1. I am now in Oxford typing on a British keyboard with things in the wrong place (culturally insensitive, but I think I've earned it...), so typos are not my responsibility.
2. I was promised many things in return for my presence here, very few of which have actually materialized.
3. I'm homesick.
Back to #2. So, the deal included that I leave a job I like, a home I love, my boyfriend, and my sweet, stupid pets to come here for 6 months because I know some things they don't know yet here. In return, I get to be boundaryless (no parking place guaranteed), to learn new stuff, and to be only 2 hours away from my monkey. I also get a place to live. All of this took a massive effort on my part: find a house- and pet-sitter, arrange all of the usual stuff to be done in my absence (e.g., continue to pay Louis to mow the lawn, continue to pay for lots of other crap), arrange for health insurance since my cracker-ass insurance doesn't cover me when I'm out of the country (which no one told me the last two times I came here), have my prescriptions (The blue ones keep you from screaming) mailed to my house so the housesitter can mail them to me since the cracker-ass insurance company also won't send meds overseas, buy a two-month supply of dog food, cat food, and pig ears, arrange to have Marzipan spayed (or spay'ded, as so many like to say), vaccinate kittens, find them homes, and the list goes on for fucking ever. So providing me with a place to live seems pretty reasonable, right? Here's what I was told: You'll be staying in the company living quarters. Photos of this were sent and it looked fine. Here's what I wasn't told: There will be a lot of other people staying there at the same time. Not the same set of people, but an ever-changing array of strangers. Oh, and you have to share a bathroom with people you don't know. Oh, and your bedroom door only locks from the inside, but if you're not there, anyone can go in. Oh, and we don't know who is there now or who is scheduled to be there in the future. You're a grown adult person with a career and a home and we're making you live in the fucking Real World. Wait, did I mention that your room is so small that you'll bump your head into the ceiling several times? What about the phone? Did I mention that there's a fucking PAY PHONE in the place? No? I guess I should have fucking ASKED if I'd be living with strangers in an attic with a pay phone, no internet access, and a tiny tv (in the living room) that gets 4 channels. Jeezy Chreezy. So, a nervous breakdown ensues complete with crying and everything. Of course, it's not til Friday afternoon that they take me to this place, so when we start looking for a REAL place that I'm actually willing to stay in for 6 months, no leasing agents are in, no one who has advertised a place for rent is answering their phone. Fabulous. I made an appointment to see a leasing agent this morning at 10 to talk about ''my needs'' (my own fucking bathroom, for example [it's the little things that matter...]), and the asshole didn't show up for the appointment. Luckily, a very nice young woman who looked just like Amy Carter before she went all goth helped me out, and I have appointments to see 3 places on Monday. Of course, I've already been committed to go to Belfast on Tuesday for a meeting on Wednesday, so I don't know when I'll get to move out of the Harcourt Hostel. At least when I'm in Ireland I can stay at a hotel.
My American boss (along with Greg and everyone else I know) has told me to go to a hotel until this gets straightened out, but the thought of packing my 3 suitcases again and hauling them and the two big boxes I had sent myself into a taxi is just too much. The advice I will take is that the people here will get to know me as that American bitch who will scratch your eyes out if the situation calls for that. Normally I try to go along with people and be easy-going, but since that's not really working out for me, I think I might have to do the ultra-mega bitch thing until I go home, and then maybe for a while afterward.
Pet news: Katy and Buster are being walked by lots of different people. Marzipan didn't get spay'ded on Friday because she wouldn't go into the carrier and then started biting people. They'll try again on Tuesday.
I walked around the University campus today and saw a lot of tourists. I saw a Chinese girl look at a sign that said ''Magdalen Street Ladies'' (meaning toilet), and say ''Oh, Radies.'' I saw a lot of makes of automobile that I've never seen before, like Vauxhall and Rover. I saw some funny signs that said ''Dead Slow 5 mph,'' and ''Beware of Children.'' It occurred to me that in was September 11th, and I seemed to be the only person aware of it.
Oh, here's some other crap stuff I learned: Harcourt has a company car that I can sign up to use, plus they have a company punt that I can theoretically sign up to use. What's a punt? you may well ask, as I would have if I hadn't been sitting next to a bunch of them during this conversation (before it all went bad). It's one of those wooden canoe-y boats that you stand up in and push along with a pole. I mean, it's ok for people to live in a hostel, but let's have a company punt.
And another thing: There was initially actually some discussion over who would pay for my accomodations, and someone had the gall to mention that I might have to share the cost, to which I said ''No,'' but in my head I was screaming. Luckily, my American boss (or my pimp, as Greg likes to call her) made it clear to everyone that whomever paid for what, it wouldn't be me. Christ on a cracker. It just has to get better.
My rented time on my rented compooter is almost up, and so I come to the end of this entry. I miss Greg and Katy and Buster sooo much. But Sharon is taking good care of them, except for Greg. She drew the line there.0 comments so far