TARDIS Take Me Away

Wednesday, June 29th, 2011 08:55 pm
radiumgirl: (Default)
 I filled out an application for a position with a pharmaceutical company doing pretty much the exact same thing that I do at my temp job. In fact, the phrase "one-year contract" appears on this particular application and it makes me think that this is actually, probably, yet another temping job. 

The following also appears on the job site:

-Tolerance for highly repetitive work 
-Independent thinker 


You know, job, I know you think you want "independent thinkers" but trust me when I say you don't. My independent thinking is what usually gets me in trouble at work. And I currently work in a "highly repetitive" job, which only exacerbates this problem. 

How about you stop dicking around and tell everyone what you really want:

radiumgirl: (holly and cat)
It's been a bad week. Nothing spectacular, just continuing the trend of failing to find a job. I was surprised by what a nice weekend it's been though. I worked the open-afternoon shift at Adventureland yesterday so I could go to Rooney's party, and I hate opening. I loathe opening. I utterly despise opening. I don't know if Brad kept that in mind when he made the schedule or what, but he had me with Tyler, and I love Tyler. I gush about Tyler. He's absolutely the most precious human being on the face of the planet. He is, and I say this with a straight face, too precious for this world.

So, it wasn't a bad shift. It ended on a hilarious note when our replacements came in. At 17, Tyler is the youngest team member on the schedule and the rest of us, we suddenly noticed, are uncharacteristically old, as far as amusement park seasonal worker demographics tend to go. Tyler is already leaving us, only a month into the season. His family is going on vacation, and when he gets back, he has soccer camp until school starts, so it's just not worth it for him. This is his last weekend and we're all going to miss him. He's a delight. Brad said, "Have a nice life, kid." and Tyler got all pouty and said,"We'll see each other! And don't call me kid, you're like, two years older than me."

Brad, our Fearless Leader, is thirty.

This started a rousing game of "Guess my Age" and Tyler guessed that I am twenty-one, Molly is twenty-two, and Bethany is nineteen or twenty. We all laughed hysterically. Our real ages are twenty-four, twenty-six, and twenty-seven, respectively.

Tyler gaped, "Wow. You guys are old. Why do you still work at Adventureland? Don't you have real jobs?"

I deadpanned, "We're a merry band of fuck-ups."

Brad completely lost his shit and laughed so hard that he shot Gatorade through his nose, which sucked for him. Molly snorted and Bethany frowned and said, "Yeah. Pretty much."

At that point, the shift was over and Tyler and I had to drop our cash bags off at the revenue office on the way out. Tyler insisted on carrying my bag, "I feel really bad. That was kinda rude, what I said, wasn't it?"

"Eh. I mean, it is what it is. And you didn't say we were fuck-ups. I said we were fuck-ups."

"But...you're not. You guys are so awesome. And smart. And you all went to college-"

I shrugged. "And we all fucked-up in our own ways. Brad is lazy as shit. Bethany isn't rude but she tends to come off that way. I majored in English, a degree that is really only good for getting more degrees. Molly had a real job but she got laid off-"

"That's not her fault."

"No."

"And it's not fair."

"No, it's not."

"I feel really bad for saying that though."

I threw an arm around him and said, "Don't feel bad, seriously, no one in there is offended. We know what we are."

I thought he was going to cry right there in the midway. This is why he rocks at Guest Services. Also? He has Sam Winchester Puppy Eyes of Doom. You come up to him and you're bent out of shape over a cold corn dog and you might as well tell him that all of the kittens in the world just dropped dead.

"Dude." I said, "You're being a bigger girl than me. Stop it. I mean, it's not like our lives totally suck."

"Brad lives in his mom's basement. I thought he meant, like, for the summer, but he meant all the time. That's horrible!"

I opened the door for him and we lowered our voices because the full-time employees get pissy when the seasonal employees are noisy in the offices, "Tyler, I'm sure he's not living in squalor. I'm sure it's a very nice basement. Also? He's fucking Kelsey. So his life doesn't suck that much."

"Wait, Brad's fucking Kelsey?" Tyler's voice cracked and he handed our bags through the window. The revenue worker rolled his eyes when Ty ignored the sign-in sheet to give me a pointed look, "Is that even legal? How old is Kelsey?"

"She's my age, dude. Sign the fucking paper before Fred stabs you."

