In Transition

I’m currently working two jobs while Charlie is in between two and three. He’s training, was working at a bar on Friday and occasional Saturday nights, and is now going to be painting houses with a friend. I’m back at the coffee shop one or two shifts a week, plus the retail job, which is sucking the life out of me. Another friend has offered to pay me to clean her house. People donated over a grand to get us back to Chicago. But our food assistance was cut, our childcare was raised, my hours at the retail job were cut, there aren’t enough for me to go back to full time at the coffee shop. There are less than two months before we move and I’m going batshit.

I’m tired of heading to work, wondering if the person I’m schedule with is up or down today. Is she going to be pissed off? In a bad mood? Bitchy? Crying? Stomping around the store? Am I going to be condescended to today? Will someone call in sick and I have to find another person to cover? Perhaps something everyone else does gets blamed solely on me? One employee who’s getting ready to leave just mentally checks out completely, messes some orders up, and then tells me she doesn’t give a fuck anymore. So, probably best to lay it all on my shoulders. That’s how it has felt lately.

Yesterday Charlie got neutered. I’d requested the weekend off a month in advance. I was the only managerĀ in town, so I was asked to open. I was told to “just find someone” to watch my kids. No one was available other than my brother in law, who came over for a few hours, got bored, and left for a concert. Charlie was home after a vasectomy with two kids, neither of which he could pick up. He had to sit on the floor with the baby and try to keep her entertained, feed her without holding her. I was late because a coworker called in and no one else was in until five. I said I could work only from untilĀ four. Yes, worse things have happened to people in the world. But it’s still obnoxious.

Sometimes I have to come home, stand in front of the cabinet with all my degrees, and remind myself that I am not mentally defective. Despite what a twenty-five-year-old young lady may think of me, I am intelligent, capable, and worthy of respect.

July 30th. That’s our move date. I start at my alma mater in the beginning of September. They’re paying for the entire program, giving me a job, offering me scholarships and study abroad. During my interview, the professor asked me what I was doing there. “You have a strong academic record, a solid resume.” Why would I want to go back to them? Why would I need another masters degree? Had I not found anything worthwhile in Indianapolis? I asked if he could answer that for me, because I certainly didn’t know. I gave a dazzling response about my love for the college, the campus, and my desire to be well prepared for a career with them. Because here, all I have been offered is retail and, even there, people treat me like an idiot. And, no. I did not say that last part out loud.

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