Me: Andrews Air Force Base is near D.C. right?
WK: I’d live in D.C.
Me: Yeah, me too. (looking lovingly at Hubs and in my best coo), I’d live anywhere with you, even Singapore (another story) or (looking at WK) in Dubai.
WK: Yeah, Dubai!
Me: Dubai would be hawt! (to WK, who’s groaning) You know that was funny!
I don’t often speak about Hubs here and especially not about what his job is… a decision he is fully behind. I can’t even truly explain what he does at this job. Not so much because of privacy issues, but because I really don’t know. I have a passing understanding, but couldn’t go into any credible account of what he does.
The one thing I can say is that because his job is very specialized and only performed in limited areas, if he were to change employers, it would mean a move, a significant move for our family.
(No, we aren’t considering a move any time soon.)
When the Big Guy and I got married, even before that, I knew once we said our ‘I dos’ it would give full meaning to ‘cleaving’ to my spouse. Immediately, and I mean immediately, after our honeymoon we moved 100s of miles away from my family, away from the tiny town I had lived in and near most of my life.
I did it without reservation, without looking back. It was where he needed to be, what I needed to do, and that was all there was to it. When we moved to Florida 10 years later, again 100s of miles further away from family and friends, there was no reluctance.
In the intervening years, when he’s had a particularly shitastic day on the job, or some Apocalyptic Wind/Rain storm is bearing down on us, Hubs would taunt me about moving. Not moving to any other domestic location where he could practice his craft, but to exotic lands like Southeast Asia or United Arab Emirates.
If our children were younger, I’d jump on that cruise ship, no problem! Any reluctance to move now is based on what is workable for our kids, not any objection I’d have to relocating.
I’ve never been someone who fought moving, or felt it was nearly the end of my world when I did. I missed my family and friends, but relished the idea of starting fresh, finding new adventures.
High school friends were adamant about going to college close enough they didn’t have to leave their family home. I applied to schools that weren’t just miles away, but STATES away. When that didn’t work out for me ~ out-of-state tuition, even in the dark ages, was crazy expensive ~ I worked as much as I could to raise enough money to pay for my own dorm room. I did not want to live at home while going to college.
In college I was stunned by how many classmates still did not want to explore the world, to go beyond our city limits or state lines.
I do understand why some people, once established in jobs and with families of their own, wouldn’t want to move from where they’ve lived for so many years. I’m not judging. But for me, it’s never been an issue. Even today, if I could be assured of excellent medical care for WK, and that JM was established on her own and happy, I’d move anywhere with Hubs… anywhere.
I knew it was coming, even expected it to happen sooner than it did, but here it is… I’m getting all pissy about being home ~ most days by myself ~ and being expected to be all Suzy Homemaker.
Sure, other than major decluttering projects like reorganizing the pantry, or sorting through the cabinets for overstocked cans of green beans, and pulling old, frayed towels out of the hall closet, I don’t have much to do around here.
But, damn would it kill people to pick up their folded clothes off the couch? Do I have to deliver the freshly laundered stacks too?
Doesn’t anyone else know how to shovel cat poop out of a litter box, or open a door to let out two pee deprived dogs?
Seriously, if I have to pick another dinner menu I. will. scream. I don’t know what you people want to eat cuz you won’t tell me, even when I ask! I could use a little help here! Telling me ‘I don’t care, anything…’ is not helping! The threat of Brussels sprouts and liver is not idle. I need to just fix what I want to eat, if they’re hungry enough they won’t starve.
Granted Hubs has been good about occasionally clearing the dirties away after dinner, and I don’t even have to ask. Gawd, I hate loading the dishwasher with food-caked plates. And, he will bring in baskets of clothes for me to fold ~ gee thanks, hon.
Before you label me a whiner, it’s not that I’m complaining about the work. It has to be done. It’s the expectation that it’s all mine to do. That just because I’m here, these tasks, these same jobs that needed doing when I was working outside the home, are now my sole responsibility when they were, more or less, shared before.
