First of all, I’m pretty sure this all started out on the right foot.  While I (usually) loved my job with Cimbali, I made a decision at the end of last year to start looking for something that was all creative, all the time.

I figured it’d be summer before I even got any bites, but within four days of posting my resume up (on Thanksgiving weekend), I had three offers to interview for three very different creative roles.  Hell, the effort was worth it just for the newfound knowledge that I am now a competitive candidate in my field of choice!

I ended up taking a job with Level 6 Marketing.  My job description is officially ‘project manager’, but what I do is the creative marketing stuff for a few accounts that belong to me as well as some blue sky development on products and projects the company is vested in.  It’s pretty bitchin’ so far.  There’s a lot of travel involved (I was in Charlotte last week and will be up in Kansas City next week), which you all know I love, and along with a pay raise, I now have triple the holiday time in which to satisfy my wanderlust while I’m stuck in Florida.

So, let’s take a look back at what I managed to accomplish (without any clear goals) in 2011:

(note: this is either accountability or boasting.  Probably boasting)

1. I lost 22 lbs between June and August.
2. I then stabbed myself in the leg leading into holiday season and subsequently lost motivation, gaining about 6 lbs back
3. I left the country  – went to Costa Rica
4. I got my first local client – Yesterdaze Vintage
5. I grew my social network by about double – this is HUGE for me

In a fit of wild optimism, in 2012 I would like to:

1. Get to a weight between 140 and 145 lbs and MAINTAIN.  I am hoping to get to the 145 mark (which is my general sweet spot) by April 1st.  The smallest I’ve ever been was 135 after massive illness back in college.  For those of you who think this still sounds quite large, consider on my build 140ish is about a size 6-8, and stop your damn judging.
2. Get my freelance earnings up to at least $400/month on the side (currently at about $100 on average)
3. Blog monthly through 2012 (already feeling like this isn’t going to happen, but I will TRY dammit)
4. Get a new mattress that doesn’t suck
5. Leave the country.  Twice.  (Germany is happening in April, I hope)
6. Hire a French tutor.  Refresh and achieve comfortable conversational skills
7. Max out my IRA
8. Stop being so damn affected by the opinions of others (I realize this is abstract, but it’s something I would very much like to accomplish)

Wish me luck

Overall, I’m pretty happy with this thing.  It came in the mail super fast, has this sweet panorama feature, and takes decent night shots.  Should be good to have with me in Costa Rica next month .

These shots are from the beachy area near my apartment.  It’s near Clearwater, but not quite.  Feel free to click for larger resolution.

In those eight months, the longest stretch of time off I’ve had was Thanksgiving weekend (into which I squeezed a trip to England).

That said, I can officially say I am now beyond burnt out.

Perhaps I’m spoiled, I dunno.  After college and life abroad, with my only full time stints of work being four months respectively as a cocktail waitress and a London office girl, this might be the first time in adulthood that I don’t feel like life is separated into little four-month compartments of travel, afternoon naps, and eating out of a can.

Which is why my happy ass is headed to Costa Rica for a well-earned week of leisure.  I plan swimming in waterfalls and staring at active volcanoes.  I plan on bland local food and bunking with lots of other poor 20-somethings.  I expect buyer’s remorse all the way leading up to this thing wondering if Costa Rica is a bit too much of an “obvious” destination.  Whatever.

I wanted to go to North Africa, but I’d hate to get civil unrest all over my luggage.  I also wanted to go to Turkey and Thailand, but the jet lag and plane costs don’t really justify trying to cram it into my measly 7-day window.

So, it’s off to the tropics I go.  As of yesterday, I finally had bullied my boss into approving a week (this was after my original three options sold out and I was worried I’d never get out of here), booked my plane ticket, got signed off by my doctor, and officially booked up with Gap Adventures for the Budget Costa Rica tour.  I also bought a camera ($145) and have been scoping the internet out for a pair of hiking sandals that won’t cost me $50.

From here, I’ll need to do the following:

1. Purchase Travel Insurance
2. Book my airport transfer
3. Hiking sandals
4. At least one pair of shorts
5. Rain jacket
6. Bug spray
7. Convince self she’s not a fatty-fatty-fat-fat

The trip is May 7 – 14 and yes, I’m going alone.  I like traveling alone (remember Pueblo Ingles?  And, you know, that time I moved to London?)  The fact that my bank account has shrunk by half in the last 24 hours is a little jarring, but after all, I was saving specifically for this.

