So apparently the way to get a decent job title is to be skinny and blonde.
One is doing work I used to do and LOVE once upon a time. Of course, I never had a chance to get good at it because, well, my primary job became round-the-clock.
A pattern, eh.
Another pattern: I could do what I love or I can do what I’m good at and/or that nobody else wants to do or can do or, let’s face it, can do well.
Or AS well, I guess.
Wonder which side of 9 p.m. I’ll see tonight …
Now, I’m not dealing with another Alla (*scream*) or anything, per se.
(*screams some more. Because, Alla*)
But 50% of the time there’s an improvement and 50% of the time it’s a butcher job.
Net-net I’d be better off publishing things directly without anyone looking at them, rather than two people looking at them.
At least the personality is a THOUSAND percent more wonderful this time around.
(*cuts self and screams some more. Because, memories of Alla*)
Anyone know what that crazy bitch is up to these days? And can I mail a bomb there?
*runs screaming*
Re: Not Getting People …
I have some pretty measurable output that was waiting in people’s inboxes that I could have finished.
Someone just asked if I missed out on lunch because I was doing something personal.
If by personal you mean “choosing to only work till 8 p.m. tonight instead of losing two hours and having to stay till 10 p.m.,” then yes.
ON EVERY POSSIBLE LEVEL.
I guess since I’ve always been the poorest kid I knew, and then the poorest young adult, and then poorest adult, I’ve always been mindful of dining on others’ tabs. In other words, you can count on me to order the cheapest thing on the menu about 97% of the time.
That other 3% of the time, I have plans to pay my own way and I will eat what I damn well want.
It just annoys the hell out of me to see people consistently ordering the most expensive things on the menu. Like it’s owed to them or something.
Or is it just my “just glad to be invited — don’t ruin it” brain that is really the problem here? Should everyone feel entitled to eat what they want without fear that someone like me is keeping track and wondering what, exactly, you did to earn it?
It’s one of those days where life is falling apart on so many levels, the first jackass who picks a fight with me (and there were three on Friday afternoon, so consider that) is probably going to regret it. That’s because the filter is off today. Gloves are next.
I don’t talk often of my mom but the going thought these days is that, on top of the mini strokes and other funny spells, it may be cancer to boot. It’s got to be body-wide; it’s just too huge. The pain, the heat, the weakness, the sadness, the inevitability of it all.
So, no, I really don’t care about anything else right now. At all, in case anyone is wondering if there are exceptions.
I’ve lived in my apartment for five years now, and everyone knows I’ve been looking to leave for at least the past three years. Alas, overwork and exhaustion and the general Pain in the Ass of it All has let inertia continue to win.
I often think, though, why just change apartments when I can reinvent myself with a new everything. Like, a new city and state.
There are days when I can take comfort in the ridiculousness of it all. That no matter who you are and where you are, your situation is so outlandishly mind-boggling that, really, making a move is only going to result in moving from one Bizarro World to the next.
And then you talk to someone who has been rewarded with support and understanding and near-immunity and the opportunity to heal right where they’re standing, and you think, well, haven’t I earned that too?
Not in the same way everyone feels entitled to it. In the way you have lived your life, even the lazy and self-serving even say, damn, she really should be next in line for some favor.
And you wonder whether you can have so much more.
Honestly I’d trade everything for access to a great meal, a well-made cocktail and the ability to spend a day in bed without the world caving in.
And I do mean everything.
I just don’t know that it’s accessible from here.
At dinner last night, we got to talking about life and work because, well, for us they have become one and the same and the process appears irreversible in the specter of either no or cheap/unskilled labor and people who don’t learn/work/multitask as quickly or as efficiently — or with as much experience/knowledge/finesse — as we do.
Anyway, I said I have that chronic ache that I love momma so much but I’ve failed to take care of her. I’ve missed three apartment showings. I’ve never managed to make the personal phone calls I need to make to try to get her healthy.
But I’ve never missed a two-hour conference call or hour-long meeting. Whee.
My friend said something so smart, and so obvious … that I have exactly zero time for myself. How can I try to advocate for anyone’s health and comfort when mine doesn’t even make it onto my priority list?