I finally got a raise for my work here at the church.  It’s kind of a substantial one, an increase in both hours and hourly wages.  I negotiated my way through a sort of wince-inducing committee meeting.  I even brought handouts, and I still can’t quite make eye contact with the people who agreed to give me said raise.  I’m not a person who, you know, asks for things.  But I cannot deny the results of my boldness are pretty gratifying.

I have landed two more housesitting gigs for the next two months.  I fail to understand how people say to themselves “let’s pay someone $25 a day to watch our cable and drink beer in her jammies.”  But I like it.  The house I’ll sit next–starting Thursday–is a big, inexplicable French chateau.  I’m looking forward to it.  I’ll bet they have a huge bathtub.

Also, I have a financial plan and financial planner.  It’s awesome.  I feel really good about my financial situation, even if I am still technically quite poor and living with my parents.  I have a plan.  Plans are much better than ignored concerns.  Guess who saves 20% of her income?  Oh, that’s right.  Me.

The church’s treasurer was talking to me about taxes the other day.  She said something about poverty incomes.  I said I prefer to think of it as the tiny and adorable income bracket.  Puppy-sized.  She’s the one with the tacky mansion.  Also, she doesn’t believe in social security.  I can’t wrap my head around people who are charitable but don’t believe in government programs.

My New Year was really, really good.  And my resolutions are going very well–to wit, the big raise.   And the fresh vegetables I’m eating while I type this.

You know I love?  Being an adult.  I’ve written this paragraph a number of times and then deleted it for being too vague or too specific or too rah rah rah.  So I’ll just say rather euphemistically that I love that I’m in a place in life where I know what I want in life and can articulate it.  I love knowing when to apply myself and when to cut and run.  I also love that I almost wrote Fuck and Run.  And I love Liz Phair before she stopped being awesome.

I blame the tendency to the rah rah rah with my recent fondness for hilarious quiverfull blogs.  Those sweet, spinsterish twenty-somethings who take prenatal vitamins while waiting for God to reveal their future spouses to them are so fucking positive.  Yeah.  I’m a bad person, aren’t I.

Yesterday I made orange sticky buns.  That’s a food.  Not a gross innuendo.  I also didn’t pick any fights with anyone pro-life on the anniversary of Roe v Wade.  That was a win.

This morning I overslept, dreaming I was petting an abandoned dog.  I woke up to discover I was stroking the top of my own head.  After some introspection, I’ve decided that I don’t feel even a little like an abandoned dog, so there’s no deeper meaning there.  Unless I’m revealing my desire to have the same hair color as dachshund.  They are a lovely color.

My formerly very short hair is past my shoulders and hasn’t been colored in literal years.  On the one hand, that’s probably the reason it’s so much softer and more manageable than my hair historically is.  On the other hand, BLARGH! I need new hair.

This morning I overslept, dreaming I was petting an abandoned dog.  I woke up to discover I was stroking the top of my own head.  After some introspection, I’ve decided that I don’t feel even a little like an abandoned dog, so there’s no deeper meaning there.  Unless I’m revealing my desire to have the same hair color as dachshund.  They are a lovely color.
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