Purgatory

SpyDad left the country yesterday. He’s in Winnipeg casting a line and burping the ABC’s with the boys he works with. They are most likely having farting contests as well. Seeing how much beef jerky and pork rinds he packed, I don’t think he’ll have a problem becoming the champion of that little contest.

He left me with our little head spinning nymph who subsides on nothing but cheese and animal crackers. We watched approximately 3 hours of Noggin this afternoon, and I’m ready for adult conversation. Perhaps we’ll hit the tittie bar later on tonight.

I’m at a weird place in my life. I’ve interviewed with a few great companies, and the offers shouldn’t be too far down the line. I spend my time nowadays trying to catch up on sleep I didn’t get the night before, and worrying about what might happen if those offers I’m so sure about don’t come. It’s not a pretty sight. The weather is beautiful, but the part that worries so much won’t let me enjoy it. It’s almost as if I feel so much guilt for letting my family down that I won’t allow myself to be happy. It’s amazing that I get anything done really.

My camera sits and collects dust. I finally got it out last night and took a few good ones and a lot of crappy ones. I’ve really been doubting myself lately. I know I still want this photography thing, but I’ve handed out a gazillion business cards and haven’t had a single call. I suck at marketing.

I hate this feeling of not being in control.  I hate having to budget everything.  I hate commercials because they make you want to buy things.  I even took wantnot.net off of my bloglines subscriptions because it was TOO tempting.  I know, give me some cheese with my whine, it could be so much worse.  I just don’t know if that I’m feeling sorry for myself or realizing that I lack true creativity to make pumpkin pie out of pumpkins.

Q&A

Q: How long after one’s termination of employment does it take for one to realize that the fruit fly invasion in one’s home is not due to the bananas on the countertop, but to the peach one took for lunch and left in the lunchbox on the kitchen counter since that fateful day?

A: 2 weeks, 2 days.

Dammit.

Da Boobie

Did you know that October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month? One of my good blogging buddies, who has and always will be an inspiration to me, kicked breast cancer’s ass.

I recently had the opportunity to team up with another blogger and her annual breast cancer fundraiser, called Boobiethon. Boobiethon started in 2002, and they’ve raised over $26,000 with the majority going to the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. This year’s event kicks off on October 1 and runs until October 7.

If you’re interested in helping, there are many ways to do so. And they don’t all involve money! You know, because that’s a hot commodity for me these days. You can, of course, donate any amount of funds. And if the pocketbook is a little thin these days, you can still help out by sending us pictures of your boobies! This includes both women and men (ahem, William). Non-nude shots will be available for viewing starting October 1. With a donation of $50 or more, you will be able to view the bare breast section of the website. You may or may not find a picture of the Mutha here (emphasis on the former). You may also do your part by posting a link to the Boobiethon on your blog. They’ve got a nifty little banner for this year’s fundraiser.

And if neither of these sounds like a good time to you, there’s one more thing you can do: a breast self exam. Most breast cancers are treatable when found in the early stages. You owe it to yourself, and I owe it to Sharkey.

Calling all wimps

If you think like a p*ussy and act like a p*ussy, you might as well dress like one.

Thieving SOB’s

Yesterday I decided to venture out of the house to purchase some pork and beans to fill our empty pantry. My neighbor had surgery this week, and she told me that she’d be home for two days. Because I’ve had no concept of time since the lay off, I’m not really sure if she told me that on Tuesday or Monday…or last Monday for that matter.

I wanted to drop of some business cards, so I loaded up the car and parked in her driveway. I ran to her front step in the drizzling rain and rang the bell. I shuffled from foot to foot trying to ignore the damp chill. No answer. Perhaps she was asleep or had trouble getting up from her chair. I waited. Her porch lights were on in the middle of the day. I made a mental note of the electricity she was wasting. Finally I gave up, and retreated back to the car, scolding myself and my unemployment time machine warp.

This afternoon, she and her young boy came over.

“Mutha, were you home today?”

“Sure was, I even came over around 10am.”

“Did you notice my porch lights on?”

“You know, I did actually.”

“Someone broke into my back door and stole my boyfriend’s motorcycle. Nothing else was taken, just that. They left the porch lights on.”

THUD! went my jaw to the hard pavement.

I never saw a thing. Their neighbors across the street saw the guy with the garage door open, get a drink out of the fridge, and drive off around 9:30am. They just figured it was the boyfriend.

