Oh my heck, guys. The Gevalia coffee is so good. I finally coaxed my old coffeemaker into working (as my new coffeemaker arrived broken and the replacement won’t be here for another couple of days), and… wow. Even made with an incredibly crappy machine, the Gevalia is tasty. I’ve been living in the land of Folger’s “crystals” for a while now (and what is that? It’s not like forming mysterious crystals out of coffee beans is somehow cheaper than just grinding them up, so I don’t understand what the Folger’s people think they are accomplishing), so it’s not like I can really be snobby about coffee, but — I’d remembered Gevalia coffee as being sort of, um, bland. Gevalia lives in my brain as the medium-grain rice of coffee; good enough to serve for Sunday dinner, but nothing particularly special or memorable. I was so wrong. I bow at the feet of mid-priced ground beans. I’ll never stray again. I think a lot of my Gevalia love comes from the simple difference between real coffee grounds and fake coffee crystals, but it’s nice to think I was actually smart to use that mail-order offer. Go me.
Still tired today, but the weather is once again very springlike, so I feel a little better. My tax refund should be in sometime this week and I have big plans for next weekend — house hunting, clothes shopping, book-and-movie finding, and possibly even a little online fling at Sephora. I am determined to have at least one really nice product to use on my skin. I am also determined to leave my credit card panting and limp on the corner of my desk, as along with the Sephora-shopping and possible Netflix-loving I am going to be finding birthday presents for Connor. (His birthday is not for another two and a half months, but I’d rather order the stuff now when I know I’ll be able to pay off my card balance than find myself with a lugubriously evil Visa bill come May.) It’s done wonders for my poor exhausted self to be able to make plans that involve leaving the house (and even the town) while the weather is nice, although to be quite honest I wouldn’t care if my refund comes in during a blizzard — I am getting the hell out of here, updating my wardrobe, seeing a movie, and perhaps using my new wardrobe and lifted spirits to redouble the attack on unemployment. I’ve decided that I will have a job by the end of February, period, that’s the end of that story. A job and also a house and also affordable daycare for Connor, because that’s just how I roll. At this point, I would accept working as a bank teller, even though I sort of hate handling money and interacting with people.
I have discovered, in my job search, that the registrars at my university make $70,000 per year. Seventy thousand dollars per year for sitting at a desk and entering things into a computer. Why? I do not know. The job requires a master’s degree for some reason. I don’t understand this at all. The registrars are not particularly efficient, or smart, or skilled. They do a job that any work-study student could handle with two hours of training. And yet — $70k per year. I am very, very perturbed by this. It’s upsetting to think that the money I spent on my degree went to pay a glorified receptionist more money per year than I have made in my entire life. It’s also kind of upsetting to think that if I had sucked up and succeeded in getting my master’s degree, I too could be a
fabulously wealthy well-compensated secretary. Instead, I am a completely unpaid and overskilled stay-at-home mom with modest aspirations to making more than $200 per month. Wonderful. A shout-out to ENMU: fuck you.
I don’t know why I update this thing on the weekends. Does anyone actually read this on Sundays? Do I, perhaps, need to find another way to fill the hours between 11:59PM on Friday and 12:01AM on Monday? Please advise.