...uh, no.
Not a "good" busy; not a "bad" busy, either. (A "bad" busy, I guess, would be....what, heroin-related? That's the worst "busy" I can imagine for myself, right now, and it's definitely NOT the case; then again, the only "good" busy I could imagine would be a whole lot wilder and wackier than anything I'm currently experiencing. So...it's an AVERAGE "busy"--how's that?)
The job--which I still love--is driving me bat-crap bonkerellas--is that a word? If not, I hereby stick a flag in it and declare it to be one, 'cuz it's kinda cool--anyway. I know I've said this before, but I'm repeating it regardless: if I find myself sitting in a hugely-uncomfortable chair in Joe (El Boss)'s office, waiting for 15-25 minutes to ask him a work-related question, while meantime he yammers on through his PERSONAL FRIKKIN PHONE CALL about his kids' BOY SCOUT TROOP...There is no exaggeration anywhere within that sentence, incidentally. I have, in fact, sat for 20 minutes in his office listening to his personal call about the next campout. Generally my next comment has been something along the lines of, "you know, that thing we do here--you know, WORK????" In fact, today I actually said it out loud--for once he actually interrupted his call to ask me what it was I needed, and after I told him and as I left, he clicked back to his call with an "I'm sorry about that..." At which point I turned around, stuck my head back in the office and said: "Yeah...I'm sorry I had to interrupt this personal phone call to attend to WORK matters, while I'm at my JOB..." Fortunately, the environment is such that we can all get away with talking crap to Joe on a regular basis, so this was not seen as a transgression.
As much as I love the loose environment, the trash-talking, the verbal one-upmanship--and believe me, most of the time I can give as good as I get--I have a strong sense that the environment has changed for the worse within the last 3 months or so. And I can point, with a plus-or-minus-1% level of doubt, to the moment when the change began...
It was the moment we rolled out the first Windows Vista machine.
If you are (like me) a WinXP user, or even better (and God bless you, and she'll bless you even MORE if you buy one for ME) a Mac user--if, in short, the horror that is Vista has not touched your life...be grateful, dear reader, for you are Fate's own cherished tot. Windows Vista is, to computers, the equivalent of what would happen if you took bubonic plague germs, high-fructose corn syrup, the contents of the lint trap in the Chicago Sewage Treatment Plant, a 36-minute-long Michael Bolton vocal solo, the stuff at the bottom of the dumpster at a chicken shack, chili-farts, and that nightmare you have where you're running as fast as you can but you're not moving at all--if you took all those things, mixed them together with three pounds of Scotch Bonnet peppers, and reduced the whole concoction to a double-strength glaze, which you then poured into one ear through a large, sharp-pointed metal funnel. That, my friends, is called PAIN. There are simply no words on the planet Earth, nor in many of the better-known alien languages, for how very, very deeply I loathe Vista.
I am not alone.
Now, mind you, Vista by itself would be bad enough. Vista, coupled with our department's almost-phobic aversion to actually DOCUMENTING anything, has pretty much crippled our entire computer-building process. What took twenty to thirty minutes in the past--the installation and configuring of the necessary software for most of our clientele--now takes at least two days--and that's if you're LUCKY. If you're not lucky, you end up with a situation like the one I found myself in today--a pissed-off user waiting for her computer while I fiddle-faddled around trying to get one miserable, solitary, undocumented proprietary SQL-based program to act in Vista the way it always, reliably-as-the-seasons, acted under XP. At one point, both senior techs, a former senior tech, and a supervisor were all working with me to figure out what the hell this software fucking WANTED from us. "Database Error 556" was all it would tell us, and it was unGoogleable, completely opaque, utterly rage-inducing. Finally, Max the former-senior, who's been promoted to Systems, said "What if you re-create the folder it's looking for but can't find--you know, to fake it out?" I did, and it worked. Of course, that was after six hours of hair-pulling, head-desking, random Googling, reinstalling, and the rest...hours in which I could have been completing any of my OTHER ungodly number of work tickets.
And I'm just ONE person. There are FOUR of us who are doing builds, on and off; one, in particular--remember Erwin, the crank?--who does nothing BUT builds. At least we're not short-staffed anymore, thank heavens; we now have Johnny, the new Mac guy, and Dante, the new senior tech, who shares my cube. Dante seems to know his stuff; Johnny, a little less so, but both of them are still new. So now, in order of tenure, it's Alex, Erwin, me, Johnny, and Dante; Max has been promoted, and since the new guys are still...you know, new...the bulk of everything has fallen on Alex and on me. Erwin does builds. Erwin ONLY does builds. I found this out from Kevin, the helpdesk guy, when he joined Missy and I for lunch one day. (Missy...I haven't talked about her, because she makes me nervous. On the surface, she'd be the first guess of who I would pick for a friend--she's a fat white chick, like me; obnoxious and abrasive, like me; divorced, hard-headed, devil-may-care--again, like me. Unlike me, however, I wouldn't trust her farther than I could throw her. She's fun to talk to, but I'm constantly watching what I say because she seems SO very snaky and SO very two-faced--even Joe, Mr. Gullible-Isn't-In-The-Dictionary, warned me to stay away from Missy. The next day she asked me if I wanted to go for lunch. What could I do? Kevin walked out with us and she invited him along too; the newest of the help-deskers, he's already disillusioned with the place.) We were sitting at Eduardo's eating reheated nasty pizza when Kevin said "yeah, we can't give Erwin tickets anymore, just builds." I nearly spewed my Pepsi; "exCUSE me?" I squeaked. "You didn't hear that from me!" he said; "I'm tired of everything I say getting back to Joe with MY name on it!" "I won't breathe a word of where it came from," I said. And I didn't; I simply sat down in Joe's visitor-chair, waited for him to finish his personal call, and said, "So am I right in understanding that Erwin won't be doing any faculty or staff calls anymore, just builds?"
Joe, who'd been to some "leadership" seminar a few days back, said, "Well, that was a mutual decision, between The Crazy and Erwin and I, that Erwin should be focusing his energies on doing builds for a while--so he's not distracted, so he can just set them up like an assembly-line and one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, and so on til they're done."
"That's fine," I said. "I would just add, though, that if Erwin is doing all builds and no tickets, then the rest of us should be doing all tickets, and no builds."
"Yeah, well, that's the ideal, but sometimes Erwin gets snowed under, and...."
