Ho-kay. So. I sat down in front of my computer with the most brilliant idea for a post I’ve had in ages and it’s gone–my brain completely eighty-sixed it. It’s so aggravating.

What follows is a stream of consciousness mess because that’s where I’m at right now:

Item: chugging orange juice is a BAD PLAN. Especially when I’m only chugging it because there’s just the teensiest bit too much left in the pitcher to fit into the glass I only picked because both the stemless wine glasses are either in use or dirty; these glasses would have been pretty perfect for holding about half my remaining orange juice. But I also wanted to get the pitcher out of the fridge and washed while I was still thinking about it, so chugging it was.

Item: I can’t decide which is more generally annoying, a hair caught in my cleavage or a spot of sticky something-or-other on my phone screen that’s resisting the cleaner I unearthed in my desk drawer.

Item: I’ve made zero progress on the paper I’ve been planning to write for my dad’s birthday/Father’s Day/Christmas/New Year’s present for years. I blame lack of free JSTOR access and work sucking all my motivation.

Item: I can’t seem to finish a non-fiction book lately. That’s sad, because my local library, while nowhere near as good as the one I raided so thoroughly in Greensboro, actually has  pretty decent history and biography sections and I’m tired of getting tired of the books I check out halfway through.

Item: I know there’s a logical reason for the way stacked washer/dryer combos are arranged, but it aggravates me to no end that the flow of the chore itself doesn’t match the logical order of operations. It should go wash-dry-put away from top to bottom, not dry-wash-put away.

…I’m so glad it’s Friday, y’all. You don’t even know.



I Swear I’m Alive

It’s been a long month. 

I went from finally working up the nerve to ask my temp agency for a new placement to going permanent at the same company I’ve been at for more than a year, because it pays pretty well all things considered and has neither given me an ulcer nor driven me to more than a few fingers of actual liquor in one sitting—at least not so far. I’m shooting for another few years to give my résumé some stability, unless it suddenly gets absolutely, intolerably toxic. 

I had the house to myself for a week, which reminded me what I miss and what I definitely don’t miss about living on my own. Pros? Exercising the no-pants PJs option, taking a bath at 3 am without waking the whole house up.  Cons? Too much time alone in my own head, no super-friendly baby smiles when I got home from work. (I also briefly worried that one of my roommates’ cats had either gotten outside or holed up somewhere and died. But it turns out she just sort of forgets to exist when my roommate isn’t here and was probably under a couch the whole time.) 

Walmart stopped carrying the lactase supplements I depend on to keep from having to follow a crazy strict no-dairy diet (I could maybe do it if not for cheese. I really, really missed cheese before I found the supplements). But it turns out it’s okay because Target just started carrying them. 

I’m slowly but surely undoing some really stupid financial decisions from a few years ago; that’s a super-fun story of its own featuring fifty-hour workweeks, several different flavors of debt, and a series of actual sobbing phone calls that led me from North Carolina to Tennessee last year. 

I’m substituting orange juice for wine as my after work drink because that’s just a terrible habit to get into with my particular genetics. I’ve also started logging when I have a glass of something on my wall calendar to get a better grasp on how much and how often. 

I’ve started folding back into myself again for reasons I don’t understand. I could’ve been downstairs learning to play a new table top game tonight, but I had some ice cream while I watched a friend teach my roommates how to play and went up to my room to read for a while before bed, because I get obsessive about my routine when I’m heading into a funk. Ironic that I avoided playing because I didn’t want to be up too late, n’est-ce pas? It’s like watching from outside, hearing the fun being had and knowing I’m more than welcome to sit down and join, but opting to hoard what mental energy I’ve got left after work—never mind that that ish definitely does not have a rollover balance. 

So yeah. It’s been a long month, y’all. 

Sunday mornings on the internet are SO BORING

You know what’s no fun at all? Whipping through every single one of your social media platforms of choice in less than an hour because no one is posting anything on a Sunday morning. Instagram: ten minutes catching up from yesterday’s pictures. Facebook: five (because seriously paring down your follow list really cuts down on how long it takes to keep up with people, especially when you’ve filtered out all the political nonsense posted by much-more-conservative-than-you small town relatives). Tumblr: maybe twenty minutes.

I mean, I get that in the South Sunday is for church and fellowship and Sunday School, but that’s what following people from outside the South is for.

I guess I could be out doing things myself, or posting them, but damn if I want to take time out of my Sunday to actually do things.

Still in big city. Now what? Or: I’m 27–when the hell did THAT happen?

So. Um.

I kind of completely forgot about even having a blog since I graduated.

Two years ago.

2012-2014 has been one long weird stasis episode. I looked for work that fit with either of my degrees; didn’t find anything. All the teaching jobs I came across wanted someone with a PhD in hand, or at the very least someone who was post-Quals. I got kind of desperate by the time summer was over, and for the hell of it went in to put an application in for a front desk job at a hotel I’d never even heard of out by the mall. And I got it.

Fast forward through six months of tossed-in-the-deep-end survival seasoning training and another year and a half of sticking it out from pure, spiteful stubbornness because the front office manager implied in the interview that he didn’t think it’d be worth training someone with a master’s because I’d probably find something better in a month anyway. And I might have, but once the managers figured out that I was at least halfway competent, if not very confident, I got bumped up to full time and earned a reputation as first shift’s flexible pinch-hitter. I only asked for days off when it was really important, which meant that I almost always got what I wanted. Despite that, and making some good work friends, I fucking hated that job. If I’d had more in savings, I can’t even count how many times I wanted to just quit. I am not built for constant face-to-face, how-can-I-kiss-your-ass-today service industry interactions.