Honestly, I can’t wait.  Screeching monkeys, giant bugs, and Arenal volcano spitting lava at me be damned.  This is going to be awesome.

Either way, I’m loving it.

As a slightly obnoxious gift to you all, scroll to the bottom of the post for my favorite internet finds on my road to having put away nearly $2k (is it okay for me to call it “two large”?) in the last two months and saving for my trip to Costa Rica:

Now, this isn’t to say that I haven’t always been frugal or at least money-conscious.  The other day, I was contemplating with Gina on how we’ve handled money over the years, and she said that she probably wasn’t the best person in the world when it came to managing it.

The National Rail Logo - perhaps not coincidentally some backwards dollars

But, I disagree.  I’ve seen Gina go to bat for money in ways that would exhaust the average consumer.  Like the time she lobbied against the National Rail in England for months because an apparent ghost in King’s Cross lost our return tickets from Yorkshire (a great story on its own).

The woman is relentless.

But my favorite story by far was a joint effort when we railed for a £10 refund from a mini cab service in Islington run by a man known only as “The Guv.”

The day I moved into the synagogue out of sharing Gina’s room in Angel, we took a mini cab (for my American friends, this is a certified taxi service in England that is not the traditional black taxi car, but rather people in regular vehicles with licenses in their windows) to transport my luggage to Hackney.

Apparently Lenny McClean

The cabbie dropped us off relatively far away from where we were supposed to be (even though he had a GPS), and we ended up dragging my stuff all the way up Stamford Hill and then up the several flights of stairs to my room at the top of the house on our own, essentially laying waste to the extra funds we spent to take the damn cab.

When we went back to the cab agency (which was in walking distance of Gina’s flat) to request a refund for being dropped in the wrong damn place, we were basically told no, and that we’d have to take it up with “The Guv.”

We asked where he might be and the cryptic little Middle Eastern dude behind the counter lifted a shaky index finger to point to a closed, wooden door behind the desk.  ”He ain’t here.”

Well, “ain’t here” pretty much sums up the Guv, because Gina wasn’t about to take no for an answer, and because it was on the walk into town, we made a point to pop in every time we were on the way to the tube, the movies, Mucho Mas for guacamole, or Starbucks for a taste of americana.

That door was never open.  Not once.  In a year, it was never open.

Also, the answer never changed.  Have to ask the Guv.  He ain’t here right now.

I just think that in light of my newfound expertise in the art of cherishing every penny, I’d really like that £10 back, but since we got so recognizable to the staff that they’d actually start to hide when we passed by after a while, it might be time to write it off.

And now for the websites:

Mint.com -

This is my favorite.  It’s a free (FREE!) budgeting tool that pulls in all of your banking info, helps you create budgets and goals, and sends you emails when you buy too much white cheddar popcorn and you are $5 from the end of your grocery budget for the month and it’s only the 10th.  Highly recommend.

ING Direct -

This is my new bank.  I’ll be done breaking up with BoA in the very near future, I think, but as of right now, I’m using BoA for all bill pay, putting $250 into a spending fund for groceries, gas, and all the etc. every two weeks, and everything else goes into my super handy categorized savings accounts (Globe Trotting, Emergency Fund, and Money to Invest).

Lending Club -

This is peer-to-peer lending with a general annual return of about 10% (better than the stock market right now).  I’ve put in $250 just to see how it works.  I will report back in a month or two on the results.

My favorite money blogs -

Get Rich Slowly, The Simple Dollar, and I Will Teach You to be Rich

Happy saving!

The summer I lived in France featured countless steamy afternoons walking down into the gulley of Briancon for a scoop of creamy glace in a waffle cone.  My personal favorite was a decadent Snickers gelato, with thick swirls of hot caramel and giant, salty peanuts folded into chocolate and yogurt. 

We’d walk through the parc, with cool ribbons of liquid sugar running down our hands as we watched the swans in the lake and the inevitable soccer game on the field. 