Yeah. Sometimes Erwin gets snowed under. It might help if he cut back his 90-minute lunches to the approved 60--or if, like the rest of us, he once-in-a-while worked THROUGH his lunch--you know, take a bite, click a mouse, tap a keyboard, take a bite...Anyway. Net result: Erwin does builds, no tickets; the rest of us do tickets AND builds. Thanks, Erwin. Thanks, Joe.
I can't hate TOO much on Erwin, though; he gets four times more Vista than the rest of us, so he's got his punishment already. Fucking Vista. I kid you not, my peeps--it's absolutely the WORST operating system ever created. It has, without question, poisoned the mood at my job, I'll tell you that much--and there's no chance of changing anyone's mind now. The techs hate it; more importantly, the users hate it--and let's not even TALK about Office 2007, which....oh, god, the STOOPID!--but because they're "progress", and because eventually Microfuckingsoft will stop supporting XP and Office 2003, despite the fact that they're FAR superior products to their descendents--because of that, the higher-ups have dictated that The Way Forward will include these two monstrosities--and that will happen regardless of how far behind we, the users and the techs, might happen to fall as we pursue this glittering, attractive Forward Way.
(My dearest, most beloved Microsoft. Have I told you lately that you SUCK? Oh...I have. Very well, then. But you SUCK.)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Okay, So.
Do you think people can change?
(Do -I- think people can change?)
If people can't change, then what does that say about the things I've done?
If people can change, what does that say for anyone who believes they can't?
If I believe they can't, what does that say for me?
Maybe -some- people can change, and others can't.
If that's true, which one am I?
And how do I know?
By my past actions?
But my past actions are...inconclusive.
Yes, I was a faithful girlfriend to one guy for years.
Then I got married, and a year later, suddenly I...wasn't.
And then, because I was with someone I truly cared about, then I was.
Or--example two:
Yes, I quit heroin for five years.
Then I un-quit for six weeks.
And yes, since then, I've quit for nearly-three years now..
But: once I quit for FIVE years...
...before I UN-quit.
Just how do I know I've changed?
And how would I, if I needed to, convince another?
But--fortunate child, I--never have I needed to convince another.
I have been lucky enough that when I've said,
"I've changed..."
I have been believed.
And I have been right.
But: again.
I was right.
For nearly five years...and then, for six weeks, all that "change" was a lie.
For six weeks, and then it was the truth again, for so-far three years, and hopefully longer--much, MUCH longer.
BUT: for six weeks, I had no longer "changed".
For six weeks, I was a hypocrite, judging others
because they did the same as me.
(Not the "same" same, but the same not-changing.)
Who, then, am I,
to say
that someone else may not have changed?
Even for a while--for a few years, maybe,
but SOMETHING?
(You know, of course, where this is going.)
I talked to him tonight.
He has three sides, mostly:
1. macho-bullshit blustering shithead (but oh, quite seductive, he is);
2. perfectly normal, more-intelligent-than-he-knows (the piece I miss most of all);
3. heartbroken emo-guy, inconsolable (but oh-so-lovable, so very needful)...
...tonight, I talked to Version #3.
just SAD, just angry, fed-up, lonely, broke...
asking nothing but an ear
to pour his exhaustion into.
He yawned as he spoke, pushing a grocery cart
through some Southern-Indiana store
asking for two packs of Kool 100's
("two?" I said. "You tryin' to smoke yourself to death, baby?")
the wind in the cell-phone receiver as he crossed the parking-lot
the radio as he started up the car,
sleepy still, counting on my voice to ride home beside him.
"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," he told me,
one night after some drunken e-mail
escaped my "draft" file
into the realm of "sent".
That, alone, spoke volumes:
when you offer something
and it is declined
out of concern for someone else,
their nobility
(real or imagined)
is all you have to cling to.
(That, and the fact that in the past, he blatantly SAID he didn't care if someone else got wounded, somewhere in the rifle-spray of his existence.
Or, as he used to phrase it:
"When you pick up a snake, you can't be surprised when you get bit.")
But tonight...
tonight, just a sad, exhausted boy, really,
tired of work,
of life,
of bills,
of worry.
"Hey, thanks for the letters," he said, as we said goodbye. "Keep writing to me...No, they don't annoy me, I LOVE the way you write."
I smiled. "Thanks," I said.
"Try to have a good day tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."
It's not so much that I need someone to need me.
It's more that it's so much easier to be with someone who feels the same things I feel--
the tiredness, the worry, the outrage
at music, the media, the TV talking heads,
at politics and fakes and phonies,
at sellouts,
at growing older.
("Don't you hate it?" he said, one of the first times we spoke again. "Everything we liked? is OLD now. It's all past." How many times have I said or written those same words?)
And yes, I know:
there are others who feel this way.
There are others who feel this way
who have never hurt me
who have never lied
who have never left me
who have never said a cutting word
much less the words he said,
the ones that have followed me for nearly seven years now...
Yes, I know.
There are others.
And yes, I'm sure
that I should go and find them.
But I'm a bit too old to start again at kissing frogs,
at hoping for stray and random princes.
Old, and other things,
not least of which is "disinclined".
I'm everlastingly tired
of the taste of frog-skin.
So:
here I am again.
But this is the last,
the last, last, last, last, last, last time
(last time was just the last last last last last)
that I will even pretend
to think about considering the possibility to wonder if perhaps I might one day believe again.)
I know:
I'm stupid.
I know:
This will end in tears.
It's not like I was doing anything better in the first place.
We shall see
what happens.
Maybe it will even
spur me to make art. Who knows?
JP and I
had many, many mottoes
but one of them:
"there is no such thing
as a bad experience"...
...hard as it is,
I still believe.
I wouldn't trade
anything that's happened--
even the things I hate the most.
So many times I've wondered
who I'd be
if I'd had a softer life.
I imagine her
and I don't like her much.
She cries less
because she knows less
and I'd rather know more
and smile less
than the other way around.
Tears always dry.
So...yeah
off the edge I go
and I hope
for a soft landing.
(Do -I- think people can change?)
If people can't change, then what does that say about the things I've done?
If people can change, what does that say for anyone who believes they can't?
If I believe they can't, what does that say for me?
Maybe -some- people can change, and others can't.
If that's true, which one am I?
And how do I know?
By my past actions?
But my past actions are...inconclusive.
