"Unemployment is capitalism's way of getting you to plant a garden."
Orson Scott Card said that. I think it's true, even though he's not only a mormon, but also a science fiction writer. (I'm sure the two are completely unrelated.)
I hate how this blog automatically capitalizes the first letter of every word, even the articles and tiny words that aren't supposed to be capitalized. That's not a very good feature for a grammar nazi's blog, although I am only a grammar nazi part-time these days.
Our house is trying to kill us again. Today it's the yard. It's filled with pine cones, which dull the blade on the gigantic lawn mower, so AH insists on going around the entire yard-- all 3 acres of it-- with a garbage bag and picking up each pine cone. Even though it sounds like a lot more work, I think I'd much rather live on 20 or 40 acres than 3, because then we could justify using a bush hog and having some cattle, I wouldn't have to pick up pine cones. Thank goodness I bought this thing, or my back would be killing me right now. I picked up pine cones yesterday, I picked up pine cones the day before, and I picked up pine cones today. It's finally done-- mostly. Before I picked up pine cones, I pulled weeds from the flower beds and from between the shrubs around the house. It sucked slightly. Then I got the Round-Up and sprayed the ones that wouldn't surrender, and tomorrow I'm going to go out there and point and laugh at their dead, crispy bodies. After that I picked up all the mulch that the rain washed out of the beds and onto the walkway. It filled up a huge bucket. The beds are migrating, it seems.
After a brief (and completely juvenile) tiff about who had done more work, AH and I stuck our tongues out at each other, I stomped into the house, and he began mowing the pine cone free lawn. Not to be outdone in the duty department, I cleaned and cooked and washed dishes, like a good wife. After a few hours, I decided to take him a cold bottle of water as a peace offering, and now we're back to marital bliss.
Now where's my freakin' ribbon?
I am still waiting to hear back on a job that I'm hoping to get. They interviewed at least a dozen people for it, but I'm still hopeful. I want it. Bad. At this point, I have done everything I can do, and all that's left is waiting. And praying. And biting my fingernails, chewing the flesh from the insides of my cheeks, and lying in bed awake for two hours before finally falling asleep at night. I hate job hunting. More than that, I hate the waiting to hear back once you've been interviewed and jumped through all the hoops.
I hate how this blog automatically capitalizes the first letter of every word, even the articles and tiny words that aren't supposed to be capitalized. That's not a very good feature for a grammar nazi's blog, although I am only a grammar nazi part-time these days.
Our house is trying to kill us again. Today it's the yard. It's filled with pine cones, which dull the blade on the gigantic lawn mower, so AH insists on going around the entire yard-- all 3 acres of it-- with a garbage bag and picking up each pine cone. Even though it sounds like a lot more work, I think I'd much rather live on 20 or 40 acres than 3, because then we could justify using a bush hog and having some cattle, I wouldn't have to pick up pine cones. Thank goodness I bought this thing, or my back would be killing me right now. I picked up pine cones yesterday, I picked up pine cones the day before, and I picked up pine cones today. It's finally done-- mostly. Before I picked up pine cones, I pulled weeds from the flower beds and from between the shrubs around the house. It sucked slightly. Then I got the Round-Up and sprayed the ones that wouldn't surrender, and tomorrow I'm going to go out there and point and laugh at their dead, crispy bodies. After that I picked up all the mulch that the rain washed out of the beds and onto the walkway. It filled up a huge bucket. The beds are migrating, it seems.
After a brief (and completely juvenile) tiff about who had done more work, AH and I stuck our tongues out at each other, I stomped into the house, and he began mowing the pine cone free lawn. Not to be outdone in the duty department, I cleaned and cooked and washed dishes, like a good wife. After a few hours, I decided to take him a cold bottle of water as a peace offering, and now we're back to marital bliss.
Now where's my freakin' ribbon?
I am still waiting to hear back on a job that I'm hoping to get. They interviewed at least a dozen people for it, but I'm still hopeful. I want it. Bad. At this point, I have done everything I can do, and all that's left is waiting. And praying. And biting my fingernails, chewing the flesh from the insides of my cheeks, and lying in bed awake for two hours before finally falling asleep at night. I hate job hunting. More than that, I hate the waiting to hear back once you've been interviewed and jumped through all the hoops.
