Surveying my humble garage

All but one box is unpacked and everything has its place.

My view isn’t the best I’ve seen in the last few months, in terms of people or landscape, but it’s great in its own way. This is my space, all my own again. There’s my damaged desk where I used to do homework. Now I’ll use it for keeping in touch, for paying bills, for the occasional sewing project and for collecting dust.

My bathroom, or showerroom as it might be more accurately called as it lacks a bathtub, where the only germs I have to concern myself with are my own.

My kitchen where I have more cabinet and floorspace than I know what to do with. (Side note: In TV shows and movies, young women will sometimes keep shoes and clothes in their ovens and kitchen drawers, the joke being they’re modern women who don’t have the time or skill to cook and therefore have the space. I have an extra cabinet in my kitchen. I’m considering using my extra cabinet for linens (yes, “linens”). Maybe then the sheets will smell like cinnamon for my guests. My guests! I get to have those again!)

There’s my fridge where I keep the pickles, the whiskey and skim milk.

My bedroom with the dark purple walls, which I again took as a sign I should take this place.

The animals seem content — the puppy in his pen and the cat at my feet. The bookshelves are still empty and that makes them sad-looking, but they’ll get there. Where I sit now is where I’ll crash after a walk, after work or after a night of going out. It’s where I’ll sit when I need a reminder that the terror, frustration, sadness and confusion that comes with transplanting to a strange place is worth it because it means one thing: I get to walk in the nude from the (shower)room to the bedroom.

Killer feet

Let's count the ways in which this photo could have killed me.

1. I'm alone in the car.
2. That's the interstate.
3. That's my right foot (the one a person typically uses to drive).
4. I'm taking the photo.
5. The camera was on its manual setting.

I didn't die. I also didn't get the job. The reason for my foot like that in the first place? It was hour 5 or so and I still had 4 or so to go and my leg was bored ... and my mind curious. Could I rest my foot on the dash? I also had my leg stretched across the passenger seat at one point. Ah, the boredom of the open road.

Nest egg

This is what my dad left me on the kitchen counter one morning. A $20 bill for groceries I couldn't drag myself out of the house to purchase, and the remaining hard boiled egg I had made the day before. It made me want to cry. I remember that much.

Grilled

One of my first meals back at Dad's place. Not sure why I took the picture now ... but it adds some color to this blog, no? I have a backlog of blogs so I'll be updating them in chronological order. I apologize for the delay.

No more hunting

On Monday at 8 a.m. I will report to my first real job. Luckily, I found out I got the job just as I was about to spiral into a nervous breakdown I may or may not have come out of sane.

I am excited and nervous. But mostly excited. Of the three jobs I have interviewed for, this is the one I definitely wanted the most. It feels strange, almost too good to be true. It also feels good. I will have benefits and, undoubtedly, making way more money then I ever have before. I will have things I have only ever dreamed of. Isn't it sad that I dream about 401ks and health insurance? Getting older is bizarre.

I love the town I live in, and do not have to relocate at all. A quick 5 to 10 minute drive which is nearly a straight shot anyway takes me to a newsroom that used to be a JCPenney. It takes me to a desk that is all mine in what used to be a shoe department. I think I am going to enjoy working with my editor a lot and enjoy the topics I will be covering. I will be writing for four magazines — Central Illinois Business, Central Illinois Families, At Home in Central Illinois and Vow (which will soon be known as "I Do"). It will only be my editor and myself, so I expect it will be a rather hands on job and that I will get to do a little of everything for the magazines, which I am excited about.

However, I do not expect it to be exactly what I expect it to be. But I'll let you know how it goes. Unless, of course, Jamie kicks me out. I don't expect she will.

Now I need to go do all the things I have been putting off because I'd have time to do them later. Yipe.

Congrats to Sarah! She got a job (and will be leaving us?)!

"Ah! You Jewed it up! ... You're not Jewish, are you?" - What a co-worker said when one of the shitty computers stopped functioning while I was using it. The new guy and I just looked at one another.

I love it when I get just enough rope with which to slowly and steadily hang myself. (More blog posts coming soon, I swear!)

At work, we have to write deckheads (those smaller "second headlines") and photo caption teasers. Deckheads I can handle, more or less. The caption teasers, however ... ohhh. Those are nightmarish, but tonight I had a thought: song lyrics and/or titles. This brainwave came to me while I was listening to the Foo Fighters after a particularly sports-heavy day at work. Today, a horrible posed photo (that ran as semi-main art) of girls clinging to a trophy needed a teaser. Shudder. I think the one I ended up giving it was "TROPHY WINNERS." What I might give a similar photo in the future is this line: "TROPHIES EARNED AND LESSONS LEARNED." No one will know, and I'll get to giggle myself to the bank. (You may call me "Your Genius.")

Wanting

I just interviewed for a job at a magazine publisher owned by the dream job (which was at a newspaper.)

Enter: New dream job.

I am interested in the subject matter, would have longer deadlines and get to work with a woman who could very well be my long lost twin. She went to the same college, got the same degree and even freelanced for the same person I do now. Whoa.

As far as interviews go, I think this was the most comfortable one I've ever been in. I called my mom when I was done, and she asked if I had just got out, with a touch of surprise in her voice. I looked at the clock. I had been in there an hour and a half. It did not feel like more than half an hour. My interviewer and would be editor told me things that you always wonder in interviews, but can never ask. Like, "Does the health care suck?" Or. "Do the advertisers make you write things?" I even told her all I had in my tiny purse were keys, because the purse I usually use is much less professional.

Hey, she brought it up.

We laughed and joked. And I know I would enjoy working with her, and writing for several different magazines. It is my dream first job.

It is so perfect I want to dance right now. Or run 3 miles. Or something. Mostly because she told me I have a good shot at it. Which is awesome. So awesome, I can only speak in short bursts.

She told me she would let me know by Oct. 23. Anyone got a remote with a fast forward button that works on time? Nevermind. That made me think of the movie "Click." I'd rather not live in fast forward like Adam Sandler.

So here's to some more waiting anxiously.

I found a 24-hour laundrymat filled with Buddhas. (Blog entries to come soon, I promise. I'm waiting on my computer.)

Mark Twain cut off his hair.