I rarely have more than three drinks—even the weak ones I make myself with no more than a single ounce of booze in 'em.

And yet, in my internal cartography, the land beyond three cocktails is labeled "here there be monsters."

I guess I'm about to find out how accurate that is.

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. . . within as many weeks.

And the weird thing is, these appear to be real jobs, as opposed to that sort of thing wherein the company interviews a bunch of people so they can say they did it, before they promote from within, move people around, and finally hire a 22-year-old editorial assistant for ten cents a day or whatever.

I mean, I'm hearing from the hiring managers, and they want to talk to me in person. Strange.

I guess things are finally looking up to the point that former English majors might get a piece of the pie. Cool: I like pie.

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Unless he's going to do them incorrectly, by which I mean diverging from how I would do them in any particular, no matter how minute.

And I reserve the right to tell him endlessly how incorrect his approach is. After he's completed the task at hand.

(More from the "wow; I really am a witch" series. Fortunately, I know I'm a witch, and keep my mouth shut lest my witchiness manifest itself externally.)

Posted by: Attila Girl at 05:42 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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The goth-niece leaves tomorrow out of Burbank; we're hoping to show her the famous Warner Brothers water tower on the way to the airport. It's been a stunningly successful trip. We've shown her:

• Hollywood, including Mann's Chinese Theater and the Kodak complex;
• Brentwood, including the B-wood Country Mart where Nicole Simpson ate her last meal;
• the Sunset Strip, including the Viper Room;
• Venice Beach;
• the bluffs above Santa Monica Beach;
• a real Mexican restaurant;
• the view from the observatory at Griffith Park (her uncle took her to see that, and she was impressed, coming as she does from the flat reaches of the Upper Midwest);
• the Wiltern Theater, where Dir en Grey was playing.

Not that there isn't plenty to show her when she comes back. We'll do a road trip perhaps, next time, and she can see the coastal route and Big Sur—or maybe even the large dinosaurs in the middle of the desert that appeared in Pee-Wee's Playhouse or whatever it was. (The dinosaurs are too far, I tell her. They are truly in the middle of nowhere; we'd need to be driving to Phoenix or somewhere like that. And of course I'd rather show her Yosemite, but maybe that's just me.)

And all I want to do for the next week or so is sleep. Can I get a witness?

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Last night we took the niece to a Dir en Grey concert. Very fun. Very strange.

Now, however, it's off to work, in the hopes that I'll be back in time to take the niece to Hollywood.

She wants to see Palm trees. And the Hollywood sign. I tell her it's difficult to avoid either.

She wants to see the ocean. No problem, I reply: that's a given.

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Two friends of mine yelled at me today: one for a joke I made that—unbeknownst to me—drew blood, and the other for not riding along on an emotional head trip he was taking.

I find myself less willing to do that these days.

And Mr. Can't-Take-a-Joke may find that he has less license for brutality in his jokes with me from here outward. After all, I was simply matching his style of interaction.

I have a headache. I have friends like other people have mice.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:59 PM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
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I should go to bed, but the true obsessive-compulsive doesn't stop what she's doing merely because it would be the rational thing.

My "audition" for the gig that I'm almost positive I really want is this coming Wednesday. After that, my niece flies into town—that very night.

It feels like I'm about to have No Time for Anything, Ever Again in My Life. But that would be just fine, if I also had those. . . what do they call them? The happy paper thingies. Um. Paychecks!

Actually, the thing to do is set aside that feeling of desperation, and try my best impression of someone prepared to do rational analysis: figure out what hours I'd like to work if I'm going to commute, and how many days a week I'll crash at my mom's place. (She's in the next town over, and has an extra room; quite the resource, huh?)

And, given all that, get a REASONABLE idea of what salary level would compensate me for having to work in El Segundo. I should set that figure higher than it would be for a job in L.A. or Pasadena; that's for sure.

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So, I'm talking to Attila the Hub, and casually remark, "you know all those songs with those easily improved, entirely regrettable lyrics?"

"What are you talking about?" he responds. (This is not an unusual phrase on his lips.)

"Well, you know: so many song lyrics don't really scan properly as poetry, and the singers have to sing them weird. And of course there's always a really obvious edit that would fix the problem."

"And how do you know about the songs?" he enquires.

"Well, you know: because they had some commercial success, and made the songwriters rich and famous. But that doesn't mean they were true creative successes."

He looks at me.

"Okay," I tell him. "I guess I'll go upstairs now."

Posted by: Attila Girl at 08:13 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I worked most of the day in Los Angeles at my proofreading job, and then dropped my mother's laundry off (don't ask) at her house near the L.A. airport. We got a bite to eat, and then I came home to finish proofreading the final of the newsletter for my Twelve-Step group. I sent those changes off to the editor, and now I'm (of course) exhausted-but-wired.

It might be time to ingest some carbs and let them work their magic.

When my husband went to bed I told him he was lucky to be only a decent proofreader, as opposed to a really great one. No one has asked him to do it since he escaped from publishing.

So now I need to see how much sleep I'll be able to get before it's time to . . . go back to L.A. and do yet more proofreading. But quickly, because I still have to get to the printer in Culver City tomorrow afternoon in time to pick up the final version of our newsletter, and deliver it to the office. Then I need to go to my DA meeting that night, because we'll be sharing memories of Roger.

