Thirteen days

If I actually, somehow, manage to physically and mentally get through the upcoming week at work, I will have worked thirteen days in a row. Each of those days was worked for as little as 6 hours (last Sunday) and up to 10 hours (perhaps more . . . haven't gotten through the week yet).

This may not seem like a milestone for some people, but it's a significant chunk of my life. Being at work leaves little time for everything that needs to be done around the house, taking care of the dogs, and finding a few spare minutes here and there to spend with my husband. He and I usually have Sundays to ourselves. Not tomorrow! I'll be at work. Again. Putting in overtime. The only light at the end of the tunnel is the daydreams about all the things I can do with this money. Like . . .

• A trip to Ikea (and the gas to get there and back) to get light fixtures, a new medicine cabinet, shelving, bookcases and the like.
• Or I could pay off a decent chunk of a credit card bill.
• Save for this year's wedding anniversary trip/vacation.
• Go out to eat at a fancy-schmancy place and take part in a ten-course tasting meal.
• Really treat myself and get my hair cut, colored, and styled professionally (been doing it myself for years to save money).
• Purchase a new pair of shoes . . . that aren't from Payless.
• Buy a brand-new handbag instead of getting yet another one from the thrift store.
• Underwear and socks. Can never have too many of them . . .
• Put it all in a high-yield savings account until I have three-months' salary saved up so I can quit.
• Invest in supplies for making even more jewelry.
• Have a big barbecue and invite friends and family.

The options really are endless . . . Not sure yet which I shall choose. Who knows how much I'll end up with when it's all said and done. I just hope I'm sane enough to enjoy my decision. My head has been aching for the last three days (not the migraine side, though; the migraine side almost always has devastating results), and my eyes feel gritty and itch like they're full of sand. Hell, my husband's band is playing at Fuzetival tonight and I'm in too crappy a mood to watch them play (it's also a large, outdoor thing . . . I'm not much of a "joiner," don't have much in the line of friends, and crowds tend to scare me; I prefer to rock out in the comfort of my own home).

I know this is a lot of bitching . . . and I really don't hate what it is that I do. I just hate the politics of it all; the company heads wonder why people quit with little to no notice, why people "don't last" in my department. Who is it that's handing down the schedules? Who is it doling out the workload? That very same person continues to be doted upon by the V.P. who admits that the scheduling practices are unorthodox and are a problem, yet turns their head and lets it continue. If they're not careful, they won't have anyone left in my department. There were usually 6; then it went to 5 and dwindled to 4. Soon there were only 3, and (technically) we are now but 2. Myself, and the other person, who hasn't even been with the company for a calendar year yet. I tried to quit last October, but was thwarted by being given a raise and promising to help train the new group of hired people. I trained them, and out of the three, two have since quit.

Maybe moving to Chicago is going to be what it takes for me to make my escape . . . That means that next summer seems like a very far away goal. I should try to win the lottery in between, though, that way the Husband and I don't have to worry about housing prices out there ($150,000 for a tiny little house in Berwyn, close to $200,000 in Evergreen Park, and near $300,000 for a 3 bedroom, 1.5 bath home in Chicago Ridge or Tinley Park). I'm terrified about finding a new job in a city I don't really know. Everything is so much more expensive, and even though I've visited out there a zillion times, I'm still weirded out that there are no mountains in the Chicago area. Maybe that's my problem? All my life here in the Lehigh Valley has literally been an uphill battle . . .

Damn punk

"Honey! C'mere and take a look at this!"

It was early-ish Sunday morning, and my husband had just went out the back door to leave for a NYC daytrip. Not 30 seconds later, he was back inside (much to the dogs' delight), and beckoning me outside.

"Some punk spray-painted the tree and some of the grass. Weird, huh?"

"Whoops," I said. "That was me. Remember, I painted the new kitchen cabinet doors yesterday?" (In my personal protest to not wanting to have to put in overtime at work over the weekend, I got showered and dressed really late on Saturday so it wouldn't make any sense to go. I then spent the rest of the day/evening painting kitchen cabinets, vacuuming, doing laundry, organizing the contents of the cabinets I was painting, and anything else I could think of doing . . . in order to justify staying at home.)

"Ohhh. I was gonna say. . . . Yep, same paint color, now that I think about it. Glad we that got figured out.

At least from the back door the spray-painted bit on the grass could pass as shadow or something . . . it isn't like the garage down the street that has "2nd street bloods" sprayed on it in bright red two-foot high letters with the legibility equal to that of an eight-year-old. I could get fancy with it, though. Go all out . . . make a tag of my own. Something relative to the East side, decorating, cooking, and jewelry.

freckled like Punky Brewster

Yeah, haven't posted in a week. I know.

I was on vacation at the Maryland shore from the 28th through the 5th (hence the freckling; which I used to hate as a kid, and now love because it makes me feel young). Now I'm back and work is just hellish. (In a matter of 30 days or so my department has been cut in half [from 4 to 2 employees] due to people quitting.)

Will be posting some vacation and garden pictures this weekend.

Going to go to bed and try to avoid nightmares about Suzanne Somers.