Administrivia: 13 April 2022

I am never sure how much of my life to share here and how much to gloss over because although I will readily just tell stories about my life to whoever’s listening and I usually don’t care who hears or reads them, I don’t need added complications from people being drama queens* in response. This will make you laugh if you have known me any length of time but trust me, nothing says “unreasonable” like reading someone’s account of her own life’s goings-on and then (1) getting offended and yelling at her; (2) offering advice she didn’t ask for and then getting offended when she doesn’t take it; and/or (3) starting some kind of weird online crusade against her because you made (1) or (2) happen, you utter utter control freaks.

But, uh, I’ve never personally had anyone do anything like that to me. πŸ™„

(P.S. Apparently, rolling your eyes at someone is Literal Murder. Or domestic violence, at least.)

But! Here’s how it all has sort of broken down since February.


I’ve had half an hour at one temp agency for orientation, about twenty hours at another temp agency comprising training (four hours) and actual work (sixteen hours), and… filling out some forms at a third one? Yeah. I got a little money out of the deal, and the twenty hours at Agency #2 were particularly helpful, but I swear I have some kind of anti-temping force field around myself because as soon as I’m in the picture, the temp agency’s gig app starts malfunctioning or the employer drops hours or both. The most recent, memorable (to me) example of this was when I went to download the app and… it’s iOS only. [headdesk] If the universe is consciously communicating with me, y’all, it’s telling me I will get nowhere with temp work. Which is odd because I still see NOW HIRING signs screaming on every street corner. What are y’all “hiring,” anyway? Shop-window dummies?

Permanent job searching

I get as far as the interview and then… pbbbbbt.

It can’t be my massive gap in employment or I’d never make it that far.

I don’t have interview clothes, really. I have like one outfit and it’s barely acceptable. That alone can sink me and I know it. Shopping for clothes is expensive if I buy new, will take time if I order off the internet, and if I go to Goodwill there’s half a damn day I wasted to find maybe three garments that sort of fit me but are faded because, duh, they’re used. Even if I got the clothes sorted out through some charity, and there are some here in town, I won’t get the shoes sorted — no one can find dress shoes to fit my derpy feet, forget it, it’s a lost cause — so I’m probably still screwed. You have to look like you don’t need the job to get the job, but if you need the job and can’t get the job, you’re “just lazy” and deserve to starve.

I realize I look like I could starve for a good six months or so and be fine, but you don’t store vitamins and minerals in your body fat and your body will turn your muscle and organ protein into glucose in conditions of starvation, so guess what.

And anyway

I vacillate between “I will take any fucking thing that pays me $14 an hour and up so that I can get into an apartment” and “I don’t want things that make me stand in one spot for eight fucking hours and therefore kill my feet” and other similar considerations. I feel like if I could just get moving and build up exercise tolerance I would be all right, even at the tender age of two years shy of half a century on this earth. But really I wish I could just get a nice little medical office job again. One in which I wear scrubs. So then I could wear my stupid sneakers and NO ONE WOULD CARE.

In the meantime, I guess we’ll just have to see.


Oh and I have to account for the fact I have fibroid tumors and therefore have two different sets of health issues which require me to have irregular, on-demand access to a restroom. This ruled out the Amazon warehouses very early on, and it probably rules out most other warehouses too.

Most of the people making hiring decisions are women who are young, women who have good health coverage and — most of all — men, so they’re really not going to grok this.

All of this is, of course, why I was a “gold-digger” πŸ™„ with Matt for so long. I knew that the second I stepped out there and tried to be independent again I’d be in trouble. If anyone still had any questions about whether I moved out of Matt’s house on a whim, here’s a shovel for your doubts… go bury them. I’ll say a little prayer.

It will probably sound a lot like, “Get thee behind me, Satan.”


I have another interview tomorrow which may or may not also go pbbbbbt. If it works out, I have no idea how that will go. I try to assume things will go a certain way and I am almost always disappointed. I will say that it is a housekeeping gig (okay, not gig, I’ll ACTUALLY BE EMPLOYED DIRECTLY) and that I have zero problem with the idea of being a housekeeper if I am also being PAID FAIR WAGES and have TAXES WITHHELD FOR THE IRS AND SOCIAL SECURITY GODDAMMIT MATT. (I am not explaining this to him anymore. If he hasn’t figured it out by now, he’s a hopeless case.) Houses need cleaned; it’s an honorable line of work. I’ll be relieved to have regular paychecks, and they’ll even be weekly. Anything else, we’ll just have to see what happens.

