Workaholic

     This is not going to be a very well constructed post, but I have good intentions of making up for it later this week. Since I moved back home from the Big City a couple weeks ago, I have been working steady with the two jobs I speedily acquired that first week. During the day I have been subbing as an Educational Assistant at local schools belonging to the Public School Division, and in the evening I have been serving as a waitress at a local restaurant. It has been a relatively intense schedule working from 9:00 am to 3:30pm, and then 4:30 pm to at least 9:00pm; but it is what I signed up for and ultimately wanted, so nothing to complain about. What is great is that I actually mostly enjoy both my jobs, so that is an added bonus, I just do not enjoy not being able to sleep in or my limited amount of recreational time.
     With these jobs, and as much as I enjoy that invigorating feeling of independence I get from making it on my own, I still wish I was lucky enough to have a rich uncle, or something of the sort. How glorious it would be to not have to worry about money. Somehow I doubt that I will ever really know what that feels like, though. Hm.
     I will leave you with some words to live by from one of my favorite songs, "Oh My" by Sweatshop Union, "I make money; money don't make me," - my current mantra.

The Snow White Syndrome

              For at least the past couple years, I have been suffering from what I would like to be known as the “Snow White Syndrome.”   Allow me to elaborate -  although not yet studied in full, the “Snow White Syndrome” is most common in tall females, and  has the overwhelming symptom of the female in question developing a deep fondness for men of a smaller stature. However, the dilemma festers in the nature of this fondness. Although at first it can be confusing to separate the feelings of potential amour from those of natural camaraderie, no matter how hard I try with these littlest of men, the camaraderie feeling in my heart undoubtedly wins. At first I thought that this must mean that I was simply fickle; but then I had an epiphany - Snow White was never judged for keeping seven petite men around just for kicks, so why should my fickle actions be viewed any differently? To me the concept of having seven small men following me around, commenting on my daily life, and adding words of wisdom, suggestions in music and movies, as well as perhaps throwing in a humorous joke or two is nothing short of a lovely idea. Not only would these seven miniature fellows be excellent daily companions, but according to the classic story they would also aid in ultimately uniting me with my Prince Charming! How wonderful!

                What strikes me the most from this fairytale is the Dwarfs’ attitude. Somehow they instinctively knew that they were just to be friends with the fair Snow White, and nothing more. Unfortunately, in real life real emotions are not nearly so convenient. I have injured many a small man’s heart, mostly out of my own naivety, but that’s hardly an excuse.  If only I knew the secret to Snow White not breaking all seven of the large hearts of those tiny men while still running off with her Prince Charming - but I guess that is the power of make believe after all.

Hey - it's OK!

                I have decided that there are at least three days out of the month that I cannot trust myself.  I have never thought that I was a typically hormonal female, but there is something that triggers in my body…right about now… that is yelling, nay, hysterically screaming at everything within me to take some serious action in regards to my happily ever after. I am currently restraining myself from texting every past crush, romantic idea, or flirtatious pastime in my repertoire (I am going to make the list sound longer , and more elaborate, than it is for my own self esteem) and am also studiously avoiding my owned copy of Sleepless in Seattle as my evening companion; since I do not need to be dreaming of Tom Hanks at a time like this. 

 I have not totally succeeded in avoiding all the hormonally fueled ideas that have popped into my head as of late. Five minutes ago I arranged a coffee meet up (not a date, I swear) with a “past crush” for later this week. I just hope it seems like just as good of an idea then as it does now (doubtful, I know). 

I don’t know what it is between me and the boys that have crossed my path so far and why we don’t click. I have recently come upon the more radical idea that I have come to terms with the potential fact that I may never meet that someone, and may very well end up living the majority of my life alone. The radical part about this idea is that I am really OK with this, and most days it is not depressing in the least. Most days except for days like today when I can’t trust myself. So screw it, I’ll go to coffee. I might even take Tom Hanks for another spin if my fickle heart has its way.  I’ll worry about being OK next week.  

The Limit of an A** Hole

                First things first, one could easily argue that the definition of an asshole is someone who does not understand limits; or more accurately, chooses not to understand or respect those limits. Therefore, the limit of an asshole does not exist. 

                With that aside, I have learned that my asshole limit is five days. Day one with an asshole is shocking, but it is still a bit of an absurdity and you tell yourself that this cannot be how they are all the time. Day two you are beginning to accept that there is a definite part of them that must be permanently pertaining to that of an asshole (even you aren’t believing your excuses for them anymore). Day three it is finally dawning on you that yes, indeed, this person is an asshole. In truth you have never used this word to describe anyone before in your life, but you have always been a believer in using appropriate vocabulary, and realize that there is nothing more fitting. Day four you stop smiling and nodding politely to their obscene, crude, and racist jokes. If your wits are about you, you will feign a migraine and seek the solace of a quiet room where you can enjoy the more intellectual company of your laptop. 

 Day five is my limit to an asshole. 

There is no smiling or nodding or response of any kind to their irrational and immature antics, and every word that passes through their lips is just another crank in my tightly wound emotions. It is all I can do to restrain my natural instinct of pushing them in front of a moving bus, and gleefully drawing the chalk lines myself around their unresponsive body.

                Every day after the fifth day is pure, unadulterated torture. 

                If you have a way to escape an asshole, do it on the first day. If by some chance you cannot escape an asshole, may strength and peace be with you. While writing this I am on day six, and I have three more days of this inescapable torment of stupidity. 

                (help me)

Sand Between My Toes

     I have been in San Diego since the 11th. I am taking a spur of the moment trip with one of my best gal pals, and it is glorious. The weather here is like summer all year long. It is February and we are spending the majority of our days lying on the beach in much too little clothing. I can no longer go anywhere without leaving a little trail of sand behind me, and I just love it!
     The funny thing about going to different places is the attitude of the locals. Really, I have found for the most part that it is the same wherever I go; most specifically in regards to the weather. When our Moms taught us to only talk about the weather if there was nothing better to talk about, it would seem that we all took that very much to heart. I guess the part that is funny about this is that people say the exact same things, and have the exact same complaints as everywhere else when talking about the weather. Even in San Diego, the place with the most beautiful weather year round I have ever seen, people talk as if there is something to complain about when a cloud dares to come across the sky. I cannot help but find this amusing coming from a place with a very distinct four seasons, the longest season being a frigid winter, but I guess it is all what you're used to. For myself, this brings up the thought that we should all be more grateful for what we have been given; even if what we have been given is seemingly never-ending snow. At least the snow helps us appreciate the summer so much more.