The parents of the kids I watch likewise want me to come over when they need me, but don't seem to understand that when I say, "I need to be out the door at 5:30," that doesn't mean one of them should walk in the door at 6pm. Also, today the boy decided to have a complete meltdown because I closed the door to our TV playroom, effectively preventing him from throwing everything he could get his hands on over the baby gate and down the stairs, his new trick. He finally fell asleep after I jammed a bottle into his mouth. If he's entering a phase of being a pain in the ass, I am done. Many people become more nurturing when a baby cries. Me? I just want to put it out in the trash.
Not to mention that both parties are friends and live across from each other, and have become competing for my time, and aren't very patient when the other one needs me.
And as I go from one huge home to the other, I wonder whether they give any thought as to how I'm supporting myself, whether they comprehend that I'm contemplating buying a bumper sticker that says, "my other job is looking for a job that pays me more than a teenager on summer vacation."
The Reader rejected my piece on Red Door, presumably because it didn't feature one of the staff's hipster friends and a photo of his/her tattoo. While they do have good stories for the most part, a cover piece on a kickball team and the accidental death of one of its members (he fell off a wall) was just not all that topical, even with the description of the deceased's girlfriend's plans to return to New Mexico to pursue a meaningful life of screen printing.
Apple Guy, who seemed all kinds of impressed, never got back to me, but since I'm a veteran of great dates that lead nowhere, I'm rolling with it.
Speaking of which, I was taking notes at Voice Over House yesterday. The guy was showing me one of the software applications, and pointed out that it had an odd acronym: MOTU.
It stands for "Mark Of The Unicorn," he said.
"We know what those guys look like," I laughed. "Ponytail, homebrew gut, RenFair supplies.."
"Are they based out of Cambridge, MA?" I asked.
"I think so," he replied. "Their area code is 617."
"I actually dated someone who worked there," I said, amazed at how truly microscopic the world is. "He did indeed have long hair, a sizeable gut, and he dumped me."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a loser. I'm a loser magnet, specifically, a Lying Loser Magnet. That's why I don't date. I'm cool with it."
And we continued setting up the files for the Chinese recording session which, mercifully, took place after I'd gone.
May. I'm holding high hopes for May. In the meantime, I've begun stripping the woodwork in my living room. If I end up having to sell the place, I want it to look killer.