Snarkastic

Cakewalk

I quit my day job, two weeks ago yesterday. I didn't strip, though I did wear Sexxxy Stockings on the last day in honest anticipation of going out with a bang (as it were). Stopping me was the unexpected presence of The Cowboy, who is Wretched Boss's Boss and who hired me in the first place, and whom I admire very much. I took him aside and told him I was leaving, that I loved the place but would no longer work for Wretched Boss. Even learning that Wretched Boss was being ordered to "take the next couple days off", that he might stop "treating his staff like cats that peed in his shoes" (which is not to say that that recourse was not discussed, mirthfully and at great length) when he came back did not appease me.

The plot thickened when the manager of Swanky-Restaurant-In-Hotel walked by, overheard one of Wretched Boss's more ill-advised tirades, informed us that we Deserved Better, was in turn informed of my plans to gyrate less-than-half-clothed out of the building...and offered jobs to me and NewBFFAllison on the spot. She immediately called Owner Of Swanky Restaurant, explained the situation, got the green light to hire us, and we turned in our resignation letters within the hour. Two days later, to Utter Dismay and Powerless Verbal Flailings on the part of Wretched (Ex-)Boss, we strolled in, looking Cute As Buttons in our Sassy Blacks, and took up residence behind the bar, twenty feet from his office. The best revenge is not Living Well, but Getting Famous. And Working Less Hours for More Money and Not Wearing A Suit isn't a bad way to start. (I won't even start in on the joys of extolling the superiorities of our new job, new boss, and General Fabulousness well within earshot of W(E-)B, nor how pretty my PowerBook looks perched on the black granite bar, or how much I appreciate free broadband on a slow night like tonight.)

Which begs the question: Why am I working in a hotel or restaurant At All? Angels-and-ministers-of-grace-preserve-us, I have A College Degree! I'll let y'all in on the juicy details over break (and if you haven't heard by now, Shame On You, Really), but the short version goes something like this: Almost a year ago, O put me in touch with some movie-making cohorts of his in Hawaii, and we Done Gone Into Bid'ness together over the summer. It's been a hi-larious parade of misadventures so far (computers containing footage of first feature film stolen, backup drives containing footage of first feature film stolen, Hurricane Katrina running off with pretty much everything else a MONTH after The Guy With All Our Stuff relocates to N'Awlins), but in the meantime word's gotten around, I've picked up some editing work of my own, and I've started to make some Really Ridiculous Money.

Money I have no intention of touching. It's all in savings; I haven't seen a cent. If I take the Sacramento job, I'm going to need all of it. If I go to grad school instead, be it in LA, Austin, or New Haven, I'll need even more. Also, while Making Movies is lucrative and fulfilling, my end of the job is a solitary one. In August I moved into this beautiful blue house in the Fort I've loved for years, built in 1910, now owned by a married lawyering couple. They live in the left side of the house with their adorable daughters (five months and two years); I share the right side with a grad student named Zach. (Tragically, not the Zach who carried me around the pool at graduation singing "Master of the House", but this one's a kayaking hippie, so he's all right.) And while I get plenty of company living with five people, four cats, a dog, and the mice in the attic, my job entails an awful lot of Sitting In A Locked Room Peering At A Computer Screen, so I figured I could use a part-time gig, to get me out of the house as much as keep me in Cornflakes and Gin (and Movie Tickets.) As you might imagine, this plan is unfolding much smoothlier now that I'd actually rather go to work than set myself on fire.

And whatever else happens, I'm paying my own way to Austin. Or Sacramento. Or, horror of horrors, Hell-Lay. With money I got from Making Movies. I can't stop calling it that. When anyone asks me what I'm doing, that's what I say, with a shiny grin and no further elaboration. There's a childlike glee in the turn of phrase I don't want to separate myself from. Making Movies. I'm 23 and getting paid to do what I want to do for the rest of my life. Beat that with a stick.

I just happen to be blessed with a double helix of evil glamour.

Posted by Nastinchka at November 5, 2005 10:31 PM