Rapeshacks and rodeos: a review of the East Bay

Contrary to the title of this blog, it wasn't all that bad.

I went to the wedding of my dear friend Roze this past weekend. In Pleasanton, one of those vapid suburbs of the Bay Area that is so unlike SF itself that you wonder how it can be associated with it. But I went with M-Sen, and while it took us a good thirty minutes to get out of the city proper, we fun times criticizing the vast green hills, mega churches, trucks towing livestock, anti-liberal bumper sticks, and yes--the rapeshacks situated atop grassy hills and rodeos advertised along the way.

Roze was beaming and happy--a state I soon found myself in courtesy of the open bar. We had good times with the Russians, stayed the night at the Sheraton, and booked it the hell back home at the cusp of check out time. My heart rate finally slowed to a normal rate once I spotted the Transamerica Pyramid.

The day I got back also happened to coincide with the move out date of Hanna. On the surface and in truth, I've been supportive of her transition and wish her the best. (We're going out for her bday dinner this Friday, in fact.) But it has also put a wrench in my carefully woven financial plans for this year.

So instead of letting things sit as they are, I've put my ass on Linked In, and started looking for a new job. Or, to be honest, a job that will pay me more so I can renegotiate my current salary. Which seems like a rather dastardly tactic, especially given how good I have it and how great my boss is and how terrific my retirement and paid time off is...but, one must look out for oneself. I've had two bites, and will be exploring them. Sue me.

In addition, I met up with Tifferbee Friday night at L'End Up, wherein she had much news to tell me. She'd gotten a part time job at a law office that fit perfectly around her school schedule. However, her new living situation had proven less promising. I opened up that I had a free room, but reiterated several times through the Grey Goose cosmos that it would break my heart if we heralded strife as roommates and our friendship suffered as a result. She suggested marriage-type counseling, as I recall. But we agreed to review the sitch under more sober circumstances at a later time. That may mean the extra rent is taken care of with the bonus of an amiga in house, and, if things go as hoped with the fake job hunt, an additional bump there.

I don't if things will all pan out quite so conveniently. But we'll see. I feel like fucking Scrooge McDuck or something.