L-O-V-E: it's more than oversized teddy bears. Or is it?

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I thought it might be an appropriate time to write a post about everyone's favorite subject, L-O-V-E.

For those of you who read this blog, this may seem like a slightly odd topic choice for me, given that I probably mention my long-time singlehood at least once in each post. For those who know me personally, this will seem like an extremely odd choice, given the amount of eye-rolling and fourth-grade-esque, finger-down-throat gagging noises I make when confronted with mushy things. (I'm not joking, I actually used the term "gag me with a spoon" within the last week.) 

In fact, many of my friends and family members might think I am cynical, jealous, or worse yet, downright bitter about love. This couldn't be farther from the truth. I love love. I also really love fancy heart shaped candy, so Valentine's day is a big win-win for me. 

This week, I finished Aziz Ansari's book, Modern Romance. Basically, Aziz conducted studies of focus groups and enlisted some well-respected relationship psychologists and scientists to help him piece together data about dating in our time. It is really hard not to see the results as shocking. For instance, cheating occurs in 70% of committed, monogamous, non-married relationships. Apparently, the number greatly decreases after couples say "I do", which I guess answers my time-honored question of "why get married at all?"...

Anyway, ouch. That piece of data tells me that there is just about a 2/3 chance I will be cheated on if I ever decide to make it past the one or two dates stage with someone. However, the book was generally pretty positive about the outlook for love in the modern world. More places to find it, more time to find it, more chances of not settling, more matches on Tinder. Wonderful. I closed the book and walked out into the wide world, ready for love to sweep me off my feet. 

Ok, no, I didn't (I was coming from the gym after finishing the book, looking smashing in a sweat-stained baseball cap, so prospects for love had to wait till after a shower). I did start thinking about love and it's many forms, and also how the Hallmark holiday that we use to celebrate it is a mere two weeks away. If you have ever seen the movie Love, Actually, you can quote Hugh Grant's character in the opening credits: "Love really is, all around." 

I have occasionally teared up after clicking a video clip on Facebook of a soldier coming home to his dog (after months of being gone), and the dog jumps into his arms. It's even worse when it's the guy's kid, seeing him for the first time in years. Waterworks, every time. Oh, love!

Or when an organization I support (such as the Girl Scouts of America or Planned Parenthood) starts a crowd-funding page to recoup money lost from pulled grant money, and they end up raising three or four times more than their original goal. In that moment, I love all those people who donate. 

When I tell the story about my mother and stepfather being married for 26 1/2 years, and that he popped the question after only a few weeks of dating (but not before he asked my grandmother's permission (this was 1989, not 1960, so that's a pretty big deal)), my heart just sings. 26 1/2 years of marriage and no one was injured or killed. LOVE, people. 

I work day shifts at a bar and restaurant, and much of my daytime clientele is elderly couples. I have begun to notice that often, a husband will stand next to the booth while his wife removes her purse and jacket and gets perfectly situated before he sits down, in spite of the fact that he had neither of those items to contend with and could have just as easily taken a seat first. Definitely love (unless she's just a tyrant, and after years of being beaten into submission by that same handbag, he has learned to be obedient). 

When I see all the Valentine's day merchandise explode into store shelves about two days after Christmas, I roll my eyes and make my standard gagging noise. I have often thought "if someone ever brings me a giant white teddy bear holding a fabric rose that says 'be mine' on his enormous pink tummy, I will kick them out of my home" (and honestly, I might. A warning to potential suitors: I live in a studio apartment and there is NO ROOM, I repeat NO ROOM for oversized plush). However, people who critique gestures of love are probably not very good at love in the first place. It could be the cheapest box of Palmer brand chocolates on the store shelf, but when someone buys you something on a day that is meant to celebrate love, it means they love you (and thought of you). It also means you have chosen someone who bothers to know what day of the month it is, which is always a good sign. (But seriously guys, spring for the Whitmans. You won't regret it, since the lady in your life is probably still going strong on her New Years resolution, and you're going to end up eating them anyway). 

