In Which I Obliquely Reference Britney Spears

I was walking to the bus stop with Maurice today when I felt a familiar pain in my left hip. For a few months now, it has been clicking intermittently when I walk. Also, it gets really sore if I stay in one position for a long time, like first thing in the mornings, or after a road trip, or while watching a movie. But me being me (“I can still walk! It’s just because I am doing so much more exercise. It doesn’t really hurt. I’m getting older; these aches and pains start to happen. It will probably go away. ” etc.), I haven’t done anything about it. Yeah, I sort of never learn.

But today I decided to Take Steps, the first being: Get a Second Opinion. I grabbed Maurice’s hand and hiked down my pants on the left side. We were still walking down the busiest street in Christchurch, by the way.

He recoiled.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Here, feel this,” I said, pulling his hand towards my now-exposed hipbone.
“Uh, can’t we do this later? At home, maybe?” he said, eyes darting around.
“Oh, well, I guess I really don’t need to pull down my pants. Lemme have your hand.” I adjusted my waistband and continued walking as I placed his hand over my hip socket. “Can you fe–”
He pulled back like I had plunged his hand into three-week old egg salad or something.
“YES. You should get that checked out. Jesus, Ruth, how long has it been doing that?”
“Um, I don’t know. . . a few months, maybe? Off and on?”
“Did you do something to it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really. Well, yeah, a little. Especially when I get up in the mornings, and um, some other times too.”
“I really think you should go to the doctor.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Something is rubbing away in there. Get it looked at.”

I know he’s right. Why have I not reached this conclusion before? Because I am a glutton for punishment, because for some reason I feel I deserve all this pain, that it’s my job or something to put up with it? Paging a decent therapist! But anyway, I think about going to the doctor, and then a specialist, and a physio, and the dollar signs flash through my head complete with accompanying ka-chinnngg!! sound effects. Sorry to LiveJournal again, internets, but especially in the light of the earlier events of this week, can a girl catch a break? Can just one thing go right, for a change? If the universe could bestow on me a sign, a sign that I should keep trying, I would be so grateful. Especially if that sign came in the form of cold, hard cash.

 

Why I Am Unfit For "Hospitality:" Part Seventy-three

Dear Table Five,

I think we misunderstood each other.

You thought that I would be impressed by the fact that you’re on staff at one of Christchurch’s hottest restaurants. I thought that since you all work in hospitality, you’d be decent customers. Gosh, were we both wrong!

I guess misunderstandings are natural when people are as DRUNK as you (still!) were at 7 AM. Yes, you all sure are rock stars! I am blown away by your ability to metabolize alcohol. Certainly no other humans share your amazing talents.

However, when you send your latte back three (3!) times, it does not make me think you are a person of discernment and taste. It makes me think you’re an asshole. When you critique my timing as I clear your ravaged plate, I don’t muse, “Hmm. Here is a person who truly understands the finer points of service.” Instead I think that you are an idiot who fails to grasp the myriad differences between a casual breakfast joint and a fine dining establishment. When you mix “cocktails” with the coffee and your maple syrup and leave your masterpiece in the sugar bowl for me to find hours later, I don’t marvel at your creativity. I feel a rare pang of affection for the hordes of two-year olds who tried and failed to outdo you in sheer filthiness today.

Has the irony of working in Christchurch’s hippest restaurant failed to register? Please do continue to dine out on that in the future. Also, there is a very pretty girl a friend of mine knows from fat camp that you should meet.

I hope this clears up any lingering confusion!

Kisses,

RUTH

 

Protected: Now And Then

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True on So Many Levels

“That’s the problem with people who have a high pain threshold. By the time it hurts enough for them to think about doing something about it, things aren’t easy to fix anymore,” the physiotherapist said as he manipulated my shoulder this way and that. “How does this feel?”

“OK,” I said. “I could stand some more pressure.”

“I know you can. That’s why you’re here.”

