Administrivia: 21 May 2022

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.

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.

Administrivia: 07 March 2022

Finally have a mailing address on the contact page (look in the menu ^^^). It is not my home address, but it is a street address because I’m not in permanent housing yet (why do we call rental houses and apartments “permanent housing”? They’re not) and I’d like to be able to get FedEx and UPS if necessary. Also I think the 43214 post office is tired of me and my mailbox drama. Hahaha.

I want to add photos here into the layout that would be visible from the front page but I’m not in a good place to do that yet. I have equipment but some of it’s still in the car, and all my photos are there too. Feel superstitious about completely unloading my car. The week I do that I’ll find myself incapable of paying the weekly rate and will have to put every fucking thing back in it again to go somewhere else. Ugh.

Administrivia: 17 February 2022

So, for a long time I was running something resembling a website at this URL using WordPress, and then I moved South to the sticks for four months and thought, “I’d better take it back to basics because otherwise I’ll hardly have time to update it because internet access is so bad,” and then I changed my mind and came back to Ohio and that was no longer an issue, so we are back to the WordPress thing again.

Expect this site to always be half-finished and constantly evolving.

I suppose it rather resembles its owner in that way.

Okay, okay, that’s not quite true. If I were “cOnStAnTLy eVoLviNg” I wouldn’t be in my current mess… probably? But the mess will probably make me evolve, and long overdue, I’d say.