You Ain't Been Cookin' If You Ain't Been Burned.

I've never been bad at anything I've tried before in my life. I've never had to try. I've always been at the top without much effort.

But this new job is kicking my ass, and for less money.

I've never had a job I had to work at before. It's a little humiliating, but I think in a good way. I think I've been safe in my box for way too long, at least career-wise. In my personal life, man, I have always been on the edge, in a bad way most of the time. I'm still not sure if I've made a huge mistake in taking on this new thing. I'm trying not to freak out after only a week and a half. I mean, it's too soon to tell which way this thing is going. I have no background for what I'm doing, so panicking at this point would be a bit premature. Let's just take a breath, people, and see where this train is headed.

I was pretty much questioning my entire life Friday night when I finally got home from work about three hours later than I thought I would, and I was thinking that having someone there to be nice to me after a massively long week and an epic blow to my ego would be really nice. My neighbor was making dinner and it was such a nice day that she had her doors and windows open. I told her whatever she was making smelled awesome. Then I went inside and soaked in an Epsom salt and lavender bath and almost drowned myself by falling asleep in the tub. I finally got out like an hour and a half later and was just sitting down to watch Diane Sawyer talk to hookers, which makes me angry and sad and relieved that at least I haven't had to enter that field, when someone knocked on my door.

I suspiciously opened the door and my neighbor was standing there with a plate full of pulled pork in verde sauce. I was so overwhelmed, I barely got "thank you" out. I shut the door and turned around to get a fork. Then I burst into tears. I was so thankful that somehow, some way, the thing I wanted most - for someone to take care of me - found its unusual way to me. The Universe works in ways we least expect.

I told Stef that I either need to get a dog or another foreigner. Then Tara said she has a dog she loves and she still gets jealous of those with boyfriends. Damn. That's not what I want to hear.

What do you do when what you want isn't what you get?

You open the door to your neighbor who brings solace wrapped in a tortilla and you thank them, God, the cosmos, whatever who is making it possible for you to make it to the next moment. You get a good night's sleep, you drink box wine and watch Cheaters with someone who makes you laugh like a motherfuckin' bitch, you do laundry and you have an afternoon beer with someone who's happy in a way you wish you were and you people-watch at your favorite bar while you write notes on how to survive.

And even though you said it before to someone who doesn't deserve your notice, you remind yourself that all the great ones wrote in bars.

I Have Not Seen Any Gross Stuff At Work, But I Have Heard It.

I answer calls from patients' rooms. So even though I haven't seen a baby being born, I have heard it. Crazily enough, I still want to have sex.

The St. Paddy's Greenville block party has come and gone this year, and I completely missed it. That's what happens when you freelance for a fucking deadbeat. It was awful not being able to go this year. It was a perfect spring day. It would have been a guaranteed good time. My future husband probably shagged some other chick and got herpes so now I don't want him and he was perfect for me.

Instead of keeping my future husband disease-free, I watched Titanic in my pajamas. I always cry when the mom is telling the kids the bedtime story so they won't freak out and when they show the old couple clinging to each other, waiting for the water to come. But this year, it was all the Irish music that made me saddest. Stupid steerage passengers party scene. And my friends got free Jell-o shots. What a gyp.

My new job is hard. I can't remember who anyone is or where to find them. I know who this one nurse is, though.

She's Irish.

WTF?

Ok, so you know how I haven't had a job since October? I haven't been out of bed before 9 am in like four months, right? Alright, 11. So you're going to have to help a brother out, man. I have been out of bed, cogitating cohesively at 5:45 am two mornings in a row. Is it always that fucking dark that fucking early?

I hit the snooze bar only once each morning, but I was up before it went off again both times. I was up to turn off the second alarm, but under standard parameters I would have done this with my eyes closed and gone back to bed without ever really having been officially awake. So on your average Monday morning when I had a job, I'd roll in around 9:45. It was advertising. No one's there before 10. Anyway, not only was I there FIRST on Monday, I was HALF AN HOUR EARLY. Insert the comic book noise of your choice.