To get back on a serious note, love is wonderful in all of its forms. Love (when mutual) is the only thing in the world that requires no effort to feel (and makes you feel good all the time). There are so many people in my life that I love, even if none are in a romantic sense. If you're single, try thinking of that on Valentine's Day, instead of dwelling in the despair of having no one to buy you heart-shaped chocolate. 

And don't worry, that shit goes down to 50% off the next day and you can buy it all for yourself. Something else I love: a good sale. 

If you are reading this and thinking it sounds like a shameless ploy to get heart-shaped candy delivered to me in two weeks, then you are correct. Send me a text and I'll give you the address.

It will be the one with the giant white teddy bear in the hallway. 

The Three-Letter-Word

I can't remember a time in my adult life (read: over age 15) during which I wasn't trying to lose weight, or at least thinking about it. 

I'm thirty years old, so that's a pretty long time to be in a constant state of striving. Even in college, when I chose to forgo working out and eating salads for late night pizza and 20 oz plastic wine glasses full of Black Velvet and ginger ale (in answer to your inevitable question, yes, I have always been this classy), I was thinking about my weight, or rather, my size. While walking home from the bars with my roommate on a frigid night in my New York college town, dressed in seasonally-inappropriate skirts, a car full of boys pulled up, rolled down their window, and cat-called something sexual (and lewd). As I had probably consumed half a dozen beers and shots, I screamed something back and flipped them the bird, to which they started to pull away, yelling "we weren't talking to you, Fatty!" Of course they weren't - the comment was aimed at my shapely roommate. I laughed it off and we stumbled home.

So why, 11 years later, do I remember every detail of this event? It left a lasting impression on me, a little whistle (no pun intended) in the back if my head, saying "you're even too big for drunk college boys to shout at". 

When I was a pre-teen, my older sister and I did not always get along, a fact that I am sure is shocking to anyone with siblings. I did terrible things, including reading her diary (only once, I still contend) and picking on various aspects of her teenage appearance (I once posted a drawing on her bedroom door that stated that it was the home of someone named "Zitty Zitface". Very original.) In response, my sister took to calling me the worst possible thing she could think of, referring to me simply as "Fat", as if it was my first name. I should note, also, that I was not particularly fat at age eleven, but even as children, we knew that there was absolutely Nothing Worse than being so. 

Again, this was a very brief period in my life that has never left my memory- not because it was cruel of my sister to call me a name (believe me, I deserved everything I got), but that the tiny three-letter word was the worst insult either of us could imagine. 

I had a huge crush on the same boy from eight grade straight through high school graduation. We were acquaintances, friends even, but it was widely known that I pined in nerdy, tomboy silence and certainly had no chance with this guy. During sophomore year, well into my tenure at a school that required us to play team sports (I was a three season athlete at the time, so probably in the best shape of my life), a close male friend told me that the object of my affection had mentioned me. I was shocked and couldn't wait to hear what he said. While reluctant, my friend finally told me that the boy had said: "she has a pretty nice body, I'm just not so into her personality". I should have been crushed. I should have cried myself to sleep and vowed never to speak to this guy again. Instead, I was elated. He thought I was physically attractive. Personality could be worked on, I remember thinking. I could talk less, use smaller words, be less eccentric or outgoing, be less like me.

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my teenage self. 

Fast forward to a month ago, when a friend and I were discussing the need for more physical activity and healthy eating in our lives. I work with about twenty young women, so you can imagine how often these conversations happen. I don't know how we came around to it, but I found myself admitting out loud that I would gladly give a finger (or two!) off my left hand if I could just be skinny. 

Reading the above sentence really makes me hate my thirty-year-old self. 

I have spent much of the last ten years telling people I don't mind being single (true), that I won't settle for someone unless they love me for my zany, independent self (true), and that I firmly believe there is at least one guy out there who will think I am physically perfect exactly as I am (false). If I am being truly honest here (and it pains me to do so), I will admit: I don't really exercise and try to eat right to make my body healthier. I do it to make my body prettier. 

