Offline until 2003. Merry Christmas and happy new year. Thank God it's (almost) over.

I was having a moral quandary about the manic and/or crackhead driver of the previous entry, but one of my coworkers solved it for me: she called and told the supervisors he drove like a crazy person and she was never getting in his car again. 'Nuff said.

One bad thing about temping (ha! only one?) is that you're constantly getting nickled and dimed by people who have, say, a gazillion times more money than you. Signing your time sheet at 6:52, the client will write "6:45" so they don't have to pay you for the next 15 minutes. There was that one gig where I had to report to the office at 3pm but due to various bullshit did not get to go on the clock until 5:30. And so on. As if I didn't get enough of it while temping, now I'm getting it from my credit card. I am not currently carrying a balance, by the way. I know. It's some sort of budgetary miracle.

Anyway, my customer service exchange went like this:
Me: Why is there a $0.50 service charge on my latest bill? Is this some new monthly fee I wasn't aware of?
Arsehole credit card company: Finance charges for purchase, balance transfers and cash advances will begin to accrue from the date the transaction is added to your balance. They will continue to accrue until payment in full is credited to your account. This means that when you make your final payment on these balances, you will pay interest for the time between the date your last statement prints and the date your payment is credited to your account.

Uh. I'm still trying to parse that. I think it means they now start charging me interest from the day my statement comes out. See also "nickled and dimed by people with a gazillion times more money than me." I know this is hard to believe, but 50 cents actually means something to me at this point. I clip coupons. I pick pennies up off the street. I return my library books on time so I don't get charged a nickel per day. What does 50 cents mean to a giant financial conglomerate? I'll never know.

Rick suggests I call for clarification, since the customer service response was not the best-written piece of prose. Maybe in January. I've got enough to do between now and getting on a 13-hour flight on Tuesday. I just want the world to stop ripping me off.

The 21st century version of, "So how was your day, honey?" and the downside of being a carless banquet slave:

jenm030575: oh my god, crazy driver today. i think he was on coke.
jenm030575: now whenever i work a non-local gig, i'm asking who the driver is first
jenm030575: if they say "steven," i say..hold on, let me check my schedule *shuffling of papers* Uh, sorry, can't make it that day
jenm030575: six people in a 1989 Grand Marquis with no discrenable seat belts and a drivers' side window that consisted of a jagged piece of half-glass
jenm030575: and he made two mysterious pay-phone calls on shift, and seemed very eager to get out of there (to get more coke?)
Memetic Rick: uh...might want to mention that to the bossman
Memetic Rick: (the shape of the car, that is)
jenm030575: he *saw* the car
jenm030575: like these people give a shit
jenm030575: for the drive back, he taped some plastic over it, then about five minutes into the drive took both hands off the wheel on route 9 to rip the plastic off
jenm030575: my life was flashing before my eyes

In reality, the guy was probably just having a bad day. But Christ. One hand on the wheel is not too much to ask.

Goodbye, Media Unspun. If you were a reader and want to still get email from me occasionally, I've started an infrequent (monthly?) mailing list to update you on my doings -- which will hopefully include the occasional published work.

Are you tired of my waitressing stories? Too bad. If I can't have any fun this week, neither can you!

The highlight of yesterday was the surly kitchen worker who -- for what everyone agreed was no particular reason -- started mumbling about shoving a tray of chocolates up my ass. (And that of several of my coworkers). "Oh good," I said, loud enough for her to hear, "Now she's talking about shoving trays of chocolate up our asses."

"Not the tray," she replied. "Just the chocolate." Or was it "not the chocolate, just the tray?" I was begged to tell the story so many times I no longer remember. I was the urban legend of that particular affair. Most of the staff banter for the rest of the day involved things going up my butt. The cranky kitchen staffer became "ass woman." Honest to God, I was still laughing when I got home, hobbled and hunchbacked, at midnight.

Amusing coworkers aside, I did start to feel embarrassed by my station yesterday. The event was an excessive corporate holiday party. Damn, I used to *go* to those, not work at them. I don't miss the corporate world but I do miss the trimmings: good money, high-end open bars, unearned respect...

So, wondering if any of the people I was serving had ever read the Industry Standard, I passed appetizers and felt like a capital-F Failure -- which I don't usually let happen based on stupidity like income or job title. Thing is, I don't want to be a corporate wonk anymore, either. What I need is a new definition of success. And direction. And a million dollars, world peace, and eternal life. That'll about cover it.

Dammit! No escape!

Congratulations, you're Boston, the rebel city.
What US city are you? Take the quiz by Girlwithagun.

Wouldn't "Missing Money, with David Sedaris" be a sweet-ass addition to the CNBC afternoon lineup?

Boston still sucks, but at least I've got amusing friends :)

Faithful readers will know that I have a love/hate relationship with Boston.

Looking at what I earned this year compared to my rent, it's pure, unadulterated hate.

As I said to Rick once this summer, I'm tired of paying Manhattan prices to live in Cleveland. Having just read Lonely Planet Great Lakes (from the library, of course), I'd say that's an insult to Cleveland, which sounds like a fairly pleasant place. Maybe even a place where maybe two hard-working, skilled, educated people could get jobs that paid a living wage.

Fuck you, Boston. I'll get you for this.

All good things must come to an end. Again.