Had even more Fun With Temping after my previous post: to wit, the last temp agency I tried anything with kept doing this bait-and-switch thing where I would inquire about one job but be offered another and then the hours suddenly disappeared. And then they called me about one job and I called back and they offered me a different one and I’m desperate so hey, sure, so I lasted one day and then realized it was going to be a dead end too. If the lazy co-worker breaking rules left and right didn’t send me running away screaming then I was going to be shorted hours because I didn’t get there early enough, and we’re talking about at least half an hour early when it already took me half an hour to get there. Unworkable either way and did you know it’s very painful all over your body to be on your feet but not able to walk around for twelve hours straight? In your twenties it’s probably doable. I’m not in my twenties and all sorts of stuff’s wrong with me now. Nah. Done.
But that was weeks ago. More recently I got two interviews in a week, one an employer I pursued and one an employer that pursued me. In a twist ending which will surprise probably no one, Pursuing Employer worked out. So far. No, really, the job looks good. I’ll still be on my feet but the point is I will be moving. About the only way anything could go wrong at this point is if I bleed through my britches and damage someone’s automobile upholstery, but I’ll do what I can to make sure that doesn’t happen. If I have to carry a folded-up puppy pad in my pocket at all times, y’all, I will make sure that doesn’t happen. And when my medical kicks in I will be seeing someone about those damn fibroid tumors. Enough. I’m done. I can’t wait until menopause when this is messing up my life now.
I don’t know if it will be enough pay to get me into an apartment. It will definitely be enough pay to keep me in this weekly-rate motel without having to scrounge all the time. Or the one in Dublin, actually, because that’s a lot closer to work, so when I get things stabilized and make sure shit’s not gonna blow up in my face I’ll be moving there. In the meantime, if things are looking good, I’ll put myself on the waiting list for the apartments where I was living before Thea and I moved in with Matt. It’ll be either the one-bedroom or the studio. The two-bedroom (I’d use one bedroom for an office) is out of the question unless I make a LOT of extra money from the fifty cents extra per car and the tips. I have no idea how that’ll go. We’ll just have to see. I think I will still opt for the one-bedroom though, if I can even get in, because I need to be saving more money, not spending more money. (I’d get the studio, but it doesn’t have a full-sized fridge. I will if that’s all they’ll let me rent, though.)
I have plans! I’d like to pursue them before I die! I have never had Big Plans for my life before, and I kinda like it!
I don’t talk about my kids much anymore other than to occasionally share random anecdotes here and there, either because said anecdotes are fun to think about or to bolster various discussions or arguments. It’s like walking across a minefield and I don’t fancy being blown up.
I love both my kids. I don’t regret having them, I just regret becoming a mother. That doesn’t make sense, I know. What I am saying is that if there were some way both of them could have come into existence as the exact same people without me being their mother, I’d rather that were what had happened. I am shit at being a mother. I always have been. I don’t know just how shit — how much of this is just me unfairly comparing myself to other people, and how much actually me being a bad mother, and I will probably never know, but I know it’s at least somewhat the latter.
It’s got to be that, because the alternative is that I had both my kids ripped away from me for no reason. And if I ever find out that’s the case, a whole lot of people are going to regret being born, because they made my kids regret being born, and they made me regret something I have wanted since at least my late teens.
I’m not a fucking bear, but with all of us mama mammals a lot of the essential wiring is the same.
Do not fuck with me. You WILL regret it.
Or I will shit on your fucking grave.
And I don’t care which it is. Though honestly, the latter would cheer me up a LOT, for reasons I hope are very obvious.
In the meantime… I stay away because I’m ashamed, because I know I fell short, because I know I can’t go back and fix it, and I want to be able to go back and fix it more than anything in the whole wide world. I do not speak to them because I don’t think they want me to speak with them. I’m here, anyone can see how to contact me, both of them know where to look for me, and… silence. I am not going to chase them if it turns out I would be unwelcome anyway. I don’t know if that’s the right answer or the wrong answer. Does it make them feel worse that I don’t pursue them after months or years (decades, in Sean’s case) of not being around them? I have no idea, and I can’t bring myself to ask. I feel like if the answer were going to be something I’d want to hear, we’d already be in touch with one another. The lack of attempting contact is its own answer.
I feel a lot like I got used to produce a couple of citizen-units for the man-state and now that I’ve done my “job” I’m obsolete and it’s time to throw me away.
I don’t quite hate men yet, but I’m getting dangerously close.
Thank fuck my reproductive life is almost over.