I bought some tools I need for work over the weekend. I already have a significant tool collection, which makes my boss congratulate himself on having the good sense to hire someone who collects tools. I showed him the new tools and he told me he loved me.
We had a short discussion about how I’d rather buy tools than, for example, shoes, and we determined I’m not very girl-y.
I’m ok wi’ dat.
No more dreams about my car being stolen, huh? Or finding out that all my tires have been stolen or slashed. WTF.
I guess it just goes to show that, while happy about the move, I don’t feel….safe….yet. I don’t know who I can trust, I have a very small safety net, I don’t know if strangers will spring into action to help. I don’t know how my Northerner righteousness will be interpreted, even in an obvious victim circumstance. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve encountered almost nothing but sweetness, and lots of being called “ma’am”, but I still feel like a fresh face stepping off the turnip truck.
Shoulders back, chin up, make sure the doors are locked. I guess that’s all I can do.
Stopped into grocery store, being lead by my stomach. Never a good thing.
Seafood counter had a special on pink Florida shrimp. I asked if there was any taste difference between the white and the pink. Nope. Ok.
Cooked it how I always cook shrimp; quarter inch of oil and butter, with several shakes of Creole seasoning, thirty seconds per side, maybe.
Not yummy. Tough. Chewy. Hmmm. I think we can do better.
But still, tummy fulla shrimp, so not totally a wash.
Going to clean the kitchen, kick back with a few bites of carrot cake and a wee splash of port in black currant juice. Not a bad Friday night.
I caught seven rats in the attic, set them free in the woods miles away. Haven’t heard any more scritching and the trap is empty and baited. Maybe I got them all?
Now when the rain taps on the roof I tense up thinking they’re back. But, nope, just rain.
I can’t do anything about their messes, but at least there’s nothing living up there. You can’t really vacuum up just the poops and leave the insulation behind. Mummified rat poop. Awesome.
Still gonna call it a win.
The road in front of the house is a thirty-mile-per-hour zone. We often hear cars that are clearly going faster than that, or cars that are madly (and loudly) accelerating.
I say every time,”That’s not thirty!”
Ok, car fully registered in Florida. Check.
Already got Florida driver’s license. Check.
Got my first paycheck from Florida employer. Check.
Can’t cash check because the bank I chose to open an account at is not open Saturdays and is only open during the hours that I am working, with maybe an hour window at the end of the day. Hmmm. Got money, can’t use it. Hmmm.
If my employer can convince her bank to transfer my pay directly to my account, all will be well. She’s apparently having difficulty with that. In 2014, her bank won’t automatically transfer funds from her account to my account at a different bank. Can anyone say “global economy”?
Also, I got overpaid. I’ve been very honest, writing down the exact number of hours I worked, and had my boss sign it. Apparently HR just wants to pay me 40 hours, whether I worked them or not. Shit. Now I gotta say something.
After 6 days of working at this place, they gave me a key, “in case you get here before I do.” After 9 days, they left early, and left me to work another hour and lock up when I went home.
My boss has big plans for me. Total control over production. Inventory control and purchasing. And he reassures me that added responsibility will mean pay raises. Awesome, I say, thinking, you realize today is my 11th day here? Don’t get me wrong, compared to every other job I’ve ever had, at every other company I’ve ever worked for, the communication is totally unexpected and fantastic. But dude, let’s see if I handle everything ok, THEN make me part of the family.
I know, it sounds like I’m complaining about a great new job and a great boss. I’m sorry. I’ve just never been openly respected at my job before. It’s a little weird.
So, checklist. Not too shabby.
We lived in the same house for fourteen years. You get to know where everything is. You can get a glass full of milk with no lights on. You know how many steps to the toilet from the bed, to the fridge from the stove, exactly how high the bathtub is so you don’t wreck a toe. You can identify each and every noise the house makes.
The kitchen here is bigger, and more spread out. I’ve got some open cabinets that I keep my pretty glassware on display. Every time I go to get a pretty glass to put milk in, I hesitate just a moment, remembering where the heck I put them.
I hope it doesn’t take me another fourteen years to remember where I put the loaf pans, or which way to turn to put something back in the fridge.
There are still some things I can’t find, and I don’t know if it’s because I got rid of them in a frenzy during that last crazy week, or if I put them “in a safe place” after we got here, or if they’re still in a box in the garage. I was going to use the old microwave plate as an artist’s palette, but I can’t find it, and the boxes in storage are too small to be hiding it….hmmm. And we had several rolls of industrial double sided tape stolen from work years ago that I can’t believe I would have gotten rid of but that last week, man, I was crazy!
Overall, I am happy with the move, chortling over the lack of snow and we are both gainfully employed. Just these little niggling things that I need to deal with. No biggie.
So I was working and the window was open and I heard a tiny little “fffffuew” outside and I looked and a cat was outside the window in the shrubs. Sneezy kitty!
I talked to the kitty, telling it how cute its widdle sneeze was, and it just stared at me, scared out of its mind because it’s a feral cat.
Sigh. I just wanna give all kitties cheek scritches but they won’t let me, even after I tell them how good my cheek scritches are.
I need to adopt a couple of kitties soon. I’m jonesin’ for kitty love. And I mean actual cats, mister potty brain.
The ad originally said the job was 20-30 hours a week. Not great, especially considering a 45 minute commute.
During the interview, he mentioned that it could be more like 30-40 hours a week. Fine with me. I had bellyached somewhat about the long commute, but still, willing to do the drive for the opportunity.
During training, he lets slip that the last guy to do the job was putting in 50-60 hours a week. Hm, that’s a lot, but it makes the 45 minute drive slightly more worthwhile.
The second day I’m there, Friday, he muses aloud that maybe I can work 32-36 hours, with Fridays off. I will work whenever you need me to be here, I tell him.
Saturday, I’m in line at the supermarket, and he calls to say that they really like how I’ve picked up the job and the quality of my work, and they’ve reviewed their production schedule and they’d like to offer me full time instead of part time. That sounds fine to me, I tell him.
So the job went from part time to full time in a matter of two days. Internally, I’m bellyaching that I won’t have much spare time, with an hour and a half on the road every day, which is time that will be robbed from my workouts, but externally, obviously full time pay is way better than part time pay. And working five days a week will eliminate volunteering at the soup kitchen on Sundays; I’ll need that time to laundry and grocery etc. They won’t mind, but my neighbor volunteers as well, and I’m her ride, plus, it’s actually pretty fulfilling to volunteer.
To recap: answered a Craigslist ad around 1pm Tuesday, had interview set up by 4pm, interviewed at noon on Wednesday, got called back around 1:15 Wednesday to be offered the job. Showed up Thursday 9am, worked Thursday and Friday with the understanding that it was part time. Will start full time work on Monday. Yay, paying bills!
And I got my tax return. I splurged by buying a can of white paint for the inside of the front door and the baseboards. Of course, now I won’t have time to use it.
And now I am awake two hours before I need to be because despite having caught five rats, there is still scratching going on in the ceiling above my bedroom closet. Further measures are clearly called for.