In which some things are just a plain ol’ Pain. In. The. ASS.

Yesterday I called Iowa Workforce Development’s convenient toll-free number to file my second weekly unemployment claim. When I was done pressing 1 for yes and 9 for no, I checked on the status of my benefits payment.

And the automated system politely informed me I that had no benefits pending for the week ending August 5th.

Well, fuck me running.

Today I went into the office and talked to the nice bird-eyed lady. She was hell bent on explaining to me, in great and gory detail, the delicate inner workings of unemployment benefits. After much falsely-eager nodding and even some vehement sentence-finishing (I actually know a lot about this stuff because I used to work in the industry, thank you very much), I finally got her to say that, yes, in fact, my claim is fucked up and that what I needed was a letter from my prior employer — on company letterhead! — to unfuck it.

I jumped in the jeep and buzzed over to the Jade building on fumes and found CZ, the payroll dude. I explained that I needed a letter containing certain details on company letterhead, yada yada yada, and he kindly complied. It only took, oh, about 40 minutes for him to provide me with my three-sentence letter… and then he kept me longer interviewing me on my freelance web authoring skillset. I finally busted ass back over to job service… but the lady was gone. Of course. So I sat there and surfed the Ottumwa job listings until she got back, and triumphantly presented her with my prize.

“Yes!” she enthused, looking over my letter. “This is exactly the thing! It even has your social security number on it!” (That had been my own brainchild; she hadn’t specified it earlier.)

“Will you be able to correct my claim now, so I can start receiving benefits?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I can’t do it here. I’ll just give this to the other guy, and he’ll fax this to Des Moines! Probably not today, though. It’s nearly four, you know.”

“Okay, but then they’ll fix my claim?”

“Oh, yes, dear. It won’t be fast, though,” she beamed. “You know how these things are!”

I had foolishly been expecting my first check this week. After all, it’s well past the 15th. It wouldn’t be much, of course, but it would be something.

Now I’ll have to make due with the pittance in my checking account. After I buy milk and cat food, I’ll probably have enough left over for three gallons of gas and maybe even a few packages of ramen!

Whoo. Hoo. Can I get a hell yeah. *rolleyes*

I’m seriously considering applying for foodstamps. Just for a week or two. I’m broke enough that they might even give me emergency benefits, which means they hand over some tickets before you even walk out the door. That would be so cool! Because then? THEN I could go irresponsibly buy a whole cartful of TV dinners, soda pop, and sugary breakfast cereals! Hah!

I was briefly on foodstamps once before. I only needed them for a couple of weeks. Getting them cancelled, though, was another ball of wax entirely. I went in to the office, I called, I even sent them a letter, but they kept sending me booklets — with a note in each one explaining that accepting assistance you didn’t qualify for was fraud and punishable by law — until my benefits ran out. I think I started giving them to my little brother because they kept coming and I couldn’t get them to stop.

Anyway, I have an interview on Monday at perfectpitch.com for a position labelled “Office Assistant/Warehouse Manager.” I was supposed to go in Wednesday morning at 10:30, but when I called for directions to the office they rescheduled me. This either means that they really need help, or that they’re woefully disorganized and it would drive me apeshit to work there. I’m afraid they’ll love me and will offer me, like, seven bucks an hour and I’ll have to agonize over refusing the position. I can refuse and still keep my benefits because that’s considerably lower than my most recently hourly wage, but with the job market the way it is? I don’t know if refusing anything at this point — even if it pays total shit — would be wise.

Compare & Contrast

I loved college. Loved it. Would be a professional student fo’ evah if I could find me a sugar daddy to foot the bill. And now, in a fit of excess free time, I’m doing a little writing exercise for our mutual edification:

• Good: None of the dogs needed to have ear surgery this week!
• Bad: All of the dogs have fleas again. So does the couch. And both of the futons. Which means I’ll be a flea powdering, laundering, vaccuuming monster tomorrow. Go, me.
• Good: AmmZon fed me dinner twice this week, Monday and Thursday, bless her tall blonde heart. The first night, she grated zucchinni and sauteed it in garlic and butter, and served a bed of it topped with a medley of perfectly seasoned stir fried veggies! OMFG, people, seriously. And the salad she served with this amazing entree was a mouth-watering cucumber/tomato thing with vinegrette and feta. The meal was amazingly good and fresh and delicious and filling, and she’d actually grown half of the produce her very own self.
• Bad: As I drove to her place for dinner that first night, however, I passed a cat that had just been hit by a car and which obviously had a broken spine. There was a woman crouched next to it, crooning while it thrashed in an attempt to walk. As I inched past, I said, “Did someone hit it?” “Yeah,” she replied, “and they just drove off!” “Damn, that’s awful,” I said, and continued past. I hope she got help with it. That scene bugged me for hours.
• Good: A friend has a little accounting-oriented side project he wants to pay me $15 an hour to handle for him. It sounds like an only mildly tedious piece of cake.
• Bad: I’ve called him twice to hook up with him, but he hasn’t gotten the paperwork together yet.
• Good: I’ve been getting a lot of sleep lately.
• Bad: I’ve somehow gotten on to this weird split-shift schedule, where I do half my sleeping in the middle of the night, and the other half during the middle of the day.

If I were truly clever, I’d’ve written little mini essays, but I’m not so I didn’t.

In other news, my aunt and uncle will be stopping by on Sunday the 27th. My aunt’s been here before because she came to our wedding, but my uncle’s never been here. I haven’t seen her in five years; him in six. It’ll be cool to catch up on all the family news — this aunt is the geneologist so she’s always got interesting stories. Sadly, the farm looks pretty poorly because it hasn’t been mowed in months and this is Iowa so it’s about four feet deep in weeds and locusts. Maybe I’ll grow some farmer balls next week and figure the tractor out. I mean, I once did my own valve lash adjustment, so how hard can it be to drive a tractor? They only go six miles an hour!

Except I don’t know how to make the mower thing work. I’m guessing there’s some PTO-type situation involved there. Plus: gas. I can barely keep gas in my jeep. Well, we’ll see.

Oh, and It’s Coming. The curse. The courses. The stuck-pig bleed-a-thon. The week of evil. And my fucking boobs hurt like hell.

And finally, as a reward for reading this inane dribble, a dumb joke:

Q. What did the gay midget insurance adjuster {insert any occupation here} do?
A. He came out of the cupboard.