**I apologize in advance for the gratuitous usage of the F word in this post. I'm a profane person. If this offends you, shut up.
So I've been reading up on happiness and shit a whole lot lately because I figure I should be proactive about it. You know, 'it' being the whole search for happiness, what does it all mean, we're sand in an hourglass mumbo jumbo.
I guess it's true that one simple thing, the concept of happy is everyone's ultimate goal. We strive because we see that something just over the horizon could make us even more content, even more right, even closer to the best possible selves we have dreamed up for ourselves in our wildest fantasies. There's always that pull toward growth, and often that pull to find happiness in the moment, too. But for a while, I lost sight of both.
Worry not, I've been slowly reclaiming myself from the yuck. The yuck being general bad vibes and discontent that make it damn near impossible to gain a true moment of happiness, let alone hold on to it. An example of yuck would be spending more time on facebook than with actual living, breathing, humanoids. That's yuck, y'all. Sleeping because you simply don't feel like being awake? Also yuck.
Believe it or not, I've always thought/felt that I'm a pretty happy person. I laugh easily. I've got oodles of people to call and just chat, make plans, grab a quick bite with. I pursue things that I like. I set goals. I know myself, and I usually like myself. .
That was... until almost two years ago, July of 2009, when I got 'laid off' from my job after a year. Things got pretty dicey and rull yucky then, and if we're being honest, they've stayed awfully yucky ever since.
I've talked about it briefly before, but basically, this gig was my first 'adult' job. I got it right out of college, I was making way more cash money than any of my friends, and I had freedom, NO EXPENSES, and the peace of mind that I was helping others. I loved my co-workers, bi-monthly pedicures, and steak dinners every night. I don't know, it felt cool, going from rationing my money between beer and PB&J to living expense-free with a salary among other real adults, it made me feel different, like finally all the work I'd ever done led me up to a payoff.
And then it was over, as fast as it had begun.
Don't get me wrong, I know things have been fucked the past two years for a mother lode of people. Times are tough, I'm getting haircuts at Superclips these days, I know sacrifice. I know I'm not alone. I should be grateful that I'm not 15 years into a career and forced to apply for jobs for which I'm insanely overqualified. But a year of employment doesn't exactly make one 'qualified,' either, does it?
Luckily, I had a family that picked up my pieces, dusted me off, and listened to me ramble endlessly, in complete earnest, about becoming a nomad for a year, really seeing America, carrying my harmonica everywhere, and jumping trains for transport. UM, pipe dream? But yeah, they didn't even laugh in my face, they at least waited until I left the room and laughed behind my back. Even my normally smotheringly critical mother patted my hand and looked wistfully into the distance instead of the usual skeptical grill-session involving a barrage of questioning and arched eyebrows. At first.
But still, that setback, knocked me back to start. I let it take all the wind from my sails and forget about momentum. Donzo.
The truth is, I never really loved my job that much, but I still felt this overwhelming loss. I loved my co-workers, I loved the money, I loved feeling successful. I actually hated a lot of it, though. I smoked like a train. I was constantly moving around, so I felt lonely. I was young and female and often felt like I wasn't being taken seriously. I also didn't always feel like I was even good at my job.
I took the job because I wanted to have something lined up before I graduated and I was seduced by illusions of grandeur. I took it because I felt pressure from all directions that it was time to pick something, anything, and become a adult and this was the next step.
I've often felt that my whole life has revolved around a series of never-ending "next steps," a staircase that someone else created and planned for me. Without even consulting me. How RUDE.
Um. What? What the fuck? I just typed that. It's so true. It's what I'm trying to say. I feel like I've done everything all the voices around me told me I was supposed to do next. Am I really such a sheep that I didn't question any of it? It's not like I'm afraid to voice my opinion, the rest of my family knows and is very accustomed to this phenomenon every time a family dinner ends with me storming out after yet another astonishingly frustrating debate over political fundamentals erupts between my father and I over walleye and steamed asparagus.
So anyway, though I hated my job a lot of the time, I couldn't see never took the time to see how losing it could ever feel like a good thing, an escape, an opportunity. I had a next step to hit, goddamnit.
Instead, I've just been bitter and cynical and floating around angry ever since. Instead of making my own set of steps based on what will make me feel happy and content, I have effectively taken the stance "Fuck steps! I hate steps! I'll never lay eyes on another step as long as I live, and in the off chance that I do, I'll spit on the motherfucker!"
