Happy late Thanksgiving, everyone!

So, I spent all of Thanksgiving cooking dinner, because my mother had to work and I am the only one in this family who cares about the holidays anymore. We could have invited my aunt and my grandmother, but the LAST thing I need is my grandmother criticizing my cooking when it's only my second year squaring with having my hand up the business end of a turkey. (And yet, I STILL missed one of the giblet bags! They had it folded up in the neck skin...WHO DOES THAT?!? ) But the turkey was all cooked, the pie baked in under an hour, and nobody died as a result, so it's all good!

And then Black Friday hit. And yes, I DO have pictures of my Goth outfit and makeup; however, I was not allowed to wear the outfit at work. They had stupid red team T-shirts for us to wear. Well, here's the problem with those red T-shirts. They sent us ALL MEN'S SIZES, and only about four smalls. There are a LOT of people in our store who can wear men's smalls. By the time I got there (at 8 AM, mind you), the only sizes left were large and extra-large. I AM NOT A MEN'S SIZE LARGE. So I spent all of last night doing emergency surgery on this T-shirt, trying desperately to make myself look less like a schlamile wearing it.

It didn't go quite according to plan. At first, all I was going to do was take in the sides up to the armholes, put some lacing up the front, and slit the sleeves to the collar and lace up the sleeves to do flutter-sleeves. Well, I went to put in the grommets, and the fabric turned out to be so flimsy that they all fell out while I was lacing them up. So I did some more snipping and sewing and panicking and worrying and stayed awake until one in the morning, learning how to do buttonholes and trying to make it all lay right. I finally abandoned it at about 1:15, well aware that I had to get to sleep and yet devastated that I had practically ruined this T-shirt. Should've listened to the little voice when it said, "Don't cut the T-shirt, Sakka..."

I lay there and lay there. I can't sleep. I've taken TWO shots of Contessa (my high-powered German tonic "for my nerves" that contains all kinds of fun herbs and about 20% alcohol by volume), and my stomach is still in knots at the thought of the tattered monstrosity that used to be a shirt hanging on my chair. I know I need to cry, just to let off some tension, but I'm not an actress; I can't make myself cry on cue. I try thinking about some of the sad scenes I've written, but they don't work. (I can't say I delved very deeply...if I'd have dug into "The Aldorian Chronicles" and the conversation Korrine has with Curtis before the Great Battle, that probably would've done it, but I didn't think of it.) So my mind starts wandering to sad things, or things that would just comfort me, and it pops into my head.

NCIS.

So I get up and go out to the couch (the house is FREEZING COLD by this time, by the way), grab the tissues, sit down, and start flipping through the DVR. Normally, there are about twenty repeats of the "Kill Ari" episodes (where Kate dies) and the "Hiatus" episodes (where Gibbs retires) in that DVR, so I was expecting to find those, but no dice. Instead, there was "Requiem," where Gibbs helps the best friend of his dead daughter try and get rid of a stalker. And of course, it is complete with flashbacks to when Kelly and Shannon were alive, with the soulful piano music and echoes of Kelly saying, "Don't go, Daddy; please, don't go," the last time he saw them before he shipped out for Iraq. That worked...sort of. I didn't cry nearly enough; but I was so exhausted by that point that I went back to bed and made myself go to sleep, though I still didn't nod off until about 3 in the morning

So I've been running on about four hours of sleep, and I got to go back to work today. I was the only person ON THE DAY who could sell credit cards, so I got a $3 bonus ($1 for the first one, then "double or nothing" [which really just means double] for the next one, etcetera, etcetera). That was pretty cool; we don't normally get commission. Shows how desperate they are to sell cards.

And I get to go to work AGAIN tomorrow. And I know right where I'm gonna be. On registers. Which I really do hate. It's my second-least-favorite job in the whole store (my LEAST favorite job is "customer service laps," where I'm supposed to stalk people and offer them mesh bags). Just let me live in the fitting rooms, or run things, or fold sweaters. I really don't mind folding sweaters. I will fold sweaters until the cows come home, and you wanna know why? Because it gets me off the hook for those STUPID credit cards. I HATE that aspect of my job, but it's what I'm paid to do. Sucker people into ruining their credit. Although truth be told, you ought to be responsible enough to use the card, get the rewards, and not run yourself into debt (especially since the highest credit limit I've ever seen was $1,100). Who knows. I don't judge...out loud.

But I shouldn't complain; tomorrow is the only day I work next week. Which is strange, since I requested NEXT Saturday off (not this coming Saturday, but Dec. 12) for my weapons defense class. (I just told them it was a "class," they don't get to know what kind. ) So I'm going to remain poor for a little while longer. Stupid temps. Just because they can be paid less than us. (We're not supposed to discuss wages, but we all know...the temps get paid SCRAPS.)

And in spite of my epic round of coloring on Part I of "Breaking the Rules," I have yet to start on Part II, and probably will not until Finals Week. (In spite of the fact that it was an accident, which is apparent from the lack of firelight reflection on the water, I love, love, LOVE the background I finally used for Part I. I don't care if it's totally unrealistic. I LOVE it.) I need to start on an intermediate part for "Purgatory," but it will have to wait until I copy some other stuff out of my notebook into my snippet dump. It won't be posted for a long time (if ever), but I just need to type it out to reassure myself that I can still write emotion when I want to. Or at least, get closer to it. The more I type it, the less I think it's emotional and the more I think it's cheesy. Golly, I HATE confession scenes. HATE them. There's no new way to do them. It's always the same old, "I love you," crap. As much as I adore you, Qaph, you are a CHEESEBALL. Just a great big ball of cheese. Not sure what kind of cheese, though. Not that stinky cheese; you smell nice. Not a brie; you're not that soft. Maybe Parmesan. Strong, solid, and a litle nutty.

I cannot wait for semester to be over. Sure, it all starts again January 11, but I don't care. I just want that 3 weeks' break to get some sleep and some MONEY. Painful, really.