Grandma is a Klepto

Grandma is not literally a kleptomaniac, I'll get that out of the way first. Still, she's developed some bad habits over the years, and one of them is assuming that anything she sees in certain places is hers. I'm going to tell you a short story, and I promise it's relevant, so pay attention:

Once upon a time there was a loving couple. The wife died, and so the husband let the house go, because let's face it, bachelor pads happen. His daughter and her husband eventually came to live with him, but the son-in-law had mobility problems and no one was willing to go through Mother's Things anyway. So more things got put on top of the original things. Then the son-in-law died, and it was just father and daughter, neither willing or able to go through their deceased loved ones' belongings. They now had A Mess.

The daughter is my grandmother, and now that her father has died too, about twenty or thirty years' worth of stuff has piled up against walls and taken over entire rooms. I am currently living in said stuff, and cannot afford to move out. Back to the point.

There's so much stuff that Grandma has grown accustomed to poking through piles and finding things she doesn't recognize. Sometimes she finds stuff on top of piles that she doesn't recognize, and if she really likes it, she takes it back to my dad's house, where she's currently living. That would be cool if everything in the house was still hers.

I am currently living here.

Sometimes she finds stuff on top of piles that she doesn't recognize, and if she really likes it, she takes it. You see where I'm going with this, don't you?

She's tried to give away my stuff before. I left some things behind when I moved to my sister's, and when I'd visit, I'd find things like my vacuum in places slightly closer to the door every time, as though they were in the process of being sneaked out. My dad actually caught her trying to give something of mine away to a cousin because she'd found it and it looked nice. I believe she tried to give away some of my stuff that's in her storage unit, too. "There's so much stuff in here, I don't know where it came from."

Another short story, but I won't pretend this one didn't happen. Sorry for the subterfuge up there, but I wanted to convey a sense of sympathy and understanding instead of the baffled frustration I really feel.

My father had brought a flashlight over intending to look at and/or fix something, but when he needed it, he couldn't find it. He asked my grandmother, who was also here, if she could help him find a flashlight, any flashlight.

She smiled and said, "Yes, I have one right here in my purse." She dug it out and handed it over. "Isn't it nice? It's much better than the other one I had."

And my dad's like, "That's my flashlight." He let her keep it since she liked it so much and since her old flashlight really sucked, but things like that happen a lot. You don't set things down in this house, even if you'll remember where you put them, because they'll disappear. Sometimes they'll get knocked over, but more likely a visitor will take them.

By "a visitor" I could mean one of my cousins, but I don't. I mean Grandma.*
*Author's Note: I love my grandmother. All this is between me and you, right?

Does This Job Come With Benefits?

I'm not too bad-looking. I'd say I clean up well enough. My first day on the job my boss said, "Don't let them flirt with you. And they will." And they did. Two weeks later I've got a date coming up this weekend and a friend who has confiscated my right to low self-esteem due to my persistent single status.

The last time I had a date (more than two years), I exploded with nervescitement. It was high school all over again with the talk and the social panic. This time was actually kind of fun, though. And then, of all the ridiculous things for me to think about, I realized that the nicest clothes I own are my work clothes.

When you're unemployed for a while and don't get out much, or at least in my personal experience, you don't buy new clothes for yourself. It doesn't matter if the edges are frayed, doesn't matter if there's a little stain right there. Who's going to see you anyway?

Well, maybe, just maybe, you have three interviews and have to wear your "best shirt" more than once. Maybe you realize that your "best shirt" might not work the same for a movie date as it did for the old lady who interviewed you. Three times. Maybe, and this is all hypothetical here, maybe this movie date is an attractive person whom you find witty, amusing, and/or attractive. Like, really attractive. Hypothetically.

It'd be cheating to buy something from the discount store I work at, right? Especially since my not-actually-hypothetical date is doing work for said discount store until sometime this summer? Maybe I'll go next door to the factory outlet place and get something there instead. I'm not vain or anything, but I'd like to look at least as decent as I do in my work clothes. That's fine, right?

Like I said, high school. At least I'm not talking in all caps this time. I did that yesterday, via text.

Epilogue:
There was no date, after all. Someone went and got drunk instead, and my interest faded while watching them work with a hangover. Nothing ever got arranged and nothing ever happened. The end.

I have a job.

That's right. Actual, legitimate employment where I'll be going to a certain place every day at a certain time, working, and getting paid for it. It's a temporary security gig until July, but there's a possibility of being hired for a different position after that. And by security I mean sitting at the back door checking toolboxes and receipts while remodel workers go in and out, but I'll get a walkie-talkie.

I finally found a place that doesn't mind my art degree, and I'm taking it, dammit. It'll get me approximately $600 per month and no benefits, but that's four times what I get in child support. (A certain someone quit their job a week before going to court to have child support calculated, then had another job a week later. Bad form, that.)

I didn't tell anyone I had an interview until after it happened, so don't feel left out. In fact, the only two people I ended up telling after wouldn't have heard about it either, except that it was valid information in Obviously you don't want to work, or you'd have a job by now arguments. Because obviously everyone in a small town with no art-related fields is very interested in someone who wasn't born there, didn't grow up there, and went to college elsewhere for graphic design.

But I digress. I didn't tell anyone I'd been hired until after my first day of orientation. That would be yesterday, and a total of four people; the two I mentioned arguing with, my best friend, and my daughter.

I also didn't tell you guys that my sister kicked me out. According to her, what she said was that I needed to get a job by the end of the month and move out by summer, because she can't handle having a kid around all day. According to me, she said (and I quote), "I want you out by the end of the month. I want my life back!"

So I'm living in my grandmother's house in the middle of nowhere again, only this time I have permission to clean it myself. On days I haven't been in orientation I've averaged 3 bags of trash per day. Whenever I'm bored I'll throw together another bag or two.

By trash I mean old, empty envelopes, things too broken or otherwise destroyed to be saved, grocery lists from the 1970's, torn up fake flowers that generations of cats have peed on, that kind of thing. Boxes and boxes of that kind of thing, and I go through every bit of it because I'll find a deed to some bit of land somewhere or a photo of a man in a military coat from WWII or handmade paper souvenirs from 1907 that a teacher made for his 18 students grades 2-5 who attended a local school.

Some things could have historical significance and some things just couldn't.

My father, who is notorious for making wonderful promises that he may or may not be able to actually keep, but wants to keep, told me that if I spent the summer here and cleaned this place up, he'd give me the thousand dollars I need to get into my own house. If I manage to get hired permanently at my actual official job, I may not need him to keep that promise at all, which is a relief.

I'm gainfully employed for the first time since I started this blog. It's no longer the story of someone struggling with unemployment, but no worries. I have more goals to reach. I'm still hoping.