"Really? Is Kelsey a fuck-up, too?" Except it sounded more like he was asking, "Is Kelsey a superhero, too?"

"No." We swiped our time cards and started to climb the hill up to the employee parking lot, "Kelsey's a doctoral student."

Family Remains

Wednesday, June 8th, 2011 09:39 pm
radiumgirl: (remember who you are)

Despite the fact that *facepalm* tends to be the default regard that I hold for pretty much everyone who shares DNA with me, I'm pretty fascinated by my family. I've been intrigued by my ancestors since I was a kid, mostly because I don't know very much about any of them and alot of what I do know is heavily ancedotal across the board. Apparently my dad's grandmother was a snake-charmer in a travelling carnival. All I have as evidence of this is a picture of an old lady in a pink sundress with snake tats all over her arms. Oh, and her name was Claire.

It's occured to me that if I'm going to talk about family history in Radium Girl (the memoir, not the Livejournal), I should probably have the facts straight.
 

So I signed up for an ancestry.com account. It's not the best method, I know, and believe me, if I could hire a real geneologist I would.  But it's something. And I'm making headway. But Jeebus, geneology is hard.

I really wanted to get some confirmation on the more ancedotal "facts" that my family swears by.

Ok, so really I wanted to get confirmation of the ancedotes that My-Mother-the-Convict swears by.

Melinda's family fascinates me. She was an only-child.  Her father killed himself before she was born. Her mother remarried an abusive alcoholic when Melinda was five and didn't divorce him until Melinda was out of high school. I'm fairly certain that alot of this plays into why Melinda is a psycho.

I even wrote a paper on it, once, for a Sociology class, about how fucked-up people make fucked-up kids, thus producing generation after generation of fucked-up people. It's why I'm completely terrified of eventually making babies because Melinda is a head-case and I'm not too far behind her and I want to think that my compulsive drive to be as un-like my mother as humanly possible means that I'll adore my kids and not ruin them, but then I guess everyone ruins their kids if you think about it. Most people don't even try. I would say that Owen's parents are, like, textbook suburban affluent borderline-obsessed-with-their-children parents who did everything "right": private school, stay-at-home mom, sports and piano lessons; and yet Owen can't sleep at night if he thinks too hard about whether or not his dad is proud of him and once he got really really drunk and cried about how he and his dad never do "father-son" things anymore.

Anyway, Melinda always made a big stink about how her grandfather was at Lakehurst the night the Hindenburg crashed, how he worked there, how her mother said she sat up all night with her mom listening to the radio broadcast and worrying.

I thought this was awesomesauce when I was a kid.

As I got older, I started to doubt this. I mean, Melinda's crazy, after all. And she told me the story after I came home with the book about the disaster when I was eleven, so she probably just wanted to...I don't know. Get me to pay attention to her instead of the book for ten minutes.

Well...I haven't exactly confirmed Melinda's story, but I've found enough evidence that I feel confident enough to make the claim myself.

1930 US Census, baby. I found him. There's a box for "occupation" and it said "railroad" and I was like, "see, lies" and then I scrolled over and there was a box for "employer" and there, in glorious scrawling ink, "Naval Air Station Lakehurst."

So, I think it stands to reason that he very well could have been there on May 6, 1937.
 

Then there's his wife. She's proving harder to track down because I don't know her maiden name and I'm not calling Melinda just to ask, which is a bit of a shame because she's the legacy here if we're being honest. She's the original (alleged) Radium Girl, and her nickname was meant to evoke a lot more than bad personality traits and inherent potential pickled in Patron.

And when I say she was "the" Radium Girl, what I really mean is that she was "a" Radium Girl because there were many.

Read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radium_girls

All I know about Melinda's grandmother, my great-grandmother, is that her name was Olivia, she worked in a clock factory during World War I, she had two kids: my grandmother, and a still-born son who was apparently horribly deformed, then she died of a brain tumor when she was 39 or 40 and my grandmother inherited a buttload of money "because of it."

Apparently the money was squandered through the combined efforts of her alcoholic second husband and her "not-quite-right" daughter. That's a quote lifted from her diaries, there. I don't like to read them, but I made myself do it once because I remembered her writing in them when I was a kid and I was genuinely curious. They're pretty dark. Not alot of details, just general unhappiness with life. It bothers me how often she writes about Melinda being "not right" and "manipulative" and "nasty" though. The diaries I have in my possession cover 1975 until her death in 1992. I never understood why no one did anything about it if it was so clear that my mom has always had problems...unless they did try, and failed, like me.

