I’m working from home today. Last night Captain asks me,

“What time are you getting up tomorrow?”

“8:55. I’m working from home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah.”

“Here?”

“Yup. This is my home now believe it or not.”

I took a personal day today, so I can pack. So far I’ve slept in, drunk coffee, ate chocolate, watched Jon Stewart and thought about packing.

Now I’m blogging. Today is a day full of hard choices. I love my little hairy trolls I got in Norway. Do I love them enough that I want them to live at Captain’s? Or can they hibernate in a box in Worcester until an undetermined time when there’s room for them to rejoin the living?

One has been residing in my underwear drawer for two years now, so she might prefer a box.

Not the actual size of trolls being considered for relocation.

I’m counting down my final days in Davis Square. Yes, that is where I have lived for the last 4.5 years. My mom is going to be uneasy that I’m telling you where I live. But by the time you find me, I won’t be here anymore. And if I am still here, then you can help me move.

This is the longest I’ve lived anywhere besides Worcester. Davis Square has everything: food, drinks, a movie theater with food and drinks, a bike path, a wonderful landlady and CVS. I love CVS.

I list off my Davis Square amenities as I snuggle into the best amenity at my new place: Captain. The washer and dryer are a close second. He reassures me,

“There’s a new CVS down the street.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I have to check it out.”

It is a great CVS. So while I’m used to the same couple of cranky clerks in Davis Sq. I will open my heart to a couple of new ones.

I can visit my friendly landlady anytime and we’ll see how my new landlord Captain is. I can visit all of my furniture as well; it’ll be in my mom’s garage.

Last week at work was crazy. If I wasn’t working, I was sleeping and if I wasn’t sleeping I was waking up in a sweat because I forgot where I put the third set of jingle bells for my jingle bell meeting.

I don’t have a very good excuse for my general blog disappearance other than that I’m working weird daytime hours and weekend hours and trying to move into a smaller living space. I’m so busy I haven’t even been able to finish my Hannukah list.

I have a lot to tell you. It all started a long long time ago, a year-and-a-half ago when I interviewed a woman to be my roommate. Possibly and hopefully the last roommate I’ll ever have.

I thought to myself,

‘She seems fine, responsible and has a day job.’ At the time I had a night job. I was looking for a roommate I’d never see. She asked,

“Maybe we could have dinner together sometimes?”

“Maybe.”

And just when we were all set to sign the lease, she asks,

“Is it ok for my mom to come see the place first?”

“Sure. I thought you said your mom lives in Florida.”

“She does, she’s here visiting.”

I considered this a yellow flag, in retrospect it was a red flag telling me to run run away. Instead we signed a lease. She moved in and so did her mom.

Days would go by and I would never see my original roommate. I’d wake up at 10am. There’s her mom. I’d come home from work. There’s her mom. Why did her mom come all the way from Florida to visit me?

It was only a few days in and no one seemed to believe me about how crazy this woman was. I needed proof. It didn’t take long. I woke up, stumbled into the kitchen, with the hopes of enjoying a little of the alone time I so treasured before I got a third roommate.

I walk into the bathroom. The beautiful white claw-foot tub has terrible yellow splotches all over it. I ask my new third roommate,

“What happened to the tub?”

“What do you mean what happened to the tub?”

“It has yellow splotches all over it that have never been there before.”

She peers in at the tub. She acts shocked,

“I was just trying to clean!”

I start scrubbing. I like to keep a clean, neat house and my tub was clean until someone tried to “clean” it. Twenty minutes later it’s back to normal. I settle in for my coffee, blog and Jon Stewart. There’s a knock on my door.

My roommate’s mom is sobbing. Tears are streaming down her face. She flails her arms,

“I’m sorry, I ruin everything!”

I wish I could tell you she went back to Florida and was never heard from again. Alas, there’s more crazy where that came from, but that’s for another blog.

