3:42 p.m. - 2003-01-14
I don't wanna grow up, I'm a toy-r-us kid
I am in the weirdest mood - One of those "what the hey am I doing with my life it's totally out of control aaaaaaaaahh!!!!!!" sorts of moods.
I applied for a job (Good God, what possessed me?) at the local New Age Touchy-Feeley-Yoga-N-Tai-Chi sorta' place (I repeat: Good God, what possessed me?) and just now I got this horrible message in my email that Holy Shit, they want to interview me next Tuesday at 3pm.
Damn! How do I get out of this? I don't wanna' grow up and be responsible! I wanna' do my art and cook dinners and have a big compost heap and grow rose bushes with funny names!!!! And hang out in my Crocodile Hunter khaki shorts that my niece gave me, wrangling cicadas and stickbugs. "Crikey! This here's a beauty! Lookit this fella! Big an'stick-ey!!Yeah, I got some kinda' rapport with these bugs! Like I can get inside their heads and be like, at one with 'em! Oh God!Crikey! He's climbin' up my leg!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!"
And I just know that it would be the kind of "part-time" job that would take up 60 hours a week and pay minimum wage, and the employer would think they were doing you a favour because, you know, the job has "good vibes". Yet, I feel I should at least look into this because I feel so guilty ( and you should all imagine me looking really distressed and dog-eyed and pronouncing it "guiiiiiiilty") about being supported by Bruce and really just not making enough with my art to feel like I'm making a Significant Contribution to the household.
I've just never been good with not paying my own way, and though I do love working away at my so-called art career, I feel....well....I feel guiiiiiiilty.
Bruce thinks I'm nuts. So does everyone else. Really, I think no one understands why I don't just shut up and happily hang out with an embroidery needle in my hand all day like they would do, if they could just do what they loved all day instead of slaving at some jive job. I think this stems from the ridiculous work ethic I inherited from both of my insanely workaholic parents. If it don't pay real decent money, it ain't a real job.
Even if I go at it 60 hours a week, and it pays some money. Which I usually do, and it usually does.
Well, enough about this.
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In other news, we had a bunny emergency this weekend. Whenever I announce a bunny emergency I always hear English ambulance sirens in my head going "errrrrEEEERRRRReeeeerrrrEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRR!!!". Ahhhh! BUNNY EMERGENCY!!!!
Ok, seriously, Miss Bunny had an intestinal upset. We think. We aren't sure, and she's not saying. All we know is that her stomach growled so bad we could hear it in the next room, and then she stopped eating for 12 hours, which in bunny time is about a week.
Of course, she then started eating like a horse, but we took her to Alvin yesterday anyway. He stared at her in a rather puzzled fashion and then stared at me in a rather puzzled fashion, like he was thinking that perhaps I really was the most neurotic pet owner he has ever met. And then he looked at her a bit closer, and discovered she has a scratch on her eye. Which may have hurt enough so that she decided to stop eating for awhile.
So we had a long talk about the consequences of this and decided to try a radical new treatment for Pasteurella. This involves giving injections of bicillin every other day for eight weeks. It appears to have worked with all the bunnies in the scientific literature, who appear to all have been pet bunnies who were declared incurable by their respective veterinarians before they went on this last ditch radical medical treatment. According to the paper Alvin gave us, every one of these incurable bunnies is now alive and happy and Pasteurella-free and probably driving their caretakers crazy.
So what the hey? Might as well try it. So now I can add "injecting bicillin" to my repertoire of vet tech skills.
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