There was one particular day, one of those bright blue jours d’ete, that during our walk through the winding sidewalks in the park, Gemma suddenly unleashed a panicked squeal, “watch out for Les Bourdons!  They like the sugar!”  She darted around me to avoid three tiny yellow bees, hovering harmlessly over the lake to our right.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!” I teased, giving her a little pinch in the side.  Never much of one to find humor in these situations, she shot me a look and told me, in no uncertain terms, not to laugh.  “Once they sting you, it keeps hurting,” she said, solemnly.  I consented that this was true.

“I hate bugs,” Gemma muttered, taking a giant slurp of her sweet cream gelato.  Ten and surly, this was Gemma’s game.  She will one day be a master of stormy passion and the femme-francaise pout. 

The trick was to distract her or to get her to laugh.

“Even butterflies?” Noemie teased, “and the ladyladybugs.”

“Les Pupillions?” I guessed, appealing to Gemma’s love of being smarter than me when it came to French.

“PA-pillions,” she corrected, smirking despite herself. 

“Do you like bugs, Shannon?” Noemie asked, blue smurf custard giving her a charmingly bizarre goatee.

“Yes!” Gemma said, her face lighting up before I could deny it.  “You told Lucie you had TRAVEL  bugs.  Ew.  I bet they’re in your suitcase.”

Well, the truth of it is, they were in my suitcase, and in my clothes, and whether they liked it or not, multiplying by the day all over my two little French girls as we spent our lazy summer afternoons together.  I was dealing with a rather serious infestation of the travel bug, and we’ve all heard the rumor that there’s no getting rid of it.

When I was exiled back to Florida last year, I was so beaten down by the shitty economy and the special kind of hell that moving back home after being independent for five years brings to any functioning young adult that my travel bug went into hybernation to make room for the basic-survival bug that really needed to take over for a while.

It's true.

Well, after about five months here at my new job, I’ve got to say that all of my basic life reqirements are being met (and then some).  Last month, I was actually able to start tucking money away into a little tiered savings account I opened with ING Direct.  One of the tiers is labelled “Globe Trotting,” and man, my blood has started to heat back up to a rolling boil to get my ass back on the road, if only for a week or two here and there.

I think I’ve pretty firmly set my sights on South America for cheap and satisfying scenery change within the very small allotted vacation time I’ve got to work with here at work.  (at least for now)

I’m looking at a potential spring holiday in either Costa Rica or Guatemala.  I’d love to splurge and hike the Inca Trail or go learn Tango in Buenos Aires, but I need to start with the cheapest possible options since saving is still the ultimate goal … and eventually living abroad again.

So, for now, I’m dreaming of jungles and volcanos, and possibly sunbathing in a hammock in Montezuma or Antigua, and I have no intention of attempting to stifle my wanderlust.

I guess that means I do like bugs.

• I finally have a relevant full-time job!!  As a project manager and head of marketing for an umbrella company representing a coffee distributor, machine manufacturer, and also an ice cream machine mogul, I have some serious potential here to develop the ol’ resume before I start jet-setting again!  Incidentally, I effing love it here, drama and all.
• I’ve established myself as a regular contributor for Tampa’s branch of Creative Loafing. Check me out here.
• I got a sweet little studio apartment, which I have all to myself.
• I went to the Rally to Restore Sanity in D.C.!
• I’m nearly finished repairing my credit score, which means getting to live like an actual adult in the oh-so-close future.
• Still kinda hate Florida, but am trying to make the best of it.  I found a little nature walk with guaranteed alligator sightings, so at least there’s that.
• I have mastered Wagamama’s Chicken Tama Rice recipe

Promise I’ll update again soonish.

Building Management Gestapo = fascinated by our losses

So, earlier this week, we found listening devices in the walls of my workplace.  When I say we, I mean my boss and myself, not my coworkers and myself … because yeah, whoever is listening to us is in no way affiliated with our company. 

Basically, we rent half of a duplex office building in a community-style office annex in Westchase.  The other half of the building is occupied by the building manager/deed holder and we lease it out.  

I’m relatively new here, but my coworkers (all three of them) have been using this building for only the last six months or so, after an incident in the old office in Central Tampa in which one of the adjusters went back to the office after hours and heard gunshots next door.  That’s all I’ve got of that story and I have a feeling that’s all I’m going to get. 