So, Melinda says Olivia was a Radium Girl. I say the ancedotal evidence points that way,and the find about my great-grandfather definitely gives Melinda a shiny little brownie point in the credibility department (cherish it, crazy-pants), but I want confirmation before I make such a claim...especially if I'm going to put that claim in writing...like in, say, a memoir.

Ah well, back to digging. I have six hours on a bus tomorrow to get my hands dirty. Maybe I'll even cave and call Melinda once we're firmly across state lines.
 

 


radiumgirl: (being human)
Oh my god. Doctor Who and Supernatural. Together. As one. 

I'm sorry. I have to go change my panties now. 

 



Alright. Back to the job hunt. 

Epilogue

Sunday, May 29th, 2011 02:18 pm
radiumgirl: (be kind)
 The first job I ever had was as a burger bitch at McDonald's and it sucked, but I was sixteen and I needed to work somewhere that I could walk to. I had a manager named Nina whom I adored. Nina was loud and funny.  She was short and had a tattoo of Bowser from the Mario games on her forearm. We went to the same high school, not at the same time, but close enough that we knew alot of the same teachers. 
 
"Is Mrs. K still there?"
 
"Yeah. She's on medical leave. Got her tubes tied or something."
 
"About fucking time. We called her the baby machine when I was in high school.  How many kids she have? Eleven?"
 
"Thirteen."
 
"Jesus fuck."
 
For the brief time that we worked together, Nina probably did more to sexually liberate me than my boyfriends did. She was the Rizzo to my Sandra Dee. 
 
"What do you mean you won't let him eat you out? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
 
So really, it was only a matter of time before Nina got herself fired. 
 
I was devastated. Nina wasn't all fun and games all the time. After we closed, all the smokers went out behind the dumpster to steal a minute to fuel their habit and even though my habit didn't start until college, I'd go out with them because why not? 
 
Nina was a recovering meth-head. She had two boys that CFS had taken away.  They lived with their dad, Nina's ex, who was also a meth-head, but he hadn't gotten caught. Nina lived in a shitty apartment above the tobacco shop downtown with her boyfriend who would come in and help us clean-up after close so we'd get out earlier. He had really pretty tattoos of flowers and skulls on both arms. Nina was serious about staying clean. She smoked, but she didn't drink, and she always told Gary-the-Pot-Head that he was going to ruin his life. 
 
I thought that Nina's determination meant that the rest of the world should be just as determined to help her out. And if that meant that she shouldn't be fired for losing her temper with a customer who was making an excessively big deal about cold fries....then so be it. 
 
(I'd like to say that I've grown out of this attitude, but I really haven't, and it shows in my work ethic.)
 
I wrote a letter to our franchise owner explaining that Nina was an admirable employee, she was just having a bad day, and don't we all?

He said that my letter was very well thought-out and eloquent considering my age, but the customer she insulted was a close personal friend of his and he didn't take insults to his friends lightly. 
 
The last time I saw Nina was the day she was formally asked not to come back. She showed up for work and was turned away. She was sobbing, head down, manager tie dangling from one hand as she started walking back downtown. 
 
Flash forward eight years. 
 
Today I had to run to the mall to exchange a pair of shorts.  I came back through town and ended up stopped at the light on Depot Street. It's a warm, sunny day and alot of people were out. I gawked at the joggers coming out of the park, people on the sidewalk by the dry-cleaners, the Sunoco...and there she was. There was Nina. She was with the same boyfriend from our McDonald's time, I recognized the tattoos. He was carrying a pizza box from the Dominoes up the block, his other arm wrapped around Nina's shoulders. He was smiling and she was laughing and behind them, walking close and shoving each other playfully, were two boys, one was tall and dark haired, maybe fifteen or so. The other was smaller, softer, maybe around ten years old. Maybe a little younger. 
 
I grinned like an idiot. I always thought of Nina whenever I drove past the shitty apartments above the tobacco store, with the dark, narrow windows and the peeling paint on the door. I watched Nina and her family turn up the street and head towards the small cluster of modest houses by the ice cream place. It's a cute neighborhood. I almost rented a house there myself, but the rent in my current apartment was cheaper. It's a tree-lined street, hilly, but close enough to walk to most of the places downtown. The yards are small, but well-kept.  It's a modest neighborhood, working class definitely...but eons away from the cramped quarters above the tobacco shop. 

