So! Now we finally have internet (and cable! woot) in the flat, so I have absolutely no excuse not to update this thing in a more timely fashion.

I didn’t end up getting that dream job I wanted; undoubtedly one of the other candidates had a more extensive, more managerial-based resume with like six languages. It’s a curse, really. I know I could have done the job exceptionally well, but I’m lacking the experience … and I can’t get experience without getting a job. Bugger. It’s that whole double-edged sword thing.

I’ve been offered some jobs already, but none of them are particularly appealing to me, mainly because they entail exactly the same things as The Firm: compromising my morals in order to earn the company a buck. I won’t do that. And I’m not born to be a company-to-consumer salesperson. Working long hours for a commission is not my cup of tea.

So, I’ve been applying to some other places, and hopefully I’ll get a call back.

I am so bored with being unemployed. It’s great for a day or two, or even a week, but after that, my existence just feels pointless. Thankfully I’ve been keeping myself busy with studying Spanish - ‘cos, let’s face it, having had seven years of the language, it would be a waste for me to just forget it all - and for the life and health insurance exam, which perhaps could give me an extra edge over other potential candidates, if only because more certifications makes it look as though I’m more qualified to do stuff. Ha. That’s the hope.

Wish me luck. It’s a slow process.

I’m hoping against hope that I charmed the CEO of the aforementioned firm at which I had my second callback last week. He was young, probably in his mid-thirties, and struck me as being kind of geeky in an endearing way. Anyway, I’ll hear back on Monday, when he and the senior project manager get back from Colombia. Ack. Please please please please please.

Also, today I’m going to start moving some of my piles of crap over to the new apartment. I don’t really know where to begin, but I assume I’ll just fill a couple large garbage bags and toss them into the backseat. It seems less of a hassle that way.

This rain needs to stop. I’m tired of dark days.

Well, hey there! It’s been awhile.

I started my insurance course last week, dreading it, really, because one of the girls at work said it was so dull, she required a six-pack of Red Bull every day to keep going. I don’t do dull well. Anyway, I wandered into class at eight in the morning last Monday and found a room full of people of every age, most of whom were dressed in suits. By Tuesday, everyone was in jeans, including the funny Dutch man I befriended who decided that jeans weren’t the epitome of Americans, but cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts and SUVs were. I guess that works too. Our teacher has been working in insurance since the beginning of time (read: the 1970s) and knew his stuff extremely well. As for a description … well, as one student in class aptly put it, he reminded us of “a cross between Dan Ackroyd, Chris Farley, and the dad from American Pie, the first two only coming out when [he gets] excited.” Let’s just say he was eccentric, and from that, the class became pretty entertaining, one to which I looked forward with great anticipation save for the ungodly early starting hour.

Some of Mr. Insurance Man’s notable quotables include:

• “The harder I work, the more luck I have.”
• “I feel that people who are attractive to me are somewhat weird. My wife agrees.”
• “Don’t be fooled by the size.” Response from the token wiseass in the class: “That’s what I always say!”
• “I’m coming to the conclusion that my hands are rather small for a guy.”
• “I used to hate art class. Now, that could be either a skirt or a kilt. It’s androgynous hieroglyphics!”
• “When life gives me lemons, I add salt and tequila.”

His extensive experience also offered us some interesting - and, sometimes, downright depressing - real-life anecdotes, including one about a terminally ill cancer patient that rather made me lose my faith in the American government, erm, more so than before.

Class ended today at twelve-thirty - sad, as I’m going to miss my smoking buddies - and I took it upon myself to drive to Ghettoville, NJ (also known as Carteret, no offense to those of you who may live there) in an effort to finally collect the ‘personal effects’ that were left in my shell of a car from the salvage yard there. I can honestly say my eyes filled with tears when I saw it. Yeah, I’m a sap, but that car was my baby. I was too attached to it. I had exactly the same reaction when I dropped my phone, which had an Elvis faceplate, in the toilet. Anyway, I’d never really understood the meaning of stripped. I’m still confused as to the thieves’ motives. Everything under the hood was intact, all the engine bits that are always missing from stolen cars in movies. But … the car really was literally a shell. Everything had been torn out, from the rearview mirror (which I found under a map) to the seats to the floorboard of the trunk. Actually, you could see the dashboard from the trunk. There was nothing there, save for what I’d left (minus the case of Corona … yet another reason to fume).

For those of you who do not appreciate excessive language, please skip the following sentence.

Fucking asswiping jackass motherfucker cocksuckers, ooh man, if I could find you and castrate you before feeding your tiny dicks to your mothers …

Thank you for indulging me.

It was good to get most of my stuff back. They didn’t touch the CDs, the books (they probably wouldn’t be able to read them anyway), the clothes, two pitchers my friends and I had swiped from a bar long ago, blow-up decorative Budweiser bottles, both sets of license plates (VA and NJ), or even the two tampons in the glove compartment. Well, let’s be honest, a girl’s got to be prepared at all times, right?

Right.

Speaking of which, I’m late. That boggles the mind. Immaculate conception, anyone?

Before this thing gets any longer, I’m going to go soak in the tub and read over my notes for tomorrow’s test. Hitting the Series 66 again, baby! Ooh, the excitement.

Six and a half hours a day in a classroom (technically it’s eight, but this is taking into account breaks, lunch, and general administrative duties) is not conducive to reliable, daily posts in a blog, so for that I apologize.

