The Tired, The Sad and The Stolen in SLC

Hey-

Bianca, this week is thoroughly kicking me in the pants. I’m exhausted. I’ll need a Maria Carey style stint in a hospital to recover by Friday.

It all started with the epic length of time that my mortgage is taking. Father Vanderbilt tried to blame Obama for my housing debacle in his first conservative rant in years, but I would not let that happen. Yes, it’s taking longer than it should for a “well qualified” lendee as myself to get this whole closing thing closed, but it isn’t Obama that made it that way. It’s all the silly sub-prime mortgage and {insert mortgage lingo that I don’t understand and don’t care to here} that made it this way. Obama and his posse are just trying to sort out and fix this mess! For my president, for my country and possibly at the expense of my sanity, I can wait to close and move into my super cute condo next week. You’re welcome, America.

Then, school started. Whoa. Not working for three months really makes you forget how hard working is. This whole 7:30 to 3:30 thing is killing me! PLUS I have parent teacher conferences this week which means I have the pleasure of meeting all of my little kiddies ‘rents (and know exactly why they have the little quirks they have). It also means I’m putting in 12 hour days in the first week of school.

Oh yeah, and starting grad school. Ha. Let’s just say for my very first class as a grad student, for two hours I thought I had somehow made it in a wormhole and ended up at Brigham Yuck University. Let’s not go there.

To top it all off, MY PRETTY PRETTY PURPLE BEACH CRUISER WAS STOLEN! Yes, B, you read right, STOLEN! It was chained up outside my neighborhood market and someone jacked it! Chain and all. You’d be so proud, I didn’t even cry (one little droplet doesn’t count, right?), but I did file a report with the Salt Lake City Police Department. I have all the faith in the world that they’ll find it. (You’ve seen the bike. If we see someone riding it down the street, there’d no mistaking that thing. Purple bike, periwinkle wheels… come on). I have to say, that is one brazen theif to steal such an identifying vehicle.

So. After my pity party (see: above) the social worker at my school came in to talk to me about one of my students. She’s currently working to get him and his family into a homeless shelter because they are (and have been since June) living in a shed. No running water or electricity, dirt floor, one room, bathing via hose. He and his parents and sadly, two little brothers have been living in these conditions for about three months, but don’t worry, my little student managed to bring his homework every day this week. I don’t even know what to say.

I feel so horrible that anyone (especially one of my students) is struggling through this and managing to function while I whine about my busy schedule and silly purple beach cruiser. Kind of puts things in perspective, eh?

I’m really lucky and need to buck the heck up and stop whining. I’ve had everything I’ve ever needed and I think everything I’ve ever wanted. Who am I to complain?

More grateful for everything than ever,
Bridget

Bridget on Hiatus

Hey hey Bianca –
 
I’m so glad we had our lovely jaunt to Palm Springs. It was just the vacation I needed before my next vacation: Spring Break with Mr. Algebra. (Now that he’s reached boyfriend status, I figure it fair to reveal his name. GASP! I know, more on that later.) Regardless of our regular cynicsism and complaints, we’re so lucky.
 
Highlights of the Palm Springs Trip:
 
1) Cougars. A: I can’t believe there is a bar named Cougars. B: I can’t believe how well it lived up to it’s name. And C: I can’t believe we STILL have brusies from the air guitar we pulled out on the dance floor. Maybe I should join you in dance retirement… I mean, who gets this many bruises dancing? QDW came out unscathed, but maybe it’s just because we put our whole hearts, hair and head banging and into our “moves.”  In any event, Cougars. I just like saying it, Cougars.
 
2) Being called a HORRIBLE BITCH by your Mom’s boyfriend (AKA: David Letterman, AKA: Richy Rich’s Dad). Taking it as a compliment, hey, hearts is a competitive card game.
 
3) Our enlightening hot tub conversation where it was (I think) decided that everybody cheats. Even the good ones. (Not opening that can of worms on this email!) Sadly, I think I agree with this theory…
 
Bianca, you can’t quit your job and become a Social Worker if that means we’d have to take a hiatus from our favorite form of hiatus. If I can do it on a teacher’s salary, you could do it on a social worker’s salary, I promise. I think it’s great that you’d like to help people, but pharmaceutical marketing helps people, too! And you’re damn good at what you do… You are the highest and most respected form of a drug dealer. Soak it up. Love it. Own it.
 
Alright. I’ll spill. Mr. Algebra and I are going on “Spring Break” together (one of the many perks of being a teacher and dating a teacher). We’re heading to the city of sin for a long weekend. I have a stack of books donated by my mother to read by the pool and he has March Madness to bet on and roulette tables screaming his name. We’ll meet up on occasion and I’m sure he’ll want to see the inside of at least one of the three Tiffany’s that is on The Strip now, right? Dudes LOVE Tiffany’s.
 
It will be a far cry from the Sin City Vacations with my DramaWhores that I’m used to, I mean, how I am supposed to properly sin without my favorite set of sinners? I’m very excited nonetheless. You see, Bianca, I’m quite smitten with Mr. Algebra. I’m not sure what the x factor is, but I’m definitely content trying to figure it out. (Pun, albeit obvious, intended… and yes, he is as nerdy as I am).
 
I’ll miss you this weekend, but you and QDW have fun in Bendover, ya hear?!
 
Spring Breaking Well Into My Mid Twenties,
Bridget

Less Dancing, More Social Working

Hello Tan and Relaxed Friend,

Welcome home! That was the best trip we’ve had in a long time. We didn’t get a cloud the whole weekend. And while my spray tan has almost completey washed off, I still have tanlines from our marathon pool-laying session. Even though QDW didn’t find herself a rich husband, the trip was still a 10.

After getting made fun of at our favorite new Palm Springs hot spot, “Cougars”, I’ve started thinking more and more about my dancing skills. All these years I thought I was a good dancer, but I’m starting to realize that maybe I was wrong. Maybe when people were pointing and laughing it wasn’t because they were jealous of my fashions, maybe it was because I suck. I read an article that says that good dancing is simply having fun. Take for instance, Cameron Diaz. She’s lurpy and uncoordinated, but still looks adorable when she dances. But then I watch the video you took of my solo in the dance circle, and It’s just terrible. I’m a bad dancer. There’s no kind way to put it. I’m Elaine. This is a huge existential moment for me. Unless we’re drunk and/or in Vegas, I’m quitting the dance game. It’s just one of the many changes I will make in my life in the year oh ten.

Bridget, I’m quitting my job to become a social worker. Preston and I watched Precious last night, and it was one of those life changing movies. The same way The Blindside made me want to adopt a troubled teen and BLOW made me want to kill myself. After seeing Precious, I want to help people. The other half of the day when I wasn’t decoding graphic design files, I was searching for careers in the Helping Industry. After four missed deadlines and two weeks of mastering graphic design, I’m quitting the marketing game and becoming a social worker. We might not be able to take such extravagant vacations anymore (well any vacations at all for that matter) on my new salary, but I will sleep better at night knowing that I’m making the world a better place.

In unrelated Prius news, mine is broken. The spedometer is reporting impossibly high speeds. I never thought I’d have to repair my favorite robot, but it looks like I’m finally going to have to meet the service staff at Toyota.

Peace, Love and Pri’i,
Bianca the Social Worker.