Crap. So now I’ve got the heebie jeebies. Everyone thinks that it must have been someone they knew, someone who knew what they were looking for. That’s what I’m hoping for. I’ll just keep my doors locked and the steak knives nearby just to be sure.

In other news…

Breaking news…

SpyDad went with SpyGrandpa for his latest kidney MRI on Tuesday. The great thing about it is that one of SpyDad’s sisters is an RN at the hospital, so she made sure that SpyGrandpa was well cared out for. She called to report last night that SpyGrandpa has a Class IIF B*osniak r*enal c*yst. Class IIF means that it doesn’t require surgery at the moment. The cysts are suspicious, but for now it just requires careful monitoring.

Everyone with me now: WHEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!

Thank you so much for your kind thoughts and prayers. They mean so much to me, and the thought of SpyGrandpa having something potentially worse than was thought was weighing heavy on our hearts. Now you, in the back, direct all those thoughts and prayers to Susie. She’s still on the wrong side of diagnosis…as in undiagnosed. *UPDATE* AND for Sharkey’s and Character Builder’s sweet mama having surgery today for ovarian cancer after (they think) it came back. I just read Sharkey’s post and came here to update, and whadayaknow, she beat me to it!

In other news…

I may have totally cursed myself with my last post. I woke up at 3am this morning after going to bed a little after 9pm (although the last thing I remember is the clock telling me it was 10pm). I tossed and turned and finally got up. I can’t remember the last time I did that. I never get up. Maybe it was the unwatched episodes of Jericho and Super Nanny calling out to me on the TiVo. At least I didn’t end up having to watch infomercials about Ginsu knives and skin creams. Kids behaving badly on TV is so much better.

I’m trying to figure out what’s causing the insomnia. I’ve already mentioned that it’s not caffeine, and Lord knows I don’t exercise before bed (but need to). It’s just the racing thoughts that get me. Last night I reenacted both of the interviews I had this week over and over…and then over and over again. I wondering if I was witty and charming or if I was more of a social reject. I think the Tuesday interview liked me because they called yesterday to ask me to come in and interview with one of the managers that was on vacation this week. Surely they liked me…even though I had nothing to add to the talk of fantasy football during lunch. Surely.

Of course, it’s not always the job hunt that keeps me up. Sometimes I wonder about stupid things like why it’s not possible to get the taste of red onions out of your mouth by brushing your teeth. And when is Brit going to get a lobotomy reversal and realize that she’s married to a human leech with enough little swimmers to make a sperm whale blush?

These things, they are not worth losing sleep over.

And in final news…

Did I say I got a second interview? Yeah, I’m pretty damn excited about that. Let’s hope the talk doesn’t turn to red onions or sperm whales.

Night of the Living Dead

Since we’ve still got GadgetGirl in daycare so we don’t lose her spot, some of you may be imagining me hanging out on the lawn chair, enjoying this beautiful weather, sipping Mai-Tai’s and eating bon bons all day. Well, it couldn’t be further from the truth.

I spend most of it sleeping.

Okay, not really. I’ve been so busy that I really haven’t had time to feel sorry for myself, which is a REALLY good thing. I spend most of my time job hunting, interviewing, editing pictures, or trying to get a handle on the house. It’s still a pit. Today, my goal is to try and unpit it. Hmmm, would you like pictures? Maybe pictures will help me get it done. There’s nothing like a challenge to make you mop floors like a mad woman. For those of you without children, it will be some of the best birth control you’ve ever had. What? Bring it on, you say?

How about after a nap?

One of the unintended side effects of unemployment for me is insomnia. For the past week, I’ve tossed and turned and watched the minutes tick by on my alarm clock at three in the morning. I’m usually such a good sleeper, so this schedule has got me out of whack. The night before last, I was certain that I was going to bomb my interview because I probably got about two hours of real sleep. But I pulled it out somehow, and I’ll top that sundae with an “I’m pretty sure I’ll get an offer” cherry.

And all this without caffeine.

I know, it sounds like I need to start a daily drip of caffeine to get me going after such a heinous night. I just can’t. I swore off coffee and cola about five years ago, and I generally only drink water during the day. At night, it’s bourbon. Mornings are hell, but my thighs and my dentist thank me.

Alrighty then. Pictures are soon to come of the “Night of the Living Dead House.” A promise is a promise. Just excuse me while I answer the door. The Sandman has been knocking for over an hour.