I survived Thanksgiving. I assume you did too if you’re reading this.

Wednesday night Captain and I hit the road for Worcester. What was a rain/slush storm in Boston, was a full on icy, wet, snow storm in Worcester. It took 5 tries to pull into my mom’s driveway.

We made it. Once inside, Captain asks,

“Is there anything here you want to take back to my place?’

Keep in mind most of my stuff is moving back into my mom’s garage because there’s no room. I ask him,

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

The next morning I point at the giant pink easy chair in my childhood bedroom and declare,

“I’d like to take that.”

“Really?” Captain squeaks.

We head outside to shovel the wall of ice chunks at the end of the driveway. We have Thanksgiving at Captain’s uncle’s house to get to. The guy across the street is shoveling too. My mom shouts across,

“Just what you want to be doing today huh?”

“Actually my in-laws are coming, so I’m gonna take my time.”

 Captain and I are off without the pink easy chair. We’re greeted by everybody. Captain and I are cornered by his sister-in-law’s mother. She tells Captain,

“There’s a five-foot-tall Olaf at Bed Bath and Beyond. It was $240 dollars and now it’s only $120. You have to get it. It’s going to be a collectors item.”

Olaf, from the Disney movie Frozen, is the funniest, most lovable snowman I’ve ever met, But if there’s no room for an easy-chair, there’s no room for a snowman.

We sit down to eat by 2pm. This is earlier than my family usually manages to sit down, but it works out because by 7pm we’re eating turkey sandwiches. The sooner you get the Thanksgiving meal over with, the sooner you get to start eating the left-overs. And the sooner you can go buy a giant stuffed snowman.

The day job continues. I plop down in a coworkers cube. I declare,

“My brain is going to explode, I need to talk about something other than work.”

We chat about how she needs to call DCF (Department of Children and Families) which doesn’t really lighten the mood, but makes my day seem less crazy. I head back to my desk to schedule a meeting with my Jingle Bell Ringers.

I go home to Captain, which is my new home, but I’m not really moved in yet. My plants moved in, some of my clothes and a very small portion of underwear. Captain is clearing some dresser drawers for me, he tells me,

“I threw away a pair of underwear, so there’s a little more room now.”

“One pair?”

“Yup.”

“I guess that’s at least worth a few pairs of mine.”

I recount my crazy day and ask him,

“Do you have these feelings?”

He looks perplexed and offers,

“I don’t know if I have those same feelings. I think I have different feelings.”

This past weekend we had a huge fundraiser for work. We raised over a million dollars and it’s important, because a small small part of that is my salary.

It was all hands on deck. A month ago, the woman managing the event called me into her office. She tells me,

“I originally put you on registration, but then it was suggested that you might be better as a cocktail host. It would be your job to walk around with a drink in your hand and talk to people. What do you think?”

Walk around with a drink talking to people? I’ve been practicing for this my whole life.

I double up on the practicing. One can’t be too prepared.

The night of the event the hall for cocktails fills up. I mingle. I approach couples, groups of people, people by themselves. ANYONE. Like it’s my job.

I walk up to one woman and introduce myself with the smile that has been serving me well for awhile now. She stares at me. She asks,

“What’s your job?”

“My job is-“

“-I mean what’s your job tonight?”

“To socialize with people.”

“Then you’re doing a good job, but you don’t need to talk to me.”

Everyone leaves the hall and heads downstairs for the $500 a plate dinner. We were told ahead of time that there will not be enough seats for staff for dinner and the staff who do get to have dinner will be chosen based on seniority. So I knew I’d be out of luck.

Before I left, Captain was sweet enough to make me a turkey sandwich with extra mayo. I put my sandwich in a Ziploc baggy, put my Ziploc-baggy sandwich in my purse and deposit the whole thing at the coat check. After cocktails I return for my sandwich. Ziploc-baggy sandwich in hand, I slip in the back of the event, wave my sandwich and ask my supervisor,

“Where can I eat this?”

