This week began my freedom from the hotel pit that's kept me (barely) afloat and working a new job! Yes, you are now looking at the latest and greatest CSR and Billing rep that the freight industry has ever seen. Yesterday was orientation and a buttload of training videos, today was learning the job. I could do this in my sleep. It's AS400 based, which I've used for the better part of a decade and involves all of three screens. Whee. They were right, I'm probably going to be bored. You know what? It's ok. I get 40 hours a week, an actual LIVING WAGE, health insurance in 90 days, a noon to 8pm schedule M-F and every weekend off. Did I mention that we get off all holidays too? I'll have to work Mardi Gras, but who cares? There's six weeks of parades to see before then!
As a result of this wonderful new schedule, I have the ability to do my weekly laundry run at Checkpoint Charlie's, relax, and hear some free music without being exhausted before going to work the next day. Well, that was the plan anyway.
I was starving because the last thing I'd eaten was a chicken pita sandwich at around 4pm and it was 10:00 before I got into the French Quarter and grabbed a bite to go at Verti Marte. It was an additional twenty minutes to find parking in the Marigny because today was apparently the party of the century between Frenchman and Esplanade. I ended up hauling my twenty pounds of laundry three blocks before finally nudging open the grimy swinging doors at Checkpoint. I took a break during the lugging to talk to my mother who was bewildered at the fact that I was "schlepping my laundry all over town at night". I explained there was free music, food, and a bar and she still didn't get it. What's not to like about free entertainment? "You live a strange life out there." Hmph. Philistines....
The opening act was a duo playing a sort of New York jazz style. Girl with a wispy voice on the piano, guy playing oboe to accompany. The sort of music you'd imagine a lot of people wearing all black designer clothes listening to with apertifs slung casually around. Her voice was a little too thin to do the cover of "Crazy" as made famous by Patsy Cline justice, but I think Willie Nelson would have liked the style they lent his song. Betcha didn't know he wrote it, did ya? Your trivia for the week brought to you by the letter A: for Annoyed.
Annoyed is exactly what I became after moving to the back to separate my clothes. Gone were the potheads from last time, but replacing them was a hispanic male who also brought his laundry in...and immediately started trying to make the moves on me. I've been under a lot of stress lately and I was already feeling twitchy. If I haven't eaten, my blood sugar drops and it makes me even more nervous and jumpy. So while I did my best to try and make polite conversation while dropping broad but unsuccessful hints that I didn't want any company, I got even more edgy. I don't care how many trips to Iran you take every year, you're still a Mexican roofer and you irritate me.
Here's the thing. No matter what my weight has been, whether 125 lbs or the current unmentionable number, Mexicans in particular have always had a serious thing for me. I find this particular hispanic branch-off to be especially loathsome. While men as a rule are prone to thoughtlessness in pursuit of happy pants times, Mexicans take it to a whole new level. The culture teaches that women are nothing more than baby makers and caretakers and that the men can do no wrong. I find it incredibly insulting to be even addressed by people of this mindset, and this was one of those guys. I can't tell you how many times I've been openly and continually stared at as if I were a side of beef even after pointed glares and comments. I am not that kind of Heifer.
By the way, just so you don't think I'm being biased in favor of those with a more pasty shade of skin, I refuse to date Irishmen as well. I was married to one and had a short term relationship with another who looked (and drank) like he came straight off the docks. In both cases, the boasting tales of the grand shilleleagh were pitifully just that. I think I'm going to stick with mutts of German or Polish descent. At least that way we can braid each other's chest hair.
As a result of this wonderful new schedule, I have the ability to do my weekly laundry run at Checkpoint Charlie's, relax, and hear some free music without being exhausted before going to work the next day. Well, that was the plan anyway.
I was starving because the last thing I'd eaten was a chicken pita sandwich at around 4pm and it was 10:00 before I got into the French Quarter and grabbed a bite to go at Verti Marte. It was an additional twenty minutes to find parking in the Marigny because today was apparently the party of the century between Frenchman and Esplanade. I ended up hauling my twenty pounds of laundry three blocks before finally nudging open the grimy swinging doors at Checkpoint. I took a break during the lugging to talk to my mother who was bewildered at the fact that I was "schlepping my laundry all over town at night". I explained there was free music, food, and a bar and she still didn't get it. What's not to like about free entertainment? "You live a strange life out there." Hmph. Philistines....
The opening act was a duo playing a sort of New York jazz style. Girl with a wispy voice on the piano, guy playing oboe to accompany. The sort of music you'd imagine a lot of people wearing all black designer clothes listening to with apertifs slung casually around. Her voice was a little too thin to do the cover of "Crazy" as made famous by Patsy Cline justice, but I think Willie Nelson would have liked the style they lent his song. Betcha didn't know he wrote it, did ya? Your trivia for the week brought to you by the letter A: for Annoyed.
Annoyed is exactly what I became after moving to the back to separate my clothes. Gone were the potheads from last time, but replacing them was a hispanic male who also brought his laundry in...and immediately started trying to make the moves on me. I've been under a lot of stress lately and I was already feeling twitchy. If I haven't eaten, my blood sugar drops and it makes me even more nervous and jumpy. So while I did my best to try and make polite conversation while dropping broad but unsuccessful hints that I didn't want any company, I got even more edgy. I don't care how many trips to Iran you take every year, you're still a Mexican roofer and you irritate me.
Here's the thing. No matter what my weight has been, whether 125 lbs or the current unmentionable number, Mexicans in particular have always had a serious thing for me. I find this particular hispanic branch-off to be especially loathsome. While men as a rule are prone to thoughtlessness in pursuit of happy pants times, Mexicans take it to a whole new level. The culture teaches that women are nothing more than baby makers and caretakers and that the men can do no wrong. I find it incredibly insulting to be even addressed by people of this mindset, and this was one of those guys. I can't tell you how many times I've been openly and continually stared at as if I were a side of beef even after pointed glares and comments. I am not that kind of Heifer.
By the way, just so you don't think I'm being biased in favor of those with a more pasty shade of skin, I refuse to date Irishmen as well. I was married to one and had a short term relationship with another who looked (and drank) like he came straight off the docks. In both cases, the boasting tales of the grand shilleleagh were pitifully just that. I think I'm going to stick with mutts of German or Polish descent. At least that way we can braid each other's chest hair.
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