I have a problem.
I like to steal glass and ceramic wares from restaurants. I couldn't even bring myself steal a pack of gum with my cousin when I was a kid, and here I am sneaking crockery in my bag.
My biggest weakness is for bar glasses — especially cocktail-style. I have been known to take other things, like a ridiculously tiny vintage-looking plate for which I can't ever imagine myself having a need. Yet I don't even need to use them. I just like to think about them. And therein, my friends, lies my downfall. I’m a sucker for things that make me think of other times and other lives. Illicit tokens of nostalgia, if you will.
Far and away my most nostalgic piece of dishware is a mug. It formerly lived a life of hard, greasy service at Chuck and Jane's restaurant in Port Austin, Michigan.
Today was one of those days that could pass for a plotline in a Cathy comic strip. Witness the following themes:
I was late for work! Let me tell you something: I have zero personal time management skills. For all my grinding, churning internal cynicism, when it comes to the clock I am an eternal optimist. I can be buck naked out of the shower, glance at the time, and calculate that I can do my skincare routine, dress, apply eye makeup and fix my hair, scrounge for food in the kitchen, make coffee, pack up my computer, put on my shoes and coat, and be out the door in under five minutes flat. "I'll be gone by 8:30, no problem!" I'll crow to myself, still toweling off even as the minute hand ticks over to 8:27. You know what? This isn't even optimism. I'm the victim of my own twisted god complex which causes me to believe I can simply conjure spare time out of thin air. That I can bend physical laws to my will!
Spoiler alert: I CAN'T.
Over the past week, friends, acquaintances, coworkers, and bill collectors alike have been asking me what I'm doing with my husband for Valentine's Day. "Um, nothing?" I respond, shrugging it off. Because let's face it, we are just a couple of old married people now. Don't these people know that marriage kills the romance dead? Duh.
It's not that we didn't used to try. On our very first Valentine's Day the beau took me out for a nice dinner with champagne. I was lacking in the funds department, and the only way I could reciprocate was with a handmade gift. So I made him a book of chaiku -- chaiku being a combination of the word "haiku" and the beau's real name, of course. This endeavor perhaps sounds lofty and romantic until you actually read a sample:
a smack on the ass -- not all
are as well-spoken
Three things. Well, two things, and a story.
First. Thank you so much for all your thoughts and insight on my job situation. You guys will probably not be disappointed to find out that my final decision was to go with Opportunity #1. After I read your comments, I talked it over with the beau. "It's a no-brainer that you should go with the first option for your career advancement," he told me. "But what about our future?" I asked. "Your career advancement is our future," he replied sagely.
That's when I collapsed on the floor and melted into the carpet. It's official. He wins the "Best Husband I've Ever Had" award. I don't just give those out to anyone, you know.
I'm kind of nervous. True, I'll be making more money per hour at this new job, but I'll be working fewer hours. The best I'm hoping for is that it evens out to what I'm making now, or slightly less. And it's true that I can take on side jobs to help split the difference. Either that or I can simply take any hours I am not working each week and devote them to learning and training, which is kind of like paying myself with knowledge instead of cash. I think I'm going to just have figure it out as I go.