I would like the chance to do something I find enjoyable without having to also endure stink eyes and all that huffing because the dishes are still in the sink or a load of clothes is cooling off in the dryer. If you don’t have clean underwear that’s your problem for not taking it to the laundry room. Start a load yourself!
Oh yeah, get up and get your own damn glass of water, your legs ain’t broke!
Why is it that nothing can be easy?
I filled out the paperwork for unemployment benefits only to find out I still had to wait two weeks before I could get the application certified, AND I’ll have to continue checking in every two weeks for the duration of my eligibility. The online certification process was screwed up, and going through the voice option on the telephone was about as much fun as a root canal without pain killers.
Okay fine! No, I did not work during the past two weeks and no, I did not subsequently get a salary of any kind. No, I did not turn down any referrals (didn’t get any, but whatev…). Yes, I am looking for employment. No, I don’t think my life could suck any more than it. does. right. now.
This whole job interview thing is weirding me out. I don’t like interviews… the questions are freakin’ ridiculous. I’m always afraid I’ll say something stupid or volunteer too much information and admit some past indiscretion. The inane small talk drives me crazy. I’m constantly fighting with my inner bitch to not scream ’shut up!’ halfway into the conversation.
What are your strengths? I make a mean cup of java, and know how to use a dictionary and thesaurus.
What are your weaknesses? I will absolutely swoon over anyone who will buy me lunch. If you nibble on my neck I’ll even collate and staple for you.
Where do you see yourself in five, ten years? Who the hell knows! I don’t know what my future is five minutes from now.
What interested you in our company? I like the soap in the women’s restroom. It smells purty.
Job searches are too much like dating. You get all prettied up, maybe buy a few new outfits. You may even get your nails done and your hair did, not forgetting the caterpillar eyebrow. Brush your teeth, floss, rinse, repeat. Perhaps go for broke and take care of those furry legs and pits. Neglecting the little things can be a deal breaker.
You’re all nervous and giddy during that first meeting. You want to appear interested but not desperate, be engaging without dominating the conversation (… unless you like that… dominating, I mean. That could be one of my strengths, if you want it to be.) You feel like you have to laugh at all those silly jokes, then are afraid your laugh is verging on hysteria. (I hope I don’t snort…)
Are my palms all sweaty? How can I wipe them off before having to shake hands without being too obvious? Is there a bright red smudge of lipstick on my teeth? Should I not smile so much?
And, gawd, whatever you do, DO NOT mention you have a blog, pure death knell.
Damn, I don’t want to do this again. By now I should be the office matriarch scaring the bejeezus out of the pimply faced newbies, not the entry-level geek always trying to prove myself.
What I need is an Internet Employment Service that will match me with my perfect job based on a 47-point compatibility questionnaire.
I know there are people reading my blog who, if the truth be told, I really wished didn’t. (don’t worry D, it’s not you.)
And, I know there are harmless lurkers… I can spot you every now and then.
But, there are also stalkers. People hanging around to, I don’t know, find out stuff I would rather they didn’t.
That is all my fault. I was under the mistaken impression that what I write here, is mine and mine alone. That I am free to be as free with my thoughts as I want. But, the Internet being what it is, that is a false sense of security.
But the thing is, this is my PERSONAL blog. My place to record what is going on in my life, the good things, the not so good things, the rants and raves, the thanks and the oh shits. A place where I can drop the f-bomb at will, without so much as a raised eyebrow. Where I can get out my pent up frustrations and not take it out on my peeps. Kinda of my do-it-yourself therapy.
Still, there is that nagging little itch, that freakish feeling that someone is watching that takes some of the fun out of it. That needling awareness that I should be reserved, if only a smidge, with what I write here. That my rants can’t be as full-voiced as I would like, I can’t let loose with that cathartic, primal scream that would shatter windows and cleanse the soul.
There is the possibility of going to another site, but then I would have to start all over. I’ve been doing this for two years, it would be tough to do that again. I could change names and move to another address, but there’s a lot of baggage around here. Who’s with me?! Anyone got a truck I could borrow some weekend?