Anyway that kind of got off of the happiness topic, but I'm about to bring it fullllllllllll ciiiiiiiiiiiiiiicrle. Get amped.
I have been reading a TON of blogs lately where I feel like a lot of ladies have this underlying sense of, I don't know, discontent surrounding otherwise witty, charming, and yes, happy auras. Maybe we're all going through some sort of weird crisis, or just realizing that maybe we did everything we were told and expected to do, and not what made us happy. Or even perhaps more likely, we've been struggling to do what we think will make us happy, but as is often the case with the most rewarding labors of love, there is no clear path, or EVEN destination, just an idea, and flicker, a sideways half-frame that comes in a dream.
I feel happier. I feel like I've got things, now. I've got this blog, and manfriend, and running, and my friends, and a kickass house. But it's more than just things, it's momentum. It's building, I know it.
It's just so hard sometimes, you know? There can never be instructions to straight to Happinessland, because no one's views of it is exactly the same as anyone else. Sure, reading books on happiness trends and studies and research shows patterns and generalities, but it doesn't give step-by-step directions there. Maybe that's also the BEST part. We get to create our own, even if it's a rough road with lots of detours. Even if striving for happiness doesn't always bring the joy and release of paying off at every turn, for the first time I'm ready to build my own staircase instead of mourning the loss of one that was forced upon me.
Also, I've got a project, because it's time to make peace with steps, and maybe build a staircase of my own. (And also gain a firmer grasp of writing with metaphor, apparently.) One that doesn't involve office work, passive aggressive emailing, having a horrendous script when I answer the phone. I don't think it's selfish to have some deal-breakers.
Cheers to happiness!
XO Sara
This weekend was exhausting. Emotionally and physically.
And then last night I decided that since it was warm and breezy, we should sleep with the windows open. Only, after trying to drift into slumberland for an hour, I was still WIDE awake, and all I could think about was how the house is only one story and one of the windows faces a busy street and oh my god what if a weirdo murderer comes and snatches me out of bed since I'm closest to that window?
So then we shut that window so that I wouldn't have to panic about it and lay wide-awake in bed all night, waiting for a violent criminal to try and steal and kill me.
But then it got super hot in a bedroom and also fucking loud from the wind hitting the now-closed windows and it's really too early to turn on the air conditioning, so I just didn't have any blankets on, but I couldn't cool down, partially because I was trying too hard and partially because I was still thinking about highway murder-men. I don't know why murderers are always men in my horrifying day/night-dreams. Maybe I'm sexist.
Shit.
So, there were some decent and even good moments this weekend, but overall, it should have been a lot better for as lovely as the weather turned out to be and the company. Man, I'm tired.
At least weekends come around ever five days or so.
XO Sara
My father is one of my life-heros. He's just likeable. In fact, in my short life, I've yet to meet someone I find more likeable than my own dear old dad.
So, it's just dumb luck that the apple (me) doesn't fall far from the tree. We share many qualities, including a love of college football, a propensity for waking up early on the daily, a hatred of "shopping around" to find the best deal, the ability to find common ground with literally anyone we come into contact with, and the affinity for gratiutous comsumption of whiskey. He, on the rocks. Me, with diet coke. Hey, the way I see it, I'm well on my way.
One quality of my father's that I cannot claim to possess, however, is his handyman capability superpower. There is literally no project too large or small. Pops Drake will improvise his way through any task or challenge, not necessarily the most thorough and "up to code" way, but definitely the most convenient and efficient way. His penchant for problem solving has become a crutch that I lean on heavily when I'm met with the major, and sometimes minor, inconveniences and scrapes in life.
Remember yesterday when I mentioned in passing that I locked my keys in my car after my brother's 18th birthday dinner? No? Well, I did. I got to my car, was fiddling around in my purse, as always, trying to dig my asshole ever-elusive keys out, and UREKA, they were sitting on the seat. Of my locked car. With all the windows rolled up completely. Smooth move, exlax.
Luckily, I was able to flag down my parents. While my first instinct was to mutter "Fucking motherfucker!"and/or kick the side of my vehicle, then call one of my roomates to see if my spare set was hanging on the hook by the door 35 minutes away, (it was) and thus no help to my current state, dear old dad had other plans.