I'm so happy that things worked out for Nina. I'm happy that I have a new "last time" to replace the one that I've carried for the past eight years. 
 

Back in the Saddle

Sunday, May 29th, 2011 08:26 am
radiumgirl: (spin)
 Yesterday was my first day back at Adventureland. It was pretty standard for an early season outing: long line for season pass pictures, printer jams, pissed-off people.  Alot of rides aren't open yet because they either haven't been safety tested, aren't assembled yet (I laughed my ass off, I mean really?), or failed a fire inspection (and just when I don't think I can laugh any harder, I do).  Apparently the radio frequencies changed between this year and last because I called my supervisor three times on the public safety channel. The general lack of communication is still in place: I called down to the Main Gate looking for a credit card that had been delivered to us an hour earlier. 

Gabe is in Guest Services this year.  He's on vacation because he's a sloth and no one knows when he's coming back because it's his dad's beach house on the Outer Banks and it's not like he really needs the job anyway. When I call him to make fun of him, I stick with "sloth" though, because he gets sad when I call him "cake eater."
 
There are a few returning ladies of G-Serv other than myself and, I was surprised when I looked at the schedule, a few new male additions. There was a running joke last year that Guest Services was Brad's personal harem because it was staffed entirely by women, except for him. It didn't help that he started dating one of us towards the end of the season. I leaned against the door of Brad's office and held the schedule up, "Way to turn your harem into a sausage fest."
 
"Are you complaining?"
 
"Nope. I love the men. Are they pretty?"
 
"I wouldn't know."
 
"Yes you would. I know when women are attractive. That doesn't mean I want to bang any of them."
 
"Well Gabe is here."
 
"And he is a bronze god."
 
"Travis will be in later and you can report back, okay?"
 
"Aye, sir."
 
"I love when you call me 'sir.'"
 
"It's more sarcasm than respect."
 
"From you I would expect nothing less."
 
It's a little freaky how easy it is to slide back into that rhythm. I've been at my temp job for six months now and I still walk in and panic because I don't know what's going on half the time, don't know which co-workers I can talk to, play with, or trust. Walking back into Adventureland, details like the radio frequency aside, was like slipping into a comfortable pair of old shoes. 
 
And apparently, Travis and I know each other already.  He used to be a rides extra, a rides person who was trained on everything and belonged to no specific team.  He was loaned out to teams as needed to cover call-offs. I feel bad because I don't really remember him, but he rang on the window next to mine, and at one point, during a lull in the line, said, "Hey, you're the old Jungle manager. I worked with you once."
 
"Oh god. I'm sorry. Was I mean?"
 
"Nah. You made this really amazing buffalo chicken dip for your team and let us all take 45 minute breaks."
 
"Wow, you got me on a good day."
 
"Yeah. Gabe warned me when we walked down. I was supposed to be on the Ferris Wheel, but you had a call-off and on the way down he asked if I had worked with you before and I said 'no' and he got this weird look on his face."
 
"Oh noooooo. I bet he told you I was a bitch who regularly made my team members cry."
 
"Nah. He said you were a little rough around the edges, but a total sweetheart."
 
"Of course he did."
 
"No really!"
 
"Did I make anyone cry that day?"
 
"Not that I recall."
 
"I must've been off my game."
 
So despite the fact that I don't remember him, I love Travis and he's my favorite sausage in our harem. 
 
It's good to be back, kids. It's good to be back. 
radiumgirl: (extra cookie spn)


 Ok, so my brother and I had a small finale-marathon tonight: Swan Song, Let it Bleed, and The Man Who Knew Too Much and the thing is, I've been wondering about some details regarding soulless!Sam in the S6 finale. 

I initially had the thought, and I've seen it floating around the interwebs, that there shouldn't have been a soulless!Sam hallucination during Sam's headspace roadtrip in 6.22 because, um, soulless. 
 
So, there's that. But then, the whole, "We're in your grapefruit, Sam." 
 
That's a Lucy quote, kids. And as soon as that came out of soulless!Sam's mouth, I was like, "OH  SHIT SON."
 
