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Just got this from the Back Bay Chorale list and thought I'd pass it on.

Hi All,

My company is currently looking for 4-5 Administrative Assistants-of varying experience. While we have a ton of resumes coming in, we are not really finding what we are looking for.

If you are looking, or know of anyone who is, visit and check the job postings for Mass. We only have two of the jobs listed at the moment, but they are pretty similar.

The ones you see listed are at Children's Hospital and MIT-there is also one at Harvard and another at Children's. Our benefits are amazing.

Please forward your resume to me at if interested.
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Western Union, my bank, and the strength of my heart.


Long walks that end at Crate & Barrel. Watching jewelry form from a designer's brain. Motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane.


Camp Burgess, which is just so damned beautiful. Having amazing friends to talk to when I'm stuck in traffic. Rio's mischievous smile. ("Rio cute!")


Powerful rituals. Even though I'm not entirely sure what I did during it, I know it was deep and hungry work, mainly evidenced by the metric fuckton of food I ate after it.

My coven, and the work we're embarked on. We sat down after rit (when it's usually close to 11pm and we're exhausted), ate at a normal dinnertime, and basically planned out the entire next year. Rock.

Waffles with vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg, crispy bacon, and the awesome people who made them for us.
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I'm building some galleries for a website. Is there an easy way to:

1. Take a bunch of images that you want in a gallery and make them all thumbnail-sized

2. Make those thumbnails clickable so they open a larger image

3. Make a gallery with little arrows so a person can click from one image to the next

4. Create a slideshow in Dreamweaver that does #3 by itself

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So, I looked at VistaPrint. They have a thing where you can upload your own design.

I could make my own design, but I don't have, like, Photoshop or Quark.

Any other suggestions for idiot-proof, preferably free software that will let me do such things?

Also, does vistaprint do black cards? They don't seem to...
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Hey, friends,

I needs me some spiffy bidness cards. With pikchurs 'n' shit. (This was all the fault of me typing "needs" instead of "need" in that sentence.)

Where have you (where you is local Bostonish folk) gotten business cards printed that you were happy with?

Where have you (where you is non-local folk or local folk who have done this online) gotten business cards online that were happy-making?

Is it better to do this in person, or is online just as good?

kitchen_kink: (lost)
Or, Dear LJ Genie,

What's your favorite place to register a domain?
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Hand-laundry done. Plants watered. Gym clothes donned. Breakfast cooked and eaten. First few paragraphs of the first short story I've written in over a year done.

Nine a.m. I could get used to this.
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The buzzer rang yesterday at around 6:30 and I was surprised: our guests weren't due until 7:30 or 8, and [ profile] imlad wasn't yet home. As I trundled downstairs to answer it (our apartment has no way of buzzing people in), I heard the neighbor's buzzer sound as well, and though I could not yet see the visitor, I had some misgivings, though I hoped it would simply be the UPS man uncertain of which doorbell was which.

Instead, I was greeted by a smooth-cheeked, toothy young lady in a red shirt, bearing the DNC logo. She was brandishing a clipboard in my general direction, and was careful to get her entire enthusiastic speech out, all the time looking directly into my eyes, before I could interrupt or say a word other than "hello."

In spite of my natural desire to dismiss her out of hand and shut the door to return to my cooking, I simply couldn't do it. Not because the cause moves me particularly or doesn't - it does, in fact; I want Kerry elected more than I've wanted anything in politics since I wanted Bush not to declare war on Iraq two years ago. It's more because I'm particularly susceptible to young kids earnestly pushing their various fundraising campaigns door-to-door.

Sure, it's hard going up to individual people's houses and bothering them around dinnertime to beg for money, and I sympathize with that. But more to the point, I empathize with that - because I did it for a summer, and man, it's the hardest frickin' job in the world.

I'm not sure how most organizations work, but I know how PIRG and Clean Water Action - two of the most successful environment and other public interest fundraising organizations - operate in terms of their lowest level employees.

Ever see those signs that say, "Work for the Environment! Make $300-$500 a week!" Yeah, I answered that ad once. And ended up working for the New Jersey Environmental Federation, an inveterate group of young wiseguys and older, earnest types who spend their time between 4 pm and 9 pm going door-to-door in various neighborhoods, spreading the word about one disaster or another (poisonous insecticides on your kids' schoolgrounds, mercury in your fish) that we're attempting to pass a resolution or law to prevent, reverse or correct. All you have to do is give us some money.