Ouch. 

I had a thought yesterday which, coupled with a fabulous editorial I read online this morning, inspired me to write this post. Here it is: what if I get skinny and nothing changes? 

What if I continue to be unhappy with my body, miss out on bread, pasta, french fries and dessert for the foreseeable future, fit comfortably into more stylish pants, lower my BMI to the point that my doctor stops telling me it's "something to keep in mind", buy a bathing suit that exposes my midsection for the first time in my life, and I remain single and (generally) uninteresting to the opposite sex? 

Worse yet, what if I lose weight and I'm still not happy with my physical appearance? 

We put so much emphasis on skinny being the ultimate goal, and I am no exception. I can't stand on my typical soapbox and preach to you about self love on this one, guys. I am confident in my intellect, personality, humor, and skills. But my life experiences, likely coupled with American society and the constant images of what is "attractive", have stripped me of (nearly) all physical confidence. 

But they say recognizing there's a problem is half of the battle, right? So I've got to try. It has to stop some time. I have no intention of throwing up my hands, diving head first into a plate of gravy fries, and canceling my gym membership (ok, that's a lie, I am definitely going to plunge into the fries at some point), but hell- we girls have all got to stop looking in the mirror and hating what we see. It's ruining us. It is hampering our lives and ambitions and absolutely keeping us from being our best selves. 

And as far as there being someone out there who loves me exactly as I am in this moment? That person had better start being me. 

Elf Baby

It's a commonly known fact that I really, really love the holidays. Since I am a semi-Christian raised white American, we can probably narrow that down to say that I actually really love Christmas. I say the holidays because it's politically correct and also because it encompasses (in my opinion) every single day between Halloween and New Years. My mother likes to tell people I am "part elf" or that I was switched with an elf baby at birth (I know this is false, because I doubt any elves have ever reached 5'6" and 170 lbs, plus I look an awful lot like her, and it's impossible that a woman who holds a "Christmas crying contest" with her friends every year to see who will shed the first holiday tears of frustration could have been born at the North Pole). 

Below, a photo of me on my first Christmas - evidence that I was always this excited about it:

           

I, on the other hand, begin plotting my homemade Christmas gifts starting in September, and send out the first "Christmas list" email of the season to my siblings and parents sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving. They've grown increasingly cheerful as the years go on, as if extra holiday cheer in their inboxes will stop my family from rolling their eyes at the fact that I still demand Christmas lists. Incidentally, I also write a letter to Santa Claus every Christmas Eve and leave him cookies - in contrast to my cheerfulness, Santa's letters seem to have grown ever more sarcastic.

It might shock you to know that holidays were not all homegrown perfection for me as a kid. Christmas was always anxiously anticipated, but as a child of divorced parents, the holidays always involved the uncomfortable lead-up conversations about where my sister and I should be and when, who was going to "get" us for Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and the actual day. If memory serves, it seems my mother usually won this battle, with us waking up at 6 am for stockings, breakfast with Grandma, and the tree. Sometime in the early afternoon, we were packed into the car and driven to my father's house for Christmas: round 2.

My former stepmother was nothing if not a materialist. When we arrived at Dad's, there would be presents absolutely spilling out of the living room. It really makes me wish we had more pictures saved, because I am not sure anyone would believe me if I told them. However, the torture came first: a fancy meal was usually planned with family members or friends, hosted in the formal dining room with adjoining pocket doors to the living room. We helped with cooking and serving and clean up with the room full of packages staring at us. I will never forget the year that my stepmother hosted a dinner party on Christmas - we didn't begin opening gifts until 8 pm and were still at it at 1:00, when we decided we would rather sleep and finish in the morning than stay awake for one more second, presents or not. 

