Money, if it does not bring you happiness, will at least help you be miserable in comfort.
-Helen Gurley Brown

So Christmas is costing close to a $900.00 for me this year.  BREATHE, it’s not as bad as it sounds.  Half of it is airfare to get back to England, the rest is presents and postage for assorted family, godfamily, friends, coworkers, boyfriend and family, birthdays, and the bevy of newborn babies that have put in appearances.

However, I noticed something funny while doing my usual bank account check the other day.  I read the list and checked it twice and still it remained.  Somehow, despite rent, mobile phone bill, food, and date funds, there was money left over.  Lots.  And then when I checked my debit/credit cards and saw that even though all my Christmas payments had gone through, there was still money left over.  Lots.  Not even counting my savings where I have the tidy sum of my plane ticket tucked away to pay my dad with (he actually bought it, I’m paying half).  AND payday is friday when I’ll get even more.

Did I ever complain about adulthood?  Did I ever question it’s intricacies and complexities?  Did I ever muse despondently on it’s ethical mires and shifting sense of identity?  I take it all back.  Right now, at this very moment, adulthood is AWESOME!

“Next week is going to suck.”
“Why, what’s next week?”
(Funny look)  “Finals.”
(Funny look)  “Already?”
-J. and C.

Working for a university when one is not a student can be a little disorienting.  One’s time frame is completely altered after graduation, no longer do you measure the passage of time by midterms, projects and papers and count yourself fortunate to survive the regular spikes in blood pressure associated with them.  I suppose payday has become my new time standard, but that has overtones of joy rather than panic.  I began working in my office near the beginning of the semester and here it is almost over, where did it get to?!  I used to refer to the time of final exams as Hell Week, but the only discernible difference I can find between this week and any other is that the detectives are less grouchy than usual, having just cracked a rather large and impressive case. 

I herewith re-christen the middle of December as Widow’s Week.  Tink, Wise, Venice, and I are all married to/dating men still in school.  I have little hope of seeing J. return to the land of the living until I’m back from England, which is more than a little depressing.

“Are people really that dumb?”
“Have you met humanity?”
-J. and C.

Working with the police means that you get more than your daily allotted amount of evil glee.  Robberies gone wrong, the occasional drug induced streaking incident, and dozens of reports of missing items a day (with the complainant usually returning sheepishly an hour later saying they’d just put their backpack in another room, they found their keys in the fridge, or that their wallet was, in fact, in their pocket the entire time.  Yes, all of these have happened) are great sources of amusement.  But the best/worst (depending on your point of view) stories usually involve a particular type of person: the Concerned Citizen.  These minions of annoyance lurk everywhere but a few of them manage to reach truly aggravating levels.

Underling CC’s – call the police to inform them of events outside their jusidiction (“There was an accident on the highway, aren’t you sending somebody?!”  “Ma’am, the highway is in another city…”)
Intermediate CC’s – call the police to inform us of incidents absurdly outside our control (“Someone parked too close to my car!”  “Are  you unable to enter your car?”  “No, I can get in.”  “Has your car been damaged in any way?”  “No, but they could have damaged it.  What are you going to do about it?”)
Advanced CC’s – seem to have a standing appointment to call the police once a week informing them of the same incident, usually based on some form of bigotry that makes you want to smack them with a big wad of common sense/decency (“There’s a bunch of (insert race description here) who keep going in and out of the house next door!”  “Yes, sir, as you might be aware the Ramirez/Chin/Ogatoo family lives next door to you.  Our records show that, according to your phone calls, they have lived there for some time.”)

And then, on a completely different plane, we have over-protective parents.  One student’s mother called the police after her son failed to come home from work when she expected him (note, she did not call her son).  Turns out he still had a while to work.  And the reigning queen of freakouts is the mother who called the police when her son didn’t answer his phone (a single call, mind you).  Her son was “found” in his dorm room, safe and sound.

Anyone else pity these women’s potential daughters-in-law?

“How would you feel about coming to work for us?”
“Pretty darn good, sir!”
-Lt. Figaro and C.

So, an update!  Most of the angst-fest is over due to the fact…that I have a REAL job!  I’m working for the on-campus police department of my alma mater (never mind that I just graduated a mere month ago, I’ll call it what I want) as a secretary.  But don’t let the mundane title throw you off, my job mostly deals with the classification/dissemination of police reports and I work with the government, lawyers, and petty thieves.  Pretty exciting stuff to be honest, although I will admit that the job does come with some less exhilarating tasks like front desk work.  But!  Of all the secretarial jobs I’ve ever had this is defiantly the cushiest in that I DON’T have to fetch coffee, I DON’T have to schedule appointments, and I DON’T have manage daily duties for other people.  There was the chance I’d have to do dry cleaning runs for the department at large, but apparently they’ve hired a company that delivers uniforms all shiny and new so voila!  More than that, the people I work with are fantastic and all the officers have great senses of humor, I’ve already been applauded for giving as good as I get when they tease and prank.

The only cloud over this orgy of new found independence was my benefits meeting that took the majority of a working day.  In four hours I was transformed to a gloriously self-focused twenty-something into a wreck worrying about a retirement plan.  Blast responsibility!  However, in that I haven’t had my teeth cleaned in months now, I’m seriously looking forward to flaunting my insurance card at the dentist.  I may be the only person I know who is actually anticipating a date with a dreaded driller!