I know other bloggers who moved, and their stalkers followed them. Not good. If I did change entirely, to disappear, reincarnating IMSO by another name, could these shadow people follow me too? Could I, knowing now what I wished I had known then, remain anonymous?
I may eventually decide to go private, to only let a select few into my personal space. To always know exactly who has access to my words. If that is my final destination, when I close that outside door, when/if I do create that inner sanctum… then all hell is going to break loose.
Then again, I could just ignore the haters. Go about my business in blissful abandon. Saying what I want, how I want, without regard for the spiteful wraiths hiding in the shadows. If they don’t like what they see, disagree with my words, are irked by the truths they want to turn a blind eye to, then they can just leave… this isn’t about them anyway.
Yeah! That ’s right! The Boy is now a licensed driver in the State of Florida with all the rights and privileges afforded said drivers. Well… all the rights and privileges offered by the sovereign nation state of Mom/Dad anyway.
There are still curfews, still occupancy limits, and territory boundaries. Tracking software to install, surveillance satellites to launch, boots to attach to wheels… so much to do, so much to do!
Mayhap knowing that he will be motoring to class in his own car, The Boy will spring from bed in the morning without my constant nagging. One can only hope.
I do know that I will be making up bogus shopping lists to send him on errands to the grocery… milk, eggs, butter, ice cream, Snicker Bars… the possibilities are endless!
Because he already had his permit, the writing portion of the test was waived. The driving part, taken in his own 1990 Plymouth Laser, was no big thang. Took all of 10 minutes of driving around a bunch of neon orange cones.
Hubs was more nervous than WK was. Couldn’t even wait around to watch, dad had occupy himself at a nearby store so he wouldn’t be too anxious. I was oblivious, staying at work until the deed was done. I did have to text WK my own ‘good luck’ wishes.
WK is giddy happy, dancing in the living room. Antsy to get out for an extended drive by himself. His first solo trip is to pick up two medium bacon and sausage pizzas.
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If only I could store away all the mistakes of my life into little jars, set them on a high shelf and never think of them again. Maybe taking them down every so often, dusting off the grime that coats them, and shaking them to make sure my secrets are still securely hidden away.
If I was feeling brave, I could pop the cork, pour them out and pick through them. Poking a finger here and there, marveling at how tiny some mistakes are and worrying that the bigger ones won’t fit back into their crude clay urns. Mildly surprised to count so many duplicates.
Should I bury my mistakes deep in the soil, leaving them to be unearthed by future generations with no instructions, no explanations, like my own personal Pandora’s Box. I could display them in a glass cabinet for all the world to see, a macabre museum exhibit, making others pay the cost for my wrongs.
Should I forget these errors, my imprefections? Or, do I need to leave the jars open so the contents don’t spoil and begin to reek? Can I forgive, if not forget? Are these then to be shared, compared to those of my friends and family. How alike are we, how different? I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.
Filling expensive crystal vials instead, are my mistakes elegant perfumes and rouge, transforming me into who I’ve become, coloring my cheeks with tinges of red and my eyes alluring mauves and taupe, leaving spider filament of silver running through my hair. Not to be flaunted, but cherished as only fine possessions should be.
Today all my little jars, filled to brimming, are lined up neatly upon the fireplace mantle. In the morning, I may find that the cat has knocked each one over, cracking the hard clay pots, as my mistakes ooze and seep into the dry wood.
It’s that time again… time for me to change up stuff around here. How’dya like that new header?
Pretty fancy-smancy! WK helped me put that together. (Hubs helped with the sizing). I think he did an outstanding job. If I ask him really nice, he might hire out.
Changed out the colors for a more fall look too. I think it’s kinda peaceful.
The Ferris Wheel is a photo I took at the Navy Pier while in Chicago in July. The full sized version was featured earlier this month at Photo Bliss and can be seen in my Flickr Photostream. (I’m way behind in updating the photos there, so I apologize if you’ve already seen most of those. I’ve been lacking motivation lately, but I’ll get to it.)
