I didn’t mean to suggest I skipped a meeting. Just had it later at a time more convenient to the people who attend it. I would give anything to move it or do it daily when it makes sense. But whatever. Hooray for getting out not terribly late after doing my day mostly my way. And for having a phone to my head while editing without any calamities.
Just don’t ask me about that turd who’s hired whom I have to interview. Yes in that order. Was a dick to me by email. This should go well.
Had a bad dream. That mom was gone and I was working around the clock and I stopped to realize that I was too busy to miss her.
I’m assuming that’s a weird side effect of it being sia’s birthday yesterday, her first not on this earth. But it scared me.
I thought of mom in heaven, seeing me not thinking about her because I had a phone stuck to my head all morning and then staying late to catch up.
It killed me because that’s how it is while she’s here. Although I think of her plenty.
Another day like the one I just outlined ahead. So sad about Sia that I could just die myself. Please God, let folks give me space today. And every day but especially today.
What is, the best part of working on weekends.
I get the irony. But I do savor the fact that I can see daylight and get mom fed at a reasonable hour.
No working next weekend, though. I have a Women’s March to attend.
One of the many things that don’t get talked about when you’re being assaulted (sexually or otherwise) …
Is how you find a place inside your head where you can hide.
I mean, sure you feel the pain — physical, emotional, your soul — but you find a little niche you can stuff yourself into. In your mind.
I don’t know where it is and I don’t know how I manage to find it when I need it. But it’s there. And thank God for that.
A book I’m reading pointed out quite plainly that we never talk about the full “fight or flight” response. That it’s really “fight, flight or freeze.”
I know the frozen state too well. (So does my work computer Elsa and my home laptop Anna.)
And it’s not that it works for me (the technological or the psychologically frozen state), but I can go back to it as often as needed. Unfortunately, that’s pretty often.
I just know what I’m capable of when I’m hurting. I fear it. But I bet it would keep people from messing with me ever again.
And I’m terrified/thrilled about the moment I get to say “Goodbye, Earl.”
All I wanted this week was time to do a report that I’d normally have to lose nights and at least a weekend to complete.
But alas. We have illusions to create. I found myself busier than ever. And behind as usual. What report?
No magic here …
This week, I heard of two major resignations in my field.
In my job function, too.
Two MORE, I should say.
As usual, folks left without something else lined up.
My playwright friend asked yesterday, “Who broke your heart?”
“Everyone,” I told her.
I don’t want their jobs. And I certainly don’t need to deal with the ones who broke their hearts too.
Trying to figure out when I’m going to get my Christmas errands done when I don’t even have time to leave for lunch or exit anywhere close to on time.
Fuck, I bring Xmas cards with me every day. Yesterday I didn’t even eat at all. And not one personal errand got done till I shoved (way too much) food in around 8.
(Cards still unaddressed/unwritten beside me …)
Then you get those weird questions about what you/your folks do all day. (Dance circles around the ones no one is asking about for $100, Alex.)
Also, one of those errands? I need a fucking tree since mine FELL ON ME while I was sleeping in front of it the other night.
Returned that shit. Just haven’t figured out a Plan B.
And at this rate, I probably won’t.
Capping off the world’s most ridiculous week is the fact that my home computer can no longer log into my work desktop.
So at five A.M. (because that’s how badly my productivity has been dented this week), I hauled ass to the new space. With my laptop.
And the goddamned sprinklers came on and soaked me. And my laptop.
Working weekend (and therapy) here I come. Oh just kidding. Who has time for therapy?
The big problem with sharing a bathroom with strangers is that you just don’t always have a proper appreciation of their art. Like when one party holds their bladder all day because they are shy about peeing with people two feet away, and then when they get up the nerve (and everyone’s gone), they encounter a Jackson Poo-lock painting.