Anyway, apparently Brian, my boss, has been suspicious about the rather obvious wiring running from several protruding points in the wall into the building next door, but was told long ago that it was retired security equipment from when the space was rented out by a software firm.  

So, Gestapo Building Management, as we’ll call the creepy, creepy man next door (heretofore known as GBM), could’ve gotten away with what I’m sure are the most fascinating eavesdropped audio clips on earth about countless stolen air conditioning units and convenience store robberies (less than $1,000 and lots o’ cigarettes, always), and your occasional gem like this guy, who set his girlfriend’s apartment on fire because she criticized his sexual performance, and then eluded police capture for several hours, totally nude but for a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.  

People are awesome. 

Anyway, GBM completely gave himself away.  The events transpired as follows: 

1. 4 months ago (January 2010), GBM’s brother, who owns a carwash service came to the annex to offer $15 discounted carwashes to businesses in the area.  My boss purchased one.  BUT HE ONLY HAD A $20!
2. The guy did a good job.  Brian told them to just keep the $20, no big deal.
3. (unspecified creepy activities next door)
4. Tuesday, April 27, 2010 – Brian makes a joke about how the guy next door owes him $5
5. Wednesday, April 28, 2010 – GBM randomly shows up at the front door.  He looms ominously, waiting to be acknowledged, a crisp $5 crumpled in his clammy fist
6. Creeped out silence
7. I inch forward to retrieve the $5.  GBM glides backward out the door, which shuts itself on a gale of supernatural wind.
8. My Co-workers immediately scramble to check suspicious things in the ceiling.  Listening devices are found.
9. What the hell.
10. Aside from my social security number, which I”ve definitely given out over the phone here in the office, what else does GBM know about me?
11. Furthermore, what was he hoping to hear? 
12. What could he possibly want to know?
13. …
14. None of my readers are in the least bit surprised by this story.

I remember wading through the ice cold foot bath at the base of the stairs at La Piscine Municpale in Chantemerle after checking on my kids and Nell to meet Lucie with her customary diet coke and giant sunglasses at a patio table she’d managed to swipe for us.  Reclining under the wide band of shade, even with all the complaints we both had about petty little details in our day-to-day existence as au pairs, it was still beautiful.  After a long stretch of silence while we looked out over the sparkling pool and our kids splashing away, she off-handedly remarked, “It’s a great summer.”

And it was.

Angie on the rocks in Vieux Port

Sure, it would end in drama for a few of us (everyone but Angelina).  There was a Norwegian girl who was forcibly evicted from her host home for daring to stand up to the bully of a mother, and in the final week before we parted, we accidentally flooded Lucie’s host house to the point where it was raining in the living room.  There was also this incredibly melodramatic interlude between us and some Moroccan jackass in the Old Town who not only got rude, but attempted to get physical.  And there was, of course, the trauma of having to leave my girls that final time after nine months of attachment.

But first, there was Marseille.  Beautiful, beautiful Marseille.

Lost in Marseille

It was supposed to have been the three of us; Angelina, Lucie, and myself taking a weekend trip to the South of France to see one of the oldest cities in the world.  We’d planned it from the week that we all met and were finally putting our plan into action when Lucie realized her host mom, Sabine, was never going to give her time off.  I mean, ever.  Lucie worked every single day of that summer apart from the weekend she went to Milano for a romantic tryst.

I was pretty upset that she couldn’t come, but Angie and I booked our 5 hour train tickets and a room in a greasy motel near a metro station anyway, and met at the crack of dawn to head to the coast equipped with our Torino standbys of Fruit and Nutella-filled crepes, and this time some toffee I’d made in a moment of absolute boredom at the house while my kids were off with their cousins.

It was unbelievably hot the day we went.  I think after the winter, shoulder-deep in snow, I’d made myself believe that it never got hot in my little corner of France, but I was deluded.  It was scorching.  Marseille was about ten times worse.

Palais du Longchamp

Angie and I staggered off of the train around midday, immediately realized that we wouldn’t be walking anywhere, as we had in Torino, and immediately purchased metro tickets.  We got off at the right stop, but the directions of the various locals were convoluted and we ended up walking well past our hotel in the staggering heat, with our bags, for the better part of an hour before finding the right place.  When we passed by the building with a giant question mark, we decided it was a sign from God to turn around and start over.

