[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in
|Saturday, April 30th, 2005|
Still managing to go to the gym. Also managing to drink and smoke too much and not get enough sleep.
Went into work today at 4pm to try to deal with paperwork. Even powered by coffee, organic dark chocolate and Diane's Kamikaze Fun Machine ( a favorite DJ on www.wfmu.org) it took me nearly two fucking hours to get one client's file all sorted out. And this is only real estate! The 5 month stint I did at the law firm a few years ago resolidified the truth that I hate filing and I'm not fond of paperwork, generally. ESPECIALLY legal paperwork: Instant headache.
I'm sure the more I handle the paperwork the quicker it'll be. It's just the transition (or non-transition I should say) since Jen split is a bit intense. Even though I know everything that's happening in our current deals the sheer quantity of paper and my boss's paranoid tendency to make way too many copies makes me feel like each file is spiraling out of control.
During my self-less and loyal Saturday afternoon working time I also dealt with a couple clients who have that sort of blase presumptuousness that is really becoming my biggest annoyance.
The client who I now refer to as "The Asshole" called at 4:30 (oh, I'm way too smart to actually answer the phone! I recognize your number, pal!) and left me a voicemail that said: My wife just noticed this house for sale online, and well, it looks like it's pretty close to the railroad tracks, but we'd still really like to see it this afternoon.
Not: "What is your schedule like? Are you working today and if so can we arrange to view a house? Sorry this is so last minute"
I mean, I believe in giving good customer service and staying on top of things for clients in this hot market and all that, and I believe that real estate is not a 9-5, M-F gig, but I'm blown away sometimes but how clients will think it's ok to call at, say, 9PM on a Friday with a list of houses they want to look at the next morning.
It's all about the attitude. If I'm asked and thanked, then sure. But otherwise...who the hell do you think you are and where did you get your ideas about business?
In other news, I'm very much looking forward to me & "the old man"s little vacation. I'm such a freak that I can't commit to a hotel in SF without agonizing over choices and visiting every possible website and reading all the reviews on tripadvisor.com even though I'm sure that most of the people who send in reviews are prissy rich (or wanna be rich) fucks or else insane people who can't deal with a speck of dust on the windowsill. I know where I want to stay. So why can't I fill out the damn reservation form and be done with it? God, and then there's the rental car. How many times have I visited hertz.com now? I don't even want to say. It's not as if the choices are going to change! It's still going to be some ugly ass white Dodge Stratus.
|Thursday, April 21st, 2005|
It started Friday evening. At a friends' house, preparing to watch "Mayor of the Sunset Strip," a killer documentary about the career and sort of sad life of LA hit-maker DJ Rodney Bingenheimer. I picked up a floorlamp to make room for another chair when a shower of sparks shot from the base of the lamp like insane electric popcorn. No one was injured, just amazed.
Next afternoon I left the lights on in the car, killing the battery.
I also left the door unlocked.
That night some scum asshole waste of life tried to steal the car and in the process mangled the ignition, steering column casing, etc.
I discovered this after I called AAA to come jump the battery. I thought: hey, I'll clean out a week's worth of real estate crap while I wait. How efficient of me.
Then I see the damage. FUCK.
I forget to lock doors. Is my mind going?
Call my friends (owners of the sparking floorlamp) and arrange to ride my bike over so I can borrow one of their cars.
Two minutes into my bikeride the sky opens up and pours like a motherfucker on me. This is perfect. I had seen the storm clouds moving south and was too angry to bother with raingear.
I deserve it, I say. I am being washed clean of fuct engery detritus, I think smugly.
I arrive at my friends' soaked and am given tea, a robe. My clothes quickly thrown in the dryer.
Then the client calls (30 minutes before our appointment) and asks (demands, really) to move it back 75 minutes.
OK, so I could've missed the rain.
Sitting there stewing I realize that the only reason the car didn't get stolen is because it had a dead battery.
|Saturday, April 16th, 2005|
Why is it that even though my shoulder and arm are killing me from too much computer work here I am typing at the fucking computer.
I've been working so much that I don't really know what to do with myself when I'm NOT working. I just look for more work to do. I realized that I've started to use working as an avoidance tactic. Avoiding going to the gym, buying groceries, cooking, cleaning, getting a haircut, buying clothes. Basically everything. The only thing I stick to is hour-long dog walks. But that's not enough exercise.
I have to change this.
I'm feeling stiff and horribly out of shape. Bad bad bad. Hard to believe that I used to go to the gym 4 times a week and it wasn't that long ago.
Wha happen???? Current Mood: bloated
|Friday, January 7th, 2005|
|Wild kingdom in the big city
Tonight 'the old man' and I were walking our dog back from the market when we heard the bloodcurdling screams of a chicken. It sounded bad--worse than a distress call. As we rounded the corner we glimpsed our neighbor running down her dark back porch stairs with a flashlight. Another late-night dog walker paused on the opposite corner, pointed toward the noise. He called out across the street asking if everything was ok. Meanwhile his t-shirted Weimaramer wandered over to our dog. While I tried to gage whether my dog(aggressive when leashed) would lunge for the off-leash dog I heard the neighbor yell back over her fence: "Do you know how to kill a chicken?". Her voice loud, but not hysterical.
The Weimaraner's owner disappeared through her side gate. His dog stayed behind, placidly leaning against my leg as is the default mode of particular large, friendly dogs.
I heard the neighbor say the chicken needed to be put out of it's suffering.
For a few horrible moments 'the old man' and I pet and mumurred to the two dogs to keep them calm while we listened to the sound of a chicken being killed.
The Weimaraner's owner re-emerged, calling for his dog. "We have him over here," I said.
He thanked us for watching his dog. He told us her chicken had just been mauled. By what, we asked?
"Yeah, that's the question," he replied, his expression haunted as he turned to continue his walk. "I just had to kill her chicken."
|Monday, January 3rd, 2005|
|Why not? Everyone else is doing it and I already did anyway.
Back before everyone had the internet I let a friend publish some excerpts from my teen diaries in his magazine. So I obviously don't (didn't, at least) have a problem with putting it out there for all to see. However, my teen diaries were published 10 years after the fact. Live journaling or blogging are different. Immediate, irretractable, boring, charming, etc. If the internet had been available when I was 13 I would've been ALL over this live journaling. But now? At this age?
hmmm. With the published teen diaries exception, I've only 'journaled' (is that even a word?) privately--many paged word docs stretching over several years. Yeah, if I had no sense of discretion, no self-censorship I'd just cut and paste the lot of it right on over here. But no.
I'll be back some night when I've got a good buzz on and start fresh. Current Mood: predatory