|I am making this exact face|
I don't know if you can tell, but I don't work. Well, you know, it's that old saw that I work, but I don't get paid for it. Whatever. I don't work. I volunteer a few hours a week at the library and I try to keep my house reasonably clean and I cook dinner. The library has been good because I kept thinking about getting a job, but didn't want to because I was worried I would get pregnant right away and then want to quit. Plus, after a couple of hours there, I really have "worked" enough. A friend of mine keeps bugging me about going to school and getting my bachelor's, but I haven't wanted to start that because of the possibility of pregnancy on the horizon and also because it costs a fair amount of money and I don't see using a degree. Because I don't work.
|Imagine this, but without makeup.|
Not a pretty picture.
After another couple of moves, I was in eastern Washington. I got a job while I was there, at a quilt shop, for all of fifteen months. I loved that job and would have stayed forever if I could have, but in September of 2008, DH came back from his latest deployment and we went to Colorado. While in Colorado I had an unsuccessful business out of the house. Just when I had started building a decent client base, we got the orders that we were coming back to Germany.
I am a little jealous of women that have jobs. I see DH's coworkers and they seem so successful and happy with what they do. I read blogs of women that are working and it seems glamorous somehow. As though they are living in a fast-paced world where they are up against challenges daily and always overcome. They are important and needed. It makes my life seem small.
|This is what I look like most days.|
Especially the high heels and apron.
Plus, I still don't have to change out of my pj's.
CD 16, 3 dp trigger