It would take pages to cover everything we experienced in Marseille, so I’ve chosen two of the most all-encompassing experiences to highlight below.

Bouillabaisse

You can’t go to Marseille and not eat the most famous dish ever associated with a city.  Of course, if you eat right on Vieux Port, it’s going to cost you about 35€ for a bowl of the succulent fish soup, so Angelina and I scoured the areas surrounding the port during the daylight hours.  We originally intended to eat right on this gorgeous wooden ship comme restaurant anchored in view of the Chateau d’Elf, but alas, that boat was holding a sold out event that night and it wasn’t a possibility.

What we ended up finding was a little restaurant hidden in the stacked, Mediterranean style streets behind the water offering three courses for a measly 15€.  The soup was incredible, as is to be expected, as were the oysters I ordered, and Angelina’s almond-stuffed clams.  Dessert was goat’s cheese in a rosemary and olive oil sauce with bits of bread.

My favorite part of the meal by far, though, was when Angelina went for a bathroom break and got stuck drinking champagne with the chef for twenty minutes while he offered to chauffeur her around the city with roses at her feet.  It is extra amusing because he pulled the same move when I went up there and seemed shocked that I was onto his game following the performance with my dinner buddy.  It was just so … French.

Swimming in the Riviera

Our full day in Marseille was fully exhausting.  So exhausting that in retrospect, I’m shocked we managed to do anything the following morning, prior to our 2pm train, other than lie face down in our hotel room, groaning.

I woke up early and walked to the market that was on the same street as our hotel to buy some baguettes, fruit, and fresh yogurt for breakfast, and after a hotel-bed picnic, the two of us somehow managed to mobilize and get ourselves packed up and on the correct bus to the beach.

We chose a stop near a ferris wheel and across the street from a famous memorial park.  We’d worn dresses for the commute and had to change on the beach, but with all the topless, skin happy people from 2 years old to well past 80 wandering around, it was a stress-free experience.

The water had to have been the most perfect temperature in nature.  I understood immediately after slipping off of one of the giant rocks that extended into the ocean why the South of France is so famous for its beaches, even when it shares an ocean with Italy, Greece, Malta, etc.

We lost track of time entirely, floating along in the perfect wake.  All of the stress from a summer of living with our employers, all of the soreness and heat from trudging around like mad tourists the previous day, all of the thoughts of the future just melted into the perfect blue water and drifted out to sea.

We made casual conversation with fellow beach goers, we sunned on the giant rocks, and we let the sand get between our toes without a worry in the world, even when we realized it was time to go.

We took the metro back to the big train station, and spent our last precious minutes in Marseille buying postcards, a French fashion magazine, and some candy and water for the ride.  We met an American woman headed to Aix-en-Provence on the train who talked a lot about herself and her plans over the first three hours of the ride.

We were originally to go to Aix (pronounced “eggs”).  It had only changed to Marseille in the last two weeks or so.

I think Angie and I realized at the very same moment as the American woman departed into the tiny provincial gare that our change of itinerary was maybe one of the best travel decisions we’d ever made.

The Green Space Across the Street from my House

In London, I lived at number 113,  Clapton Common.

I did not live in Clapham Common, which South of the River, and continually where NatWest sent my bank statements.  No, no, it was Clapton, compliments of Stamford Hill, a division of Hackney.  It was a winding stretch of road, cleaved in two by a big green space with benches and a murky pond where some particularly ugly swans liked to congregate, and I lived in the big red house comme synagogue wedged between the house with the smoke stack chimneys and what may or may not have been a mental hospital.

There are three steps leading to my front door.  At any given time, there may be a silver prius parked there, belonging to a Lithuanian boy named Vidas who provided our internet on the boarding house side of the synagogue, and a motorbike whose owner was always a mystery to me (but possibly belonged to Vidas’ brother, Edris).

There are four recycling bins on the left side of the drive, but only one garbage bin.  There is a stack of wood that will never be cleared away from the right side of the drive in the six months that I’m in residence.

Leave my house and walk for twenty minutes.  To the North, you’d find Finsbury Park and Manor House Station, to the South, you’d find a lovely little park called Springfield and the road to Hackney Proper, to the West, Stoke Newington and Islington a bit further on, and to the East there was Seven Sisters, which was where I caught the tube to work every morning.