My father, dear, sweet, crisis averting father, saunters up to my car. He peers into the window, EXACTLY how I just did, and states to no one in particular/himself. "Oh, this will be easy." In the meantime, my mother, who had A COUPLE glassses of wine at dinner and may or may not have narrowly escaped taking a spill on her way to the bathroom mid-dinner, is wandering around the parking lot, and then disappears completely. Something about seeing if anyone at the funeral home next door would "lend" us a hanger. Manfriend and I are milling around like a couple of dicks in a parking lot, stranded.
My dad pops the trunk of his BMW and pulls out, I kid you not A KITE, A FLATHEAD SCREWDRIVER, AND A DOLLAR BILL.
That's all he comes back to my car with.
SPOILER ALERT: In less than five minutes, I was in my car, driving again. Before my mother came back from discovering the funeral home was locked up and wandering around aimlessly some more.
Naturally, I'm skepical.
You'd have thought by now I'd have learned not to doubt the man.
Pops takes the dollar bill and places it at the crack between my door and the car's frame. He then wedges the screwdriver in to create a small opening that the kite string/plastic frame can fit into. The dollar bill's purpose is to prevent the paint on my car from being scratched. The screw driver wedge actually works relatively well, and the kite string, by some weird freak act of nature, is able to be jimmy-rigged around my door lock. By the way, thanks Jeep, for making car locks that still pop up/down. After several near-misses and failed attempts, Macguyver, aka my dad, manages to figure out a way to force the flimsy kite frame/string combination to catch and hold onto my lock, and forces it upward. Like buttaaaaaa.
He seriously made it look so easy that I have my suspicions about him and life of crime prior of marrying my mother, having a family, and running an olive company.
So, my logic is as follows: Since my father and I are incredibly alike, I will someday inevitably inherit this skill of improvisation. Then, a life of crime will be a viable option. I always like to have a backup plan.
Hope you have a weird, weird weekend.
XO Sara
Le Sigh.
It's times like this when I wish Manfriend didn't read what I write here, because I really need to sort out some feelings and stuff. Thanks for the support honey, skip this one? See you tonight!
Anyway, yesterday was a day. I went to the dentist. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I survived. No, I didn't have any actual dental work done, because my appointment time wasn't long enough. Yes, the bill estimate is more than I'd like to pay, but I'll suck it up and pay it because it's work that I need done, and I've been putting it off for too long.
Yesterday was one of those afternoons that taste like chocalate after you've given it up for lent and have watched everyone around you enjoy it for the past forty days; magnificent. I left work at two and headed to the dentist with the windows down, it was warm and sunny. I love driving by myself in weather like yesterday. I feel light, I crank the volume on some shitty 90s music on the radio, and I just enjoy the day. By the grace of some power higher than myself I was done at the dentist by three. I didn't have to be at dinner with my family for the brother's 18th birthday until 5:30. I never thought I'd relish the idea of spending time by myself, doing whatever I wanted for two and a half hours so much, but two and a half hour spans like that just don't seem to happen for me much anymore, so I did.
I LOVE SPENDING TIME BY MYSELF.
You know why? Because I don't have to fucking worry about pleasing anyone else other than ME. I can give into whims and drive out of my way just to go the scenic route if I choose. I can decide AT TARGET that I need to organize and file all the bullshit paper floating around in my life and buy file folders and binders and Rubbermaid boxes. I can map out plans for an inspiration binder, because it's what I want and no one is around to deter or make fun of me for it. I can plan an evening by myself after dinner and be antsy to get home and get down to it. Starting a project, making a huge mess and filing it all back together, like a game of 52 card pick-up.
Yes, I had a lovely two and a half hours of solitude, reflection, and listening to my inner voice.
I was in a terrific mood when I pulled into the restaurant. Manfriend pulled in not too long after I did and we moseyed inside to order a drink while we waited for the rest of my family to arrive. There were nine of us total, and it was a lovely and delicious dinner with a great vibe. I had a lemon-drop martini, I made wildly hilarious self-depreciating jokes, I bestowed a gift AND some cash upon my brother, I ate steak and held Manfriend's hand under the table.
AND THEN IT ALL CAME TO A GRINDING HALT.
I indicate to the table that I'm planning on heading downtown to, you know, WHERE I LIVE, after the conclusion of the meal. And my mother looks at me as if I've just kicked a puppy. A really, really cute puppy. Because if I go downtown, and not to my parents house, which will add over an HOUR of extra driving time to my night, then I will not get to see my now EIGHTEEN year old brother OPEN HIS GIFTS and EAT CAKE.
Andddddddd....cue my mood plummeting for the rest of the night.