You may also notice that I changed (again!) my blog comment’s and Twitter avatar. I was getting really tired of seeing that out-of-focus, crossed-eyed pic. So, instead you still get a real photo of me, only one when I was a cute, little blonde imp. (yes, I did say imp… shut up!) WK stuck the photo up in the header too, so if you jump out of your Reader you can see for yourself. (“Oh, yeah… that’s who that is. I wish she’d make up her stinkin’ mind on these avatars.”)
I’ve also cleaned out my sidebar a little. Nothing major, just some tidying up.
So, do you think The Boy has a future in header design?
With this one I am to divulge 10 ‘honest’ things about myself that, hitherto fore, were unknown. It took me a while to come up with this list. Apparently I have already shared way too much about myself at this blog. I had to drag the bottom of the well for this trivia… (it will also be the last one of these I do forever awhile, since anything else I could possibly share would cause me to go into recluse mode and never show my face again in public.)
- I weigh 20 pounds more now than at my top preggers weight, it pisses me off, but I really like having big bewbs. I honestly don’t know if I would rather be a size 10 again if I had to give up the size Ds.
- I hate for anyone to touch my face. Not sure where that comes from, but I will bite you if you try.
- I have always wanted to have someone do a Tarot reading for me, but am afraid of what it would tell me.
- If I thought I could make a reasonable income from my photography and/or the jewelry I make, I would quit my day job in a heartbeat.
- I keep making noise that I want a second tat, have even found a quote I want inked around my existing Celtic Love knot, but have been reluctant because I’m not 100% certain it says what I want it to say cuz it’s in Gaelic. If anyone can verify the translation to this please leave a comment, so I know it doesn’t really say ‘stupid American b’otch!’
An rud nach maraíonn mé, neartaíonn sé mé
Yeah, I know that’s only five, but really, I’m stumped. I have nothing else I can or want to admit about myself.
Remember me telling you about this kid? The teenaged son of…. a good friend of mine, yes, a friend of mine.
And how this kid maybe, just maybe mind you, maybe went back to school this week. Being that classes started on Monday and all, And, how this may have been a really big deal, because this kid, my friend’s son, may not have been able to attend school for a long time before this.
Well, this kid and all the significant adults making significant decisions with him, thought going back to school was a good idea and that Monday was as good a time as any to try.
And, try he did. This kid got up at the Buttcrack O’Dawn to go to school since classes started at Seven O’Dark in the morning. And he went to classes, classes he had abandoned more than six months ago. And it was hard.
Not because he was scared, or anxious or couldn’t do the work, but because he had got out of practice.
“It was damn hard, Mom.” But, this kid was too nice to talk like that to his mother, so he just thought this, out loud.
And the homework. The OH.MY.GOD. homework had to be done. That first night was a struggle and the boy and I my friend fell back into their old habits of avoidance and parental meltdowns.
That was until a very wise woman bitch slapped the mom for being such a colossal putz, telling her to chill the hell out and let him do this on his own. Succeed or fail, it was his to do.
After that, evening homework was no big thang and done without prompting, without tear, without gnashing of teeth.. and all was good.
Until Friday afternoon when I my friend had to check the kid’s grades online to see if he was indeed doing all his homework, classroom work, et cetera, et cetera.
It must be said that in a previous time, whenever the mom had to do this she would become, literally, physically ill. To the point that the colors blue and red ~ the font colors used to show missing grades and assignments ~ could cause her to throw up a little in her mouth, just a little.
But, because she loves her son, and because he faced down his homework and did what he had to do, this was her burden to bear.
Typing in her son’s student ID and password, those dreaded text tables appeared….
And it was good… and she could take her hand from her mouth, and unclench her fists, and breathe a sigh of relief.
There is still that fear of another shoe dropping, of all of this being too good to be true, of jinxing what some may call hopefulness. But for now, my friend is so very proud of her son.
And he is a little proud of himself.