“We’re going to have seats for everyone, I’m seating you now.”

I look at the sandwich. Should I take it back to the coat check? I might miss out on getting seated for dinner. I hover near the exit, sandwich by my side. There’s a seat for me. I’m directed to a table. I hide the sandwich in the folds of my dress. The men stand when I arrive and wait until I’m seated to sit. That’s never happened to me before. I make a split second decision. The sandwich was great, but 8 hours of unrefrigeration later, who knows. I kick it under the table.

Captain arrives at 9pm for the after party. I recount the sandwich debacle. He tells me,

“I would’ve eaten it.”

“I can go get it! I’m sure it’s still under the table.”

My home life is in upheaval. I will tell you more once my security blanket is safely evacuated. The exciting news is that at some point in the near future I’m moving in with my favorite blog character, Captain.

Happy Halloween! 

A week ago an office-wide meeting maker was sent out: “Halloween Cube Decorating and Costume Contest 2:00pm – 3:00pm.” I accepted.

I needed to figure out what I could be that’s appropriate for work. I text my mom. 

“Will you please mail me my Goofy hat?”

Last weekend I go to pick up my Little Sister to make apple pie. Knowing nothing about my competition at work, she emerges from her house carry a ginormous bag of Halloween arts and crafts. I tell her about the contest. She declares,

“Oh we’re gonna make sure you win.”

“Okay!”

“What are you going to be?”

“Super Goofy!”

“Super Goofy?”

“I have a Goofy hat and I’m going to wear a red cape and red boots.”

“Aren’t you going to wear Goofy clothes?”

“I don’t have a Goofy clothes. Do you think it’ll be ok?”

“I guess so.”She seems exasperated that this is all I’ve come up with.

We make a bunch of Halloween crafts, during which she declares,

“I want to make one for my mom.”

“Definitely!”

When our time is nearly up, I ask her,

“Are you going to make one for your mom?”

“I will later. Right now we need to focus on you winning.”

My Goofy hat arrives in the mail. It feels lighter than I remember. I rip open the package. Huh. That’s not the Goofy hat I was thinking of. It turns out I have more than one Goofy hat in Worcester. I tell my mom. She says,

“Do you want me to mail the other one?”

Yes. But I decide to make do with the Goofy hat I have.

Now I’m the bearer of sad sad news. I lost the Halloween Contest to a woman dressed like a peacock with a life-size teddy bear posing as an alien in her cube. It’s very cuddly. But I am declaring myself the unofficial runner-up. Or so I’ll tell my dedicated cube decorating companion.

Yes those are my Wonder Woman Boots

Back in the day, when I got 15 minutes of recess, I ran around like a crazy person. And I got hot. All the teachers standing still in their winter parkas were freezing, so they assumed I was freezing. They could’ve chased Justin around the playground, but instead they stood there and tried to make me wear my coat.

Exasperated, I told my mom about my struggle. How can I catch Justin if I’m too hot to run around? She wrote me a note. Anytime a teacher tried to make me wear my coat, I got to whip out a note that said and I paraphrase,

“Jessica does not have to wear a coat if she doesn’t want to.”

That did the trick and I’ve been fine every since. Until now.

The other day, I dash out of the office to grab lunch. A homeless looking man is slumped on the sidewalk thumbing through his smart phone. He lifts his head as I walk by,

“Lady, lady, lady!”

There are lots of ladies around. He could mean me, but either way I keep walking.

I come dashing back again returning to the office. I’m busy, in case you didn’t notice all the dashing. The homeless guy shouts at me,

“LADY!”

I glance at him.

“Lady you need to wear a coat.”

It’s beer and blog time again.

I used to work in a restaurant, now I get home from work and I’m hungry. I enjoy making dinner with Captain or my little sister. I do not enjoy making it on my own.

