Living with ST is amazing, but in some ways un-noteworthy in my mind.  I was pretty convinced we’d get along well otherwise I’d have never made this decision.

I do a lot of the housework right now, since I’m unemployed.  It might become an issue when my schedule tightens up, but I doubt it.

I know he thinks we’re careful and respectful of each other based on our previous experiences living with others.  That might be so, but I also think we’re just getting too old for that shit.  Yes, we’re set in our ways.  But we also are fairly certain of what we have to have, and what we can let go.  Not everything is life or death, a power struggle, or signs of devotion/descent in the ranks.

So far, the biggest problem has been his schedule.  He’s still going into work around 1:30am to try and “manage from the floor”.  (Warehouse floor, receiving starts at 2am.)

This means that anywhere between 6 and 9pm, he turns into a pumpkin.  While I can entertain myself, I’ve known for a long time a huge flaw of mine is wandering.  My mind, my body, my hands…I’ve lived in apartments where I’ve kept exactly one door shut - the front one.  Every other closet, pantry, nook, and cranny must be open and available for multi-tasking at all times.  Today I tried to fold laundry but decided I really had to start cooking the chicken in the middle.  I get thirsty and on the way to kitchen I sweep the bathroom.  Sad that I can’t even blame this on MTV since my parents still to this day do not have cable.

So, I feel a bit like I’ve had a hand tied behind my back with the bedroom door closed for most of the evening.  Not to mention the only working toliet is in there as well.

But ST is also a bit of a romantic.  He doesn’t like to go to bed without me.  This can sometimes mean I go to bed at 6pm, or he falls asleep on the couch refusing to move until I do.  Again, this isn’t so bad now.  But soon (Thursday?), my nights will be needed for studying. 

And it’s quite possible I’ll start to notice the sleep I’m losing when he gets up at 1am - that’s half the reason I’m able to accommadate him now, I’m sleepy myself.

In fact, it’s 9:15 and I’m feeling a bit peaked.  Think I’ll go lie down… 

Briefly,

1) No nibbles on the job front.  What I expected, but discouraging nonetheless.  I need time to concentrate and meet people in person so my all-over-the-map resume has some meaning to it.  I’m also concerned that I simply won’t find a job to cover my schedule.

2) Classes at USF start this week.  I’m now enrolled in both the chemistry and biology I wanted.  I should be estatic, but it just makes me so weary and decisions even harder - do I write off the non-refundable tuition to SPC or stick with it and make my schedule even worse?  It’s so disheartened to think of the time, energy, and yes, money, I put into to assuring my academic promotion when all along I’d get into these classes.

Not so briefly…we had a big scare with Sheba last night. 

We’ve known for over a week that someone else moved in with us here - a few hundred someone elses.  Returning to ground-floor apartment living has meant the return of fleas.  We talked with increasing frequency of frontline, but everything really came to a head Saturday night.

Frisco spent the entire night marching purposefully across the bed and my head.  I was pretty much ready to trade him in for a plant when around 2am we decided to get up for a while and I started petting him.

Then I realized he was marching for a cause - his neck was so flea bitten.

One awesome thing about ST is that he has the same values, principles, or insanity gene that I have so he agreed completely with the decision that 2am on a Saturday was the perfect time to get something done.  We couldn’t wait a minute longer.

I got out the flea comb, he got out the spray.  By 4am the cats seemed calmer and less parasictic hosts.

We went back to bed, got up around 8, had breakfast, did some shopping, then returned home for an afternoon of flea baths to really knock them on their asses.

Frisco and Roark went relatively calmly through the ordeal.  I’d never bathed Sheba before, but somehow I knew she was going to be worse.

She started out just as a expected.  Clawing at the proclein and giving her low, loud, moan.  But then something happened.

Instead of a purposeful strike at us or freedom, her legs sort of seemed to just flail.  ST held her gently down, then she flipped over and performed the most contorted flip that seemed very much against her will.  She stopped then, gasping for air.

We have guesses from seizure to heart attack to simply too much stress to allergic reaction to the soap.  While not knowing the cause added to our helplessness, it wouldn’t have aided us in her care.  She simply couldn’t breath.

ST picked her up to give her lungs more room.  After a few minutes we carried her out of the tub.  When an opening presented itself, she went right for the closet.  Not too strange, especially since the first few weeks she lived with me, she spent convalescing in one.

There was nothing we could do but offer towels to sit on (she definitely did NOT want to be dried), food (after we determined her breathing was better), water, and a litter box.

It was a rough night.  I got up around midnight and checked on the lump of fur hiding, not sure it would move.  But not only would she move, she came out and decided to spend the rest of the night in bed with me. 

Right now, she’s sitting by the patio like nothing happened.  Although I expect what we saw has some lasting damage, if only just making her older.