I love my family, they're the best. But you know what else? I see them all. the. time. More than twice a week. I'm no stranger, so I get to call bullshit on my mother for this one. As it turns out, my brother and his girlfriend LEAVE DINNER EARLY, so my brother can go give up uplifting speech at church or something and they will "probably beat us to the house," so it "won't even be that long of a delay," for me to completely uproot my plans for the evening to go to my parents house in the BFE to partake in the rest of the birthday hoopla. So, you'll imagine perhaps how frustrating it was when they still hadn't showed up at the house almost TWO HOURS later.
Because in that time, I had locked my keys in my car, driven 25 minutes from the restaurant to my parents house after getting car unlocked, unsuccessfully gone for a run that ended in a fucking asthma attack ten minutes in, and dicked around my parents house impatiently for 40 minutes. Waiting for the guest of honor to open his birthday presents.
All I wanted to do was go home and start organizing my life.
It was like tunnel vision. As soon as that plan was thwarted, my mood would not come back. DONZO.
So, when I FINALLY get to leave, it's nine thirty and I am officially inconsolable. I have an interview in the morning and I NEED to get to bed at a decent hour and review material. There is now absolutely NO POINT in trying to start ANYTHING tonight, and thus, no reason for me to drive all the way downtown, because I have already shifted my organizational extravaganza plans to TONIGHT and heaven forbid I spend two nights in a row away from Manfriend.
Granted, I love the man, I love spending time together, and I love sleeping together. We get along like peas and carrots. Truly kindred and all that heartwamring shit. But often I feel our OODLES of time together are spent at the expense of what I also want and need to do. For the sake of my own happiness. And sanity.
So, I decide, while I'm driving, to just go to Manfriend's and leave my now seemingly VERY lofty goals for tomorrow...aka tonight. I'm on the phone with Manfriend, he's driving right behind me. I'm SO FRUSTRATED with the turn of the evening and he's just not getting it. In fact, he's kind of being an asshole about it, and not understanding at all. Which is fine, I DO NOT need to be caudled, but dude, don't be a dick about it.
So then I'm heading FAST to a place called 'Complete Neurotisism.' And it's a one-way ticket.
There is no going back once I start thinking about everything that I can't control, or made me put what I actually want on the back-burner, and bums me out about life. And since Manfriend is the one I'm on the phone with, I'm fixating on him.
We're literally two minutes from his house and he's insistently asking "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" Over and over again. And not in a kind and reassuring way. In a I'm-at-my-wits-end-with-you-right-now-so-I'm-going-into-total-dick-mode way.
And that's exactly what happened leading up to the revelations below.
What do I want? I want to not being living between two places out of my car. AGAIN. What else? I want to fucking have a shower in my life that doesn't either have SHITTY water pressure, or completely fail to drain. What else? I want to not be so allergic to the place that I sleep at night that I wake up at bare minumum three times during the night to hit my inhalor and in the morning my eyes are swollen and bloodshot. I'd also like to NOT being spending what I SHOULD be saving in gas money driving back and forth back and forth. (He can't stay at my house because he has a work truck with a GPS in it that shows if he deviates from his route. It would be an extra hour commute time with the dog for him to stay at my house.Plus, his dog is not allowed at my house anymore.) I'd like to spend time with my friends that I don't feel guilty about. I'd like to not worry about him 'worrying' about me when I'm with my friends, because in the end I'll ALWAYS do whatever I fucking feel like doing, and I'd actually like some credit for making good decsions for myself. I'd LOVE if Manfriend would CLEAN ANYTHING without me saying something first.
Anything.
I started a little experiment a few weeks ago; I stopped constantly cleaning everything in sight at Manfriend's. The result? Disgusting. I'm done with that. I"m done being in a place that makes my skin crawl. I refuse to be the person that has to constantly follow him around the house, pointing out chores that need to be done, and I also REFUSE to do them all on my own. I can't always be the one reminding him thirty times to do common sense things like spaying his dog and changing his headlight.
This man loves me more than anything in life and I'm crazy about him too. He cooks me dinner, he puts up with my crazy, he waited for me to see what was right on front of me for SIX YEARS until I finally gave him a fair try. He'd walk through fire for me without expecting anything in return. But, I'm not happy. I'm miserable and stuck. I may not be perfect, or a grown-up; I'm terrible with money, I procrastinate at times. BUT I'M TRYING. I read my mail. I pay my bills on time. I live off of a budget. I take care of problems that require immediate attention. I go to the doctor when I need to. I've been doing this for seven years now, I have a basic grasp on living my life independently.