Yes, I was a faithful girlfriend to one guy for years.
Then I got married, and a year later, suddenly I...wasn't.
And then, because I was with someone I truly cared about, then I was.
Or--example two:
Yes, I quit heroin for five years.
Then I un-quit for six weeks.
And yes, since then, I've quit for nearly-three years now..
But: once I quit for FIVE years...
...before I UN-quit.
Just how do I know I've changed?
And how would I, if I needed to, convince another?
But--fortunate child, I--never have I needed to convince another.
I have been lucky enough that when I've said,
"I've changed..."
I have been believed.
And I have been right.
But: again.
I was right.
For nearly five years...and then, for six weeks, all that "change" was a lie.
For six weeks, and then it was the truth again, for so-far three years, and hopefully longer--much, MUCH longer.
BUT: for six weeks, I had no longer "changed".
For six weeks, I was a hypocrite, judging others
because they did the same as me.
(Not the "same" same, but the same not-changing.)
Who, then, am I,
to say
that someone else may not have changed?
Even for a while--for a few years, maybe,
but SOMETHING?
(You know, of course, where this is going.)
I talked to him tonight.
He has three sides, mostly:
1. macho-bullshit blustering shithead (but oh, quite seductive, he is);
2. perfectly normal, more-intelligent-than-he-knows (the piece I miss most of all);
3. heartbroken emo-guy, inconsolable (but oh-so-lovable, so very needful)...
...tonight, I talked to Version #3.
just SAD, just angry, fed-up, lonely, broke...
asking nothing but an ear
to pour his exhaustion into.
He yawned as he spoke, pushing a grocery cart
through some Southern-Indiana store
asking for two packs of Kool 100's
("two?" I said. "You tryin' to smoke yourself to death, baby?")
the wind in the cell-phone receiver as he crossed the parking-lot
the radio as he started up the car,
sleepy still, counting on my voice to ride home beside him.
"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," he told me,
one night after some drunken e-mail
escaped my "draft" file
into the realm of "sent".
That, alone, spoke volumes:
when you offer something
and it is declined
out of concern for someone else,
their nobility
(real or imagined)
is all you have to cling to.
(That, and the fact that in the past, he blatantly SAID he didn't care if someone else got wounded, somewhere in the rifle-spray of his existence.
Or, as he used to phrase it:
"When you pick up a snake, you can't be surprised when you get bit.")
But tonight...
tonight, just a sad, exhausted boy, really,
tired of work,
of life,
of bills,
of worry.
"Hey, thanks for the letters," he said, as we said goodbye. "Keep writing to me...No, they don't annoy me, I LOVE the way you write."
I smiled. "Thanks," I said.
"Try to have a good day tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."
It's not so much that I need someone to need me.
It's more that it's so much easier to be with someone who feels the same things I feel--
the tiredness, the worry, the outrage
at music, the media, the TV talking heads,
at politics and fakes and phonies,
at sellouts,
at growing older.
("Don't you hate it?" he said, one of the first times we spoke again. "Everything we liked? is OLD now. It's all past." How many times have I said or written those same words?)
And yes, I know:
there are others who feel this way.
There are others who feel this way
who have never hurt me
who have never lied
who have never left me
who have never said a cutting word
much less the words he said,
the ones that have followed me for nearly seven years now...
Yes, I know.
There are others.
And yes, I'm sure
that I should go and find them.
But I'm a bit too old to start again at kissing frogs,
at hoping for stray and random princes.
Old, and other things,
not least of which is "disinclined".
I'm everlastingly tired
of the taste of frog-skin.
So:
here I am again.
But this is the last,
the last, last, last, last, last, last time
(last time was just the last last last last last)
that I will even pretend
to think about considering the possibility to wonder if perhaps I might one day believe again.)
I know:
I'm stupid.
I know:
This will end in tears.
It's not like I was doing anything better in the first place.
We shall see
what happens.
Maybe it will even
spur me to make art. Who knows?
JP and I
had many, many mottoes
but one of them:
"there is no such thing
as a bad experience"...
...hard as it is,
I still believe.
I wouldn't trade
anything that's happened--
even the things I hate the most.
So many times I've wondered
who I'd be
if I'd had a softer life.
I imagine her
and I don't like her much.
She cries less
because she knows less
and I'd rather know more
and smile less
than the other way around.
Tears always dry.
So...yeah
off the edge I go
and I hope
for a soft landing.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
I Am Going To Kick SO Many People's Ass,
Tonight's candidates for the Oh My God, You Totally Have To Be Fucking Kidding Me Awards:
1. Mom.
Normally, in the grand scheme, I call Mom at about 6:50. Gives me time to feed the cats, open the mail, and pee. Everything else can wait.
Tonight: 6:45. I open the door. Feed the cats. Pee. Call mom. "bzz-bzz-bzz" Okay. Mom is talking to...someone.
7:00. I sit down at the desk with my fresh cocktail. Dial Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz" Damn, Mom; get off the phone, eh?
7:15. 7:20. 7:25. Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz". Oh. Um, Mom? Get off the phone. Seriously.
7:30. Call across-the-street neighbor, friend of mom's. "Hey, Mr. E. This is Mom's daughter Gladys. Could you do me a favor?" Mr. E tells me to call back in 10 min.
7:41. "Hi, Mr. E?" Mr E tells me that he and Cop Across The Street have stood on chairs and peered into windows. He and CATS don't want to break in, though. "Well, there's a key in the...." I tell Mr. E where key is stored. "Would you want me to go in and check?" he asks? "I would MUCH appreciate it," I tell him. "Call back in 10", he says. "Wait," I say. "Is her car there?" "Yep," says Mr. E.
7:50:59. "Hi, Mr. E?" I have already begun to frame my explanation for why I won't be in to work for the rest of the week. "Well," he says. "You might wanna hide that key somewhere else," he says. Which, yeah, okay, but NOT SO VERY IMPORTANT RIGHT JUST AT THE MOMENT, HM? "Me and CATS went through the whole place," he said. "It's a good thing CATS is a cop, because he knew all where to look--in the shower, down the basement, etc. She's not there." "If you see her," I say, "before I talk to her? Would you please tell her that she is in SO MUCH TROUBLE????"
I am serious. I am going to kick my mother's ass. Because O---M---F---G! How do you LEAVE THE PHONE OFF THE HOOK, Dingbat? And NOT CALL and NOT TELL your kid that you're going out?? And you're 79 YEARS OLD????