My Neighbors

I miss my little synagogue.  I miss stepping out on Saturday morning and having to dodge a game of kick-the-can in serious progress by a group of pre-pubescent Hasidic boys, or stepping in that evening and being able to hear chanting and catch a glimpse of something secret and ancient going on behind the door that led to the religious side of my house.

Only two of the people in my life ever saw my little synagogue. No one else will ever get the grand tour, and though I’ll never forget the key codes to get in the two front doors, never forget what it’s like to scale the winding staircase, or exactly how it felt to be in my bedroom as the heat toasted up, or as I pushed open the little window above my bed, I’ll probably never see or set foot in my old dwelling again.

The best I can do is share with you a few memories of those three front steps that have been hanging around the corners of my mind here lately, while I’m desperately trying to wish myself back in time.

Lights in the Rain

It Was Raining When I Left Oxford Street

Early on after being hired by Digby Morgan, I got into the habit of walking back from the tube station instead of catching a bus.  It was about 30 minutes from Seven Sisters to my flat, but a nice walk after a full day sitting at a desk.  So be it if I occasionally had to dodge broken glass following either Arsenal or Tottenham games or if I was routinely harassed by the evangelist church group next to the tube station.

I bought a new coat with my first paycheck, a long overdue purchase as the temperature continued to plummet into the first winter of my life.  It’s gray, knee length, and pulls at the waist with a lovely A-line skirt.  It’s one of the best purchases I’ve ever made, and I loved the feeling of walking home in it, my black boots clack-clacking on the rain soaked pavement.

On this particular evening, it had been drizzling when I left work to dive into the tube and was still mildly coming down when I got to Seven Sisters.  However, just as I got too far away from the bus stop to turn back, it turned into a torrential downpour, sharp and rapid and out of character for the steady light shower that is London weather.

Luckily, I kept a little black umbrella in my bag at all times, and was prepared to meet the onslaught for the remainder of my walk.

It was Friday night, and come rain or shine, the neighborhood was trickling out of their homes toward temple, shower caps affixed over the men’s traditional black hats.

It was a series of high holy days and a temporary extension had been built onto the left side of the house to accommodate the extra worshipers.  The orange glow throbbing from it as I approached the house comforted me.  All I wanted to do was dash upstairs, change into some pj’s and make myself a big mug of hot chocolate, Friday night expectations be damned.

However, as I neared the driveway, out of the front door came barreling the rotund, Hasidic figure of my landlord, Asher.  He was swaddled in black, and had his shower cap firmly in place.  He stopped just short of colliding with me, looking breathless and red.

“Hey, Ash,” I yelled over the water slapping down around our feet, making to step around him.  “Nasty night.”

“Can you help me?” he shouted, looking frantic.  “I cannot do it.  I cannot.”

He looked so incredibly desperate, staring at me under my little umbrella while the rain drenched him through.

“What can I do?” I asked.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and marched away from me, down to the basement door at the righthand corner of the house, where I knew his office lay.

As ominous as this could’ve been, I followed anyway, shirking my umbrella and descending into the dank cement under rooms.  I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“The women will bring their children in strollers.  They cannot leave them outside in this.  But, no one can see in here,” he started.

This was a true statement.

“Can you turn the lights on?  I cannot, the sun has gone down.”

I felt so deflated with relief I almost laughed.  I assured him that I would and began to grope around for the switch.  He sounded pained, “… it’s to the left.  I can’t show you.”

I took off my gloves and continued to feel around the bare wall, praying I didn’t encounter a bug or anything similar until finally, the room was flooded with a wave of fluorescent illumination.

We stood there in relief for a few minutes, Asher breathing a huge sigh as his soaked side curls hung limply by his ears.  I assured him it was no problem and then slowly made my way back upstairs.  I was glad to have been of assistance, but as I mulled it over while sipping my hot chocolate, I wondered if I hadn’t committed some sort of religious cheat.

The storm didn’t last more than an hour.

White Capped Morning

Looking Left From my Front Door on a Frosty Morning

On Another Friday, about a month later, I was tying my coat around my waist with my usual early morning grog, telling myself that all I needed to do was get through the day.

