When I went for the interview, they were all, “Would you prefer part time or full time?” And I was all, “Part time, pretty please!” Because of all the important stuff I have to do that doesn’t have to do with working. You understand. Then I got the call and they said, “Congratulations, and by the way, the job is full-time!” Then they dangled benefits in front of my face, or rather, in front of my spouse’s face and he crunched some numbers and now I work 70 bazillion hours a week.
It’s not like it’s hard, exactly, it’s just intensive. I’m working in an office that’s helps kids, so that part is rewarding, as is the chance to wear all my pretty shoes. I love my pretty shoes. Anyway, my hours are wonky, as in, sometimes I come home at 5:00 and sometimes I come home at 7:00. On those nights Mitch makes dinner, which takes the bite out of working late. See what I did there? Dinner? Bite? I kill myself.
I guess my main problem is that work feels an awful lot like…work. Unlike when I worked at the Embassy in Brazil and wrote silly stories from the comfort of my bed while attending the occasional party. Now that’s what I call a good job. Unfortunately, there are twins in braces and buckets of medical bills and a kid in college and a kid who needs a new laptop and guitar amp and a dog who needs his nails trimmed by the vet and a cat who needs a burlap bag, so working is apparently going to be a thing for me. Oh well, maybe I’ll get used to it or maybe I’ll get sacked. Either way!