He just doesn't see squalor. Or filth. Or apparently piles of laundry. I've been MORE THAN up front with him about how deathly allergic I am to the dog, and nothing has improved. NOTHING. I don't know what to do. One swipe of the vacuum over carpet every three months doesn't do it, and I guess that's more than he was already vacuuming.
I'm done being nit-picky and pointing out little things that drive me nuts. It's one big thing. It's a lazy thing. And a respect thing. And MOSTLY, a ME thing.
It's unbelieveably tough for me to do this, but I won't be staying at his house I any weeknights anymore. I can't. I'm not a crazy neat-freak, but I have standards, and they're not even coming close to being met. We currently spend most nights together. It will be tough, I love him and I love rolling over and cuddling into him in the middle of the night.. But, it will also be easy, because I love breathing and not having an allergy rash every day of my life. The thing is, I partially feel like I've been forced into this. I've been forced into a drastic measure to either wake him up, or push him away. I honestly have no idea which one it is, and I'm scared. Which is why I haven't put my foot down and done it sooner.
I love this man, but I'm terrified of what the future holds for us, because I can't even imagine moving in together at this point. I can't even imagine it. It will not get better just because it's a new place. It will not. I have serious health issues, and I HAVE to take care of myself. It's non-negotiable.
I'll be back to the slap-stick and ridiculous tomorrow, but today, I need this. Oh, and now I'm off to my interview and I've done nothing to prepare because I was totally focused on getting this out of my body. Soooo, wish me luck! (I'll need it)
Xo Sara
I can totally justify to myself the purchase of these little dandies:
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they're perfect, i know.
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1. I found them for almost half off the original price, with free overnight shipping. It's like this website really cares about me and doesn't want me to catch my death from soggy, cold, feet. New BFFS? New BFFS.
2. I actually discovered these gems in January, aka OVER two months ago and have restrained and bargained with myself about buying them. Thus, I've earned this simple pleasure.
3. If we continue at the current rate, this April is going to be full of rain showers. I need to arm myself accordingly. With precious boots.
4. I'm obsessed with Sperry. It's sick. I have an illness. These boots were my fix. There is no known cure.
April, you can throw all the showers you've got at me, I've got the proper footwear and I can now take on the world.
Xo Sara
During my lunch hour today, I was perusing the clearance section of Kroger because I obviously don't know the meaning of words like 'budget' or 'time management,' and something a little odd happened.
I bought a tube of lipstick. Granted, an on-sale-for $2.39 tube of lipstick, but still.
Lipstick has always been the most elusive of the cosmetics to me. A nice plum rouge? I can handle it. A menage of mascara? I'm your girl. I'll even hit up that liquid eyeliner if I'm feeling particularly spicey, but lipstick? Let's leave that to the professionals.
I guess for whatever reason I just figured lipstick is for real adult women, and not a twenty four year old who spent their Monday night sweating her ass off at the gym and then proceeded to rush home to mourn a friend's declined grad school application with an entire bottle of cheap champange- without even bothering to shower or change. Clearly, I'm not glamourous enough to warrant the application of lipstick.
However, I realized today that I must be running on flawed logic here. Lipstick's popularity never seems to diminish, despite women getting old and dying and stuff. So like, obviously people who are young are picking up on this whole lengthy trend and perpetuating it along, right? Just not anyone I know personally.
But, what's the point, exactly? I really don't dislike the color of my lips at all. In fact, I think it's a rather nice shade. Plus, I greatly prefer the feeling of chapstick to that of chalky, dry, lipstick. Why don't I know anyone my age who regularly applies this cosmetic? WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME THIS TIME?! Naturally I went to the person I go to with all the troubles of my curious little heart, Manfriend.
Me: "Question. How do you feel about lipstick?"
Manfriend: "Is this a trap?"
Me: "I don't think so. Lipstick?"
Manfriend: "On me...?"
Me: "No. I just mean in a general sense, what are your feelings toward lipstick as a thing?"
Manfriend: "Um. I think it looks good on some people and some people overdo it, I guess. It's okay...."
... and then I stopped listening because I was driving, which, if you can believe it, actually makes my attention span even shorter than normal and because I was obviously asking the wrong person. Manfriend doesn't even wear lipstick! (That I know of.)
