My mom got a new job. It’s her old job at a different place, which I think is brilliant. She loves old people.
And a little about my job…it is just bizarre enough to keep me intrigued. I figured that out when my interview was held in a room filled with dead animals, including a mountain goat. And the highlight of wall decorations in my office is the head of a fish caught by a monk in 1894. The mouth has fallen open and it’s shriveled in a way that makes it look like something from Tremors. Then there are the classes with the small, insane, oddly named children. Together we learn about seeds and bugs, ’cause hell if I know anything about them. Still, I’m enjoying it. No, it doesn’t pay much, but it lets me do what I want to do, learn what else I want to do, and feel good about myself for working in a non-profit, save-the-world-one-tree-at-a-time sort of place.
I do not, however, enjoy wood ticks. They are not romantic, as that country song apparently suggests. They are icky and I never ever thought I would be able to see one without squirming, but now I can take one look at one and tell if it’s a boy or girl. I don’t care about tick genitalia. I am not comfortable having this close of a relationship with ticks. But they are everywhere; even if I don’t go out in the woods or prairie, they swarm into my office and I have to do at least one tick check a day. In two weeks, I think the official count is five bites.
So, to summarize: my job entails taxidermied animals, classes about bugs, children named “Avalon” and “Sheriff” and “Trystyn,” and feeling myself up at least once a day. A college education well spent.