Here's part of a nice little note I just got: "At this point you are overqualified for what my client has in mind." Don't be too sure, lady.
My soul hurts. I'm wondering why. Possibly, and even probably, because of this thing with work where I'm feeling I'm probably doing lousy work and people are only giving me work out of pity or duty and I don't want to make the changes I was told I'd have to make in order to be a shiny exemplary employee (smile more, ingratiate more, be smarter, be male) (well, okay, I couldn't make that last change anyway, or not without expensive procedures I have no interest in undergoing). I'm merely hoping to find another job before they get terminally tired of me.
I was thinking idly about stay-at-home-momdom, and whether I'd enjoy it. I might or I might not--I don't think I'll know until I actually have children--but right now if I went for it, assuming I could, it would only be because I'm giving up on work. I'm twenty-five. That would be ridiculous.
In happier parts of my brain, I'm thinking of making Harry Potter scarf bookmarks for my needlework group coworkers. I still have leftover yarn from the scarf I made Cody last Christmas (there has been no mention of it, ever; I suspect it's in the back of his closet) so instead of using floss and tiny needles (that I don't have; but I betcha toothpicks would work) I'll just use that yarn. Everyone in the group except Marie is a fan. Lucy and I had a long conversation about it the other day and Ophelia borrowed the book last Thursday and returned it yesterday morning. Well, Annika probably isn't, but she's been out and won't be at the next one either, and Peggy may never come. So that's, um, close enough, right? They'll take miniscule amounts of time and it'll be nice to finish something. I have that tremendous long list of things I want to finish. Maybe that's another reason I'm feeling like this. Too much goal orientation. Or possibly too much damned stuff. Or too little damned brain. Or something.