Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 46

On the 1 year anniversary of my divorce, which happens to be 1.11, I had the 1st high blood pressure reading of my life and subsequently tested positive for COVID with bronchitis and asthma exacerbation (after testing negative with similar symptoms the week prior when a housemate had tested positive). The week I tested positive, I had 2 2nd interviews, 2 3rd interviews, and a single 4th interview. I didn't get a 3rd job with an AI-driven startup that appeared out of nowhere after I apparently passed the analytical skiils and personality pre-employment testing, probably because I didn't tell them I was interviewing with COVID and bronchitis, so I came across as oddly tubercular, and I may have accidentally flirted with the 3rd interviewer because I was so excited to potentially work with a male former musician that general giddiness and an accidental sexual entendre spilled out all over the Zoom call. I texted my girlfriends after this interview that I'm so fucking predictable; I'd fuck an oboist if he still had his instrument.

I was offered both of the jobs I believed I would get in Blog 43. I accepted the full-time 1, which is a way better job than I realized in Blog 43 (who offers a pension in this day and age?), and I put the part-time contract on hold until I settle into the full-time job and see if I can do both gigs without burning out and having no social life. I also asked the universe for the right place for me and Daisy to live by January 15th. Which turned out to be the day I could go out again after my COVID and the day I actually moved in to my new place. So despite my trials and tribulations and fits of darkness, I am a proven master manifester. I will spare you the harrowing details around the COVID interview week and dog drama triggering my need to move and resulting in me living briefly with the boob-grabbing-in-the-hot tub Taurus (see Blog 38), who did not believe he could live with a chick without boning her (until I proved it possible, successful manifestation #4. The flesh is weak, but I am much more than flesh), and the need to reschedule the move I had just painstakingly arranged due to COVID, and the difficulties of finding housing when you don't yet have a job, and the last minute save by my Michigan relatives to get movers to move my shit across states on 4 days notice during COVID winter. The struggle, once over, is quickly forgotten. At least if you're me and have ADHD. Now me and Daisy be sittin' pretty by a fireplace that needs no wood, streaming Yellowstone after I arranged the first internet service of my life (This is not a typo. I know to avoid experiences likely to trigger self-harm). 

Big shout outs to the many friends and family who helped me get from a divorcee ranchette on the alleged sunny side of Washington to a completely new life in Chicagoland. When I thanked them, many of my friends and family pointed out that I did this myself. No one helped me get these jobs. No one did the cold networking calls and applied to 60 jobs FOR me. A realtor friend tried to help me get a house ASAP after the dog fracas at Big Al's, then stood by me when The Man refused to grant me a mortgage despite my perfect credit score just because I didn't have a job (yet. Bankers lack vision). This friend pivoted quickly and helped me consider apartment options instead. She did all this even though she hadn't seen me in 30 years. Big Al supported my apartment hunt, endorsing the complex I had selected online and asking the questions I couldn't during the tour because I was not sleeping and I choose to feel my way through life rather than think. Her husband aired up my tires and took over my local stuff move when The Taurus flaked to support a much more difficult move of another recently COVID-ed lady. The Taurus did deliver a mattress to me, so I didn't have to sleep on the floor for 2 nights until my Michigan shit arrived. 

The movers were young and gorgeous. Nearly 80 but forever a lusty Scorpio, my mother promised them a huge tip (from me) upon meeting them, which I doubled after they turned up beautiful, politely audienced my oddball stories, then agreed to assemble my furniture at the last minute. The Taurus set up 25% of my internet and I did the rest. It took 3 hours on the phone and a replacement TV Flex box to finish the fucking job. I was correct to avoid this particular installment experience for 47 years. After a week without TV (which is nothing to the Amish), I'm now living large, watching cowboys fight and drink their feelings. I miss living near Montana.

Out of the ether, as I unpacked my things in what an Aquarius friend pointed out was the first place I have ever selected and lived in solo, I got a text from a dude I knew in the town I just left, but who never texted me before. Same town as Drummer Boy. Same first name as Drummer Boy. Younger as well, but not millenial younger. This new Drummer Boy did worry he was too old for me at 42. You know what? He should. He wants to fly all the way to Chicago. To hang out and probably do filthy things to me. Since I decided to leave my former western home, 4 hot dudes there have expressed (at times fervent) interest in seeing me. WTF. We'll see who actually shows up.

Tune in Valentine's month to see if it'll be original Drummer Boy, the new Drummer Boy, Freddy, Bobby, some or all of the above, or I continue to sleep with Daisy as the big spoon.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness