Well, my, my, my. I am here to tell you that taking employment tests at one's very own computer is absolutely the best thing that ever happened. Sitting about in one's nice clean brand new schmatta (yes, showered, washed hair and all like that) with a friendly cigarette in the ashtray and a can of that absolutely awesome Arizona watermelon juice works wonders. High marks on my Windows test, high marks on spelling and grammar (um, duh). I mean, on the Windows (the one where I normally score in the general category of "very low to sub-normal"), I actually got 100% in basic word! 100%!!!! Me!
I didn't take the typing test because my computer decided it wouldn't open it, but I've been doing the online typing tests and getting roughly 60 words a minute, so I'm not concerned. My computer also did something VERY weird today. It decided to come from an alien planet. I was trying to get into the test site without using the link that had been emailed to me (on account of not being able to open the typing test) when the computer decided it was going to go backwards. Uh-huh. I went to type in the URL and instead of showing up on the screen as what I typed (www.proveit.com), what appeared was moc.tievorp.www. I was somewhat disturbed by this. However, rebooting solved that problem (or got rid of the aliens, whichever).
In re rebooting - once when I was at dear old Pillsbury Winthrop, I was typing away when all of a sudden I smelled something burning and sure enough, there was smoke rising from my computer. I promptly turned it off (hey, I is a computer tech) and called the Help Desk - or, as the entire office referred to it, the Helpless Desk. Guess what they told me to do. Yup. "Have you tried rebooting?" Well, no. I'm damned if I'm rebooting ANYTHING that has smoke coming out of it.
So, yes, about that stove I was going to buy. I have decided that I'm going to put that one off for a while until I see whether today's testing bears fruit in terms of steady work. It seems to me that it would be a great deal more sensible to keep what I've got in the bank until I have some sort of regular paycheck coming in again. And if somebody comes over for dinner, what the hell - I can always saute something - this because the bottom drawer doesn't close properly - Joshua tends to kick it - and therefore the oven temperature gets wonky. So there.
Speaking of dinner, I started the day off in a deeply healthful fashion with a quarter of a lovely cantaloupe and some cottage cheese - a combination I like in summer. Then I went to hell with myself and after I took the test, I decided I should definitely have a treat (well, of course). So I bopped over to a bar in the East Village which serves something I love with an unholy grease-craving madness - fried shrimp in a basket. This is one of the world's most out-of-date dishes, and I adore it. I don't know another place in Manhattan that serves it - maybe Bubba Gump's Shrimp joint in Times Square, but if you are under ANY impression that I would A. eat in a Times Square tourist trap, or B. pay what I'm sure would be $27.95 for the privilege of what would probably be three shrimp, you are entirely wrong. At my joint (it's the go-to for people working at LaMama, which is how I found it because I was doing The Three Sisters over there), for a pint of beer and the shrimp and a tip, it's an even 15 bucks. And lots of shrimp and really good fries. Then I came home and hung out on the porch hoping for non-existent rain (growl - they keep talking about thunderstorms, but they never get here), then I went to the deli and bought some nice garbage to eat and dined on heavily buttered popcorn, beer, and some Pepperidge Farm cookies. Deeply into health food, that's me.
While I ate this elegant repast, I read a cookbook (I always read cookbooks when I eat alone - because I LIKE reading cookbooks). This was my copy of the old 1950 Gourmet Cookbook, which is hysterically funny in spots - at one point they seriously suggest that you pit jumbo black olives and stuff them with foie gras. They also write recipes in that paragraph style, as opposed to a list of ingredients and what to do with them. One of the recipes I came across tonight was just annoying.
It was a recipe for lasagna, and it told you how to make the meatballs, and the tomato sauce, and then it told you how to layer the dish. Well, the problem was that after perfectly clear amounts for the meatballs, the sauce, the sausage, and the lasagna noodles, it then casually talked about layering all this with mozzarella and ricotta. No amounts given. Nor, incidentally, was there any indication of what size pan should be used. So how much mozzarella and ricotta do you buy, for heaven's sake? I mean, since the recipe serves six, I could figure this all out if I had to, because I know how to cook, but why the hell should I have to? This sort of thing makes me crazy.
I have no idea of what I'm going to do tomorrow. I submitted myself for a couple of background things (that's extra work to you non-SAG types - hee, hee, hee - did I mention I GOT MY SAG CARD?), but nobody's called me. So I'll just wait for many phone calls and emails - from casting agencies, from temp agencies, from old boyfriends, from anybody else who wants me...and meanwhile, I'll read Charles Dickens because I'm catching up on my Dickens and having a lovely time with it, thank you very much. Mr. Dickens is tailor-made for people like me who read too damn fast...you have to force yourself to slow down so as not to miss characters and to be able to keep track of the ones who appear in Chapter 2 and are not seen again until Chapter 26, and also they're nice thick books. Lots of reading to be done!
And one final and ghastly note - merrie olde England, my great good place, has lost its collective mind. They have decided to begin paying attention to racial prejudice in day care centers, and one of the markers for blossoming racial prejudice among the three year old set is assumed to be not liking ethnic food. So evidently if your three year old, the one who has been on sausages and mash and a nice beef and kidney pudding, turns up his adorable little nose at vindaloo, the Nanny State will be watching him very carefully to see what his racial prejudices are. Eh? Huh? For those of you out there who are not blessed with offspring, I am here to tell you that a three year is quite liable to turn up its nose at damn near anything - including the dinner that was eaten last week with every evidence of delight and is served again this week. This is flamingly silly.