If the interview DOES go pbbbbbt, I was already doing Uber Eats and I also recently signed on with GoPuff after having been advised by a random stranger who showed me his earnings numbers on the app. Likely I will transition over to doing GoPuff on weekdays and Uber Eats on the weekends — and at other times I need near-instant cash; UE lets you insta-deposit your earnings, whereas GoPuff only pays once a week. I would have just stuck with these sources of income anyway, but I’ve been concerned about my car. I was still in the 70k range on mileage when I first got back to Ohio in February and now it’s over 80k, closer to 81k maybe, and it’s been maybe a month and a half since my last oil change and I already need another. I think the car also needs a tune-up. I worry that that’s not all it needs.

I also worry that although the apartment community I want to move into bases your eligibility on one month’s income and says nothing about what sort of employment you are supposed to have, they might still turn me down for being a gig worker even if I hit the minimum income threshold and then some.

Also, we have hit a stage in this pandemic where people have forgotten there’s a killer virus on the loose. I have mostly given up masking in public because there’s no point; it’s supposed to protect other people from the wearer, not the wearer from other people, and I can’t be protected in that way when almost everyone’s bare-faced. So at some point the scales will tip and most people will be shopping and getting restaurant food in person and then I don’t think delivery will be quite as lucrative, not that it’s winning the Powerball in the first place.

Otherwise I’d be content with the status quo. Pretty much.

So the other thing I need to be doing is studying my ass off to get my proofreader course done. It will help immensely that my father will no longer be glaring at me over the top of my iPad because I am “goofing off” again. πŸ™„

I don’t know what people’s problems have always been where I was concerned, but I’m about ready to go full hermit. Fuck all y’all.

*There is no such thing as a drama king, my sweet summer child. If you act like a bitch, I’mma call you one.

memory lane

I don’t have much here yet. I want to add in some photos to the header on the front page (it won’t show very well on any other page) but I’m not really in a good position to do that yet; my printer (which has a scanner built in) is still in my car and I feel averse to bringing it into my room. Probably irrational, but there it is. I’m basically white-knuckling my entire life right now, hoping I don’t terminally fuck up.

But I’ve got some poor-quality image files here and there I can share for now. Thought I would.

High school art class, 1990-1991 school year

1990-1991 school year when the first two hours of my day were spent in Commercial Art. I don’t know why they called it that. My teacher was very fine-art-oriented and that came out frequently in our lessons. Anyway, this was taken by a photographer from The Covington Leader when I won a local 4-H poster contest by one vote. I wish I could have obtained the original photo. Good photos of me are rare.

Homecoming Week, fall 1992

Homecoming Week in my senior year of high school, autumn 1991. Every individual day in the week had a theme; this was Tacky Day. I had drawn pawprints on my face because our school’s mascot was the cougar, and someone in my chorus class liked the pawprints and wanted her own.

(Years later I was working in an internal medicine practice and we all dressed up for Halloween, and one of the nurses was dressed like a convict and really wanted a fake tattoo on her face. I don’t know why she asked me, maybe I just overheard her talking and offered, but I ended up drawing one of those hearts with an arrow going through it and the word MOM on it on her cheek, also with an eyeliner pencil, just like this.)

July 1992 induction into the U.S. Army

My first morning on active duty in the U.S. Army. I frequently label it as having been taken 08 July ’92, but it may have actually been the ninth; I think it was nighttime when we got to the reception station in Missouri on the 8th and then I was up very early the next day for all the ID-card-making (what this photo was for) and such.

Nearly thirty years ago, anyway. Jeeeeezus.

official Army portrait

Taken the same day when I had woken up a little bit, but you can still see I’m exhausted if you know what you’re looking at. This wasn’t even my real uniform, just a drape (probably an actual uniform top and jacket, but not specifically mine, which I didn’t get until weeks later anyway). My real Class A uniform never got much more decorated than this, though. I get impatient with people who claim that all members of the military are “heroes” — my time in service was so lackluster it was ridiculous. When I wasn’t getting into trouble for reasons equally ridiculous. I’m amazed I got out of there with an honorable discharge, frankly.

Christmas season 1993

Christmas season 1993. That’s my former stepmom on the left. By this point she and Dad were separated but not yet divorced. I was home from the Army and firmly in the throes of my Beavis and Butt-Head obsession. Heh-heh, mm heh.

selfie in April 2012

This photo’s ten years old this month! We had a black shower curtain in the bathroom and I found it was the perfect backdrop for a selfie. Hell, no one else was taking my picture.


Don’t feel much like posting anything more recent. It’s nothing to write home about, anyway. If you didn’t know what I looked like before, now you sort of do.