And then today, WHAT UP with the Stephen King fog bank? I was expecting to meet Jack the Ripper taking the hound of the Baskervilles for a walk. Seriously, that kind of fog comes with fucking werewolves. That's grab-your-crucifix fog, man.

I've been watching PowerPoint and corporate training videos for two days. But tomorrow, I go learn stuff for real. This. Will. Be. Interesting.

Also, the Greenville St. Patrick's day block party is in four days. Woo, and might I add, hoo!

Sweet Mother Of All That Is Holy, I Am That Girl.

Which girl? THAT girl who breaks up with people on her blog. The Foreigner who says he never reads it, read it yesterday. I was mortified. We still went out for drinks as planned. To the weirdest bar in Dallas, The Grapevine. It's on Maple. They have the best music and the weirdest clientele. It's fantastic. They use whatever glassware they can find so every drink I had came in a different (i.e., bigger) glass and they fill them up all the way. It's alcoholic Heaven. I had a great time. It's hard not to when you're getting felt up by a queen named Gary.

But wait! There's more!

I am also THAT girl who drinks exponentially larger vodka tonics and ends up crying in the parking lot. I KNOW. I HATE THAT GIRL, TOO. I can only hope that all the black eyeliner and mascara I was wearing was smeared all down my face. I wish I hadn't given up getting my jeweled false eyelashes on straight. I would have cried them off and I can imagine one stuck on my mascara-streaked face, all heaving bosom and hysteria, "DON'T LOOK AT ME! I HATE YOU! THANKS FOR BUYING ALL MY DRINKS! I'LL TALK TO YOU NEXT WEEK! I SAID I HATE YOU!"

It was the messiest, most ridiculous, most out of control me The Foreigner has ever seen. But at least it was honest. That's what happens when you don't say what you think. Bottling things up is bad. You're just making the inevitable explosion that much worse the longer you pretend EVERYTHING IS OK. So don't.

There now, don't we all feel better? I certainly do. I'm not sorry and I don't feel guilty. I feel a little protective of Drunk Crying ReadBecca. It's not her fault. She was just pushed to the limit of what she could take. I put her to bed with a little kiss on the forehead.

She's fine.

Breaking News: I Do Not Have Tuberculosis.

So the new jobby-job starts on Monday. Woo! I bought scrubs and bright t-shirts to wear under them so I don't look like an inmate. It's A LOT of khaki. When I open my own practice in ten years, I am wearing whatever color I want. Bank on it.

Also, I haven't entertained The Foreigner in six weeks. This is a good thing. No need to console or commiserate. I'm cool with it. The whole scenario wasn't really "me." Having been a slutty girl for a number of years, and having been celibate for a number of years as well, I've decided that they both suck. Both periods of extreme behavior were for all the wrong reasons. So eff that. I'll tell you what I really, really want - what I really, really want.

I want to fall in love and get married.

I mean it. I am not kidding. I'm still not into the whole parenting thing, but sign me up for a cool husband who wants to be nice to me. I want a happy, cheerful man who makes me laugh like crazy. I have darkness enough for two, so broody, moody and bad-tempered men are not on the list. That eliminates all my ex-boyfriends, except maybe one and he's married so he's not on the list anyway.

There actually is a list of qualities I want in a husband. It's a Love List. I saw it on Oprah. The first thing I put on it was "loyal" and the last thing I put on it was "thinks I'm beautiful and sexy." I also have "manly, but not an ass." That might be my favorite. I didn't put anything on it about pancakes. Or nationality. I've opened the door for actual Americans. But it's a long list and I don't want to overshare it.

I'm talking about oversharing on my blog. Ha. I see how ridiculous that is. I'm aware. I'm also aware that there are things you don't know that I would never, ever write about, so I could seriously overshare like a thousand million times more than I already do. I'm just saying. (I love the idea of people yelling at their computers, "WHAT? THERE'S MORE?! GOOD LORD, WOMAN!")

So that's what I'm up to these days. Thinking about getting hitched. I think I'm more ready now than I've ever been. Things are looking up. Excellent.