My over-abundance of Christmas cheer really kicked itself into high gear when I was in high school. My sister, due to circumstances involving the aforementioned materialist, was temporarily estranged from my mother, and Mom's holiday spirit really lacked for several years. At 14, while home alone during school vacation, I climbed a ladder in our front yard and hung lights in my stepfather's maple trees and also on the front porch roof. While happy with the decoration, my parents were not exactly thrilled about me climbing a ladder at the house alone. The same year, I collected family and friend's addresses and began sending my own Christmas cards, something I have now done as a single person for 16 years. I am always the one to remind the family to get a tree. Once (during this same time period), we still had no tree (two days before Christmas!), so my stepfather and I cut one from behind the house. To fill it out, I drilled holes in the trunk and glued discarded branches into the bare spots. 

As an adult, I have moved around quite a bit. Every place I have been, I have encountered new friends who live far from their families, have Christmas horror stories in their past, or who subscribe to the Charlie Brown doctrine of "commercialism has ruined the holiday". Get out of my way, Grinches- I will make sure you have a Merry Christmas! No one can be miserable with me around, throwing up lights at my places of work, assaulting everyone with carols and shoving homemade cookies down their throats. It's December 3rd and I have already watched every Christmas movie I own. Twice. If my cell phone rings this month, it plays Elton John's "Step Into Christmas" at top volume (which has now happened several times in crowded retail establishments - and once in the public library. Oops.). 

As I sit here in my apartment, admiring my fresh-cut tree and twinkling holiday lights, I honestly cannot think of a reason to be miserable- except that my cards aren't addressed, I have barely started my shopping, I have Christmas pajamas to sew, and I have only made ONE variety of cookies so far...

You Can't Have All of Me

When I was eight years old, my father and stepmother moved from their home on a rural ski-mountain access road to a Victorian in the middle of our 2,000-resident town. Because of the availability of sidewalks and proximity of children my age, they decided to buy me a bicycle. 

We went to a big box store, one with a sporting goods department with rows of bikes for all ages. I was shocked to discover that you could get a bicycle with a radio built right onto it. The "Street Rocker" was definitely the coolest bike in the store. As we shopped for other things, I pleaded my case for the bike with the radio. They gave in. I was about to be the most envied kid in town.

When we returned to the bike aisle, I walked straight up to the one I wanted. It was a heck of a machine, black with neon green detailing and a matching green seat. As I was picturing myself cruising down the sidewalk to the park or the pharmacy on this little lightning bolt, my stepmother stopped me. She told me I could have the bike with the radio, but if I got it, I would have to get the girl's model. 

Right next to the incredibly cool black bike was a pepto-bismol monstrosity. The entire frame was cotton candy pink with lilac and banana-yellow details. The radio was bright pink, situated between the handlebars, both of which were adorned with matching purple and yellow streamers. It was the ugliest thing I had ever even imagined owning in my eight years of life. It had purple music notes on it. 

I argued, I begged, but eventually my desire for a bicycle that played music won me over and we left the store with the pink one. 

I was thrilled to have a two-wheeler, especially one that played music, but God, did I hate that color scheme. From the day I acquired the bike, I only rode it on streets where I knew no one. I don't think I ever once took it to the store. On the few occasions that I was sent down the street to meet my friend Charles, I would ditch it in the bushes on the town common and borrow a spare one that he had, claiming my bike was at home. (Only a few years later, this theme would show up again, when I would rush to school early to change my outfit, from the pink polos and penny loafers my stepmother insisted on, to the jeans and tshirts I kept stashed in my locker). 

I spent the entirety of my pre-teen years trying to avoid any visible signs of femininity. I didn't want my friends to make fun of my pink bike, or pink clothes, or pubescent figure (my clothes got gradually looser throughout junior high). Under "tomboy" in your Miriam-Webster, you would surely find my 5th grade school photo, complete with awkward 90's haircut and clothes from the boys section of JCPenney.

