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Woo-hoo!  Thanks to FB memories, I was reminded that one year ago today was Kent's first cataract surgery.  Today we also sent out the final payment to the anesthesiologist.  We are dangerously close to paying off what the insurance didn't pay.  I'm so proud of us!

And the spousebeast will quit worrying about his eyeballs being repossessed.  ;)

[Sidenote: I'm Alicia Snavely on FB.  Anyone who wants to add me is free to, but please shoot me a note and let me know who you are]

I got home early.  I think I'm going to quit complaining (not out loud.  I'm not stupid.  But there is some bitching going on in the paper journal) about the 12-5 shift, because those are guaranteed hours.  11-3, on the other hand, finds you with one extra person on the floor and you're it.  And if you're rolling silverware at 1:20 because all the other sidework is done, you're gone.

That said, I was kind of glad.  I had nightmares last night.  Worse yet, I couldn't place a finger on the what or the why behind them.  There are no major dates coming up that I associate with trauma.  No triggers anywhere, high or low.  And nothing with any real context.  If I can retrace the possible source when I have nights like that, I can be okay(ish).  It makes sense on some level.  When it's context-less, I am a billion times more unsettled.  Not good for work performance.  So the fact that we had to cut three people before 2 was...kinda nice.  I'll make up the hours later.

Although I did get praise from Big Boss.  She called in a phone order under a false name (I am SOOOO calling her "Daisy" from now on).  When she came to pick it up, I got kudos for my phone skills.  She even said that I could be a switchboard operator from the old movies (not like Ernestine.  Although that is closer to what I feel like when I have to deal with the phone at work).

Then I had to laugh.  I'VE DONE THAT!  It was one of my work study jobs in college.  No one believes me when I tell them I went to a college that still had a switchboard system in the 90s.  It was such a great gig:  sit on your butt, take a few calls, put up faculty mail (and discover who is getting Victoria's Secret catalogues--or packages!--sent to their work address.  My inner Harriet the Spy loooooved that), and read.  Or write (I probably filled a dozen notebooks a year just at work).  Or embroider, which was my big thing back then. Keep in mind that this was before crafting in public was cool.  ;)

Of course, the culture at Emory and Henry when I went there might have been a lot of things, but cool was not one of them.  I wonder sometimes if that is the reason we're so close.  "Okay, let's round up a bunch of overachievers, nerds, preachers kids, misfits, and Methodists, drop them on a campus nine miles from the nearest town but close enough that most of their families can make surprise visits, don't allow freshmen to have cars or live off campus, and see what happens."

You get a culture largely based on having to make your own fun (no bars.  No nightlife.  Did I mention no downtown area unless you count Klink's, which is a former gas station with the pumps removed?  However, they carry Beanie-Weenies from the 80s, copies of Weekly World News, and beer.  And have a pinball machine).  It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't bad.  And we did stupid shit, like breaking in to the observatory to crawl out on the roof and write poetry under the stars.  Or play capture the flag at two in the morning on the golf course.  Or have Poetry Cafe on a Friday (basically, a bunch of people get together to read what they've written.  Or something that's moved them.  At 7pm on a Friday night.  And this is why everyone assumed Mark and I would eventually get married, because we were the hosts).

That said, the insular culture also led to things like he who shall not be named (no, you don't get caps, motherfucker) did.  I've been talking to the survivor from the case where I was the student advocate (DUMBEST IDEA EVER!  PROSECUTE, PROSECUTE, PROSECUTE! This woman needed a lawyer, and I was a piss-poor substitute), and it keeps coming back to that the Stanford case and the crimes against her are almost identical.  She's triggered every time she sees an article.

I am not all that coherent.  This is stirring up things for me.  And the women I know.

And the woman I failed, who was chatting back and forth with me this afternoon.  "They always look so harmless, don't they?"

Yes.  Yes, they do.

Then she wanted to talk about the fun we all had back in the day.  And we laughed.

"And we DID have fun."

This is not about me.  But it is hard to balance the two.  


Jun. 8th, 2016 03:11 pm (UTC)


The fucking YARN FAIRY!

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