If it matters to you, and if such people have come to your door in the past, you should know that half of that money (with taxes taken out first, of course) goes into that little college student's pocket, which, for the hot (or cold), potentially dangerous, humiliating, demoralizing nature of the work, seems to me to be far less than their fair share. The rest of it goes to fund their lobbying groups and keep operations up. The people who run these things are nonprofit warriors to a man or woman, dedicated, honest, and working in lousy office conditions. We drove to our locations in beat-up Econolines. We practiced our "raps" to each other, the enthusiastic speech I mentioned earlier, over the bumps in the road and the loud engine. We had a whole vocabulary, a parlance of door-to-door fundraising, starting with the word "canvassing." People in houses were known as "doors," as in, "I had this one door tonight that let me in the house and invited me to dinner!" Once you had your door's attention, you made sure to keep their eyes as you delivered your rap, and to clip them - get your clipboard into their hands - as early as possible, without letting them look at it until you were done talking. That attitude of sunny rapport, and the pushiness and lack of change in expression when you tell them, again and again, that you simply can't give right now, that you gave at the office, that you can't afford the $25 "membership" level donation - that's called "assuming support." "That's okay," you probably hear those kids say over and over when you insist that you can't afford it, "folks are just giving five or ten dollars." Assume support. Go to every door imagining that this person is already on your side, already reaching for their checkbook. In our case, we had weird numbers, to be fun and also to get checks instead of cash, to get addresses: $6, $12, $25, $60. A $60 giver was called a sustainer, and boy were they ever, in making up half of your quota for the night. The desperation with which the fundraiser will finally just ask if you can pitch in a couple bucks became known, thanks to a hilarious, extremely bright surfer boy called John Hogan, as the "buckertwo." Once he steamrolled over a door's noisy objections to his very presence by insistently chanting, "Buck-or-two-buck-or-two buckertwobuckertwobuckertwo buck - er - two!" He later became so disenchanted with the job that he replaced our field manager's common exhortation "Make it happen" with "Let it happen."

I had a lot of highs, a lot of failures, and a lot of stories from that job. Someday they'll become a short story, I think. In any case, now, whenever one of those people come to the door, whatever their cause, with their little clipboards and their hopeful faces and endless positivity, I smile back. I grade them on their technique. Sometimes I even give a contribution. Because that's their job, and I know what that job is like. It sucks. And if you don't make your quota, you get fired.

But yesterday, I didn't. I went back into my comfortable house, back to my cooking, after she insisted three times and I, like Peter, three times denied her. Maybe I'm getting a bit hard in my old age.
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Here I go again.

Next week, on Friday, I'll be flying off to Seattle. I'll be back the following Wednesday. Thus, for those four weekdays, I need someone to walk Roses, meek and sweet hound-companion to [ profile] lyonesse.

It's $10 for a half-hour walk, and can be done between 4 and 6 or so in the late afternoon.

I'm a trifle desperate at this point, since my regular avenues have fallen, help?

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Hi, all,

Once again, I have to miss a dog-walking date.

This coming Friday, [ profile] lyonesse's lovely pooch, Roses, needs to be walked sometime between 4-6 pm. The pay is $10; the dog is as easy as pie to handle.

[ profile] water_childe will have the key and will be doing the job Tuesday through Thursday while I'm away; she might be able to do Friday, but likely not. You'd need to get the key from her.

Any takers for a quick buck?
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I hate transcribing.

I'm using the word 'hate.' About transcribing.

That is all.
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I've taken a gig walking a dog five days a week, for half an hour sometime between 4 and 6 in the afternoon. Said dog is near Ball Square in Somerville.

This Thursday I won't be able to do it, and I'm seeking a backup. It's possible that it'll extend to Friday.

It's $10 a walk, for half an hour exercising with a doggie.

Any takers?

It'd be great, too, if I could get someone who'd be a regular backup when I need to be away.



Sep. 19th, 2003 10:53 pm
kitchen_kink: (Default)

Today: Got two emails back from profs who are willing to have coffee with me and talk about "the writing life." Had dinner with an awesome woman with lots of good ideas of how I could make money, starting by paying me to edit her writing. :)

Edited said woman's writing.

Wrote 574 words of the novel. Suck. Still, better than zero.

Looked at more Craigslist stuff.

Oh, and talked to a guy who's doing this performance art thing at MIT. Really, really cool guy. Very arty-deep. I'm looking forward to meeting him.

Also, an idea to pitch to [ profile] ladytabitha. Heh.
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Friday's Word count: about 1410. Not too shabby, not so good, either. Still, some new material.
Monday's Word count: about 130. Pathetic. But I then went and rearranged some stuff, and shifted a section of the book I wrote years ago into present tense so it would fit into the new narrative. Edited it some, too. Damn, I was even more wordy back then.
Today's Word Count: 2610. Rock. Ten pages of a chapter I've been meaning to write for a while, plus it makes clearer a character I've been having trouble with. She's a psychiatrist with agoraphobia. Fun, eh? I just figured out the agoraphobia thing the other day, and now I've written some of it. No idea if it works. Don't care. Onward.

Writers' Market tells me that manuscripts should have a 1.5 inch margin on all sides. First I've heard of such a thing, seems excessive, but according to that margin, I now have a 114 page novel.


Off to check out Travel + Leisure's website, then a date with a pretty girl. Woo!
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What do y'all know about what they call event planning, or special events, or event management, or whatever they call it?

