So there I was, minding my own business and reading the Sunday NYTimes on Saturday night, as usual, when I innocently turned to the television page to see what was worth watching (in terms of movies, since the nice cable man came today and brought me a new cable box to replace my dead one). I need to do a lot of ironing because I'm tired of looking at it (and in case I ever get a job again, the call will most likely be an 8 am emergency, so it would be nice to have my office wardrobe all ready to go).
And what should appear on the side of the page, in the What's On Today section, where I presume they note shows of special interest (to television people, that is, of whom we all know I am not one)?
A show at 7 pm on G4 (whatever the hell that might be) called Hurl! Their explanation point, I may add. I will now give you the full blurb for this extravaganza:
"Contestants in the 'Hurlympics' gorge on dim sum and won-ton soup and then try not to throw up while riding a 60-foot-high vertical loop roller coaster. Jelly donuts are served during the tie breaker."
They are kidding, aren't they? There cannot possibly be a television show for which the entire justification is waiting for people to throw up. There just can't. PLEASE tell me there can't. Good GOD.
I went to an audition on Friday (can you tell I just really, really want to get away from the above subject as fast as humanly possible?) which annoyed me. I was doing my absolutely best monologue, which was right for the character as described, and I was doing it very nicely...and the SOB doing the auditioning never bothered to look at me. I'd like to think he was avidly perusing my resume because I was so wonderful, but I don't think so. Boy, is this sort of thing infuriating. Particularly when you're doing comedy, which I was. And I've NEVER failed to get a laugh on the damn monologue. He didn't even bother to say thank you (this is standard audition protocol...when you finish your speech you say thank you to let them know you're done, and they say thank you to let you know they wouldn't cast you in a million years...oh, all right...it just seems that way sometimes). That is bad, bad audition manners. Growl.
And I should like a trumpet fanfare here, please...I CLEANED MY ROOM! Oh, all right, it was because the cable man was coming and I got embarrassed about it, but still, it's clean! I even washed the floor, and all the books are in the bookcase except the two I'm reading. Usually I read/reread a book and sort of shove it over to the other side of the bed (well, when you've shared a bed with someone for twenty years, it takes a LOT longer than a lousy six years to sleep in the middle - trust me). The result of this is that there are usually about15 or 20 books in there. They are now all put away, and there is nothing in my bed but bedding and a couple of cats. And of course clean brand new sheets (street fairs are wonderful)...oh, I tell you, I may start cleaning my room on a regular basis - more than every six or eight months, which is my usual regular basis.
Oh, and this one is great. I was somewhat disturbed on Friday when my temp agency seemed not to have direct deposited the money for the dumb little job I did for one day week before last. Well, today the paystub was in the mail (you know, they send you this thing when you have direct deposit - it's sort of a non-negotiable check). That's how I discovered that for my 5.5 hours a week ago Thursday, I made the sum total of - nothing. Not one single cent. They took out for insurance, and social security, and FICA and all the rest of that happy horseshit, and that's what was left - nothing. This leaves my personal fortune at $4 and change in the bank and 50 cents in my wallet. I suppose I'm lucky that they didn't actually charge me for anything.
I have no idea what to do about this. My trust fund has run out and my poor trustee is diving into his own pocket to pay my maintenance on the house - and I can't give him any more grief, for God's sake. We're trying to get a loan on the house, but, well...what a time to try that one.
The only thing I can come up with is that I should become a very chic disease. Well, people go to all these elegant benefits and parties and whatnot to contribute money to various diseases. You know, heart disease and cancer and cystic fibrosis and autism...so I figured if I could become a disease, maybe...no, huh?
Ah, well. Just call me Mrs. Micawber...something will turn up.