LESSON OF THE DAY
Temping and other repetitive tasks — so much worse than originally thought! And: if you are looking for hidden meaning, you will find it.

 

Noted

. . .that it is very difficult to pick out a movie at the video store if you must de facto eliminate

movies featuring happy couples (Pride & Prejudice)
movies featuring unhappy couples (5 x 2, Head On)
movies featuring lots of sex (Candy)
movies featuring New York City (too many to count)
movies that you watched in New York City (see above)

Entourage to the rescue, once again.

 

Le Sigh.

Oh, man. So I just got off the phone with my temp agency liasion, the woman responsible with finding me work. Nothing’s open for people with my “skill set,” ( I guess being a MASTER at Excel isn’t all it’s cracked up to be!) and nothing will be for a few weeks from the sound of it. “Would you consider industrial temping?” she asked me.

A brave new world featuring me driving a forklift opened in my imagination. Then I imagined all the horrific forklift accidents I would doubtless bring upon myself. “Um, what exactly does ‘industrial’ entail?” I asked.

I gathered that it means assembling binders, stuffing envelopes, and some other nebulous print-related tasks, for less money than one would make performing these tasks in an office environment. Or else she is totally pulling my leg, it’s all heavy machinery operation, and the next time you hear from me I won’t have a leg to pull.

Either way, I am not thrilled about this new turn my life is taking. And also, it is supposedly the middle of summer here, and I am wearing jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and slippers as I type this, periodically snorting up my cold-weather induced post-nasal drip.

Fuck.

 

Protected: Bad Jobs I Have Had

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A Look Inside My Mailbox

18 August 2006
Dear Ruth

Thank you for applying for the position of administration assistant in the editorial department at The Press and I apologise for the delay in making contact with you.

We received a huge response and I regret to advise that you have not been shortlisted for interview.

We are pleased that you have considered The Press as a place where you would like to work and we wish you all the best for your future career.

Yours sincerely

[REDACTED]

17 August 2006
Ruth,
Thank you for your time and effort in submitting your application for the position of 3562 – Part Time Library Assistants. We appreciate your patience with regards to the duration of the process.
We wish to inform you that we have now given all applications careful consideration and regret to advise you that we have received responses from candidates who more closely matched our criteria for the above position. Unfortunately, in this instance we are unable to include your application on our shortlist for interview.
We encourage you to continue to check the Christchurch City Council Recruitment website, http://www.jobs.ccc.govt.nz/, as vacancies are updated on a regular basis. Please do not hesitate to apply for other positions advertised as we welcome your continued interest.
[ . . .]
Thank you once again for your application and best wishes for the future.
Yours sincerely
[Redacted]
******************************************************************
When I was looking for my first job in New York, I remember quickly realizing that it’s not what you can do that matters, but who you know. What I didn’t remember is what a bitter pill that is to swallow.

Still, the most devastating letter I received of this sort came from Penguin a few years ago, telling me that alas, a job I interviewed for in September had gone to another candidate. I had deduced as much after hearing nothing for two weeks after the interview, but I got the letter stumbling home blind-drunk on NEW YEAR’S EVE (who knew they even delivered mail on New Year’s Eve?). Ruth’s brain + 6 tequilas = I must be ahead of the game, because I figured that out 3 MONTHS AGO! TIME FOR ANOTHER DRINK! HAPPY NEW YEAR ASSHOLES!

Although it’s all for the best, because who knows? If I had gotten that job I might be writing a blog like this instead (link via Emily.)

 

New Zealand: Days 1-30 (Part 2)

First, some remainders of our trip to the Nina Valley. These pictures have been selected for maximum visibility of odd tramping gear. In this one I’m showing off my gaiters:

I think this gesture means “Take the goddamn picture already!”

We saw lots of perfectly-shaped ice crystals like these. MR (he of the books about freezing to death in the Arctic) was beside himself with delight.

