Monthly Archives: June 2009

I’ve never shamelessly used this blog as a plea for help before. And the funny thing is that now I’m doing it when I have virtually zero readership, so it probably won’t do me any good.

Bottom line – I need a bed.

I’ve been sleeping on my couch for the last three months. I had planned to do it indefinitely, but some unforeseen circumstances have come up. Namely – the emergency gall bladder removal surgery I had on Monday. I’ll be heading back home this weekend, and I’m not looking forward to sleeping on a couch while I finish healing.

SO!

I’ve placed a paypal donate button over there in my sidebar. Hoping beyond hope that I manage to get enough to pay for at least half of a good mattress set.

Thanks, in advance, of any help you might be able to offer.

Love,
Mandi

You know, it seems like if it’s not one thing, it’s another.

When I was in Denver, life was crappy, but I adored my job. If nothing else, I didn’t dread getting up and going to work everyday. Now, life is pretty okay, I’m getting to be really happy with who I am as a person, but I absolutely dread getting up and going to work everyday. And this is a place where I spend 10 hours of my day (including the commute). I’m home and awake for 4 hours or so each night. The rest of my time is spent being absolutely miserable.

Three months and it’s like this.

I want to start looking for something new, but I’m torn. In my generation, we treat jobs we love like a right, instead of a privilege. I have this sense of entitlement. But then I think about generations past. People had the kind of work ethic where they stayed in miserable jobs for  20+ years. So… I’m torn. Am I showing a lack of character by not wanting to deal with it?

I don’t expect every job to be perfect. I don’t even expect to find another job I love as much as I loved working at DRM (at least not until I get my bookstore). But there has to be a happy medium.

Doesn’t there?

I think you called me last night.

The number on caller ID was “Restricted” and you’re the only one to ever call me with a restricted number.

You hung up when I called your name.

Maybe it was a random wrong number, but it didn’t feel like it. You stayed on the line long enough for me to say “Hello?”   “Hello?!?”  

Then I said your name and the line went dead.

I think it was you.

I hope it was.