I've planned a medium-sized conference and a week's worth of orientation activities, thrown a few parties I've designed that I'm proud of, and think it's one of my talents and one that feeds a very different part of my psyche than writing does (which is good; don't want to drain that energy).

How do I make money at it?

Is there a degree? Can one do it independently (be a party planner, rather than working for some huge convention center or something)? Thoughts? Help? Schmeh?
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Tufts (the university adjacent to my frickin' house) has an opening for a Staff Assistant in the English department. It's 10 months out of the year, full time. Basically admin stuff, but in the English department, and lit/creative writing folks are preferred.

Keeping in mind all the admin stuff I've done in the past: should I apply for this?
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So my temp assignment at the loverly law firm ended, and here I am, on a Monday morning at eight (yes, 8) am, taking part in the same temp agency's Guaranteed Work Program.

The suck is that you show up at 8 am. The bonus is that you kinda hang out, do what you want (thus this journal entry), go out on assignment if they get one for you, and get paid.

Yeah, I can do that.

So as I sit here listening to the Beatles and Dylan pipe through the office, I have a query: What, to you, constitutes a perfect song? My criteria are pretty stiff; though I haven't fully defined them yet, I do know that I've found only three songs (if that) that qualify. What they tend to have in common:

1) They're short
2) They do not have fade-out endings
3) They have poignancy; that is, they skilfully raise emotion in a way that isn't sentimental or cheap

My three that make it? "Eleanor Rigby," by the Beatles; "Ave Verum Corpus" by W. A. Mozart, and "Bookends" by Simon and Garfunkel. (And that last one barely makes the cut, since it very nearly dips into sentimentality.)

To give you an idea of both my taste and my stringent needs for perfection: "Slip Sliding Away" by Paul Simon, despite being an amazing song, falls short because of its inferior fourth verse ("God only knows..."). Simon himself has written that if he had been braver, he would've kept it to just the three (the man, the woman, and the child). "Washing of the Water" by Peter Gabriel moves me terribly, but it spills all over the place with gospelish emoting.

What's your opinion? For me, I think what a perfect song needs most is economy, true emotion, and restraint; as Chekhov said about writing emotion in fiction: keep it cold. "Eleanor Rigby" is probably the saddest song there is, yet there isn't a drop of sentimentality. Tight, buttoned-up violins. Two characters. Three short story-poems for verses. "Ah, look at all the lonely people." Done. Perfection.

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At work, a guy often pops in to pick up and drop off projects for copying. He always has a kind word, but seems to have a cynical edge. Maybe he's gay. He seems like a person too intelligent for what he's doing.

As he's leaving, he says rather conspiratorily, and with a kind of wheedling upturn at the end of each phrase, "Protest. Copley Square. After work."

I say, "Thanks."
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Well, alive, anyway.

For those of you who don't know, I just got back from a week's vacation in Banff. For those of you who don't know what that is, no, it has nothing to do with the X-Men. Banff is a Canadian national park in the Rockies, close to Calgary, the site of the 1988 Winter Olympics. ('88? '84? Actually, I can't remember.)

I don't really have it in me today to begin recapping, but I will be doing somewhat recappy reports of the trip, informed by the more immediate impressions I wrote in my paper journal while there.

For now, I'm happy to be back East. Yesterday morning, the temperature reading on the rear view mirror of the giant SUV we'd rented read -27 C. (That's, like, 72 in dog years.) Today, for the first time in months, I stepped outside without buttoning my jacket. No evidence remains that the so-called blizzard ever happened. (I don't believe in it.)

So today I'm just chillin' at work, getting over some mild jetlaggy feelings, and feelin' pretty good. Not terribly articulate, but good.

I shall return after some sleep.
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A day once dawned,
And it was beautiful.
A day once dawned
From the ground.

And the night she fell,
And the air was beautiful.
The night she fell
All around.

It looks like the snow, which was going like gangbusters not ten minutes ago, has finally abated, and the sun's coming through.

This morning I had the luck to be offered a ride to Kendall by M-----, [ profile] redheadedmuse's paramour. This had multiple effects, the positives far outweighing the one negative, which was that I probably got to work even later than if I had taken public transit.

The more time I spend near M-----, the more I see what a wonderful person he is, and what a wonderfully calming and stabilizing influence he seems to be for [ profile] redheadedmuse. It's beyond good to see someone you care about being treated in a way that makes her happy.

I've also rarely come across someone who creates such comfortable silences, even with someone he doesn't know well. I feel at ease, but never bored, in his presence. In the silence, I watched a spectacle I'd never seen: snow swirling from the sky, slowly set alight by the sun, emerging from the clouds.

I also listened, for the first time, to the wonderful Coffee House on ERS. A new song by Beck, called "Paper Tiger," reminded us alternately of Dead Can Dance and Nick Drake, and some moments later, a Nick Drake song came on.

I felt a peaceful kind of synchronicity in my morning commute, which is more than I can say for the 87, the red line, or the CT2.

So look see the days
The endless colored ways
And go play the game
That you like
For the morning.


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