Setaú úta (setauuta) wrote,
Setaú úta
setauuta

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In which our heroine makes several discoveries

I'm damn close to the number of hours I'm allowed to work each week. Such is the price of being a part-time hourly employee.

Cute boy from Russian class came back yesterday. We chatted, were partners for various classroom exercises, and at the end of the class he asked for my number and email address in case he's out again and needs to know what the homework was. I am officially back in teenage "like, oh my GAWD!" bliss, but on a more guarded level than when I was a teenager. It's entirely likely that he'll only call if he's out again.

I do not now, nor will I ever, want to be a teacher. Unfortunately, I find myself becoming more like an elementary school teacher each day I'm on this job. Yesterday, I actually clapped to get the kids' attention. Not just a couple of claps, either, but the Clap Clap clapclapclap favored by this school in particular. So help me, if I hear the words "One two three, eyes on me!" come out of my mouth, I'll be forced to quit this job and take a new one at, say, Spartacus. Oh, there's a conversation with the mother..."Mom, I quit my job and started a new one." "Stephie! Where are you working now?" "Spartacus." "What's that?" "An adult toystore." "Ste-PHIE!!" *chaos ensues*

Scarily enough, getting up at oh-dark-thirty (well, technically oh-dark-forty-five, but still) is getting easier. Bad things will happen because of this, I'm sure. Demons and multi-headed beasts will burst through the surface of the earth, I just know it.

After paying my bills (which this week includes internet, LJ, the rest of my tuition for Russian, and a new bus pass), I have money. Money for spending. Powells calls to me. Sunday shall be spent in the hallowed halls and stalls of Powells and Saturday Market. Gods bless Portland.

Well, that ate up some time for which I won't be charging. I may make it under my allotted hours after all.
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