I, like most people I assume, view death very selfishly.  How does it effect me.  What will it do to me.  I’ve never wanted a person or animal to suffer, so I’m glad Sheba isn’t right now.  Because I just couldn’t handle losing her right now, in a way that I felt so responsible for.

She’s made such a recovery since the breast cancer detection.  It was easy to treat her the same.  But this weekend was like learning my grandparents will never travel again.  There are different set of rules for her now. 

I’m left handed, so it’s spiral-top all the way, baby. There is no such thing as a back-to-school sale for top-bound notebooks. I’m thinking of trying to turn this into a tax deduction. Or who I can sue. It’s certainly discrimination that I must pay a higher price for less-smudged notes.

I start classes tomorrow and I am not happy about it. Classes at USF start next week. I’m enrolled in exactly zero. None of the classes I need are open, so I cross-enrolled at St. Pete College. Which means moving two blocks from USF? Useless.

I’m trying to get into a technical writing class, since I do need to pay them something this semester or they won’t consider me a student. But biology majors are restricted from taking the course.

(Crickets) (Laughter) (Sound of Jessica hurling bricks at academic institutions)

GOD FORBID WE TEACH SCIENTISTS HOW TO WRITE.

Anyway, besides sweating school and classes, I’ve applied for a few jobs. Two even sound cool. Fingers crossed.

I got my first car while I was in college, shortly after I learned to drive. 

(Yes, I didn’t learn to drive until I was twenty.  I was not the typical teenager dying to get my license and counting down until my sixteenth birthday.  Chicago is a very difficult city to drive, and I did not have the greatest teachers (Love you, Mom and Dad!).  The biggest thing though was simply that you don’t need to drive in a city like Chicago.  I took public transportation a lot.  It wasn’t until I moved to Florida – land of the interstate, strip mall, and no sidewalks – that driving seemed necessary to me.  And then there was the little hurdle of a car.)

My first car, a Buick century from an aunt that passed away, was named Waldorf.  Waldorf and Bernie are sort of my default names for things.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a fish that wasn’t named Waldorf or Bernie.  Obviously you see why I can’t have children.

Waldorf was a pretty good car for a free one.  The summer between my junior and senior year, he started to have problems.  I left him in St. Pete with a mechanic and relied on a grad student completely infatuated with me for getting around while I finished my research at Florida State. 

(I do not suggest the manipulation method of transportation unless you are positive you will never see this person again.  Particularly do not attend graduate school at the same place.)

It took a while to figure out that the computer needed to be replaced, but once it was he was fine again.  You couldn’t convince my grandparents of that though.  At the very first inconvenience, they started the “he’s unreliable” worry tangent.  My grandmother had probably been saving that since I was born.  I’ve learned to not try too hard to talk them out of these worries, there’s just another one waiting to be chewed on.

This one stuck, despite months of good driving.  Perhaps it was because the driver’s door only opened from the outside.  So, for my 22^nd birthday/graduation present, they bought me a car.

I named her Veronica.  For Veronica Lodge, from the Archie comic books.  Because what else does a spoiled brat get for a graduation present but a car?

(Some people have pointed out that spoiled brats get slightly different cars than base model Corollas, but I have to say I felt quite the princess having a brand-new car.)

(BTW, my grandparents are the coolest ever in that they let me gift Waldorf to another friend in college who needed a car for part-time jobs.  Luke had Waldorf for about 3-4 more years.)

I will admit, there were a few perks I wish Veronica had.  Cruise control probably being the biggest as I drove between Tallahassee and St. Pete at least once a month during the year I obtained my M.S. degree.

But for the most part, I loved her like crazy.  I never seriously thought of replacing her.  Putting that transmission in her meant I was going to drive her another five years and I was happy with that – chipped paint, broken mirror, and all.

I guess something I can’t convey well here is that in real life, I speak of her just like a person and there isn’t anyone who’s known me more than a week who didn’t know who Veronica was.  I suppose I could convey that by blogging various conversations about my car, but this place is boring enough don’t you think?

Anyway, once it became public knowledge I had to get a new car, the big question in everyone’s mind was not what, but who.  What was I going to name the new one?

Originally I thought I would name her Betty, Veronica’s down-to-earth counterpart.  But this new car is glitzier than Veronica.  A ton of things that were options in 1997 have become standard.  It just didn’t seem right.

So I give you… Sophia. 

So, do your ladies nights end with seven of you squished in a PT cruiser while a big, bald man takes your picture and his friend Paul on the phone trying to convince you to come over for breakfast?

No? Just me?

Damn am I lucky. Except for the fact that Paul does not know how to cook grits.

(Yes, I promised pictures and a name. But right now I must hydrate myself (Jessica = dancing fool) and annoy ST. I got home just in time to wake him up for work…)

There’s a new (2007) Corolla in the parking lot right now. Strangely, we (the sales person and I) thought that we were haggling over a 2006. It’s nice to feel I got a little something over on them.

