Working full time is not hard. It stresses me out less than school.
Work doesn’t follow me home every night.
Work doesn’t drive me to pop Xanax like skittles.
People at work aren’t drunk morons. If they are, they have the decency to keep it under wraps.
However, work does…..
Riddle me with guilt……
Poor Kirby. My baby. He misses his momma. The 1st day I was gone he stress ate an entire rawhide.
The entire week he mopped and refused to play with Jason. Every morning, when I called him to go outside, he would slowly amble down the hall and begrudgingly sit while I leashed him. I’m two weeks in, and he has finally started to perk up. But at night, while I read my book in bed when he slowly lowers his head and slumps into my chest, I could just cry.
Scare my inner control freak…
Jason is a man. With man parts and a mans mentality. Which means that barbecue sauce is a permanent feature on the outside of the microwave. Ramen noodle bits and juice stain the coffee table and computer desk. When I’m home my eagle eyes can spot the blemish and attack it, or at least ask Jason to fix it.
On Wednesday, Jason announced his breakfast plans.
“Oh jesus, what is that.”
“It’s bacon. Woven into a brick. Baked. Then eaten. It’s goint to be awesome.”.
Thats when the anal retentive elf that lives behind my tonsils sprang out and demanded to know:
-this will happen while I’m at work, right?
-you’re not going to fry it are you?
-you’ll use the ugly silver cake pan and tripple coat it with tin foil. right?
Once satisfied, it retreated back to is lair in the back of my throat.
At work, a panic fairy floated into my brain and screamed, “Bacon grease! Everywhere! On the floor, on the cabinets, on the dog. Not that he wouldn’t like that but still… call home! Call home now!”
It then floated away like nothing happened.
(Oh, by the way, Panic fairy is almost never wrong. Bacon grease did appear on the floor. Jason is banned from the kitchen until further notice. )
Make me happy….
In a training group of ten people, there is only one guy. Half of the women have kids and half of those are divorced. The girl I was best friends with in junior high just happens to be in the same class as me. Another girl, Rachel, is in my similar boat; job safer than a degree, planning to go back eventually. The class trainers are funny and encouraging. All the supervisors are happy and The feeling I get when I badge in and walk through the cache of revolving doors is somewhere between “Gattaca” and “The Wizard of Oz”. Daunting, exhilarating, challenging.
I love it.
Also, the class trainer brought in dilly bars. Hell yeah.