I heart Dallas

It’s kind of like when you wake up and all of a sudden, your life is surprisingly different than it was last year.

Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel.

Most of the time, this kind of feeling comes once or twice a year: New Year’s, a birthday, etc. For me, this feeling came when I saw “August 1” and flashed back to last year, when I was working at “former-place-of-employment-where-my-dreams-were-endangered” in San Antonio and the summer was coming to a close.

I remember feeling sad that suddenly I wasn’t a part of the sun-tanned, whiny mass of leisurely folks who cried that the summer’s already ending, it went by too fast, waa, waa, waa... I sat with my like-minded counterparts, pale-skinned and jaded, and scoffed at those people – the intern who was leaving in a few weeks to go to college, the clients who occasionally strolled through the office in shorts and sandals, the joggers I passed on the street on my way into work every morning – secretly wishing I was back where I was last year, jobless, free and most importantly, tan.

Now that things have changed so quickly (new city, new apartment, new job…), I have to take a look back and thank Gaw! that I don’t wish it was last year again. You see, the truth is…

I’m happy. It may not seem like it due to the tone of this entry – you know I can be a little dramatic and overly introspective, especially on paper. Not that I’m without my little day-to-day annoyances or grievances, but yeah. Happy.

I actually like my job. It’s menial work – most of the time I stand in front of a printer or a fax machine, pushing, pulling papers and then running back to my computer – but I don’t mind it. I actually have a cube, my own computer, phone extension, e-mail address and I ride an elevator to get to and from work. It’s like the first grown-up job I’ve ever had. It seems cool now that it’s still new, but I know this novelty will wear off eventually. But for now, I’m sipping the honey-flavored beer of early occupational bliss.

And there’s a strange, wonderful balance that happens when you actually have something to do, a “job” to perform. I sit in traffic, biting my fingers in fear that the big bad cars are going to run my ass off the road, get to work, do my job, sit in that traffic again and come home to a home, where I’m greeted with a plate of fideo*, a glass of whiskey, tales of my man M's Internet job search or whatever he’s seen on the news. Then Big C comes home and the night’s events are not unlike a small hurricane. The apartment is lively, to say the least.

Fortunately, the ESPN is kept at a minimum – never underestimate a woman who grew up with an obstinate dad and brother – so the "lady parts" are still intact (scroll down, you'll see the post). Now my next mission is to get the boys to stop playing Playstation so I can catch up on “All My Children” on the ever-fabulous SoapNet.

Till next time, kids. XOXO

* Fideo is delicious. It's soupy, tomato-y and noodle-y.
** Sorry for staying away so long.