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Today is a better day. I had a nice little minor row with Attila the Hub. This spring we've been together sixteen years. In fourteen months, we will have been married for a full decade. So I guess, as he put it, we've already "beaten the odds."

It's gratifying that we're learning how to cajole each other out of our bad moods and grumpy moments without it being a manipulative thing, or a way of sweeping all conflicts under the rug. Both of us find the extremes rather tempting, and find it challenging to stay on the balance beam of life. Less so, of course, as we get older.

And it amazes me that we seem to be able to fight fair. Of course, that's one of the essential skills in any relationship, but the formula for "fairness" changes according to who the other person is: there are no abstract rules.

I'm even getting things done around the house, in anticipation of my niece's visit from Chicago next week. The place still looks like a horror show: papers and books everywhere. But it's sllllloooooowwwlllyyy improving.

The niece is coming out for a Dir en Grey concert, and staying for a full week. We're in the process of compiling our L.A.-area "must sees," and I find myself a bit confused, since one feels like one ought to go downtown, yet I get there so rarely in the course of a normal year.

I just don't feel like L.A. has much to do with that city called "Los Angeles." If you know what I mean.

The one non-negotiable cliche is Venice Beach. She does need to see that—and on a weekend, so she can experience the full brunt of the craziness to be found there.

Of course, we're both so overprotective of her that we might come off more like bodyguards than an aunt and uncle—particularly at the concert, which may be a bit punk-ish for our tastes.

How lovely to be an old fogey. I can't think of a better thing to be.

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Attila the Hub has started to make little jokes about me being indolent. These jokes make me want to take a nap.

Of course, when I think about napping I spend hours wrestling with guilt, catching up on chores, and wringing my hands about whether it'll screw up my sleep cycles (more than they already are screwed up at any given point). Then I have to read for an hour before there's any chance that "drowsy" will cross the line into "sleepy." And I set an alarm, to make sure I won't sleep too late.

When my husband wants to nap, he goes into the bedroom and lies down. Grrrrr.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 06:41 PM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
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. . . on the system in my Mac. The idea is, it announces the time every hour on the hour, so you have an awareness of time as it goes by.

After all, Attila the Hub uses it. So it must be good. His announces the time in a Lurch voice.

I try for something softer. I think perhaps a female voice is a good idea. No. But the whole concept doesn't work for me: when the computer tells me it's thus-and-such time, I get furious and defensive. I think it's accusing me of being a slacker. I find myself asking it who wanted to know?—and, what the fuck are you doing that's so freaking productive?

I explain to it that I work hard, and don't appreciate its nagging.

So what I'd like to know is what can be done about my computer's personality disorders. I like it, but I just feel it needs . . . well, Prozac. How do I do that? Can I just sprinkle it into the CD drive or something?

I mean, it's a good computer. I just think it might be time for an intervention, and an SSRI.

I want to help.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 11:27 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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1 Stick with yelling at AM radio. At least there's a human source to that sound.

Posted by: Sean Hackbarth at March 05, 2006 03:47 PM (JAozc)

2

Posted by: Attila Girl at March 05, 2006 06:21 PM (s96U4)

3 I can picture you screaming "SHUT UP!" whenever the grandfather clock chimed. I can guess where the SSRIs should go... But a good reader always addresses his writer's needs. How about if the ann (it doesn't want to take this word)unciator says "It's 2 o'clock PM...Not that I mean anything by it...I'm just saying..." Or "It's 2 o'clock PM...Whatever!" Does that take the edge off it? Or, if you had a massaging chair with a fire-wire or Bluetooth interface, she can ask if if you need a neck rub. Or a back massage. Ask you if you have been working hard and if you need a break. Maybe start playing a few tunes...Close the drapes and lower the lights...Maybe dial up Sam's Liquors and order up a bottle of Tanqueray 10 and Schweppes Tonic (and a fresh lime) for immediate delivery so that unctuous mouth feel is only minutes away... Would that be more to your liking? Huh? Switch on the foot massager, please, it appears to be offline.

Posted by: Darrell at March 05, 2006 10:18 PM (DKPYg)

4 The answer is, yes: "It's midnight; shall I fetch you a G&T?" might well be an acceptable formulation . . . Of course, that might be months in the future.

Posted by: Attila Girl at March 05, 2006 10:56 PM (s96U4)

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. . . to serve a three-day notice on one of her tenants.

That's the very hardest part of property management. It's probably just as well that I went with her.

She's doing the right thing, but even when someone's trying to game the system a bit it tears one's heart out when anyone falls on hard times. Particularly when they're used to a healthy income. In the best possible universe all our incomes would chart out into a nice, consistent upward trajectory. Almost no one I know has experienced this: instead, it's fat times and lean times and fat again and lean again. And suddenly there we are, practicing the same economies we did in our twenties. The ones we thought we'd left behind for good: Clipping coupons. Cooking from scratch. Ordering just a beverage or an appetizer when we feel we must go out with others. Nothing too onerous, but stuff we thought we'd outgrown.

There's no comfort to be found in this process. I drove her there, I met the tenant, I shook his hand. And I kept my mouth shut.

Snark is for blogging. Not real life.

My mother depends on this income. So, fuck. It's gotta be done. Also: fuck.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 09:22 PM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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