Everything is tentative; I do not have an offer letter in hand yet.
However, I have a start date. I have clearance for the day of the next court date off.
I have leads on nice rental houses; I will be investigating them today. With my daughter, who is out of school today for unrelated issues. (That’s a whole ‘nother blog post, one that I’m hesitant to write unless I need to because it could easily turn into publicity. Let’s just say that siccing a social worker on me because my kindergartener had two accidents is not an appropriate response on their part, they have been made aware of this, and I made them record it. It would not be the first time that this school has been the subject of negative publicity on a national level.)
I need to make a list of things that we need. I need to work on donating/tossing things I no longer need/want. I need to…
I need to figure out how I want to celebrate once I have the offer letter in hand! I’m hoping it will be soon.
Apparently emailing offer letters is a Thing now. And the job title has a “Senior” on the front of it.
Damn, that’s one hell of an interview suit.
Celebrations may commence.
So I have a job offer.
The catch? The start time is revolting and I’d have to leave my house at *shudder* in the morning. I need help.
The housemate, also my ex and the father of my son, says that he will help — including being willing to get to my place at 3:30am two to three times a week, depending on my schedule. He has given his word. (There’s someone reading this whom I would like to note this and pass it on. He has given his word. I want this marked, as it’s my way of getting out of this house and making sure that both of my children are safe.)
This means that I am about to have my freedom back. I will have my own space back. My own dishes. My own silverware. A dishwasher. My own dining table and chairs. My daughter can have her own new bed, and it can be a bunk bed if she wants one (I think she might.) I can actually get myself a real bed, a headboard and footboard and such. I can have my pretty key cabinet hung up again, and my own sofa and I can get a wineglass cabinet to actually have my collection of pretty wineglasses on display.
My children can have their own rooms! And I can set up routines and decorate exactly as I please and I can probably paint the place if I want (as long as I repaint anything weird before I move out) and holy shit I can have central heating and air again. (I admit it, I’m a modern chick. I love camping, but I do like my central air and heating to come home to.)
Oh… this is too marvelous to think about, and I’m afraid to think any more because it might vanish, but I want it documented that it’s within reach right now!
I don’t know who you are.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met you, or ever will meet you. But I know you exist, somewhere.
And you love me.
You think that I’m amazing, and beautiful even before coffee and with morning breath and in need of a shower. You love that I’m a genius, even when (maybe especially when) I’m a cranky one. The high point of your day is seeing me smile, and you make me do so as much as possible. You tell me I’m beautiful, and desirable, and love that I’m geeky and like cons and have forgotten more about tech support than most people will ever learn. You love watching me lock on to an idea and lay out a plan to turn it into reality, and you’ll watch me sleep and stroke my hair and hold me close. You hold me when I cry, and know just when to give me a hug that makes everything a lot better or more bearable. You’re proud to take me out and be seen with me, and introduce me to your friends, and tell your family about me. You come out to my events with me, and look forward to earning my trust enough to be permitted to officially meet my children as my suitor, and understand that if I allow that things are tracked to permanent-serious. You understand that I’m a package deal with my children, and maybe you want to convince me to have a couple more with you.
You know how strong I am, and how fragile, and will do anything to protect me, and understand that I can protect myself but don’t let that stop you. You respect me, and will do anything to earn and keep my respect. You understand that even when I’m mad it doesn’t mean I don’t like you, and you have a deep admiration for me and don’t hold my broken body and psyche against me. You have my back and know that I have yours. You want me for me, not because I’m a redhead or the way I look or because I’m smart, not because I’m a trophy but because you love my heart and spirit and mind and soul. And if you ever meet me, you’ll never let me get away. If I walk away, you’ll follow. You’d never abandon me.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met you, or ever will.
But you have to exist. Somewhere. I have to believe that.
(Oddly, I think you have dark hair. Not a blond. And are probably a bit younger than I am, though not more than a decade.)
I want to talk about my reasons for hatred, and my past. I want to tell my story, and my side, and what happened in my observation.
I won’t. At least, not here and not now. I could go on at length; I started to, then deleted it all.