What the hell just happened?

Today I had an interview with a retailer that rhymes with Guest Tie for the hell of it. They are opening a new store 4 miles from my house, and I figured that was just about the best commute I was ever going to get. I arrived at my appointment 10 minutes before my appointment and parked in front of a field. I looked down to get my things and when I looked up, I saw a hawk on the ground staring back up at me. It was the eeriest feeling, but I couldn’t help but smile and think of Ern.

I watched that hawk for 10 minutes as he hopped around in front of my car, not a care in the world, not a worry in the world. When I opened up my car door, he didn’t move. When I gently shut it, he flew off. I secretly wished that I could have sat there all day watching him.

Instead, I spent the next 3 hours interviewing and waiting…but mostly waiting. I finally got to speak to the General Manager, and we haggled over exactly what would fit my lifestyle more. We decided upon a part-time schedule where I could choose to only work until 5pm on weekdays, but I’d also be in a department where I’d have to dress business. Fudge nickels and a half.

The pay really doesn’t allow for that kind of clothes shopping.

But the weirdest thing was that we were discussing this one minute, and the next she said, “Okay, you start Monday. You have to take the drug test…”

WAIT A SECOND! When did I miss the part about “Great! Would you like to take this job? Check here for “yes” and here for “no.” Dammit, I have an interview tomorrow…and maybe the next day too in my field unrelated to Guest Tie.

I’m so damn confused right now. I hate to start with Guest Tie, although I think it may be fun…and better yet keep me busy. I would feel like a complete schmuck to quit after only a week or two if I get a better paying offer. Damn my conscious. DAMN YOU!

What would you do?

Will work for high-speed internet connections

Well, it only took four days for my former employer to call me up asking for help.

“So Mutha, I’m going to transfer you to FartFace because he has a question for you.”

“Hello? You had a question for me?”

“Yes, I need to add something to one of your databases. Where is the database?”

“Open the I drive.”

“I drive? Is that the share drive?”

“Nope, that’s the S drive, youdumbmutha… that’s worked there for 10 years and should know better.”

“I don’t have the I drive. (Two minutes pass.) Oh, here it is!”

The rest of the conversation didn’t fare much better, so I’ll spare you. So you’re probably thinking that I should charge for any services rendered after getting a boot to the ass and no wave goodbye. Well, the HR lady keeps telling me “You’re still an employee of this company until your severance is paid out. Blah, blah, blah.” So I’m going to take that baby in a lump sum and run. When they call up after that, I’ll charge them my “$500/hr now who’s taking it up the arse?” consulting fee.

Hi, my name is Mutha, and I have a plan – one that may involve baking chocolate cupcakes this afternoon. But it’s still a plan.

Identity crisis

This morning on NPR, I listened to a story about two sisters, Assia and Iman Boundaoui, who were born to Algerian parents and grew up just outside Chicago. They discussed what it’s like to be a Muslim living in America and to wear a head scarf and feel as though all eyes are on you. They were posed the question, “What do you consider yourself first? Muslim or American?”

“In America, we would say we’re Muslim first, because that’s what makes us different, I guess,” Assia says. “So you identify with that one factor within you that stands out. But in another country, like in a Muslim country, and someone asks us to identify ourselves, we would say we’re American.”

They realized that they identified more with the place where they took their freedoms or privileges for granted.

I’ve been having a little bit of an identity crisis myself. I still feel as though I haven’t totally severed my ties with my former company. It’s as though I feel as if I’m on vacation and that tomorrow I could go into work. I’ve identified myself with working there. I was there for over four years, and it’s the longest job I’ve ever held. I love it in the beginning, but at the end I hated it. It owned me. I knew that it kept food on the table and GadgetGirl drowning in Dora. It’s my own fault for not leaving sooner. I’ll admit it.

But now I’m left with a clean slate. The job market appears to be good right now, and I’ve got an opportunity to mold my own future. I could try to find a simliar job in a different industry. I could go back to school. I could try a retail job closer to home. I could ensure that my family has nothing more to eat than hot dogs and generic Cheerios if I start my own business.

There are so many options with just as many unknowns. The question I pose to myself is whether I want to be identified with my job or have my job identified with me. I don’t want my job to own me anymore. I want to be happy. And that is becoming the most difficult thing to deal with as I try to find my new identity.