Just What the Doctor Ordered

So, Mama Snee is officially employed again. Not this limbo employment I currently love and hate, but an actual, legit part-time job which will work around my class schedule, which starts in under a week. I’m going to work for a local charity doing all kinds of odds and ends and I am actually starting to get kind of excited about it. At least about the change of scenery.

And let me tell you, buddy, I desperately needed something to happen today, as I have been circling the drain for the last 48 hours, due to exhaustion and stress and not being able to tell the future. And I need for my classes to begin (6/6) so that I can have some focus in this mess I seem to be making. But this is a good start.

And y’all, my belly is BIG. STILL. I usually wear pants to work, but today I’m wearing a skirt with a stretchy waist, so there is no… hmmm…there are no walls around the prison. We are having a fatty-fat prison break here in my non- office. I caught my reflection in the drycleaner’s window and I still look about five months effing pregnant.

I saw the offending bulge when I was on my way to get a chai tea popsicle at the coffee shop. Delish. Maybe I’m pregnant with chai tea popsicles and macaroni and cheese and pizza. I need to make some changes.

You know, one part of doing massage for a living (along with the flexible schedule and opportunity to offer therapeutic services without getting punched in the face at the mental health center) that I am really jazzed about—and this is going to sound so trivial—is that I won’t have to dress up like somebody else anymore. No slacks. NO SLACKS! No more shirts with buttons unless I want to. No more buying something completely boring because “I can wear it to work.” And this isn’t about clothes, necessarily, although that’s a part of it. I said it yesterday and I’m feeling it even more today—the sight/ sound/ smell of office culture turns my stomach.

Also, I need for my house to be clean and good-smelling. Because right now there is laundry everywhere and grass still tracked in from A’s birthday and the whole place smells like an old, sleeping dog. This is due to the old, sleeping dogs.
I was talking to my brother this afternoon, and telling him about A’s super sweet tattoo, and he says, “What does yours look like again?” And I say “I don’t have one.” And he says “yes you do.” It’s the chicken fajita conversation all over again, and he finally admits he’s wrong about the tattoo but won’t give up on the fact that he swears I ordered a chicken fajita years ago when I ABSOLUTELY DID NOT ORDER A CHICKEN FAJITA, ever. So I say, “B, you are dreaming this stuff.” And he says, “I didn’t dream it, I reality-ed it.”

So, here’s to employment, and getting things a little bit untangled, and my brother having me completely mixed up with some other, meat-eating, tattooed older sister.

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