And then we were re-watching Swan Song tonight, and you know what? Swandive!Sam and soulless!Sam have the same wardrobe. I mean, it's the exact same jacket, shirt, everything. Ok, sure, Sam was wearing that outfit at the very end of the episode, when he was being a creeper, and was technically, at that point, soulless. But IDK. The grapefruit quote still rubs me the wrong way (in a good way).  Jared even said it like Lucifer. 
 
So. I don't think my bleeding fangirl heart is going to be able to take that, if Sam's post-wall state ends up being what I currently suspect that it might be. I just want Sammich to be okay (after, you know, an episode or two of post-wall residual effects of win) and mostly, himself.
 
Aw. BB.
 
Also? My brother is not one to usually comment on actors and their skill.  So my brain melted a little when we were watching Swan Song and my brother looks over and says, "Wow. Padalecki can really act."
 
"Um. I know."
 
"No, but, like, even the body language between real Sam and Lucifer Sam.... It's really something."
 
"I know. The internet knows. We just wish that the Gods of Casting for films of a higher caliber than Friday the 13th and the Christmas (fucking) Cottage knew."
 
JARED! I less-than-three you! You are shiny. Your smile powers the sun. Also? I've seen the con pictures and your hair is beautiful. Don't listen to the dissenters. Haters gonna hate. KISSES!
 
Okay, kids. Radium Girl's beat. She walked through a thunderstorm to pay the nice mechanic an ungodly sum of money (ok, not really, but it feels like it) to make Lucy the Staypuft Marshmallow Car roadworthy again.  More substance tomorrow; possibly a discussion of how I inadvertently became the office whore without even sleeping with anyone. 
radiumgirl: (be kind)
 

Title: ...and God has Turned his Back
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Cas (mentioned)
Word count: 465
Summary: Coda to 6.22. 
Warnings: Spoilers for the finale. Angst. Bobby!POV.
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox. 
Notes: OH HEY LOOK, SOME NON-FOR-KEEPS FIC.  I'm working on some whumped!canon!Dean. Consider this a prequel. This was actually the introduction to that fic, but I think it works on it's own. 



Bobby keeps his eye on them.  )

You! Me! Dancing!

Sunday, May 22nd, 2011 10:12 am
radiumgirl: (Han/Leia Bespin)
 The wedding was fantastic. It was, undoubtedly, the highlight of an otherwise completely suck-ass week. It cost $240 to fix the transmission cable in my car, then, literally the next morning, the sensor in my gas tank stopped reading the fuel level. We haven't fixed that one yet. My mechanic is looking for a cheap replacement and I just literally don't have the funds right now. Plus, I still need new tires on top of everything. I keep trying to get approved for a credit card, just for emergencies like this, but I keep getting denied because of my pathetic income. 
 
Whatever. 
 
Like I said, the wedding was fantastic. It was beautiful. I have never seen the bride and groom so happy. There was assigned tables, but whoever did the assigning (the bride, I'm told) did a great job seating everyone. Owen and I were at Table 14, which ended up being nicknamed both the "Adventureland Table" and the "Drunk Table." It was Owen and I, my G-Serv supervisor and the Splash Zone supervisor, two random kids from IUP who were literally sucking down vodka cranberries two at a time, and Caroline, an ex-rides wench. Caroline's fiancée, Ashton, and Gabe, were both groomsmen, so they didn't sit with us, but they visited alot. 
 
We would wait until the bride and groom were about to put food in their mouths and then bang on our glasses to make them kiss. Gabe and I made threatening gestures at each other from across the room. I made the throat-slitting motion and he dove under the wedding party table. 
 
You can dress Adventureland kids up, but you can't take them out. 
 
There was a wedding polka. Owen was SO HAPPY. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY OWEN WAS. For those of you unfamiliar with the wedding polka tradition, it's awesome and you're missing out. It's an Eastern European tradition. Owen says Hungarian, but I always say that's just because Owen is part Hungarian. My mother's family did it at their weddings, and they're all Polish. My dad's family doesn't do it though, and they're German. So. The bride either wears an apron, or makes the maid of honor hold a sack. All the guests line up and put money in the sack or the apron, and get to dance with the bride for a few seconds. Then they get to do a shot of either schnaaps or whiskey. Meanwhile, the groom is chillin with his homeboys somewhere. After everyone has danced with the bride, they make a circle around her and dance and the groom has to fight his way to the center of the circle with the aid of his groomsmen.  I was worried that Owen was going to break the groom. He takes the wedding polka very seriously. 

