...3-day pay-or-quit...3-day pay-or-quit...oh, crap...oh, crap...oh, crappity-crap-crap!
When I first moved to this apartment I was a little, um, how shall I say...critical...of it. I loved my old house - actually Barney's house, apparently - in the hills and this place was a disappointment, even with its proximity to the water. But lately I've begun to appreciate it. The rent is relatively cheap for the location but not, unfortunately, cheap enough for me to afford it on my alimony alone. Which segues me into the tangential topic (I've been adding a word-a-day to my vocabulary then using them in conversation. 'segue' is today's word.) of my currently unemployment.
What is up with this!? For the past couple of days I've been trolling boutiques, following Craig's List hits, looking for someone who might need sales help. Here's what I've learned: 1) there must be some secret society of boutique workers, like a gang or something, and only people who throw up the right sign or know the handshake or whatever even get to interview, and 2) it helps if you're a gay male with way too much style for one individual.
I sent Mark out to a bunch of places I found that I know for a fact are hiring. I suggested he wear the blue wig. I figured that if he got a job then he could give me a leg up. Problem is, it could be a loooong time before anything comes up so I'll probably be pushing a shopping cart loaded with black plastic garbage bags and aluminum cans or (much worse) back in Fresno living with my mother before I can get a job and save this apartment.
Maybe I should sell the Jag.