I don't have any workout stuff to talk about today. I did some swimming this morning at Cochiti with Lisa, and then I went shopping. I went to this little place that Pirate introduced me to last month called Black and White House Market, I think. The problem is, all my clothes look like teacher clothes NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT and they're too big.
Lately, I've had a craving to be more girlie. I always said that if I got a job where I wasn't on my feet all day I'd wear cuter shoes and plus, I usually dress a little less casually in the fall. Also, I had an interview of sorts today.
So I have teacher clothes even though I SWORE I'd never dress like a teacher NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT but darn it if I didn't anyway...and then I also got smaller, but my clothes didn't, but I kept wearing them, because I figured I could just move in the buttons and it would be fine.
The goal was, you ssee, to make myself as unattractive as possible, not ugly, but you figure teenage boys don't need anything to distract them from learning Algebra; hence, little jackets and long dresses to hide any hint that there was a woman underneath that loooong, coverall dress.
And there's the shoes. Lots of sensible, plain, comfortable, low-heeled shoes to go with my uber-sensible teacher dresses. NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.
So put on my best, prettiest jacket dress this morning oh, my, it's just too big. Pretty, but too big. And it makes me look like a teacher, not like the position I was interviewing for. NOT THAT...WELL--you get the idea.
So I went to this place and bought stuff; and it was fun, buying girlie stuff. Then I went by where Sweet Baboo works and he looked up and said, in his good husband even voice, Hi Sweetie! Oh...You know, I don't think I remember that dress.
Which I think is Baboo code for whathaveyoudoneandhowmuchdidyouspend?
Now I ask you, how many husbands would instantly be able to tell that the wife was wearing soemthing new? Not many, I'd argue.
So, then I went to the interview.
You see, I found out during the past couple of weeks that the rate of clients who don't show up for their therapy appointments at the place where I'm working is around 40%. That means 2 out of every 5 appointments would leave me drumming my fingers on a desk. Well, I knew that I didn't paid if clients didn't show, and I knew that sometimes they didn't show, but I sure didn't know to expect that.
I'm not trying to get rich or anything, but have bills, like anyone does. I'll probably keep seeing people for therapy part-time, but I'm looking for something a little more stable in the meantime.
The interview was for a psychiatric research assistant, for a non-profit foundation that coordinates research grants in medicine for the VA. They promise I'll still have flexibility in my schedule, which is a big deal to me. I feel like the interview went well. I'll know more next week.
Then I went to Dillards to get some mascara, and it's mosty Pirate's fault that I visited women's shoes, where they were having a 75% off sale...there rest is not pretty to tell, because it implicates Pirate and if I say much more Sweet Baboo won't let me play with her any more.
He's camping with his brothers this weekend, but I suppose soon I'll hear something like, Hi sweetie! oh...I don't remember those shoes...
Even though I was in awful shape in 2016 I was still stubborn and foohardy...so I spent a year running down whatever fitness base I had left...
Dear Diary, It's 5 am and the wind is still. Fucking. Blowing. I'm not talking about a breeze rustling through the trees. We live...
Dear Diary, This month I learned stuff from doctors. Good stuff. Stuff I didn't know, and was surprised to learn. That doesn't...
Dear Diary, A rep from Free Country wrote me and offered to send me a swim suit if I would review it for my blog. Say it with me now: ...