Serenity

Serenity. For two weeks anyway. This is the amount of time I'm told I must wait further. Another two weeks of this holding pattern. Another two weeks without a full breath, time wasted, uncertainty.

I know I sound dire. I also know this outlet for my frustrations has become just that, no longer talking about the joys in my life, for which there are many, but instead focusing on this gnawing, this constant itch to be settled and the journey I've been on in my attempts to do so, mainly through acquiring a full time job. It's all coming to a boiling point for a number of reasons, reasons that make it all so much more dire. First, I no longer have health care and have been denied when trying to apply for individual health care due to a pre-existing condition. Apparently all the health reforms we've fought so hard to achieve do not go into effect for a few more years, during which time it seems, unless I am employed full time, I will not be able to get health coverage.

Additionally my student loans are due. On top of that The Professor seems to be having an even worse time than me in our eternal waiting. I was told, by the same people I've been interviewing with since March, that I would know their decision Friday of last week. Friday before Good Friday. I heard nothing until Wednesday and was on edge with each passing day. I then learned that I was a finalist, something I had already figured on my own. I continued to wait throughout Easter weekend during which time I was told that I would be interviewed again, for the 7th time, through video conferencing. I figured surely this was the meeting where we'd discuss salary, start dates, and any final questions. But it was another interview. The same questions. Similar answers. And I was told they would decide in two weeks. Two. Friggin'. Weeks.

I used to get sick a lot as a child (let's just say I'm not the most 'robust' of humans) and my mom would tell me the serenity prayer, because I could not control that I was sick, but I could control how I dealt with being sick. Since then I have had this outlook on almost anything, always attempting to react best to bad situations. This resourcefulness has protected me and gotten me through some bad times. But now, in the 11th hour, I'm just not sure I can handle this any more. I've gone through worse things, it's true, but never for 12 straight months. An entire year of being told no. It's hard not to take it personal. It's hard to remember my serenity prayer.

God, Grant to me the serenity of mind to accept that which cannot be changed; courage to change that which can be changed, and wisdom to know the one from the other, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.

Last night I told The Professor that I no longer have any hope. That each time I get my hopes up I am told no, or to wait longer. Thus I think my hope has dried up and now I am jaded, constantly expecting the next no, and accepting the idea that I will never be back in my field and we may waste away depending on others to get by financially.

I know this is all depressing, and not what you might want to read on this Tuesday morning. But it's overcome my thoughts. It's become my entire world. I have so many other blogs in my mind that I'd like to share. About our trips. About Easter weekend. About the snakes and other critters which have come out of the woodwork at the cottage, terrifying this city girl. About cooking a whole chicken. About my first ham dinner and how well it went. But all these stories would seem fake to me if I didn't first express my current state of mind and being. At least for today anyway. Hopefully tomorrow I will have a more cheerful story for you. For now, I repeat:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference.

You Cut My Dog, I Cut You!

OK, that’s extreme. But we had a pretty extreme evening here at the cottage. Our pup was once again attacked by the roving neighbor dogs, which now number three (there is a new one) and still no owners in sight.

She held her own, and we’re pretty sure (or The Professor is, who ran into the whole mess) that she won. But she’s nursing some pretty deep cuts and I’m in complete mommy nurse mode.

Also I’m in angry-mommy-I’m-going-to-take-you-down mode as well. This is about the fourth time this has happened, but the worst case so far. The Evil Dogs, as I call them, used to stay in their own yard, even though I’ve rarely seen them attended. Recently they come into our land and harass our sweet pup.

The Professor, who has been a dog owner his whole life, while pup is my first and only canine, assures me that pup is OK. He says she can nurse herself better than we could (which didn’t stop me from cleaning her up,) and if the wounds still look bad in a couple days we’ll take her to the vet.

What could ever harm such a pup!

I’ll just brag about her a little more.

Pup loves mud. And digging holes. And getting muddy.

Pup hates her dog house and never used it.

She contemplates and thinks deep. About things like how to play with ducks. And why the ducks don’t want to play with her.

Pup likes to go hiking.

Pup really likes to go hiking. It makes her smile.

Pup likes to swim too. She even has fun doing it when I make her wear her adorable life jacket. Even though she doesn’t need to wear it anymore.

She is pretty much perfect.

For Love of the Weekend: Cottage Shelter

I love animals. I have three of my very own (well, I share them with The Professor.) Today has been a surreal experience with a stray dog and a possibly dying baby squirrel (let the choirs of awwwwwww’s began.)