It’s gotten better since I’ve moved upstairs to group reservations; lots more time on the phone, but I can always nudge meeting planners to use email instead. Because I have my own desk, extension, voicemail and all that fun stuff. I’ve only been up there four months, so I’m still a deer in headlights, but my new boss is fabulous about answering questions–I did let her know that I’ll probably drive her crazy with them, just like I did my managers downstairs. So far she’s been cool with it. I already know that travel agents are just awful when they get carte blanche, that sports groups are gray hairs waiting to happen, and that school groups–Beta Club has competitive events?!–are going to drive me to drinking hard liquor.

My backup plan should the PhD/teaching thing not work was to work as a docent in a museum. I have a history degree, I have around a year’s experience doing tours at one of the museums in town. I should be good to go. Except I’m not. I have mind-blowingly, soul-crushingly huge loans to pay back; I have bills to pay; I’d like to eventually live in a place that doesn’t require me to use a fan to blow the cool air from my one window unit into the other rooms of my apartment; I’d like to have a new(er) car that actually has functioning AC and fluid reservoirs that aren’t cracked. And I’m trying to get by on less than $20,000 a year. Forget having a family or an actual life with that (And forget asking for a raise; S4S doesn’t do raises. Not merit. Not cost of living. Nada).  Plus, the jobs just aren’t there if you don’t have a museum studies degree and years of unpaid internships under your belt.

I need a new plan. Or even the vague outline of a new plan. Maybe not Doing What I Love, but doing something that needs doing. Except how the hell do I figure THAT out?

House Rules, Pt 4

481. Lucius Malfoy’s cane is not a “pimp cane.”

482. I must never sneak up behind Draco Malfoy and coo, “How’s my Blondie-Bear?”

483. Teaching first years to chorus in unison, “The amazing bouncing ferret!” whenever they hear the name Draco Malfoy is just wrong. Funny, but wrong.

487. I must not sell stories to Rita Skeeter.

489. A ferret is not a proper Christmas gift for Draco Malfoy.

490. Asking Mad-Eye Moody to turn Malfoy back into a ferret so I could keep him as a pet was not appropriate, either.

491. Giving Draco a bowl of ferret pellets with his dinner was not an act of kindness, nor was it funny.

493. No matter how creepy and abandoned some of the towers are, I will not find Johnny Depp with scissors for hands in any of them, and I should just stop hoping.

495. Repeat: Draco and Harry are not secret lovers. Draco and Harry are not secret lovers.

497. I will not tell Ron and Hermione to get a room every time they start fighting, even if they want to.

500. Draco Malfoy does not smell almost subliminally of summer peaches.

501. Bungee jumping off the astronomy tower is against the rules, even if it isn’t written anywhere.

502. Changing the location does not make it appropriate.

503. No matter how much money I make.

504. Murmuring “I see dead people!” every time I see one of the ghosts was never funny.

505. I am not funny. No matter how much I make myself laugh.

506. Even though Voldemort does give his followers rings, he is not Captain Planet and none of the Death Eaters have powers in wind, water, earth, fire,or heart.

507. Calling Lucius Malfoy a luscious mouthful is just plain gross.

508. Especially wrong when I call him that around Draco.

509. Or Narcissa.

510. Yelling”BOO! “at Professor Moody is not wise.

512. I am not allowed to use the superglue spell to stick Harry and Draco’s hands together.

513. When in the presence of the Dark Lord, I must call him The Dark Lord. Not “Snake-Face, the Dark Lord Happy Pants.”

514. Laughing at the Dark Lord’s voice is not smart.

515. Telling the Dark Lord where he can stick it is not smart.

516. No matter what I say to the Dark Lord, I will never make him laugh.

517. When surrounded by Death Eaters I will not brandish my wand like a sword and shout “Aye! Avast!”

518. Jumping up on a table during dinner and singing “La Vie Boheme” is more likely to confuse my enemies than chase them out of the Great Hall. Besides, I probably won’t have anyone else join in, which takes some of the fun out of it.

519. Attempting to sell my soul to the Dark Lord is forbidden.

520. So is selling anyone else’s soul.

521. Draco Malfoy’s name is not Westley, nor the Dread Pirate Roberts, and I should stop referring to him as such.

523. Even if he is willing to jump down a hill screaming “Aaas yoooou wiiiiisssshhhh!”

524. I am not allowed to tell the first years that Werewolves are cute and cuddly.

525. Especially when Lupin is teaching.

529. Saying the Dark Mark should be the Slytherin Crest is wrong.

530. Especially in front of Slytherins.

531. Especially in front of Snape.

534. I am not allowed to declare “Official Hug A Slytherin Day.”

535. There is no connection between Hitler and Voldemort.

536. I will not sing “Defying Gravity” during Quidditch practice.

537. I am not allowed to teach “I Feel Pretty” to Professor Lockhart.

538. I am not allowed to sing “Angel of Music” to all the mirrors in school to see if anyone sings back.

539. I am not allowed to say “Shiiire…Baaaagiiiins…” around dementors.

542.- I am not allowed to tell first years to be my fact-checkers.

546. Luna doesn’t like it when you place her sneakers on top of doorways; it’s not amusing anymore.