Quite recently, I took a new job at a late night bar. This particular establishment has about twenty five other bartenders, all of them female. I am the only one with a pixie cut. Although I have yet to meet them all, I may also be the only one who does not bartend with at least some amount of visible cleavage. Some wear heels. We are women, we serve drinks until 2 am. This is the uniform of people who bartend past midnight. 

Within my first two weeks, I had been aggressively approached by two homosexual women, one of whom responded to my very polite answer of "thanks, but I actually like guys" with a high-volume declaration of "what?! But you look like a lesbian!" Another night, while having a beer at the same establishment, I made a comment about a man to a coworker behind the bar. "You guys!" she shouted, gathering the other three girls on-shift around her, "she likes dudes! Did you know she likes dudes?"

So I put it on. I dug through the black hole of tshirts and jeans that is my closet and found my headbands, jewelry collection, and a few skirts. I went shopping. I dropped $157 at Target on two new pairs of jeans and four black shirts for work that fit in a more "feminine" way than most of my clothes. I do full-face makeup 2-3 nights a week before work (complete with eye shadow! Seriously, before this job, I don't think I had worn eye shadow since the last time I was in a wedding). I smile pretty and my jewelry flashes and my legs are freshly shaved, and now I spend only half the night listening to male and female customers tell me that people would probably stop questioning my sexuality if I would just grow my hair out. 

And I draw the line. I may have spent most of my childhood trying to avoid being a girly-girl only to do a near complete switch for a part-time job at age 30, but you, stereotyping world, you can't have all of me. I will take myself on a one-woman tomboy crusade for the rest of my life to prove that you don't have to have flowing locks, a wonder-bra chest and uncomfortable shoes to be characterized as feminine. It's probably going to be a long battle. I may also be single forever.

But I pour one hell of a draft beer with my two unmanicured hands. 

Beloved Hard-core Badass

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about death. No, this is not a hey-I-live-in-Colorado, legal-marijuana-fueled monologue about life and death and what it all means! Actually, it has been on my mind partly because my grandfather, my last living grandparent, passed away a few weeks ago, and partly because on the very day after it happened, I started my new job and had to weed-whack around every grave in a local cemetery. 

That first time was kind of hard- I was thinking about my grandfather, and reading the headstones and wondering about the lives of all of these people buried there. The graves for one-day old babies that were laid to rest seven years ago yet still have fresh flowers set out each week. Or the woman whose grave is marked with just a fading wooden cross, "Ambrocia" written on it in sloppy, white painted letters. And the two men, presumably brothers, who have matching headstones engraved with pickup trucks and ATVs. A lot of people live a very long time in the mountains of Colorado- there are several 95+ lifespans in that cemetery. And a lot of people don't- like the few women buried there who were born in the 1970's and passed away before the new millennium, whose headstones say things like "always beautiful" and "we will love you forever". 

After working at this job for a few weeks and trimming around the same graves each Thursday, I started to notice something else. Male and female graves are very, very different. While there are endless numbers of "beloved wife and mother" graves, adorned with hearts, flowers, the not-infrequent holy cross, and the disturbing trend of a full-color glamour shot decoupaged onto the headstone (creepy), the ways that men are remembered after they pass are often far more interesting. 

There's one for a guy who died at age 56, engraved with intricately drawn golf clubs, a winning poker hand, and the Denver Bronco's logo (basically, they could have saved a lot of time and money by just writing "Big Drinker" on the headstone). There is a grave marked only with a crossed pair of vintage yellow skis, driven into the ground. One plot has a stone with a scene of horses and a farm that says "beloved father, husband, and rancher". There are too many to count with guns, deer, rivers and mountains. 

Why is it that men are remembered for their interests, hobbies, and occupations, and women are only memorialized by their relationships to other people? Men can be buried with a lasting monument to their love of the land, four-wheel drive vehicles, or even gambling, but women are almost always praised post-humously for their ability to successfully marry and procreate. 