The following weekend, we climbed Mount Herbert, an attraction in our own Banks Peninsula backyard. Mount Herbert is in no way a mountain; it’s 919 meters to the summit and we began halfway up. So I really have no excuse for throwing the fit I did. Well, I have one excuse. MY HIKING BOOTS WERE FUCKING KILLING ME — somehow the 9 mile hike through the Nina Valley had failed to adequately break them in. Also, I had been in New Zealand for three weeks at this point, and it had just started to sink in that I was not on vacation; in fact, I now lived in this strange isolated place on the other side of the world and would for some time. With each step, my left ankle bone was ground to a finer, bloodier point, and my mood grew more and more surly. At three hours to go before the summit, I was in full-on tantrum mode — not screaming, bitching, throwing shit, but my own personal tantrum mode, which is (for better or for worse) more like an aggrieved teenager. Lots of heavy sighing, eye-rolling, under-breath mutterings, and obsessing over the nearest concrete symbol of my spiritual sufferings. A cow had kicked the bucket by the side of the track, which served nicely in this situation. Here’s what I thought, for 2 1/2 hours:

(left foot steps) OUCH
(right foot steps) I hate it here.
(left foot steps) MOTHERFUCKER
(right foot steps) Dead cow.
(left foot steps) OUCH OUCH
(right foot steps) Figures the only interesting thing in this whole country is a fucking dead cow.
(left foot steps) OH, GOD IT HURTS.
(right foot steps) I miss New York.
(left foot steps) OWIE OWIE OWIE.
(right foot steps) Why did I ever come here?

Repeat ad nauseum.

By the time we reached the top of Mount Herbert, I was ready to kill the real reason I came “here.” This is me, wishing the worst on MR.

I mean, look how fucking happy he is! It’s like he likes climbing and New Zealand and shit. Loser.

My reward for reaching the top was a tamarillo. Would you like to know what a tamarillo tastes like? Do not read further if you are squeamish, because a tamarillo tastes like come. Tangy, sour, alcoholic come. With seeds. Really, could life get worse?

I guess the view was nice and all:

And we saw some neat-o stuff on our way down:

And we were together. Which (previous three weeks aside) hadn’t been the case for a year.
So, could life get worse?

Yes.

Grade: A (for doing something for luuuvvv) / D (for that something being mountain climbing)

 

Fun with Left Turns

It shouldn’t be hard to adjust to life here, right? It’s not like New Zealand is a third world country, English is the official language, and I look just like most everybody on the street. Whatever, it has.

Example: driving has been difficult. I don’t enjoy driving in general. And here you have the driving on the “wrong” side of the road, and the weird right of way laws, and the annoying boy-racers and then the fact that Kiwi drivers really suck. However, after nearly two months I thought I was getting the hang of it — whatever, driving’s driving, and I’ve done it for almost ten years, right? — until I had to drive into Christchurch today. A transcription of my interior monologue:

green light, ok, turning left. need to cross traffic and turn into the other lane — wait, no, driving on the left side here. ok, left, can i go now? i think so. but that guy has the right-of-way. i’ll just pull out a little. god, i KNOW you’re behind me, you don’t have to ride my ass! i’m TRYING to move. hi, boy racer! great souped-up honda civic. maybe if it was a little louder someone would fuck you. what is this guy’s deal, WHY won’t he turn? is he waiting for me? he’s supposed to go. i think. or maybe i’m supposed to go. i think he’s supposed to go. maybe i should just go. ok, turning. NO OH NO NOW HE’S GOING TOO FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK OH THE LIGHT JUST TURNED RED FUCKITY FUCK FUCK I’LL JUST GO STRAIGHT HONK HONK HONK I KNOW SHUT UUPPP. . .

where is the subway? i want to get on.

After the dust had settled I thought that New Zealand has been tough because it tricks you — it’s just similar enough to home to lull you into feeling like you’re on top of things but different enough to really mess you up. See also: food, slang, national character/sense of humor, job market, TV, weather, pop culture. . .