Panic! I used a gift card to buy some books on the internets, and the tracking number for the package shows that it’s out for deliver – on FRIDAY! Where are my books? I only ever pay full price for books when I get a gift card, so these are very special books (ie: ones that didn’t cost me $4). We have a new mail person who doesn’t ring buzzers or leave package notifications, she tends to leave the item leaning against your apartment door. I’ve received two packages this way, but there’s nary a sign of my books. Where are my books! I hope no one stole them from my door. I will be a very, very sad monkey if that is the case.

(insert cynical comment about none of my neighbours being able to read anyway let alone wanting to steal books on miniature crime scenes [ooh, irony] or historical inaccuracies in American history)

I had yet another interview this morning. It went well, but all my interviews do – I know I interview well; it’s just getting past positions that aren’t quite right or we’re hiring internally but putting on a show or we’ll get back to you sometime in the next 6 weeks maybe. In the meantime, we continue the hunt. This has to end soon, right? Something will come along before I turn 50?

Yesterday I spent being sad about how much of who you are is defined by what you do for a living. When you don’t do anything for a living but sit by the phone and worry, there isn’t a lot you can contribute to the conversations around you. I’ve been struggling with this a lot lately; this whole feeling like I’m nothing because I’m an unemployed drain on society. You spend 8 of your waking hours at work, several more preparing for and getting to and from work, and the remainder taking in what relaxation you can before you go back and do it all again. That’s a huge part of life that I’m missing out on. I miss the money (a great deal – does anyone want to buy my XO so I can pay rent?), but I also miss the social interaction. I’m already somewhat of a complete loner freak; not being forced to interact with people on a daily basis is making me forget all about those social niceties I’ve worked so hard on. I remember being awkward. It’s not a place I want to revisit.

I have to go do groceries. Maybe I can socially interact with the soccer moms as they kill time before picking up their spawn in their shiny SUVs.