One of those major makeup lines now has Taylor Swift as one of their models for LIPSTICK. NOT GLOSS. STICK. So shit, I guess they're trying to accentuate what a youthful product this is. But, it's not, right? Am I a freak here? I just don't feel like I come into contact with THAT MANY women who wear lipstick. How can it be so wildly popular and I'm just in the dark? Shit, it's just like Twitter, only much, much older and an actual product, isn't it?
Today, I rushed out to my car after paying for my 'necessities' at Kroger and hurriedly ripped open the tube of lipstick. We stared each other down. I smelled it, because I'm a freak and I smell everything. And then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and applied that mystical stick-o-the-lips onto my supple smackers and leaned back to admire my handy work.
My lips were fucking orange. The color, as described on the tube, is "Kiss," but I can guarandamntee that Manfriend would NOT dare kiss me if he had been there to check me out. It looked so nude/lightpink/fresh from the tube, the deceptive little bastard! Undeniably orange. And flecked with shiney pearlescent looking shit, which, if you know me at all, you know I HATE pearlescently colored things. I wiped that shit off my now-dehydrated lips and drove back to the office to spend my last half-hour of lunch in the peace and dark of the uninhabited side-office that I occasionally hide out in.
I guess I don't really have any problem with lipstick. And maybe one day, when the time is right, I'll start wearing it around the house and putting it on before I go to the grocery store and stuff, and it will feel natural. Just not today; today I will waste away my afternoon pondering the popularity of a product that I'm not ready for, the nerve!
XO Sare
Welp, I'm a list-maker at heart and I'm in a time crunch due to a need for productivity at the office, so here's a quickly-whipped-out list of what's been going on with me the past few days.
-Are The Shins ever not right? No. They're always right. I'm constantly forgetting about them, and then Gone For Good came on Pandora today and I was all, "HOT DAMN, it's time I gave Oh, Inverted World a few spins." Musically, I'm pretty dormant at that moment, but all of that will change soon enough. I'll come out with my Spring/Summer 2011 mix and have some new tunes to obsess over until it's time to mellow out for the fall. AND OMZ nothing fits the summer bill quite like fast-paced blue grass. Already getting sensory chills at the prospect of slapping a wine bag in the backseat on the way to a show or a serious jam-out on the way to the sacred river-side campground.
Cue goosebumps.
-Yesterday I played tennis with my mother and youngest brother. Just when I think I'm actually hitting the ball hard enough to warrant the grunts that seem to escape me as I make contact, we switch sides. Holy WIND! I quickly discovered that I had been at the wind's advantage and shit got difficult. It's basically common knowledge that my mom can smack the ball harder than I can. What is this nonsense about being in my physical prime? On the upside, I know what I have to look forward to; a mean, mean backhand can and will be mine when (and if) I reach my mid-to-late forties.
-I always root for the underdog in anything competitive unless I have a direct interest in the competition itself or if my Alma Mater, the Phillies, Flyers, or a team that I'm in some way affiliated with is part of it. The fact that I don't even care and won't even watch the National Championship Basketball NCAA game tonight means I'll obviously brag all about Butler winning tomorrow if they indeed pull it off. Don't be offended and/or read more into it than that. Also, if they don't win, it won't effect me at all, so everyone is a winner here. Ok, only me. I'm the only definite winner here.
-I was pumping gas yesterday because it was that time of the fuel level and because I try to fill up only once a week, at the beginning of the work-week, so I can more easily track my budget (I know, I'm growing up, brings tears to your eyes, doesn't it?) and you won't believe what happened. A GASOLINE EXPLOSION. Not with fire or anything, everyone involved is fine. However, I like to fill it all the way up, so I just lock the nozzle on GO and go back up to the front of my car and hang out up there until I here the thing kick off. Yesterday, that proved to be a critical error. THE STUPID PUMP AND IT'S STUPID PUMP FACE NEVER SHUT OFF. So after godonlyknows how long, I mosey on back to the rear of my car, because I glance back and notice I'm at sixty seven goddamn dollars, and GAS IS SPEWING EVERYWHERE. I didn't know what to do, and I panicked. So I just wiped the side of my car with a paper-towel and drove off, leaving a significant puddle. I probably wasted AT LEAST a dollar. ERRRRG.
-I have an interview to volunteer with an organization I have admired for a very long time. On Thursday. I can't wait! More on that Thursday.
It's going to be a great week!
XO Sara