There’s a go-to tub of cottage cheese in my fridge, but I’ve been branching out for new ready-to-eat options. Tonight is Adult SpaghettiOs Night. I will list the ingredients and instructions for how you too can make this at home. This is not to be confused with a mommy blog.

Ingredients:
1 can of beer*
1 can of SpaghettiOs
Tabasco

Directions:
Open beer.
Open can of SpaghettiOs.
You can open the beer after you open the SpaghettiOs, but why would you do that?
If you’re feeling fancy, put the SpaghettiOs in a bowl and microwave. Season with Tabasco to taste.
Enjoy!

*A variation on this recipe is a bottle of beer. Just as good, but a little more work!

Your final result will not look like this.

So about that tractor pull.

I forgot how just a year or two ago, before I knew a wonderful man named Captain, I’d never heard of a tractor pull in my life. Same goes for demolition derbies, duallys and anything else remotely related to a motor vehicle.

At lunch today I was chatting with some women from work and I mention,

“So I was at a tractor pull this weekend and-“

“-Tractor pull?”

I do my best to explain something that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me to begin with. After my explanation. One woman asks,

“Why do people want to watch that?”

It’s hard to say.

The tractor pull started with a prayer,

“Thank you for blessing us with the good fortune to be at the North Carolina State Fair and at this world class tractor pull.”

Speak for yourself buddy. If it were decided to smite the tractor pull, then that’s his will. The blessing continues on somewhat blandly and then veers off,

“Nails through his flesh, he suffered in agony and bled to death strung out on the cross for you, so you could be here today.”

Well tell him he didn’t need to do that.

My desire to see Captain was stronger than my fear of getting Ebola. So this past weekend I got on a plane at Logan and headed for the North Carolina State Fair. It’s just like the Big E, with a little more redneck and a lot more religion.

Reading-wise I’m two-thirds of the way through David McCullough’s 1,000 page Truman. I’m really enjoying it. On the 8am plane ride down to NC, I was surrounded by a middle-aged men’s golf weekend. It felt like I was crashing a really old bachelor party.

To the man sitting next to me: I don’t know what you’ve got going on down there, but I know it’s not so big that your legs need to be spread into my leg space.

I bury myself in Truman and don’t come up until the flight lands. A golf guy across the aisle remarks,

“Good book?”

“Yeah.”

“I really like his books.”

“John Adams was my favorite.”

“Yeah, that was a good one.”

His buddy turns around,

“Who’s John Adams?”

There’s silence. His friends and I stare at him to see if this is a joke. It’s not a joke. He’s waiting for an answer. His buddy, who reads, tells him,

“John Adams was one of our presidents.”

“Was he a good guy?”

Watching The Daily Show while having a beer is just as good as doing it while I’m having a coffee, but blogging while I’m having a beer is a little trickier.

Every job has its perks. My bar job was great for free food and drinks. I’m still figuring out all the perks of my new job, but paid vacation is up there.

An email went out to all office staff today. There was a raffle and I won a $10 gift card to Starbucks! All I had to do to enter the raffle was donate $10.

My mom gave me The Jewish Wedding Book, © 1967. I haven’t read the whole thing yet, but I’d like to keep you updated. Here is a gem:

The jet lag is over. I’m owning this new routine. Aside from blogging irregularly, flirting like it’s going to make me money and being hungry for random scraps of people’s leftovers, I’m adjusted.

At first I stopped watching the Daily Show, but even that is prioritized again. Jon Stewart is as good with a beer at 6 pm as he was with coffee at 1pm.

The weirdest thing is that I’m so switched around I’m waking up at 6:30am before my 7am alarm. So into the office I go. I’ll always get up early if it means I can ride the T to work without another random body pressing against me.

A coworker well acquainted with my previous job sees me early in the morning and asks,

“Are you a morning person?”

“I am now.”

The other downside of not working at the bar is no more food scraps. Although a little Ebola might stop me from eating somebody else’s food. Might.