I am soooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo pissed. She is going to get some SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErious shit from me.
(GAWD. These ELDERS today. You gotta watch out for them EVERY DAMN MINUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I STILL do not know where she is. I STILL have no idea whether everything's okay. I assume, based on a lack of evidence to the contrary, that she's fine. But OHHHHHHHHHman, she is in SO. MUCH. TROUBLE.
Update--11:30--she's fine. Playing poker with her friendses, as a matter of fact. She lost--just what she deserved. I told her so. I also told her she is grounded for the REST of the WEEK and that's ALL THERE IS TO IT, YOUNG LADY. Also, do NOT raise your voice to me--or are you aiming for a NOTHER week in your room?
In further news: still, disgustingly and OHSOVERY dishearteningly. still MADLY in love with CR. (I am IDIOT, hear me ROAR.))
1. Mom.
Normally, in the grand scheme, I call Mom at about 6:50. Gives me time to feed the cats, open the mail, and pee. Everything else can wait.
Tonight: 6:45. I open the door. Feed the cats. Pee. Call mom. "bzz-bzz-bzz" Okay. Mom is talking to...someone.
7:00. I sit down at the desk with my fresh cocktail. Dial Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz" Damn, Mom; get off the phone, eh?
7:15. 7:20. 7:25. Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz". Oh. Um, Mom? Get off the phone. Seriously.
7:30. Call across-the-street neighbor, friend of mom's. "Hey, Mr. E. This is Mom's daughter Gladys. Could you do me a favor?" Mr. E tells me to call back in 10 min.
7:41. "Hi, Mr. E?" Mr E tells me that he and Cop Across The Street have stood on chairs and peered into windows. He and CATS don't want to break in, though. "Well, there's a key in the...." I tell Mr. E where key is stored. "Would you want me to go in and check?" he asks? "I would MUCH appreciate it," I tell him. "Call back in 10", he says. "Wait," I say. "Is her car there?" "Yep," says Mr. E.
7:50:59. "Hi, Mr. E?" I have already begun to frame my explanation for why I won't be in to work for the rest of the week. "Well," he says. "You might wanna hide that key somewhere else," he says. Which, yeah, okay, but NOT SO VERY IMPORTANT RIGHT JUST AT THE MOMENT, HM? "Me and CATS went through the whole place," he said. "It's a good thing CATS is a cop, because he knew all where to look--in the shower, down the basement, etc. She's not there." "If you see her," I say, "before I talk to her? Would you please tell her that she is in SO MUCH TROUBLE????"
I am serious. I am going to kick my mother's ass. Because O---M---F---G! How do you LEAVE THE PHONE OFF THE HOOK, Dingbat? And NOT CALL and NOT TELL your kid that you're going out?? And you're 79 YEARS OLD????
I am soooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo pissed. She is going to get some SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErious shit from me.
(GAWD. These ELDERS today. You gotta watch out for them EVERY DAMN MINUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I STILL do not know where she is. I STILL have no idea whether everything's okay. I assume, based on a lack of evidence to the contrary, that she's fine. But OHHHHHHHHHman, she is in SO. MUCH. TROUBLE.
Update--11:30--she's fine. Playing poker with her friendses, as a matter of fact. She lost--just what she deserved. I told her so. I also told her she is grounded for the REST of the WEEK and that's ALL THERE IS TO IT, YOUNG LADY. Also, do NOT raise your voice to me--or are you aiming for a NOTHER week in your room?
In further news: still, disgustingly and OHSOVERY dishearteningly. still MADLY in love with CR. (I am IDIOT, hear me ROAR.))
Monday, August 25, 2008
Happy Things
Okay. Since I am personally now BORED by my own ranty-panty-pissy-pity-party, I shall move on to Many Happier Things. Because--believe it or not?--they're STILL THERE.
But first of all, in fairness, I owe Firefly an apology.
From that last post, one would think that all she does is bitch me out for my bad choices, which could not in a billion years be further from the truth. I mean that. We are the Head Bitches In Charge Of Picking Up Each Other's Pieces, and for me to characterize her the way that last post came off was...just not cool. I think I was going by how hard I would beat HER ass under the same circumstances, and it's always a mistake to ascribe your OWN deficiencies to someone ELSE. So, FF--I'm sorry, monster. That came out WAYYYY worse than I meant for it to do.
Moving right along to happyland:
Item One, Happy Report.
My computer?? Is ALIVE!!! Is HEALTHY!!!!! Totally FAILED to cost me the $300-odd dollars I had braced myself to pay!!!! Cost me only $60--including installation!--to repair my frizzle-frazzled power supply. I seriously almost did the Happy Wiggle-Dance in front of the Firedog guy at Circuit City. But I was afraid it would turn him on, so I forbore.
But for SERIOUS--$60 instead of $300? is CAUSE for the wiggle-dance. I could simply NOT be any more happy about the outcome of that whole debacle.
Item Two, Happy Report:
This neighborhood I've moved into?
Is THA SHIZZ. No kidding. I knew it was all artsy and progressive and stuff, but: there is the Place-Where-I-Live-Now Art Center. And yes, I'm late to the party, and yes, I could have been doing this for MONTHS now, but I wasn't even introduced to the Maroonland Art Center til the beginning of summer. Their summer session? Looked promising, but didn't grab me enough to make me plunk down cash and drag my butt out of work early to get to a class on time.
Their FALL session?
Practically sexual in nature.
So Indecisive-Little-Ol-Me is now faced with the choice of the following--and this is pared down only to the stuff that INTERESTS me at the moment:
Abstract Painting/Drawing--Acrylic Painting--Beginning Drawing--Beginning Painting--Ceramic Tiles--Intro to Printmaking--Knitting--Mosaics--Photography I--Quick Quilting--Silkscreen.
First: NOT COOL. Too many choices makes Gladys go Wocka-Wocka-Wocka.
Second: OMFG SOOOOOOO EFFING COOL! Because what I don't do in the fall? I can do in the spring. And what I don't do in the spring? I can do NEXT fall. Which is so very OMFG as to require smelling-salts.
To say the very very least, I am looking forward to the fall.
Item Three: Happy Report--
No word from CR.
