today, that is.  This morning, I was greeted via my gmail box with the first ever responses from what I hoped would be potential employers..."we're sorry, but the position has been filled...may we keep your resume on file for future opportunities?".  Of course you can Bonnie, Richard, Dick, and Jane...but that does me no good right now.  In contrast to what is the complete and utter joy of having no obligations other than finding some means of employment within the next few weeks (think meditating, playing with keyboards and ukuleles, reading In Cold Blood, concentrating on even the tiniest of insect noises) I feel that I'm turning into a wreck.  A disgrace to society!  A ne'rdowell!  I suspect my stress over my current status is the culprit for the FUCKING TEN MILLION grey hairs that have ungracefully found their way onto my 25 year old head.  Even though I do feel somewhat worthless, I've magically made it evident to those around me that I'm perfectly happy, and not having a job makes the flowers that much more fragrant.  I don't want to burden anyone with my lack of joy. 

A note to anyone who asks in the next few weeks.  DO NOT ask me "So, how's the job search going?".  If I had a job, you would know about it.  It's way more upsetting for me to say rather than for you to hear that I have yet to find one.  Thanks in advance.

I went to Blockbuster today to pick up "Reality Bites".  You know, it always helps to relate to something.  I remember watching this movie at 12, thinking it seemed like they were having so much fun.  Smoking pot out of beer cans and Janine Garafalo is your roomate.  I see it differently now.  Actually, I'm not "seeing it", as Cameron Village Blockbuster doesn't own a copy of "Reality Bites".  I'll tell you what bites.

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First interview was today.  No Go.  Bad feeling in my gut. 

Other news:  New hair. 

Newhr 003

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I'm still waiting for the punchline of the joke that starts off with "I received $210 for my paycheck after being laid off, rather than a severance or paid time off".  Does anyone know this one, because I sure hope it's hilarious.

ANGER.  RAGE.  HUNGER.  POVERTY?

In other more positive news, set up first interview today.  The most promising side of the potential job is the salary.  Yes yes yes, I know, shouldn't be too important, but I'm 25 and ready to stop living paycheck to paycheck.  No need for that.  I'm hoping that this gig is legit.  I have this sneaking feeling that my interviewer will have something equivalent to a handlebar moustache and the "business casual" dress code is some type of innuendo for "sexy secretary".  When I enter the "interview room" there will just be some guy named "Rod" and a dork with a handicam.  I always worry that jobs will turn out to be dissapointing scams.  It all started during my job hunt right after college. 

After sending my resume out to countless businesses that might posess a glimmer of hope in my financial future, I got a call for an interview.  When you're neck deep in a job search you kind of start to loose track of who you sent your history to. Had they claimed I'd sent my info to a prestigious ice cream truck driving service, financially strapped as I was, I'd be there with bells on.  I eventually learned that this was a job placement agency...i.e. a temp service.  Something about temping has always seemed utterly unnattractive to me.  It's the absolute last thing I'd want to do-not knocking people who do this-but it's just not for me.  I may HAVE to do it eventually.  Following the "business attire" request for dress, I put on my sharp Anne Taylor suit (left off jacket in 90 degree weather) and trotted down to their location.

I walked up the stairway, clearly not the one Robert Plant sang of (or maybe it was...what IS that song about, anyway?  and what's a hedgerow?).  It smelled like some sort of air freshener made of stale cigarettes.  This at a time when I was smoke free, so the odor was that much more pungent.  I walked in to register with a couldn't-be-more-than-23 bleached blonde receptionist.  If I remember correctly, her name was "Lindsey".  I waited patiently for my turn alongside some young folks...them sporting khakis and polos or summer dresses and flip flops.  I was hideously overdressed. 

Soon enough, my name was called and I entered into a smaller room and was given a test.  The test was both a verbal and math - something short of an SAT, some of the questions alarmingly easy.  After about 30 minutes, I finished and turned in my paper.  Lindsey scored my answers and soon enough, she told me that I seemed like a great candidate and that they'd contact me shortly.  I never answered their messages, but I guess it was good to experience nonetheless. 

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I am this ( ) fucking close to driving to the store to buy cigarettes.  I REALLY don't want to do it though, because I actually don't want a whole pack.  Don't put it past me to eye the half smoked ones outside in the ashtray.  Pretty gross....especially when I think of the small kingdom of cockroaches that live outside on the porch.  Their nightly marches are somewhat horrifying, and usually have me dancing some sort of irish jig or russian kicking dance. 

I definitley smoked some at practice last night, but this is allowed, as the rule is band practice and drinking = kosher.  Any other time = no go.  You CAN'T smoke and be a massage therapist, or work in any type of health care office.  Just doesn't jive.  Trying trying trying, but oooh it's hard.  No smoking during the daylight hours since Friday.  Mom, aren't you proud?  Surprising is I haven't been stuffing my face all day.  Haven't left the house except for short errand either.  Just sending out resume/writing cover letters and very little appetite.  Maybe that's to do with the 3 cups of coffee.  Mmmm....coffee and cigarettes.  Hmph.

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Last Wednesday after a very discouraging day searching the internet for jobs, I took my frustrations first to the gym and then out on my kitchen floor.  Our floor is very old-full of scratches and stains.  No matter how much you scrub on hands and knees, it still resembles something you might see in "Joe's Apartment" sans roaches.  On my knees, I inhaled the toxic bleach, began to tear up (current employment status aside), and started to get a headache. 

If you are using any type of chemical that causes this reaction, it's probably not good for you, or your pets!  Always a big fan of bleach, I've covered many a college dwelling with the stuff in hopes of crystal clean white magic.  It does have a cleaning/disinfecting benifit, but you can't wash the stuff off of your hands and it makes you cry.  I decided after that day that I'd start cleaning with natural products.  I looked online for recipes.  My favorite is just vinegar, water, and lemon juice.  Good surface cleaner, and Philly the dog doesn't have a sneeze attack.  Boil water and sprinkle in cinamon for an air freshener.  Did you know you can use vinegar as a fabric softener?  Don't worry about the smell-it's washed out.  Olive oil and lemon or essential oil for funiture polish....Borax is great for sinks-tub-tile (dip half a lemon in and use as a scrubber).  All of this stuff is super cheap and it won't leave you crying or with a pounding headache.  Fun to experiment and make you own recipes in discarded spray bottles. 

*I'm denying the urge to buy cigarrettes.  None on Saturday, a few Sunday night over beers, none so far today.  New rule is to only smoke when drinking.  Avoid urge to drink. :).

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