Crossing fingers for SurrenderDorothy.
I start tomorrow 
It’s going to be a bit of an adjustment because it will be eighteen hour days on weekends between the two jobs, at least for a while. The shelter job is minimum wage and the restaurant job is minimum wage plus $1.75/hr. So I’ll have to ponder a bit whether it makes sense to quit the restaurant job.
Yay!
Fabulous! I’d keep 'em both going for a while, if I was you. Just to try and stop the universe from shitting on you again 
My miniscule rant - my everyday shoes have finally worn through the (not replacable) sole. I know, I have probably about 30 pairs of shoes at a conservative estimate, it’s not a big deal, I can just wear another pair. But these are my standard, comfy-wearing-with-trousers, practical walking shoes, given that I walk about 6 miles a day pushing a buggy.
And there’s a whole lot of emotional crap attached to them - these are the shoes my former-husband bought for me when I was practically agoraphobic after our son’s death, I remember him taking me out for the day to Ambleside (famous in the UK for it’s outdoor shoes), to try and stop me just wearing the previous worn-to-death pair over and over again. So yeah, I can just bin them or buy another pair, whatever. But it’s just stirring up all these memories, and reminding me of how many of my everyday items are still connected with him, my long winter coat? Present from him. My everyday anorak? Ditto, bought for me round about the same time as the walking shoes, to try and encourage me back into everyday life. Even my woolly winter hat with the pom-poms? Christmas present from him.
So I can’t even decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that I have to ditch one more of the little connections to him, I’m just annoyed that my comfy shoes are done 
Mine, too! 
Glad you found some work, and good luck at your new position!
I got some coffee at work, but I wanted *my *coffee this morning. I put cinnamon in it to cut the bitterness. I was totally off my game all morning, too. Fortunately I have since acquired the new-to-me coffeemaker and am enjoying the cuppa I should have had twelve hours ago.
Last night, I said something to Mr Shoe along the lines of, “hey, next time I roast a chicken or pick up a rotisserie we should … with the leftovers.” We both agreed that this was a tasty-sounding idea and that I should procure a chicken posthaste.
Unfortunately neither of us can remember what the bloody hell THE IDEA WAS. Goddammit!!! Stupid crappy memory.
I don’t walk that much lately, but when I did I’d be more likely to have that response to an adult crossing guard (without any kids around, of course). With a kid carrying out crossing guard duties, I’d be less likely to want to send him the message: I don’t really take you seriously, and nobody should.
Good to hear Surrender Dorothy!
Seriously Universe gimme a hint! A quick check of recent Google searches didn’t help, and I don’t think we had any Food Network stuff on in the background while we chatted, fed cats and selves etc.
What the hell was my delicious idea? Any mind readers in the audience please stand up, please stand up. . .
Chicken tacos?
But I don’t take crossing guards seriously; I don’t need them, and they aren’t there for me.
Hm…
Curried chicken salad [diced non mealy apple, diced celery, diced onion, chopped chicken curried mayo and sprinkle of poppyseeds]
?
Shred the leftovers, mix them with BBQ sauce, heat that all up and put it on buns for BBQ chicken sandwiches?
Or maybe some kind of casserole?
Point taken. But when it’s a kid with his first Safety Patrol vest, I tend toward the view that it’s important to at least appear to take the kid seriously (also, by showing the kid’s position a little respect, I’m also showing him that the school administrators who gave him the position are deserving of respect. From him).
Little kids who get too big for their britches give us so many opportunities to take them down a peg; it seems only sporting to pass one of them up once in a while.
Chicken pot pie, Chicken a la King, chicken pizza.
Chicken soup.
Chicken Paprikash?
Chicken and dumplings!
Chicken banana pizza! My sister-in-law served that once. I imagine it explains why she still weighs a hundred pounds.
Ah, the sounds of spring in my hood.
The neighbor trying to start his bike - vroom vroom putt “fuck!” Click click vroom vroom putt “fuck!”
The joyous exclamations of the pre-teens down the street, calling each other motherfuckin’ niggas at the top of their lungs.
The sharing of music from every other damn car driving past (best is the guy who blares polka).
And every dog in a two mile vicinity barking at the air.