Moving, etc.
Since I've mostly stayed at home for the last two weeks -- going back and forth to and from Pittsburgh for interviews, paperwork, PPDs, physicals, etc and usually not staying over because, well, my finances are very, very tight right now, and it's free to eat at home -- I've had to accustom myself to the fact that my mother is accustoming herself (reluctantly) to the fact that I'm moving.
Which means she has very helpfully bought me any number of things that I don't really need (for instance, toiletries are nice, but I already have a stockpile, I still have towels and washcloths from my brief stay in college dorms and in Altoona -- they're probably in storage, but I need to root around in the storage barn to find other things that I know I don't have) and sees fit to give me rambling, well-meaning Educational Lectures while I fidget and dance around like I've ants in my pants because, while I've stuffed a sock in it (I have spares, see, from her previous shopping trips) I am completely incapable of toning down my body language because I know, I know, I know.
Everything she suggests or asks about, I've already considered. I've been considering this for the past year, if not longer. I already know what I need to do, and while it is basically a totally empowering boost to my self-esteem to realize that, it means that her hovering is driving me to distraction.
She has been having a rough time her own self so I feel sort of obligated to let her feel that she is a part of my decision making process; it doesn't really cost me anything (because, as she's fond of snarking when she is pissed at me about something, "You're just going to do what you want to do, regardless!" and yep, Mum, got it in one) and it makes her feel better. But it drives me batty.
Aaaaagh, hair pulling.
My second PPD is due to be read on Sunday, and I start orientation -- you know, the kind that pays actual money -- on Tuesday.
Today, I went out and bought myself a cot (I can only surmise it is a high tech cot, no less, because it has straps and a little pocket for "glasses, book and a flashlight") and a tall lamp and hunted around downstairs until I found my sleeping bag. I am, uh, pretty much packed for my move to Temporary Room.
Oh, car? Paid thirty bucks to get a break in my exhaust system welded (which takes care of the weird noise and grinding), but Mechanic Dude just looked at me when I described Spontaneous Engine Vibrations of Doom that have no specific trigger that I've noticed (the last time it happened, I was stuck in Pittsburgh traffic -- I thought I'd be clever and skip rush hour but completely failed to notice that the Steelers were playing, dammit -- but before that, it was on a drive to Pittsburgh that did not involve any traffic at the time it started, and the first time after I'd driven the short distance home from work) and self-resolve after the car has been turned off for Random Length of Time. I can't help feeling that the car is going to explode in some dramatic, peculiarly Metro kind of way.
On another, unrelated note: "Then, unable to contain itself any longer, Mile High Stadium... ejaculated." Seriously, John Stewart, that is exactly what happened last night.
Which means she has very helpfully bought me any number of things that I don't really need (for instance, toiletries are nice, but I already have a stockpile, I still have towels and washcloths from my brief stay in college dorms and in Altoona -- they're probably in storage, but I need to root around in the storage barn to find other things that I know I don't have) and sees fit to give me rambling, well-meaning Educational Lectures while I fidget and dance around like I've ants in my pants because, while I've stuffed a sock in it (I have spares, see, from her previous shopping trips) I am completely incapable of toning down my body language because I know, I know, I know.
Everything she suggests or asks about, I've already considered. I've been considering this for the past year, if not longer. I already know what I need to do, and while it is basically a totally empowering boost to my self-esteem to realize that, it means that her hovering is driving me to distraction.
She has been having a rough time her own self so I feel sort of obligated to let her feel that she is a part of my decision making process; it doesn't really cost me anything (because, as she's fond of snarking when she is pissed at me about something, "You're just going to do what you want to do, regardless!" and yep, Mum, got it in one) and it makes her feel better. But it drives me batty.
Aaaaagh, hair pulling.
My second PPD is due to be read on Sunday, and I start orientation -- you know, the kind that pays actual money -- on Tuesday.
Today, I went out and bought myself a cot (I can only surmise it is a high tech cot, no less, because it has straps and a little pocket for "glasses, book and a flashlight") and a tall lamp and hunted around downstairs until I found my sleeping bag. I am, uh, pretty much packed for my move to Temporary Room.
Oh, car? Paid thirty bucks to get a break in my exhaust system welded (which takes care of the weird noise and grinding), but Mechanic Dude just looked at me when I described Spontaneous Engine Vibrations of Doom that have no specific trigger that I've noticed (the last time it happened, I was stuck in Pittsburgh traffic -- I thought I'd be clever and skip rush hour but completely failed to notice that the Steelers were playing, dammit -- but before that, it was on a drive to Pittsburgh that did not involve any traffic at the time it started, and the first time after I'd driven the short distance home from work) and self-resolve after the car has been turned off for Random Length of Time. I can't help feeling that the car is going to explode in some dramatic, peculiarly Metro kind of way.
On another, unrelated note: "Then, unable to contain itself any longer, Mile High Stadium... ejaculated." Seriously, John Stewart, that is exactly what happened last night.