Megsie

As of last Thursday I have a New and Improved Job, Version 2.0. My previous job was as a barista — although, I never did make any coffee. When I was offered the New and Improved Job, I felt rather badly about quitting, that is until the owner peevishly told me that she had “turned down” someone else for the position and would now have to find someone else, as if it were ALL MY FAULT. Yes, lady, I recognise that it is a hassle for you, but there has not been a BETTER time in the past several decades to be an employer than now! You can hire a college graduate to take out your trash for you, and they’ll just be happy that they actually HAVE A JOB! DON’T WHINE AT ME LADY! I WILL BLOG ABOUT YOU! In yo’ face! [Insert gangstah hand gestures].

My New and Improved Job is as an administrative assistant, which basically means that I am a secretary (well, maybe pre-sexual revolution I would be a secretary: now I think the term is considered sexist. Mostly thanks to Maggie Gyllenhaal). This job is not nearly as glamorous as movies have made it… nor as licentious as pornography would lead one to believe. I answer phones, print off papers, staple stacks of papers, sort papers, un-staple other stacks of papers, sort them, and then re-staple them. I also order things for the company, wait for the things to arrive, and then put them away. It’s all about as exciting as I’m sure it was for you to read about it. That said, I LOVE MY JOB! No, really! For the first time in my life, I’m actually making enough money to not only stop going into greater debt, but to actually start getting out of debt. As a result of this cheery news, I now spend much of my day in a giddy haze of happiness. (Admittedly this mental state is mostly due to sleep deprivation and hunger, and compounded by a nicotine buzz, but I enjoy it nonetheless).

I have spent my entire life floating barely above poverty, and I am so ready to finally start rising above it. I recognise that I have always been very lucky to never have to go hungry or homeless, but that being said, I doubt very many people can relate to the level of psychological trauma of being raised by a fundamentalist Christian father who CHOSE to live off of other’s charity and then complains endlessly of financial woes, who believes that being in debt is a sin against Almighty God, and who repeatedly placed the well-being of the entire family on the behaviour of his children (as in, “if you don’t obey me, I will lose my job [as a Christian minister], and the family will starve”). Thanks, Dad, for helping me to become a functional adult!

(Feel free to psychoanalyse the previous paragraph. I’m sure it will do you good.)

On to my previous weekend adventures: On Saturday, my cousin Jacob got his Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do. This is an awesome accomplishment at any age, but particularly at 13 years old, so everyone is quite proud of him. I was able to see the first half of his test on Friday night, but missed the second half on Saturday morning due to sleeping in too late. I’m blaming my cat for that one: Earnest ran away late on Friday evening, and I spent several worried hours looking for him before giving up and just waiting until he came home at 1am. On Sunday, my cousin Kyle and our friend Emilee went to the gay pride parade in downtown Seattle. It was quite marvelous! Despite the abundance of naked people and drag queens, there was only one thing I was truly surprised by: the number of churches that marched in the parade. I was shocked. I would estimate that about a sixth of the marchers were affiliated with a local church. They carried signs proclaiming God’s love and acceptance with slogans like “For God So Loved THE WORLD,” “Straight, But Not Narrow,” “I Support My Gay Son/Daughter/Bishop” and (my personal favourite) “Jesus Had Two Daddies”. I doubt I’ll ever attend church regularly again, but it certainly warmed my heart to see this public expression of love and acceptance for gays.

I know I said only one thing shocked me, but there were a few other little things that surprised me. And by little, I do mean SMALL. DIMINUTIVE. TEENY WEENY. The naked bikers were… how shall I say this… disappointing? I will admit that I have a very limited experience with male anatomy, and by “limited,” I do mean that my experience mainly has to do with pornography and working on a horse breeding farm… oh, and My Ex, The Rapist. I suppose it is irrational to compare regular men to porn stars and stallions, BUT C’MON! REALLY? I’m sorry to say, I have lost all faith in mankind.

On that tragic and disturbing note, I’m off to bed. Tomorrow is another day at the New and Improved Job, Version 2.0