Early this morning my dog went absolutely crazy for seemingly no reason. As I’ve said before, this has been going on at all hours of the day and night, specifically the night, and we’re determined that a homeless dog nests itself outside our bedroom window and whines. We’ve even found the nest of leaves. But we’ve never captured the dog. Our plan was always to find it, take its tag, and report its unfavorable activities to its owner. Of course, we never thought its owner would be an awesome example of a human being, since they didn’t let their dog indoors on the coldest winter night in Georgia (read: 22 degrees Fahrenheit.)

This morning, as The Professor enjoyed a lay in, I spotted the white dog from our porch window as our dog once again went completely ape shit. I ran outside, sans shoes, and discerned that the pooch was quite amenable to being friendly. While my dog hopped around excitedly, I ran back and forth between the house and the yard getting things like a collar (as, it turned out, the dog had none,) some shoes, and dog treats to trick it into trusting me. Eventually, with the help of a sleepy Professor, we collared and leashed the dog, and led it into the very large dog pen that is conveniently located on our grounds (for the sake of the 5 dogs owned by The Professor’s parents.)

This dog is ad-ooooooooooor-able. It is also very, very, very dirty. I can not even tell you how many times I’ve washed my hands due to the many, many ticks I’ve pulled from its fur. It has apparently fallen in love with me, and demands constant attention and is very snuggly. With The Professor it cowers and always acts afraid. We have thus determined that it has been abused by a man. It also limps slightly, has not been neutered, and there are no signs that it has ever been brought to a vet or properly cared for.

After printing up flyers and canvassing the lake, which was sort of a fun way to see our neighbors’ little cottages, we met a man who informed us that the county road close to our cottage is a common dumping ground for unwanted pets. He said not to get our hopes up that we will find an owner.

Thus we put the word out that unless someone contacts us from the flyers in the next few days, we have a dog up for adoption. I hate the idea of dropping him off at a shelter (although we’ll research and make sure it’s not one that puts animals down.) We’re just hoping that through our network of family and friends, someone will want to bring him into their home.

As I played fetch with him (who we call, new puppy,) I heard a horrible squealing noise and witnessed our adventure cat leaping from a tree top with something in its mouth. Low and behold, he had stolen a baby squirrel from its mother and nest. Freaking-A. Getting him to drop it was oh so fun, as was keeping all the animals away as I ran inside once again, this time to google what the hell to do with a baby squirrel. Apparently you are never to touch them as they have parasites and other nasty things. So we followed the instructions of the internet (thank you, oh internet,) and put it inside a box, under a tree in hopes the mother will come in the next 1-5 hours to reclaim it. Whoa is me, and our furry household, it’s been quite a day.

*This is not our photo of a baby squirrel. We would never touch a baby squirrel because we believe in the power of google.

And We’re Down Again

Bummer. I got all excited about my wonder consultant today and the call that would.change.my.life. Well, that’s yet to be seen. The call happened, all 3.5 minutes of it. Sadface indeed.

My influencer has one powerful contact within my field in this much desired city, and put a plan into action to call said contact Monday, who will then call me. At that point I can talk to someone about making more contacts and get advice.

When The High Powered Preggers told me of this phone call she made it seem like it would be lengthy. She told me to prepare for invasive questions, the purpose of which were to find “hidden talents” and “special personality” aspects with which to recommend me for jobs that even I might not have known I could do. I was told there would be much about linkedin and being aggressive and contacting contacts and making myself visible. This was not had. What was had was me desperately trying to keep her on the phone while she obviously wanted to go.

And it’s still raining. And it’s freezing. And the cottage is not equipped for such weather (it literally has three fire burning heaters with actual fire coming out of them. FIRE!)

The silver lining is this contact and the hope that it will birth more contacts and actual advice.

Click Your Stylish Heels Together…

…because we’re not in Kansas anymore, and by Kansas I mean anywhere, we are off the map. I am a city girl. Every cell in my body screams out for a large chai latte, a fresh magazine from my favorite kiosk, and texting friends last minute to meet you at that thing you heard about by reading that poster board at your favorite café/mid-afternoon bar/hot lunch spot de jour. I love walking, up streets, down streets, across town, through the shopping district; not over the river and through the woods.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m also an avid hiker and love to camp. I spent two weeks backpacking through Scotland with The Professor, two days of which were spent in the Highlands donning my 40lbs pack in the rain. I can do the outdoors. That doesn’t mean I want to live in the middle of it. Not that the cottage is refined camping, a term I’ve used in the past for actual residences of mine. It’s a nice house, on a nice piece of land, on a beautiful lake. But it’s in nowhere, literally. The address of the cottage is made up. A few years ago it had no address and when county governments down here needed to start cataloging addresses for maps and gps systems, they asked The Professor’s family to make one up. We don’t even get our mail sent here.