I didn't catch the bouquet and Owen didn't catch the garter. Gabe caught the garter though, and he did a sexy dance when he had to slide it onto the chick who did catch the flowers. He knocked back gin and tonic all night. It was brilliant. He kept trying to get the Splash Zone supervisor to dance, and she vehemently refused to leave her chair, so he got Brad from G-serv to help him carry her, chair and all, to the dance floor, where he proceeded to dance around her while she sat sulking. At one point, I left my spot at the table, having been throwing back vodka cranberry at the same rate of Gabe's gin consumption, and I wandered over to Daphne, pointed to Gabe, and said, "Those are beautiful abs. How can you not want to dance with those abs?"
 
Gabe said, "Yeah. My abs are a work of art." He winked at me, "Wanna touch them?"
 
My hand immediately jutted out, "Like carved from stone."
 
"You can touch the pecs too if you want."
 
"Oh, I think I will."
 
And then his arms tightened around my waist and he twirled me right into the groom's grandma. She thought it was funny. Gabe giggled, "Is Owen gonna kick my ass?"
 
"Oh darling!" I yelled, waving for Owen to look at me, "Can I dance with the pretty man?"
 
"Oh Cupcake!" He yelled back, "I don't care what you do. YOU, however," he pointed at Gabe, "Will find yourself on my list if I leave this party single tonight."
 
Gabe twirled me and dipped me and chastised me for not letting him lead. I said, "Why should I let you lead?"
 
"Because I'm the man."
 
"I never let you boss me around when you were actually my boss. I'm not about to start now. And not with a flimsy excuse like that."
 
We had to stop dancing because Gabe was laughing too hard. 
 
There was an after-party at Sharkey's that Owen and I went to for a bit. It consisted mostly of the Adventureland Table, plus Gabe and Ashton. Gabe ate all of my mints.  I ate all of Owen's popcorn. Brad hit on the waitress.  Caroline and Ashton decided they didn't want to run away and get married in Vegas after all. 
 
 
Here. Have some pictures.  )
 
radiumgirl: (sam + panic room = mangst)
 I got in my car today, Lucy, the car I've only had in my possession for about three weeks or so since the deer damage was repaired, and I turned the ignition and went to shift out of park...and couldn't. 

Sometimes it's sticky in the morning. Sometimes I just have to pull a little harder than usual. 

I should have probably stopped when I realized I was bracing myself against the dash to get enough leverage to make some sort of impact on the shifter. 

Oh, it shifted alright. 

No longer stuck, the shifter moved freely from gear to gear, but it wouldn't lock into any of them. 
 
Then the ignition wouldn't relinquish my key. 
 
Lucy has since been towed to the garage up the street. I'm still waiting on the verdict. The mechanic said he didn't think it was the whole transmission, but he wouldn't know for sure until he looked at it. I was hoping he'd call me at some point today because I'd really like to know what this is going to cost me. But he didn't. I'll call tomorrow if I don't hear from him before lunch. 
 
My landlord's kid let me borrow his car so I could go to work today. I'm borrowing my brother's tomorrow. After that, we'll play it by ear. The mechanic said if it is what he thinks it is, I might have it back tomorrow night or Thursday...assuming I can pay for it. 
 
It's kinda funny. I spent the weekend desperately looking for cheap tires because Lucy's are looking kinda rough and I couldn't find anything in my budget and I can't help but wonder if I was meant to lose out on tires so that I would have the cash to repair the...whatever it is. Crap like that seems to happen to me all the time. Idk. 
 
I spent the morning staring at my computer screen alternating between laughing in my head and sobbing inconsolably. Then I scribbled up some purely escapest For Keeps fic. THEN, I did a job search for gigs in Kalamazoo because between the tranny, the tires, and whatever disaster awaits me, I don't see my "save-alot-of-money-in-case-you-don't-get-a-job-right-away" plan working out so well. I wanted to move with a solid grand socked away.  Owen said he'd cover rent and utilities for awhile, so I'd just have to worry about my car, phone, and student loans...but I don't see the grand happening. 
 
So I'm reworking my resume. I found a position as an office wench at The-College-That-Owen-Doesn't-Work-At. The deadline is Thursday. I think it would be kinda adorable if we ended up working at rival schools. 
 
 
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