Yes, I know, that's a Happy and a Sad all boiled up together. Don't care. He's...I don't really have words for what he is, just now. "A mommy-fixated infant" comes about as close to the meat of things as I care to go. I'd just so very much forgotten: a) how many things about him I actually LIKED, once; and b)how very, utterly toxic and hateful and soul-draining he could be. So, yeah, I still have feelings for him; but no, that's not something that will ever come to fruition. I've learned--even since just this last time, I've learned--but still I'm pissed at myself for letting it go even THAT far. I feel played, actually. I was lucky to escape as easily as I have, but I still feel ashamed of myself. (And on some level, I'm afraid he may instigate some more chaos, so to speak--waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always did in the past. We shall see what happens there.)
I am just TIRED unto the edges of the universe of feeling SORRY. For myself, for others, for mistakes I've made; for who I am and what I believe. I think sometimes--god help me--but if my mom wasn't around? That I'd be able to be ME with much more energy and valor than I've ever yet been able to do, with eleven months' exception. I want to wear long foofy dresses and get a tattoo and piercings and a girlfriend, and wear my hair LONG LONG LONG. And the only reason I DON'T is because of the constant stream of criticism that would ensue. And don't think for a red moment that that means I don't love my mother--I do, very much, and I will miss her when she's gone--but I wish she didn't need for me to be so much a carbon copy of her, or some validation of her choices, or whatever-it-is I am to her. I'm certainly not an individual, or a person, or a separate human being. (The other day she said something about "we never had such technology when -I- was growing up!" As if, at nearly-40, I'm still "growing up". There are some things that I just can't get around, you know? I'll be 39 next birthday and in some ways I still--because my mother does too--see myself as "a kid". How do you go about making a separate, sensible, functioning life for yourself when you still, subconsciously, see yourself as a twelve-year-old?? Debbi and I have talked about that at length, but with no conclusions.)
I am not sad. I am not -very- sad, anyway. My life is a great thing, if I look at it from MY OWN standpoint. If I stop judging by "what should have been" or "what I -should have- done" or "what was expected"--I have had an incredible, colorful, adventurous life. Punctuated by tragedy and the occasional hardship, sure--but what amazing life HASN'T been strewn with wreckage? I'd rather have MORE wreckage, than less--if only I didn't have to EXPLAIN it to anyone. If only I could just say "You know what? Yeah, I did that. It is what it is. It's MINE, is what it is, and unless you're me--which you are TOTALLY not--you're in no position to make value judgements."
If anything? My life would have MORE excitement, not less. I don't know what that says about me, other than: a) I'm alive; and b) at some sad, pathetic core level, I am every bit as subjected to one person's judgements, as CR is to another's. Maybe THAT's why we always got along so well--because in one way or another, each of us was forever being controlled by that shady, behind-the-scenes female puppeteer, each polling our strings and trying, for her own ends, to control us--even if it was done with love, even if it was done with the understanding of "what was best" for each of us. Maybe that's why he and I are, emotionally at least, tangled together, even though each of us recognizes how very, very STUPID that entanglement really is.
I don't know. What I know: I'm happy, really; and there is spaghetti on the stove with my name on it, and everything in my life, when you subtract the STOOPID shit, is really well-and-truly better than it has been in a long, long while.
So...um....yeah. That's it. :)
But first of all, in fairness, I owe Firefly an apology.
From that last post, one would think that all she does is bitch me out for my bad choices, which could not in a billion years be further from the truth. I mean that. We are the Head Bitches In Charge Of Picking Up Each Other's Pieces, and for me to characterize her the way that last post came off was...just not cool. I think I was going by how hard I would beat HER ass under the same circumstances, and it's always a mistake to ascribe your OWN deficiencies to someone ELSE. So, FF--I'm sorry, monster. That came out WAYYYY worse than I meant for it to do.
Moving right along to happyland:
Item One, Happy Report.
My computer?? Is ALIVE!!! Is HEALTHY!!!!! Totally FAILED to cost me the $300-odd dollars I had braced myself to pay!!!! Cost me only $60--including installation!--to repair my frizzle-frazzled power supply. I seriously almost did the Happy Wiggle-Dance in front of the Firedog guy at Circuit City. But I was afraid it would turn him on, so I forbore.
But for SERIOUS--$60 instead of $300? is CAUSE for the wiggle-dance. I could simply NOT be any more happy about the outcome of that whole debacle.
Item Two, Happy Report:
This neighborhood I've moved into?
Is THA SHIZZ. No kidding. I knew it was all artsy and progressive and stuff, but: there is the Place-Where-I-Live-Now Art Center. And yes, I'm late to the party, and yes, I could have been doing this for MONTHS now, but I wasn't even introduced to the Maroonland Art Center til the beginning of summer. Their summer session? Looked promising, but didn't grab me enough to make me plunk down cash and drag my butt out of work early to get to a class on time.
Their FALL session?
Practically sexual in nature.
So Indecisive-Little-Ol-Me is now faced with the choice of the following--and this is pared down only to the stuff that INTERESTS me at the moment:
Abstract Painting/Drawing--Acrylic Painting--Beginning Drawing--Beginning Painting--Ceramic Tiles--Intro to Printmaking--Knitting--Mosaics--Photography I--Quick Quilting--Silkscreen.
First: NOT COOL. Too many choices makes Gladys go Wocka-Wocka-Wocka.
Second: OMFG SOOOOOOO EFFING COOL! Because what I don't do in the fall? I can do in the spring. And what I don't do in the spring? I can do NEXT fall. Which is so very OMFG as to require smelling-salts.
To say the very very least, I am looking forward to the fall.
Item Three: Happy Report--
No word from CR.
Yes, I know, that's a Happy and a Sad all boiled up together. Don't care. He's...I don't really have words for what he is, just now. "A mommy-fixated infant" comes about as close to the meat of things as I care to go. I'd just so very much forgotten: a) how many things about him I actually LIKED, once; and b)how very, utterly toxic and hateful and soul-draining he could be. So, yeah, I still have feelings for him; but no, that's not something that will ever come to fruition. I've learned--even since just this last time, I've learned--but still I'm pissed at myself for letting it go even THAT far. I feel played, actually. I was lucky to escape as easily as I have, but I still feel ashamed of myself. (And on some level, I'm afraid he may instigate some more chaos, so to speak--waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always did in the past. We shall see what happens there.)
