beesknees

Six years on, it’s less workable to share an email address. At least while both of us are jobsearching and every agency demands a unique address. And I still have the old fivecups one, but it’s spam central after ten years (which, hells bells, a decade?) and I hate hotmail a whole bunch, so tonight I have spent a solid twenty minutes first trying to come up a with a professional-sounding gmail username not already taken, and then any name at all not already taken. Why are there so many people with my exact name? And they all use gmail? We should have conventions!

Btw, commonpeople, thanks for the reccy – I had a nice chat with one of that agency’s reps on Friday and am coming in to see them later this week. Crossing fingers.

Had a big two days’ work this week, which were productive in that they confirmed that I do not want anything to do with medical admin work ever again, thank ya kindly. Because we are responsible people with bills to pay, that entire paycheck has already been eaten up by an order of beer kits and dinner out with awesome friends-of-friends. Woo hoo!

Along with more fruitless applications than I’d prefer, it has been a week of reading library books and watching (mostly B-, C-, and D-grade) films, since we took an anti-Tesco stand and switched our dvd service to Lovefilm. I love it when political grandstanding comes with streaming video! So this week we’ve revisited the nightmare-inducing traumas of our childhoods (Return of the Living Dead and The Blob, respectively), discovering that one of them holds up surprisingly well, and one of us was a very, very silly 10 year-old for sleeping between her mattresses so the heavy metal zombies couldn’t find her.

About the time I got that hotmail address, a goth-king lent me his copy of the first Transmetropolitan, insisting it would change my life. Unfortunately, I was moving, and also very careless in general, and it probably got mixed in with my goth-princeling boyfriend’s comics, never to be found or returned. The husband found it in the library and brought it home to me last week…left me wishing I’d read it that first time, or ten years before that. His intro story I actually really liked; it captured the whole point of the 90s anti-hero: the world is horrible, and only someone even more horrible can navigate it to find the potential for decency that the less corrupt could save and nurture. Y’know, the trope the Operative is riffing on…he (and it’s nearly always gendered he) tries to bring about the better world he can have no part of.

Except I’m old, and I’ve dated and been these guys, and they want the horrible, horrible world they see to stay just the way it is, to keep their oddly privileged place in it secure, and thus I was annoyed by the rest of the comic where Spider Jerusalem mostly got high and watched tv and had bodily functions on bystanders. Oh, to have read this at 13 rather than 33…would have been the only riotgrrl in Lanco.