I’m going to deliberately focus on being positive. If that means that I stay away from speaking of my past, of others, of my observations of them, then it does. There is no such thing as permanently tied to anyone.
To the positive, my son is happily playing with a wooden fire truck and a cucumber right now. Yeah, no, I don’t know either, but he then moved on to spit-polishing my knee. My right knee is very shiny now. And I have forbearance on my student loans ::shying away from negativity:: for a year. Something will come through soon on the full-time job front, something marvelous.*
We can choose what sort of person we are. We can choose to be negative, or we can choose otherwise. I choose positive; I’ve had more than enough negative in my life, and those who are likely to truly understand me have as well. I choose positive, and kindness, and understanding, and laughter, and love. (I’m still working on patience or I would have included that, too.)
*Anyone reading who feels like helping with this, drop me a comment with somewhere to send a resume! If you read this blog regularly you already know I’m amazing.
As an antidote to my last post, I bring to you the things that have made me smile and laugh today:
The school bus driver knows exactly who I am and will chat with me.
My toddler son thinks that my iPhone set to play music is the best thing EVER.
Said toddler son has some pretty sweet dance moves, too. I’d better have the “use protection” talk early with BOTH of them. (Young daughter appears to be taking after me. I never had a “boys are gross” phase.)
I found out that the “peel garlic cloves by putting them in two metal bowls and shaking like a maniac” method works and amuses my children no end.
I also took an old standby hot dip recipe, plopped it on top of chicken and baked it and came out with a very tasty, happymaking dinner. Probably caloric as hell, but sometimes it just doesn’t matter.
Found out the grocery store has Booberry, Count Chocula, and Frankenberry cereals in stock now and got two boxes.
Failed to stifle hilarity when my daughter took one look at Chocula and Frankenberry and burst into hysterical tears, insisting that it was monster food and anyone who ate it would turn into a monster. I said okay fine, more for me. She insisted that I would turn into a monster. “Child… you’ve SEEN me before coffee. There isn’t possibly a way this would make it worse, and there isn’t a monster in existence that will tangle with Mama.” She didn’t believe it, so I distracted her by pointing out the strawberry nail polish worn by Frankenberry and the Count’s rabbit teeth. Nobody told me having a five-year-old would involve this; I’m also planning on waiting until she’s sixteen, has friends over, and bringing up the entire episode. In detail.
Managed to hit my grocery budget dead on… as in I was 71c under. I’m good.
Housemate is sick, legitimately so. He accepted a hot toddy, which I made with 100 proof apple brandy. I may be able to keep him too tipsy to whine.
I have ginger beer and Maker’s Mark. These go well together.
My daughter is going to look like a model from the mid-80s tomorrow with the clothes picked out and her favorite purple studded slouchy ankle boots. I’m okay with this.
Today I am filled with hate. Even with all the Zen warm fuzzy self-improvement shit, I am still capable of it.
The hate is from seeing hypocrisy, and lies, and seeing people who could help stand by and victim-blame when someone was begging for help in an abusive situation that it was later found out they passively contributed to. Seeing people who claim to live by honor encourage others in dishonor. Seeing people treat myself and my children, plural, as replaceable — to the point that I was told that I am (I am not.)
I wish I could let it go and rise above it. I would be freer, and it would not be giving them power over me. Unfortunately it’s not that simple; is it ever?
For now I am reminded that as deeply and strongly as I can love, I can also hate. I love much more easily, to my detriment, but my hatred has to be earned over a long period of time and repeated actions. If earning my love were the same I might be better off and hurt less.
Normally I try to return good for ill; it’s my nature. With this, though, I really don’t think I can. I really can’t deal with people without the capacity for empathy, and the best I can do right now is return hatred for judgement and encouraged dishonor.
I don’t like hating. I’m going to go care for my son and collect money to once again save the day and buy groceries for my children. At some point I’ll probably get generous and offer to pay for the housemate’s medication refill. Then I think I’ll bake cupcakes from scratch and change gyms. That sounds nice. Domestic and self-care help ease hatred. Especially if I refuse to share the tasty red velvet cupcakes with the people I hate.