I am just TIRED unto the edges of the universe of feeling SORRY. For myself, for others, for mistakes I've made; for who I am and what I believe. I think sometimes--god help me--but if my mom wasn't around? That I'd be able to be ME with much more energy and valor than I've ever yet been able to do, with eleven months' exception. I want to wear long foofy dresses and get a tattoo and piercings and a girlfriend, and wear my hair LONG LONG LONG. And the only reason I DON'T is because of the constant stream of criticism that would ensue. And don't think for a red moment that that means I don't love my mother--I do, very much, and I will miss her when she's gone--but I wish she didn't need for me to be so much a carbon copy of her, or some validation of her choices, or whatever-it-is I am to her. I'm certainly not an individual, or a person, or a separate human being. (The other day she said something about "we never had such technology when -I- was growing up!" As if, at nearly-40, I'm still "growing up". There are some things that I just can't get around, you know? I'll be 39 next birthday and in some ways I still--because my mother does too--see myself as "a kid". How do you go about making a separate, sensible, functioning life for yourself when you still, subconsciously, see yourself as a twelve-year-old?? Debbi and I have talked about that at length, but with no conclusions.)
I am not sad. I am not -very- sad, anyway. My life is a great thing, if I look at it from MY OWN standpoint. If I stop judging by "what should have been" or "what I -should have- done" or "what was expected"--I have had an incredible, colorful, adventurous life. Punctuated by tragedy and the occasional hardship, sure--but what amazing life HASN'T been strewn with wreckage? I'd rather have MORE wreckage, than less--if only I didn't have to EXPLAIN it to anyone. If only I could just say "You know what? Yeah, I did that. It is what it is. It's MINE, is what it is, and unless you're me--which you are TOTALLY not--you're in no position to make value judgements."
If anything? My life would have MORE excitement, not less. I don't know what that says about me, other than: a) I'm alive; and b) at some sad, pathetic core level, I am every bit as subjected to one person's judgements, as CR is to another's. Maybe THAT's why we always got along so well--because in one way or another, each of us was forever being controlled by that shady, behind-the-scenes female puppeteer, each polling our strings and trying, for her own ends, to control us--even if it was done with love, even if it was done with the understanding of "what was best" for each of us. Maybe that's why he and I are, emotionally at least, tangled together, even though each of us recognizes how very, very STUPID that entanglement really is.
I don't know. What I know: I'm happy, really; and there is spaghetti on the stove with my name on it, and everything in my life, when you subtract the STOOPID shit, is really well-and-truly better than it has been in a long, long while.
So...um....yeah. That's it. :)
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Well THIS Certainly Seems Familiar...
After posting this late last night, then taking it down because I felt guilty for all my self-pity, I'm putting it back up. Because...why not, you know?
You know, the fun of hoping someone has changed?
Is in hoping that they've REALLY changed.
CR? Not so much. (Anyone for an "I told you so"? Because I'm open to them.)
So the other day...
(Firefly, sweetie, could you go read something else for a few minutes? B/c I RILLYRILLYRILLY don't need the asskick that I know is forthcoming...)
anyhoo.
the other day, me and Mr. Smirnoff got close. Very close. Close enough to affect my normal recalcitrance/quietude/reluctance to say anything to anybody about anything.
so mr S. led me to be extraordinarily honest with mr CR's e-mail account.
as in, "i still have feelings for u" and the whole rest of the stoopid.
(Firefly, seriously. If you give me shit about this we will have a problem. I know, I KNOW. I was STOOPID. I don't need a :::swat:::. I''ve done plenty of :::swat:::ing on myself. MERCY is what's called for here.)
anyway.
this revelation was greeted with...
...a week of silence.
followed by...
...nothing.
Today I noticed that he'd taken me off his MySpace "friends" list.
Which? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
anyway.
what i can piece together:
she read his e-mail.
or his cell-phone bill.
or...whatthefuckever.
don't care.
in my confessional e-mail i said:
i need to see u stand up and be a man.
i need to see u finish your journalism coursework.
and to come to chicago again.
and to find an apartment for yourself.
ALL for yourself.
no woman to help you.
i need to see u stand on your own two feet.
to be honest.
to say: this is mine; i have done this. i have brought this about.
i have done it alone.
That's what I told him.
He can't do it.
That's why I said it, largely.
Because I knew it was impossible.
And I was right.
Still, it stings.
Do I still care about him??
You guess.
Of COURSE i still care about him.
Despite my perfectly-good common sense, I want to see someone save themselves.
I want to see someone redeem their miserable life and make it something worth living.
That was always, always my hope for him.
You'll hsve to believe me on this one: there's a very amazing human being underneath all that rot and corruption and misery.
I know that's hard to accept, but I've witnessed it.
Apparently, though, I'm not the one who can draw it out.
I envy the woman who can. Somewhere in the universe there is a woman who knows how to tame that self-destruction, that anger, that self-loathing.
I am apparently not that woman, though.
I wanted to believe that--as he claimed--he'd changed.
That he was sorry.
That he still loved me.
(What lonely, obese, cat-owning, nearly-40 sorta-widowed-but-not-so-anyone-believes-it woman, with NO social skills and NO partners ANYWHERE on the radar, would want to believe differently? SERIOUSLY. I am like, the stereotype of Woman Who Will Die Alone. Normally I'm okay with that...til someone throws a lifeline into the lake. Even if it's only a spider-silk thread, from where I am it looks (at first) like SOMETHING. The disillusionment comes later.)
So YEAH, I wanted to believe.
Let's just for a moment look back, hm?
Since CR:
Bob. Nice guy, couldn't handle me. No chemistry, too much intellectual, not enough below the waist. Sorry to be so blunt, but...nope.
LJ. Plenty, INITIALLY, in the "sex" column; never anything in the "brain" column. Eventually even quit on the "sex" end of things. Gee, THAT didn't undermine me at all...no, not even a LITTLE bit.
And then. Two years of TOTAL SILENCE. I'm in my mid-late 30's; that's like, TORTURE. And it's been accompanied by enough harsh words/gestures from any and all of the men mentioned above (and some not mentioned), that the notion of even TRYING to be sexy seems to be a futile effort. (I have forgotten how to kiss. When the Really Hot Guy came down to Chicago, he mentioned "I don't know, though, why you didn't kiss me." Because I'm SCARED, you idiot; because it's been a HUNDRED MILLION YEARS since a man kissed me and MEANT it. And the fact that you LEFT a few days later without even bothering to say "goodbye" til you were well and truly gone??? Does NOT help matters, you FUCK. Do you not get it, that I was hoping for something more?? )
So.