The closest “town” is about 25 minutes away by car, not so much the downtown lifestyle to which I’d grown accustomed. After trying out three grocery stores I’ve found one only 30 minutes away, but it is a poor man’s version of the one 45 minutes away. Besides food, which is  basic necessity, I’ve taken to acquiring all my worldly needs over the internet, including by not limited to crafting supplies, photo printing services, and birthday gifts. I yearn for the days when all I need to was pop out of my row-house door and grab anything within two to seven blocks. I actually miss the city bus, something I thought I never would, and even the scary, publicly drunken man who basically lived at my stop. I miss Sunday breakfasts with The Professor at the place we had made our place, trying out new restaurants, deciding last minute to see a film at the indie theatre, and of course having access to all the public transportation one could desire. I’m getting used to driving an hour to go to a plaza, that connects to another plaza, that has an exit off the highway.

Also, where is the good Eastern food in the South? I’ve found some Chinese food, which was not a pleasant experience. But where is the Pho, the Thai, the Indian, the Japanese (and not that awful Japanese buffet recommended to us by the man with the baby-eating cats.) Cross your fingers that my job search will deliver me urban bound once more. If only for the pad thai and wonton soup.

The Defunct Curator, or About Me

I realize I dove into this blog without really explaining anything about myself or how I found myself in such a holding pattern. I currently live in rural Georgia and sometimes wonder, how did I get here? Like that Talking Heads song, I sometimes think, this is not my house. But the cottage really is not my house. I’m squatting, along with The Professor, in a borrowed holiday home, on a lake, down two dirt roads, surrounded by trucks and semi-wild dogs, and turkey shoots. Seriously, I still don’t understand turkey shoots.

So how did I get here? It wasn’t watching the days go by, it was more a whirlwind romance, followed by a long-distance relationship, followed by moving to England, followed by the lack of a plan, no money, a wedding, and semi-settling into the non-permanent state of living in which we currently find ourselves.

After college, when everyone else was finding themselves unemployed, searching for jobs, unsure, and generally right where I’m finding myself now, I was going to graduate school and preparing for a career in the museum field, hence The Defunct Curator. A year into my degree program I met The Professor in a way that only he and I could have met, smack dab in the middle of bad timing for us both. But that’s a whole other story. After we met, it took about two days for us to fall in love, two weeks for us to decide to be together, and two months for us to see each other again. Eventually we decided on the long-distance thing for a year. During this time he decided to travel to England for his Masters program, and I decided another year apart was not so much going to work for me, and I packed my bags.

With our return to America getting closer everyday, I started applying for jobs a few months out. I had some great interviews and was a finalist for two positions, but no cigar. Upon our return to the States we had about three weeks before our wedding, every moment of which was spent preparing, organizing, making programs, tying ribbons, and experiencing multiple bridal showers and homecomings. When The Professor got a granted position at the University we came to the cottage, with the plan of me becoming employed, moving, with him eventually joining me. But it’s now been three months, and twenty applications later I’m still unemployed, still spending my time baking and not working, and still going stir crazy. Thus my holding pattern. Until the job thing is sorted, no plans can really be made, no trips organized, no escape.

I like to observe, to people-watch, to spot similarities and differences. As a New Yorker living in the South I’ve been provided with a window into a different world, one on which I hope to comment. Moving into the cottage has proven as full of antidotes as it is filled with The Professor’s family’s bits and pieces, including an elephant figurine collection that would shame Dumbo himself. While moving in I leaned into the closet and bumped my head on something, which turned out to be a rifle. Later in the week I found the bullets in the bread basket. It never ceases to be odd living amongst the things of other people, like being a piece of furniture, one more thing shoved into an already filled lake house.

What else about me? I’m neurotic, but I like to think socially-acceptably neurotic or at least I hide it well. I like to travel, I like to live in other countries, and I’m currently going through reverse culture shock. I have pets and they help keep me entertained during the long days. I like to read, love history, and appreciate a by-gone era while still maintaining an optimistic feminism (meaning I really think one day we’ll reach full equality.) My girlfriends live in the North and I miss our adventures together. I can get judgey and critical and try to keep that in check. I am crafty and I like to cook and bake. I also like to wear red lipstick, vintage styles, and bows in my hair.