Subconscious


I’m not going to spend more than ten minutes on this tonight. I swear.

UPDATE:
I already lost on the ten minutes thing, immediately after making the proclamation, due to extreme cat meowing, the need to lock howling cats in basement for the night (don’t worry, it happens every single night since the girls were born almost four years ago), then the requirement of starting the dishwasher (thank you lord, for kitchen appliances), and the scraping of popsicle goo off the rug. Ten minutes came and went. And here we are, friend.

The past week was kind of brutal. A new preschool situation, now referred to as “summer camp” started up for the ladies. And it is kind of lame. THERE ARE NO BOOKS IN THEIR CLASSROOM! Can you fucking believe it? No, I did not yank them out — that’s something rich people get to do with their precious children. The rest of us have to make it work somehow so we have a few hours to go into an office and work on a computer while they are somewhere else. Yes, I’m complaining. But, also, yes, I got the girls to pull some books from their extensive home library, put them in a bag, and we bring our own goddam books to school every day. It is mainly for Beenie’s sanity — she does not need nor like to nap during naptime, but LOVES to look at books. The school does have a library, which is in a room off the main room of the room they spend much of their time in, but the staff is hesitant to break into the library for some reason, which makes absolutely no sense to me. Their previous classroom had tons of books, why not this one? It took about three days of trauma to adjust to this new situation; new teachers, new classroom, new lack of real schedule beyond craft, play, eat, nap. I need to work, tho, friends. The girls read plenty at home, and the teachers are really nice and I believe they are safe and fairly well taken care of. The girls are no worse for wear. So the summer of their third year lacks academic excellence. I doubt the summer of my third year was particularly engaging. I have vague recollections of soap operas on the black and white telly, my mom folding laundry, lots of books and the radio perpetually yacking. And the smell of her ironing clothes. Not a smell I smell in my life now, unless I go down to the basement when my husband is ironing an occasional work shirt every few months. I don’t do ironing. There are many common domestic duties I do not perform, and ironing is one of them.

I had a chance to obtain what probably would have ended up being a full-time job at a place that has nice benefits and a nice environment according to the kind friend who told me about possible employment at his workplace. He passed on my resume to the head of the web department, and the guy wrote me an email immediately, asking what kind of hours, availability, hourly pay rate, etc. I required. And something strange came over me. Half jokingly, I wrote an email that specifically spelled out exactly what I was looking for in a job, because my requirements are just so impossible. In the light of day, it reads like a total maniac penned it. But that night when I wrote this crazed job manifesto, it seemed like a GREAT idea to be as candid as possible. Completely inappropriate, and far too casual was this email. Then I had my husband look at it to make sure I wasn’t being mental, he made a very small suggestion, and then I pressed ‘SEND‘ and it was all over. Of course, the guy at the job did not respond to this email, because in it, I sound like a complete freak. Which I guess I am. So I’ve been a little bit cautious since, as apparently I can no longer control what I say or write, not when it really counts. I wonder what will happen the next time I’m unprofessionally and brutally honest. I’ll be lucky if the guy doesn’t send it around in some viral email thing. God.

Our cute little family started looking at houses today. Houses to move into. Maybe in the next 6 months. Next spring? School is looming. Two years till they’re ready to go to Kindergarten. Not that much time. We need some more room. I need a place to paint. Garage would be nice. Will keep you posted.

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2 thoughts on “Subconscious

  1. Mucho bueno suerte on the house hunt. Hunting sux, moving sux, but more space is goodly and moving now rather than later is goodly.

    No books? WTF? Not wtf, you should pull them. But wtf, who the hell has kids together in a room and no books? Limited funds, fear of damage, or frustration with bickering? Can’t imagine it’s ignorance of the importance of books. That’s kind of impossible from child development professionals.

    I love the smell of ironing. Don’t think I own an iron. If I do, don’t know why. Or where.

    Know why life, and people, suck? Because brutal honesty is met not with honest reply, nor with shocked shaming, but with silence. Cowards. Why not say, “um, you sound crazy. are you?” or “that’s more than a little out of line with what we were thinking. How about 30 hours a week at half the salary you requested. We’ll cover your therapy because you clearly need it.” Or something? Because gutless cowards live on this planet.

    I’d hire you. If I had power or money. Or both. Mmmmmm, both.

  2. I was gonna reply, then I read nappy’s reply, so I’m just gonna say “ditto.” Except the part about the iron. As a sewist I live with my iron sitting in the middle of my dining room in a place of pride. Part of it broke a couple of weeks ago and I nearly LOST MY SHIT until I realized it was still functional. I need to get a new one soon though and you won’t even believe how much I’ll pay for a good iron. I want to read your job demands: post ’em. Please.

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