After three years of celibacy broken by one instant of terrified, not-good-enough sex, I'm somehow supposed to be okay with the universe.
I'm somehow supposed to ACCEPT that this is my lot in life--that for 18 months, when I was 24 or 25 years old, that THAT was what I get of happiness. That I'm supposed to be OKAY with that...that the one man on earth who was willing to be reasonably honest with me, who was reasonably willing to find me beautiful, was also someone I could only be with for a minute--and that the rest of my life would be populated by people who found me hideous, or who saw me as a pawn for their own entertainment, or...whatever...
I try not to see my life in terms of "entitled", you know?
But I think sometimes that EVERYONE is ENTITLED to be loved for WHO THEY ARE.
And I don't think anyone ever made an exception for any one individual; I don't imagine there's a codicil that says "...EXCEPT for Gladys J Cortez, who--UNLIKE the rest of the universe--can only feel happiness for one infinitesimal moment, and who will be required to live on THAT memory for the rest of her life on Earth."
Do you ever wonder who you pissed off?
Do you ever wonder what, EXACTLY, you did wrong?
Or who you can apologize to, to make it right?
I feel like, some lives ago, I must have fucked-over somebody REALLY important, to be dealing with rejection upon rejection upon rejection.
(I know--JP's death isn't a "rejection". Can I tell you that it sometimes feels that way? That after nights and nights of dreams where he leaves me behind, it gets a little hard to believe that he ever loved me in the first place--no matter what I "know"?
It wears me out, trying to be "strong". It wears me out, trying to paste on a smile. I mean, there are things that make me happy, sure...but at the end of the day I still have to go home.
"YOU SHOULD GO MEET someone."
Yeah--you're right, I should. If only I wasn't so completely, intolerably hideous, that might happen.
"But looks don't...."
Don't even FINISH that sentence. I swear to GOD, I will slap the next person who tries to tell me it's what's on the INSIDE that matters. Maybe that was true ONCE. A LONG time ago. Like, when JP was alive. I have not met one single solitary man since October 30, 1995, that thinks differently. Somehow around that time, the whole world changed and now ALL that matters is that women are HOT. Fuck whether or not we're amazing on the INSIDE_-which I know for a FACT I totally am--THAT doesn't matter anymore. I don't know when the change happened, but I know that I was on the WRONG side of it. LOOKS MATTER. More than anything else, looks MATTER.
"Well, you could do a little..."
Again--are you SURE you want to finish that sentence? I don't really think so.
"That's just the way things are, though."\
Yep. Sure is. I don't remember signing off on anything that says I have to LIKE it, though. Or ACCEPT it. Why do I have to change just to be accepted? Because the status quo is ridiculous? Because misogyny is the way of the world? Because HAWT chicks are the best breeders?
I sometimes wonder why I keep going, you know?
I would really, REALLY like to say that I don't give a shit about CR's rejection.
I would really, REALLY like to say a LOT of things that aren't true, about how "perfectly all right" and "great" and "wonderful" I'm feeling.
I'm not.
I'm really, really not.
And I don't need any lectures about how it's my fault for trusting him, or believing him, or...
I'm well aware of what-all I've done wrong.
What I don't understand, after six years of doing RIGHT, is why I'm still completely and utterly alone.
I'm TRYING.
I get up every morning and I paste a smile on my face and I put on my best "I love the world" look.
And every single solitary night, I go to bed alone.
Something is wrong here.
I have to assume--because other people seem to be okay in this world--that the "something" is ME.
That's not easy to live with, and lately it's getting more and more difficult to accept.
And again, I wonder....what, exactly, was the thing I did that brought this all about? Because I don't think that the world is a RANDOM place--something must have led here, you know? So what did I do? What went wrong? Where was my mistake?? And can I fix it? Is there any way to make amends?
Because frankly, the thought of letting this go on for another 30-40-50-60 years? Is not something I can handle.
You know, the fun of hoping someone has changed?
Is in hoping that they've REALLY changed.
CR? Not so much. (Anyone for an "I told you so"? Because I'm open to them.)
So the other day...
(Firefly, sweetie, could you go read something else for a few minutes? B/c I RILLYRILLYRILLY don't need the asskick that I know is forthcoming...)
anyhoo.
the other day, me and Mr. Smirnoff got close. Very close. Close enough to affect my normal recalcitrance/quietude/reluctance to say anything to anybody about anything.
so mr S. led me to be extraordinarily honest with mr CR's e-mail account.
as in, "i still have feelings for u" and the whole rest of the stoopid.
(Firefly, seriously. If you give me shit about this we will have a problem. I know, I KNOW. I was STOOPID. I don't need a :::swat:::. I''ve done plenty of :::swat:::ing on myself. MERCY is what's called for here.)
anyway.
this revelation was greeted with...
...a week of silence.
followed by...
...nothing.
Today I noticed that he'd taken me off his MySpace "friends" list.
Which? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
anyway.
what i can piece together:
she read his e-mail.
or his cell-phone bill.
or...whatthefuckever.
don't care.
in my confessional e-mail i said:
i need to see u stand up and be a man.
i need to see u finish your journalism coursework.
and to come to chicago again.
and to find an apartment for yourself.
ALL for yourself.
no woman to help you.
i need to see u stand on your own two feet.
to be honest.
to say: this is mine; i have done this. i have brought this about.
i have done it alone.
That's what I told him.
He can't do it.
That's why I said it, largely.
Because I knew it was impossible.
And I was right.
Still, it stings.
Do I still care about him??
You guess.
Of COURSE i still care about him.
Despite my perfectly-good common sense, I want to see someone save themselves.
I want to see someone redeem their miserable life and make it something worth living.
That was always, always my hope for him.
You'll hsve to believe me on this one: there's a very amazing human being underneath all that rot and corruption and misery.
I know that's hard to accept, but I've witnessed it.
Apparently, though, I'm not the one who can draw it out.
I envy the woman who can. Somewhere in the universe there is a woman who knows how to tame that self-destruction, that anger, that self-loathing.
I am apparently not that woman, though.
I wanted to believe that--as he claimed--he'd changed.
That he was sorry.
That he still loved me.
