  Every Job But Blow... Monday Morning: Temp for CEO and Senior Vice President of Big Insurance Firm. Free coffee, Diet Coke, and one of my best friends is an AVP, so we have mini-gossipfests. Get call from Temp Agency begging to work for them this afternoon. Monday Afternoon: Temp for snotty lawyer chick at Big Law Firm. Good coffee and great views. Plus fast internet. Incredibly hot lawyer sits two offices down, but I suspect he might call me "sir" (in that bad, respect for elders kinda way) so I avoid him. Monday Night: Tend bar for shouldn't-quite-be-open-but-is-anyway queer bar where I may or may not be managing soon. Get visits from friends and glamorous, but all the free coffee has worn off and Apple Pucker has no restorative powers.
Quiet enough that one can visit with friends, including urlLink Genius Roommie . Get home at 4:40 Tuesday Morning: Temp at different Big Law Firm for hunky, wooly-headed attorney who has no work for me but stares at me every time he passes my desk to go to the men's room every half hour (either he thinks I'm cute and wants me to follow him, or he's doing bumps and he's paranoid, or he's got an eating disorder and wonders if I have TicTacs). Free coffee and, more importantly, free Diet Coke at this firm. Very close proximity to an Au Bon Pain. Tuesday Night: Reasonable walk for Dexter, think about going to gym, then fall fast asleep with the tv on. Wednesday Morning: Back to Big Law Firm. City is quiet and train is rabble-free. Avail myself of Au Bon Pain morning treat and proceed to what I imagine will be a quiet, pre-turkey day.
I mis-imagine. I'm working for an over-achieving, entirely lesbian real estate department. Busy, but the lesbians enjoy my humor and ply me with Diet Coke (which is free anyway). Midday I learn, via the New York Post, that an urlLink old friend of mine is marrying Tori Spelling . Wish I'd thought of it. Late afternoon get call from bar I've been waiting to work for asking me to fill-in.
I agree to be there at 10pm. Wednesday Night: Bad news first: I'm not behind the bar, I'm doing coat check. Good news: It's cold. End up making great money, with my roommate the illustrious urlLink Aaron Elvis at the decks and various, flirty hotties roaming the bar. We take the A train home around 4:30am, about the time Jon Jordan is getting up to make urlLink Harvey look pretty for America. Thursday: Drag my sorry, tired ass out of bed and down to Jon and Joe's to start cooking while Jon is uptown taking care of Harvey who is not, NOT Mrs. Santa Claus, but Edna Turnblad dressed as Mrs. Claus. He still makes quite the media flap and even ends up on the cover of urlLink The New York Times . Since he was nice to Jon today, we applaud him. Dinner is traditional and, while I'm worked like a scullery maid, I still manage to down a couple of Stoli Raspberry, Apple Pucker & Tonics and not get weepy about being home for Thanksgiving. As any good faggot knows, " urlLink I'll Cry Tomorrow . " I pass out on the sofa until I can manage to down a couple more large spoonfuls of corn pudding and head home to dog and bed.
Friday Night: One of my weirdest bartending experiences yet: I subbed at Siberia. This deserves it's own entry someday. But I make money and survive. Saturday Night: I sub again at Dorothy's, the not-quite-ready-to-open-but-open anyway bar where I filled-in on Monday. Still no running water, still no ice machine, still no heat. There was no bank, so I called the owners who turned up with a little cash, part of which I had to use (illegally) to buy alcohol, because there wasn't much.
I try to send my barback, who informs me he can't buy liquor because he's only 19. Cute. Actually, 19 year olds aren't that cute, they're just 19. So I go out and buy a couple of bottles of liquor, only to come back and find the barback serving drinks. This is bad. The night just keeps spiraling downward, including a fight between two sexually and geographically ambiguous individuals who've wandered over from Port Authority, and a lot of in-bar smoking and cocain abuse (mostly from the owners). I realize this is not a bar where a Virgo would be happy and I vow not to return. My week was full and rich, rich and full. Now where, exactly, did I leave my real life? 