Don't get me wrong, I would be delighted if anyone referred to me as "beloved", in life or death. More often terms like "crazy", "sarcastic" or "loud" come to mind. Being described as beloved would be a great honor, if an unlikely one. But is a loving wife, mother, or sister really the most descriptive thing a woman can be remembered as after she dies? 

I want my headstone to say "Caitlin Kennett, beloved hard-core badass" or "Enthusiastic Serial Hobbyist". Why not? Etchings of flowers and hearts show us nothing of the people that these women were. And this is Colorado, for gods sake. Not one female grave with an etching of a mountain, a bicycle, skis or a horse. I find it difficult to believe that everyone buried in this cemetery lived and breathed to care for their husbands and kids and nothing else. We should really start making cemeteries more progressive, people. Think of how fun it would be for some stranger to come upon your grave 70 years later and read something like "great mom, even better table dancer".

And when I pass, if you must decoupage my photo onto my grave, make sure it's this one: 

It's a Man's World

As someone who moves around a lot, I find myself constantly being "new" in my occupation. There are more versions of my resume saved to my ipad than selfies. I keep my cover letter short and non specific, so I can change the date and recipient at a moments notice and ship it out. I have enough uniform shirts from former jobs that I could make a queen-sized quilt for my bed. 

So when I started my current position, as a seasonal parks worker for a local municipality, I knew what to expect. I've heard a lot of it before. During my interview, my now-supervisor asked me what I would do in a specific situation: if you are mowing and come upon a picnic table, soccer goal, or some other relatively heavy, park-dwelling object, what would you do? 

"Probably wait till another coworker came along to help me move it," I told him. "I'm very serious about not lifting more weight than I am capable of moving on my own. I don't want to get hurt."

This was, of course, the right answer, but he then went on to say that he by no means was implying that I was weak (avoid sexual discrimination, check), and in fact added: "You look pretty strong."

I know, I should take that as a compliment, or I should assume he had inferred from my resume packed with extensive landscaping experience that I am able to handle myself, but all I heard was "well, one can clearly see you're no twig". You're right, boss man, I am not petite or skinny, and I hope the whole department knows how lucky they are for that. I have worked with petite girls who wanted to landscape before. You know what happens to them? They quit. 

On my first day, we arrived with our crew of six at a park that needed to be mowed. I hopped out of the truck, lifted a trimmer off the rack, filled it with 2-stroke mixed gasoline, and turned to see my supervisor waiting for me. "So, have you ever used a trimmer before?"

Side-note to all department heads everywhere: it is really important (and a huge time saver) to share the resumes and relevant work experience of new employees with their crew supervisors. It is doubly important if your new employee is a girl in a male-dominated field. By taking the time to mention to my new supervisor that I have been landscaping for eight years, we could have avoided several unnecessary and frankly embarassing moments (for me and my supervisor) over the last two weeks, in which he tried to train me on every piece of mowing equipment, all of which I had previously used.

I certainly am not singling out these particular coworkers as being clueless. This happens at every job I have had. In 2012, I had a supervisor refuse to believe me that I knew how to operate a zero turn lawnmower. I humored him, as I have many, and let him show me how the controls worked. Why not? Nothing to gain by showing off. Plus, eight years of this line of work has taught me a teensy-weensy thing or two about the average male ego. 

And there's also the interpersonal personnel (say that five times fast) challenges to being the new Girl. For the first couple of days, no one will speak to me. Most men in the landscaping/maintenance field have never had a female direct coworker and (as I found out from a supervisor at another job, where my presence was discussed at a meeting on my first day, along with proper warnings and precautions) have been drilled on the wide array of statements and actions that constitute sexual harassment. Here's what I have learned: basically, it's anything. Acknowledge that I am of a different gender in any way, and I can sue the pants off you (but not literally, because that would also be sexual harassment). 

