possession

First things first. Observation: Now that I'm on a brief hiatus between jobs, I find that sleeping at night, like human beings were intended, puts a new spin on life.

For starters, I'm not nearly half the bitchy crank-pot I was working nights. It's amazing, not to be reduced to the emotional lability of a toddler when confronted with super human choices like, "Should I have peanut butter and honey, or peanut butter and jelly on my sprouted grain bread?" (Let alone, "Fuck, I have many life-saving decisions to triage rapidly as a critical care nurse at 2a.m. in the morning, which one of these life-saving skills is the priority at this particular moment?")

Ah yes. Sleeping at night. Awake during the day. It's such a simple joy to work within nature's own biorhythms. People who bitch about waking up at 5a.m. to work during the day (and I was/am one of them) should be forced to work nights for six months and re-evaluate how shitty waking up at 5 a.m. really is compared to having already been awake for ten hours at that point, and still having two more hours to go before the pleasure of death is ushered forth, or you get off-shift, whichever comes first.

I just can't tell you how much I needed to SLEEP AT NIGHT, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS COUNTING SHEEP AND WARM MILK AND COOKIES AND TRYPTOPHAN.

There is nothing like realizing instead of running around ragged saving other people's lives for twelve grueling, largely thankless and often smelly hours, you actually get to crawl into bed (clean and sans someone else's shit spores floating up your nostrils) and save your own soul from being torn to pieces from lack of sleep.

In any case, I was obliged after my Last Shift In Trauma (a shift which, incidentally, made me wonder, "Since when are teenage kids unsatisfied with snorting good old fashioned cocaine?!") to board two buses, and two planes--again, on no sleep!--arriving finally in Florida. At that point, I had been up a full twenty six hours, looked like something out of a freak show and still needed to drive 28 miles from the airport to my parents' house.

All without the benefit of a car I had reserved days before.

Sample conversation, confirming, should there ever be an inkling of a doubt in future times, that we indeed live and work on Planet Bizzarro, Amidst a Population of Total F-in' Dullard Douchebags:

JAMIE:
So, what you're saying is, you don't have a car, even though I made a reservation?

CLERK:
Yes.

JAMIE:
So. What was the point of making a reservation?

CLERK:
Well, we overbook. We don't have the car you want.
[with unconvincing note of fake concern]
We've got a minivan, though, or an SUV.

JAMIE:
[feeling the last strings of her already tenuously-threaded sanity snap]
Uh, no offense, but, I don't want an SUV or minivan, and it's clearly not what I reserved. Just so we're clear, you don't have the car I reserved, correct?

CLERK:
[as if it's just the most insane fucking thing she's heard since Britney went 'round the bend, these crazy-ass patrons reserving cars at a Car Rental Establishment and then expecting to have same at the ready, because, you know, they've reserved one!]
Nope. No car.

JAMIE:
[resisting the urge to turn around and look for "Candid Camera" host]
That's unforunate.

I then spent the next week or so dealing with a Sanford and Son-esque pile of my stuff I'd stored months prior to trekking out to Seattle. While fortuitous circumstances and some enterprising mice meant there was exponentially less bullshit directly pertaining to said venture, it was still a complete money hemorrhage (how much do you suppose half a ton of moldering theology books are worth to the general public, let alone ship across the continent to yourself, I ask you?) and general allergy inducing chore.

It also meant quality time bonding with The Paper Shredder, and questioning my own sanity for inexplicably saving five years worth of Act Now! Don't Wait! Credit Card Offers (my best guess is I was waiting for an opportunity to, you know, bond with a paper shredder).

Having dumped and shredded a ton of absolute crap, donated my massive furniture to a worthy cause, and shipped the remaining Questionably Useful Crap to Seattle, I feel a certain sense of peace. Finally, after wishing, numerous times, that I had my beloved copy of Wheelock's or Kant's Critique(s) at hand--I will (at the USPS's Media Mail shipping's mercy and reliability, of course) finally have My Most Valuable Crap, aka, A Bunch of Books and Yarn, here in Seattle.

If ever there were a milestone for "You have now officially moved your crap to Seattle," I guess this would be it.

If I can just get to the milestone that reads, "You never have to move your crap ever again, any where" I'd be set, but I suspect that particular milestone would be of the "free epithet with every fifth granite headstone purchased!" variety, unfortunately. (Or maybe fortunately. At least when you're dead, other people are forced to deal with your crap.)