I’m quite enjoying the insurance course, actually. The material’s pretty interesting. There are over thirty of us, ranging in age from 23 (yeah, so far as I can tell, some other guy with one of those cow ring things in his nose and I are the young’uns of the group) to probably sixty something, from all over the world (I’ve counted a Russian, a Frenchman, and a German so far). Many of the guys are ex-military, some serving as far back as ‘Nam (my smoking buddy) to Iraq (a seven-foot-tall behemoth). Anyway. Diverse group. The teacher, Mr. W, is a riot and very good at what he does, which makes sense because he was in the insurance business for over thirty years before taking over this class in the mid-’90s.

It’s wonderful to get out at four, before rush hour clogs the roads and causes it to take an hour to go two miles near my house, and I figured this would give me ample opportunity to head on down to Cartaret to - finally! - see my car and grab any personal effects that are left, of which I’ve been told there are quite a few. But no. The place shuts at four-thirty, and it’s at least four exits down the Turnpike, so there is no way I’d ever make it. I’ll have to wait until this class ends next week, I guess.

I finally got my estimate, though! USAA is going to give me $3299, over seven hundred dollars more than I read in an online version of the Blue Book. Wicked. I don’t know when I’ll manage to go out looking for a new car, but it should be soon. I can’t hold Meg’s car hostage forever.

Speaking of Meg, we drove down to Virginia late Friday night for the weekend. Her family reunion, dad’s side, was to be held on Sunday in Maryland, so I figured this was a good excuse for me to pop round and visit my aunt and uncle while they’re in town (she lives in California and has an open-ended ticket, so she could realistically be around forever, but he lives in Vietnam and is heading off in about two weeks, and understandably I don’t get to see him very often). I also had the opportunity to chat with my mom about my future - yes, again - and it went really well. She’s being extremely supportive and enthusiastic.

I figured, per tradition, we’d meet up with Erica at TGI Friday’s on Saturday night for a beer and a chat. The conversations leading up to the actual event left much to be desired, as Meg and I got into a bit of a fight. Basically, she was upset with me because I was planning to have a beer at Friday’s and then head home; yes, in my car. Personally, I think they set the drinking and driving limit as they do so as to allow someone the freedom of having a quiet drink with a friend, and therefore have little problem with it, but Meg is very passionate about such a thing. Anyway, Erica offered to drive, bless her, so I got my beer and everyone was happy.

And then we went out to DC to see Dom. I don’t really understand how that happened, but we got to Corey’s apartment in Foggy Bottom at about one in the morning and hung out for awhile, drinking extraordinarily sweet concoctions brewed by a very inebriated Dom and listening to an eclectic mix of dance, rap, and showtunes.

The next day it took us quite a while to get down to Meg’s family reunion (extenuating circumstances included a 3-year-old, a mom playing hostess, a reckless driving ticket involving a state trooper who obviously hasn’t been laid in a few years, and a fat redneck woman - not the cool “I keep my Christmas lights on the front porch all year long” kind - who decided that her week’s amusement was to keep us from passing her on Route 5), but ultimately I decided that her family is lovely, though I’m still extremely sore from playing baseball and soccer with her 3.2 million first, second, and third cousins, most of whom were approximately 3 foot 9 inches tall and far superior to me in athleticism.

This heat is destroying me. One and a half weeks until London, baby! I’m just going to forget the fact that I have two tests next week. Mmmmm … gone. Excellent.

PS, I’m very happy that Italy won the World Cup (woot!), but I wouldn’t have been too upset had France been the victor. But Zidane - really? A red card in your last game ever? Clever publicity stunt. No one was expecting that.

I was chatting with Chris, the new middle-aged trainee here at the Firm, about licensing and all that jazz. They’ve apparently ceased giving out study manuals for the Series 7, relying solely on guides posted on the Firm’s network, an act which Chris finds rather unfortunate. It’s difficult enough, and unhealthy enough for the eyes, to stare at a computer screen for an hour and a half while taking a practice exam, much less dedicating eight hours a day to reading small fonts. Anyway, I offered to bring in my five-inch binder of Series 7 wonderment tomorrow for him to use. I’m pretty much through with it, anyway.

Chris also pointed out the fact that I’ve now got a gold nameplate next to my little cubicle office thingy, advertising me as an official Financial Adviser. Sweet! Now I just need some business cards and I’ll be set. Oh, and some clients would do me well, too, but I can wait on that until I’ve gotten all of my necessary qualifications. And more power suits. The nameplate has definitely made my day, though. It’s hot.

On Monday I’m to start a ‘life, health, and variable’ insurance course over in Fairfield. It’s the only qualification I’m to get that is not proctored under the guise of the Firm, though of course they’re paying for it. So, from eight to four every day for the next week and a half, I’ll be learning about insurance stuff. One of the girls here says it’s extremely dry, but that’s to be expected. I think it’ll be good for me, though. And it’s a change of scene, which is oh-so-necessary once in awhile for a Gemini like me.

And in two weeks and one day, Meg and I will be going to London, baby! Actually, we’re going up to Scotland for the first weekend, definitely making a stop at my alma mater and maybe even some of the cheesy, local, but wonderful clubs of Dundee where I spent many a Boozeday Tuesday. It’ll be tight. Surreal, but a good time, I’m sure. And for the rest of the week, we’ll be hanging in London with some of my closest friends from university. Man. I am so excited for a vacation!