It has taken me years, but I have devised the proper way to ease the tension almost immediately: swear. Cuss like a drunken sailor, preferably one who just found out the beer is all gone. Once the males have determined that it is acceptable to use any color of language in front of me, they relax. Next, I make a joke at someone's expense. This is my favorite part, because I will never get a laugh out of a crowd as huge as the one I get when a group of new acquaintances realizes that yes, the girl is funny. It's a combination of general amusement and overwhelming relief: oh thank god, our work lives are not ruined, we will not be fired for letting a foul word escape our lips, we do not have to stop speaking when she enters the room. This will be okay.

At my first job working with all men, in 2007, it took me almost an entire summer to reach a place where my male coworkers didn't look at me like I was some sort of wily foreign insect with superhuman, job-snatching powers. 8 years later, I can assimilate in a day. Now, if I could just get them to believe that I know what a leafblower is...

The Wild West, week one

For those of you that know me personally, it will come as no surprise that I have moved, yet again. For those that do not know me, well, I change my mind a lot. I am rarely miserable with a location, job, or situation. Rather, a strong desire to "check it out" or "see what it's like" in a new place has driven me to relocate regularly. Since 2012, I have lived in Oneonta (New York), Portland (Maine), Mt.Vision (New York), Gainesville (Florida), Brunswick (Maine), and now, Colorado. 

The pull towards Colorado was not a new one, it was just one I could finally manage. Having recently decided to work towards a career with the National Forests or National. Park Service, west of the East coast is really the place to be. And at 30, I am financially independent enough and emotionally strong enough to move 2,300 miles away from my comfort zone. So, I did. I started looking, found a job with a start date of three weeks from the afternoon of my interview, met a roommate via craigslist (so far, he's not a serial killer), gave my landlord notice, listed online (and sold) most of my furniture, quit my job and drove to Colorado. The entire process took 23 days. 

On day 17, around 7 pm, minutes after my last piece of furniture went out the door (a couch, purchased less than a year ago at $200, sold to a happy middle-aged couple for $75) and I prepared for the following day (my last day of work at my current job), I received an email from my future boss. She was "sorry" to have to do this, but her business was having a few "things" going on, and she would not be able to hire me after all. 

I flipped. I freaked out. I cried, threw my phone, punched the air mattress (because I had no couch, bed, or other furniture to hit), called my mom, cried some more, took a walk (as much to calm myself - as a friend who had never heard me "lose it" before suggested- as to pick up the Chinese food I had ordered before I got the email), and sat down to apply for every job available in my future town. This entire process took about an hour. 

The same friend who suggested I take a walk also constantly refers to me as "relentless". My mother points out that when I want something, I seem to simply force it to happen. I arrived in Colorado the following Friday afternoon, interviewed for a position on Saturday, and was working by 6:45 on Monday morning. For two whole days, I planted flowers and pulled weeds and squatted more in 20 hours of work than I ever have in my life. I couldn't breathe (the shock of high altitude), got sunburned wearing SPF 50, and was so sore that it hurt to sit. The term "unprepared" comes to mind. 

By the end of day two, my original employer had come calling. Things were picking up, she needed more help, when could I start? Against the better judgment of literally everyone I mentioned this to, I took the job and started the following day. 

If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, and it swims in the pond with little fluffy babies following it, it's probably a flaky, declining company with poor management and a drinking problem. If you're really lucky, maybe it comes with a creepy middle aged boss who leers at you on day one and makes inappropriate comments about your physique to other employees. If you're even luckier, maybe the owner is a liar. 

To save you all the gory details, I will simply say it didn't work out. However, on my last day working there, I received a phone call. A neighboring municipality was just now hiring for the seasonal parks and trails maintenance job that I had (forgotten that I) applied for. Why yes, I would love to interview. 

I start next week. 

The moral of this story is not that you should always listen to your friends and family's advice (although, maybe you should). It is also not to tell you that you should stick with a job you don't really like, because the next one could be worse (although there's probably a pretty good lesson in there, too). 

The real purpose of this tale is that everything can be worked out with a little time and some diligence. So next time I feel like crying and throwing my phone, maybe a deep breath instead. Things will work out. After all, they always have.