(What lonely, obese, cat-owning, nearly-40 sorta-widowed-but-not-so-anyone-believes-it woman, with NO social skills and NO partners ANYWHERE on the radar, would want to believe differently? SERIOUSLY. I am like, the stereotype of Woman Who Will Die Alone. Normally I'm okay with that...til someone throws a lifeline into the lake. Even if it's only a spider-silk thread, from where I am it looks (at first) like SOMETHING. The disillusionment comes later.)
So YEAH, I wanted to believe.
Let's just for a moment look back, hm?
Since CR:
Bob. Nice guy, couldn't handle me. No chemistry, too much intellectual, not enough below the waist. Sorry to be so blunt, but...nope.
LJ. Plenty, INITIALLY, in the "sex" column; never anything in the "brain" column. Eventually even quit on the "sex" end of things. Gee, THAT didn't undermine me at all...no, not even a LITTLE bit.
And then. Two years of TOTAL SILENCE. I'm in my mid-late 30's; that's like, TORTURE. And it's been accompanied by enough harsh words/gestures from any and all of the men mentioned above (and some not mentioned), that the notion of even TRYING to be sexy seems to be a futile effort. (I have forgotten how to kiss. When the Really Hot Guy came down to Chicago, he mentioned "I don't know, though, why you didn't kiss me." Because I'm SCARED, you idiot; because it's been a HUNDRED MILLION YEARS since a man kissed me and MEANT it. And the fact that you LEFT a few days later without even bothering to say "goodbye" til you were well and truly gone??? Does NOT help matters, you FUCK. Do you not get it, that I was hoping for something more?? )
So.
After three years of celibacy broken by one instant of terrified, not-good-enough sex, I'm somehow supposed to be okay with the universe.
I'm somehow supposed to ACCEPT that this is my lot in life--that for 18 months, when I was 24 or 25 years old, that THAT was what I get of happiness. That I'm supposed to be OKAY with that...that the one man on earth who was willing to be reasonably honest with me, who was reasonably willing to find me beautiful, was also someone I could only be with for a minute--and that the rest of my life would be populated by people who found me hideous, or who saw me as a pawn for their own entertainment, or...whatever...
I try not to see my life in terms of "entitled", you know?
But I think sometimes that EVERYONE is ENTITLED to be loved for WHO THEY ARE.
And I don't think anyone ever made an exception for any one individual; I don't imagine there's a codicil that says "...EXCEPT for Gladys J Cortez, who--UNLIKE the rest of the universe--can only feel happiness for one infinitesimal moment, and who will be required to live on THAT memory for the rest of her life on Earth."
Do you ever wonder who you pissed off?
Do you ever wonder what, EXACTLY, you did wrong?
Or who you can apologize to, to make it right?
I feel like, some lives ago, I must have fucked-over somebody REALLY important, to be dealing with rejection upon rejection upon rejection.
(I know--JP's death isn't a "rejection". Can I tell you that it sometimes feels that way? That after nights and nights of dreams where he leaves me behind, it gets a little hard to believe that he ever loved me in the first place--no matter what I "know"?
It wears me out, trying to be "strong". It wears me out, trying to paste on a smile. I mean, there are things that make me happy, sure...but at the end of the day I still have to go home.
"YOU SHOULD GO MEET someone."
Yeah--you're right, I should. If only I wasn't so completely, intolerably hideous, that might happen.
"But looks don't...."
Don't even FINISH that sentence. I swear to GOD, I will slap the next person who tries to tell me it's what's on the INSIDE that matters. Maybe that was true ONCE. A LONG time ago. Like, when JP was alive. I have not met one single solitary man since October 30, 1995, that thinks differently. Somehow around that time, the whole world changed and now ALL that matters is that women are HOT. Fuck whether or not we're amazing on the INSIDE_-which I know for a FACT I totally am--THAT doesn't matter anymore. I don't know when the change happened, but I know that I was on the WRONG side of it. LOOKS MATTER. More than anything else, looks MATTER.
"Well, you could do a little..."
Again--are you SURE you want to finish that sentence? I don't really think so.
"That's just the way things are, though."\
Yep. Sure is. I don't remember signing off on anything that says I have to LIKE it, though. Or ACCEPT it. Why do I have to change just to be accepted? Because the status quo is ridiculous? Because misogyny is the way of the world? Because HAWT chicks are the best breeders?
I sometimes wonder why I keep going, you know?
I would really, REALLY like to say that I don't give a shit about CR's rejection.
I would really, REALLY like to say a LOT of things that aren't true, about how "perfectly all right" and "great" and "wonderful" I'm feeling.
I'm not.
I'm really, really not.
And I don't need any lectures about how it's my fault for trusting him, or believing him, or...
I'm well aware of what-all I've done wrong.
What I don't understand, after six years of doing RIGHT, is why I'm still completely and utterly alone.
I'm TRYING.
I get up every morning and I paste a smile on my face and I put on my best "I love the world" look.
And every single solitary night, I go to bed alone.
Something is wrong here.
I have to assume--because other people seem to be okay in this world--that the "something" is ME.
That's not easy to live with, and lately it's getting more and more difficult to accept.
And again, I wonder....what, exactly, was the thing I did that brought this all about? Because I don't think that the world is a RANDOM place--something must have led here, you know? So what did I do? What went wrong? Where was my mistake?? And can I fix it? Is there any way to make amends?
Because frankly, the thought of letting this go on for another 30-40-50-60 years? Is not something I can handle.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
You Know The Economy Is In The Crapper
...when a good 25% of my incoming links are variants on the phrase "my boss is an asshole".
(Mine, incidentally, is still SORT-of an asshole. But he's at least a FORGIVABLE asshole, unlike the late, unlamented Beverly, of Two Jobs Ago fame. The longer I work at Job I Love, the more I realize how insane it really WAS back there. Even the most egregious asshattery at this place is about eleventythree degrees of HAAAAATE below an average day at Two Jobs Ago.)
I really am blessed, you know.
(Mine, incidentally, is still SORT-of an asshole. But he's at least a FORGIVABLE asshole, unlike the late, unlamented Beverly, of Two Jobs Ago fame. The longer I work at Job I Love, the more I realize how insane it really WAS back there. Even the most egregious asshattery at this place is about eleventythree degrees of HAAAAATE below an average day at Two Jobs Ago.)
I really am blessed, you know.
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