Well, perhaps I got a little more than that. They didn’t make money on the deal, but it’s possible I could have looked for something with more perks. But time was of the essense - I didn’t have weeks to sweat a sales guy and shop around. One of these days I’ll get one of those vehicles with those new-fangled locks that are powered by something other than your finger.

(She actually had a few more perks than I thought and was most pleasantly surprised to get in her to drive off and find the driver’s seat tilts up and down - one of my big complaints over Veronica was that the seat tilted too far and I had to sit on an old lady’s cushin for my back.)

I’m sure she’s a wonderful car (yes, I am 95% sure of her name. I’ll spill tomorrow along with pictures), but my heart has just not been in this. Moving, school, living with someone, selling my first place, finding a job…all big enough steps without this stress. Hopefully though with the actual purchase behind me, I can get on with the other important to-dos and just enjoy her. At least until the first payment is due or my new insurance premium is calculated.

At a red light, I cup ST’s cheek in my hand. I’ve been cranky because we are shopping and I am the only woman in the world evidently that hates that shit.

“Baby, you are the man of my dreams.”

“…you must have some weird dreams then.”

“Yup. I’m just waiting for you to bring out the chicken suit.”

Veronica is indeed totalled. Of course I put the new transmission in her. It cost about $1000 less than what the insurance company will offer me for her.

I was a little sore, but feel better this morning and don’t plan to do much but relax today.

Relax with the paper. Where I will look for cars and jobs.

Dude. I have not looked for a job in eight years. (Of course, just typing that reminded me it never hurts to put in at a temp agency - where I was when the defense contractor picked me up as a software engineer - writing a blog is so useful some times!)

Seriously, I’ll probably look for some plain ole data entry because I type fast and need flexible hours. I also plan to scope out book stores and the USF campus. But it just feels so weird to realize that handing out my resume will probably get me nothing but some crazy stares. Over qualified-ville, here I come!

Yesterday I was feeling pretty low. What with *just* moving, I have no idea what my monthly budget looks like so I have no idea what I can afford car-wise. Grandma asked to help and I had no idea what to tell her.

There’s also something very depressing about being in so many car accidents. Yes, most of them were not my fault. But I don’t think I know anyone else who’s been in so many in such a short period of time (4 in 4 years). I felt very panicked driving home yesterday.

The money thing would be solved if the condo sold. Did you know it is now - as of Monday - a buyer’s market?

On another note, I sent out a mass email with my contact info change yesterday and the response has been hilarious. Remember, ST and I haven’t known each other that long. And between my schedule and the general malaise of email correspondance, this is the first time some people are hearing of him. I have a lot of ’splaining to do.

Ask me about my day.

Although it may look like I went picking a fight with a rino to get out of real world duties that bore me after weeks of travel, it wasn’t my fault. A guy pulled a u-turn in the rain in front of me and lost control of his truck. My choices were to hit him or lose control of Veronica.

I am sore, but OK. (Ever had a steering wheel jammed in your right collar bone?) He was OK as was his passenger. I was filled to the brim with moving stuff and a block - A FUCKING BLOCK - from the new apartment. This was actually a very good thing because it did not give ST enough time to have a heart attack before reaching me.

I’ll know by tomorrow if they are totalling her.

I’m sure you’d love to hear about Costa Rica at some point, but this is what I got to work with right now. Please stand by.

The Internet connection I am used to borrowing at the cabin was just too weak this time around. And I never made it once to The Brew Moon Cafe. It’s the first trip I’ve ever brought my laptop with and had it turn out to be a waste. Not that I’m complaining.

ST and I got on a plane (a few hours and a few Long Island ice teas behind schedule) last Saturday. We bummed around my old neighborhood Sunday until mid-afternoon, then hopped in my mother’s pseudo-SUV and drove to the cabin.

My brother followed a few hours later, my parents the next day.

We berry-picked. We swam. We napped. We hiked waterfalls. We grilled. We did jigsaw puzzles. We had incredibly inappropriate breakfasts.

A perfect vacation. Everyone got along. ST loved the cabin and the area. It ended on a rather omnious note with ST and I spending our last afternoon purchasing and installing a new refridgerator. But really, even that was a great test of us working together under pressure, one we amazingly passed.

And we still got everything done in time for a dinner of cheese and crackers, Boon’s Farm, s’mores, and fireworks.

We got home exhausted Saturday and spent yesterday toting things from the condo. It goes on sale Wednesday. It’s all a blur to me. I feel like I haven’t lived in the real world for months. There’s so much to be done. There are hairballs big enough to count as dependents back at the condo, not to mention the stink of dog pee on the new porch (ST, you are no longer qualified to say where Busch will or won’t use the facilities).

But first I really need to round up some breakfast…