James and I had been dating for about two weeks and we were planning a weekend getaway to Oxford directly following work.  I had a bag all packed and placed in the center of my bed, ready for a snatch and go after work.  I pulled a hat down over my ears, as the weather had gotten noticeably frigid of late, and dashed down the stairs, running late as usual.

However, I ground to a full stop on the top stair of the house, nearly taking a giant spill and killing myself.  Spread out before me in a translucent white haze, was the first snow I’d seen in my life.

The Green Across the Street, No Longer so Green

It welled up in me like a big, warm balloon, the impression of it.  It was barely a frost, but it was the first white morning of my life.  I stood paralyzed for a few minutes before deciding to drop  my things, tear up the stairs, and dig my camera out of my weekend bag.  I snapped a few blurry photos of the scene before finally heading out in a haze to work.

I’d hold it inside of me forever, the appearance of that feeble layer of winter clinging to the grass in the park and the roofs of the cars on the street.  I savored the smell of the bakery as I passed by, overwhelmed with the ambiance of the moment and underwhelmed with the fact that I was going to be late (again).

In the coming months, when I stood shoulder deep in the Alpine Snow in the mountains of France, I’d think that nothing had matched the thrill of that first sighting.

By the time I got to Oxford Street, all the snow had melted.

Looks Like Comfort Food - But Will Scar you For Life.

I sit typing today with my charred and shrivelled thumb angled strategically away from the keyboard – my left hand is in quite a state.  Obviously I’ve had a rough few weeks since being exiled back to Tampa. 

After frantic job hunting last week, I finally landed a temporary assignment for two weeks answering phones at a legal firm near the house.  Relieved that I had a little bit of temporary security, I fell asleep on Friday night thinking things may actually start looking up (I’d also had another temporary offer from the other agency I’ve registered with, and that seemed like a positive thing to me). 

However, to my horror, Sunday I woke up with a scratchy throat and a hell of a sneeze.  Right, I thought to myself, better nip this thing in the bud and make myself a hot pot of soup.  I went with a baggie of organic split pea mix I had in the cabinet because I wasn’t in the mood to make a big effort and left the thick green goo simmering on medium for about half an hour.

When it was finished, I crawled out of my room, already feeling like death warmed up, and reached for a ladle and a mug and in the process of pouring myself a warm cup of healing, I splashed scalding soup all over my left hand.  I dont’ remember much of what followed.  I know I dropped the mug into the pot of soup and lurched for the tap to put my hand under cold water, and that at some point I must’ve called for my mom in the next room to find her burn cream, but I was under the mistaken impression it was just one of those minor oopsies that happens when you cook.

Bored Out of My Everloving Mind - Can I help you? Please?

My vibrant red and blistered hand would beg to differ over the next day.  I ended up at the hospital, being covered in silvadine and wrapped up tight, given a bottle of vicodin for the pain and told to just wait it out.  There’s a lot of graphic and painful crap that’s followed, but for now, at lesast I can type, and I never did lose my voice, even though I spent the entire week coughing and sneezing and making a general scene of myself at the front desk of this law firm.

The job itself is so uneventful it’s almost comedic.  I was actually told to bring a book to keep myself entertained between the instances where the phone rings.  Actually, considering I spent the entire week doing crossword and japanese number puzzles, reading three novels, and baking cookies (yeah, that’s part of my job description – lawyers need cookies), $10/hr seems overly generous, and 9 hours a day seems like 90.

Luckily, about halfway through the week, the recruitment agency, which is handily located in the same building as this temp job, called me about a new (full time!) opportunity.  This one with a marketing firm nearby with an amazing website and an even more amazing job description.  I don’t want to get too into it because, I’ve already gotten my hopes up way too much to be healthy if I get rejected, but let’s just leave it at I interview on Tuesday.

The recruiter actually asked me if I could lose the hand bandage for the interview, so I took it off to show her the hand.  After staring at it in silence for a bit longer than what was strictly comfortable, she suggested I wewar ultra long sleeves.

I should also mention that during the process of writing this blog post, I set the house on fire again.  Boiling eggs for breakfast.  A nearby bag of twizzlers went up in flames.  Airing the house out now.  I guess I should avoid anything heat-related on weekends