Well, I’ve been between jobs for three days now, and I’ve already put on five pounds. Damn it! (I’m doing a few “last meals” around town; am going to regret it when my too-loose “skinny jeans” start getting tighter!)
I was thinking this morning, a girl has to quit her job to get a day off around these parts. So, today is my first “day off” of about 10 of them.
The bad news is that the paycheck I got on the 13th is the end of them.
The good news is that my new company is sending me a lil something to help with the moving truck.
The great news is that my four weeks of unused vacation (you know, that stuff I stopped accruing back in SEPTEMBER) are getting paid out on the 31st.
w00t!
I don’t have a lot to say today. I’ve been dumping my angst on Twitter. I’ve been ready to go volunteer at the old job just to get away from the roomie.
I know, I’m the one who invited her to come along. Constant baby talk to the cats and all, no matter how much I scream about it.
Yesterday, she asked if she could use some of my boxes. Sigh. And she asked me to teach her how to pack boxes. Loud sigh. And would I just pack some of them for her? Oh and BY the WAY, can I do her taxes, too?
Oh wait, there’s more.
I had a hair dryer a year and a half ago that started catching fire. So he was replaced. Yesterday she bothers me to say, “Um, that hair dryer that catches fire? Can I throw it away?”
*blink*
Uh, why was she KEEPING IT? In case it STOPPED igniting?
What else? Oh yeah, she is stressed out and decided she needed to bake. That’s her stress reliever. Which explains why I turned out to be such a FAT FUCK for most of my life. She stress-bakes; I stress-eat. Lose-lose. Gah.
So naturally there were cookies a-baking all night. And I was good and didn’t bother going near the kitchen. But of course I got a steaming plate of cookies. And since I was packing and stressed-out, yep, guess who stress-ate steaming-hot cookies?
Gah. Dah. M. It.
I had to go lock myself in my bedroom with a heating pad to get away from it. But I gotta admit, the smell in the house sure beat Maddie’s usual steaming-shit souffle concoctions. Which, now that there are boxes everywhere and furniture moved out of place, she’s had to get creative at dropping steaming turds.
What really sucks is that every time I go to move something, I find poop nuggets nestled into the carpet underneath whatever I’m moving. Terrific. Next apartment, I’m just putting down hay since the place will get treated like a goddamned corral, despite my best efforts to the contrary.
I was getting to a point where I could tolerate everything (i.e., roomie, cats) when I thought I was leaving them behind. Well, I figured if I could part with one of the three, I could maybe get rid of a second one (i.e., mom plus one cat). And now that the light at the end of this miserable roommate relationship is, in fact, an oncoming train, I feel so trapped.
I mean, I’d feel bad if something bad happened. Since that’s how I’ve been taught — you don’t get to feel upset about something or someone (however entitled you are. And I AM) because something bad could happen. And if it does, it’s on your conscience forever.
When we had my goodbye night at Weight Watchers, a new gal had said she just came back from Seattle, where she and her husband had taken their 1-year-old son for his birthday (to visit their family).
She complained of having to be stuffed into an airplane seat. Of really needing a seatbelt extender but being too proud. Of having to pay for the baby to have a seat since she can’t fit him on her lap. Of not being able to put down her tray table.
I had interjected that I had all those problems. On top of that, I fly alone a lot and end up in the middle seat, where I had to suck in my thighs to not bleed into other people’s space. I also had talked about how I couldn’t open a damn laptop, let alone use it. And now I can. And so will she.
But she said something else that struck a chord with me. She said that after visiting Seattle for a week, she sees EXACTLY where all of her bad habits began. Family stress. Turning on the TV and eating in front of it. Shoveling in food to ease the pain. Every event revolving around food. And more stress that causes you to raid the refrigerator.
Oh, God, if that isn’t the truth for most, if not all, of us! I swear, I put on 20 pounds in the first few months that I went from being roommate-free to suicidal. But to her point, we have the stress-baker and the stress-eater; the latter of whom BEGS to not have junk food in the house because she KNOWS she had no willpower. And since it’s HER house, why can’t one goddamned rule be honored. (Since, clearly, the cat-baby-talk doesn’t go away upon multiple requests?)
I know, I make the roomie out to be the Wicked Witch of the East Coast. She’s really not. But when she noted that I haven’t ever taken a day off, not even a sick day, I noted that well, I didn’t take many in my career, but that shit definitely stopped after she moved in. Being at home or being in meetings with a fever and a runny nose? Hmm. Equally torturous. But work has the occasional good-looking man to make everything better. 🙂
Today, again, she asked me to help her find a place here. With WHAT time and WHAT money? Five days till the moving truck comes. Tick TOCK.
If any of you are the praying type, please pray that she finds a job quickly in Florida, and that I can evict her before Christmas, as part of my arrangement. And maybe, just maybe, I can get that truly fresh start that everyone wanted me to have. …