So recently I've been feeling kind of burnt out and lethargic at work, the kind of feeling that leads to thoughts like, "Maybe everybody on my schedule will cancel today!" and then vague clouds of guilt. This state is recurrent but fairly short-lived, so I hadn't been paying a lot of attention to it until my boss passed around a list of our core hours today. "Add these up and make sure you've got forty hours a week, plus half an hour per day for lunch on top of that," she says. So I add. Then I stare at the sum. Then I add again. And again. And then I face the fact that for the last who the hell knows how long, I've been scheduled to be at work for FORTY-SIX HOURS A WEEK.
Forty-six. Dammit. Even with what I thought was a massive amount of breaks, I was still scheduled for forty-three hours a week. I mean, sheeee-it. No wonder I felt like I was spending my whole life at work--I was. And I know some of you with tech jobs are laughing your little butts off right now, but dude, I work for a non-profit and it's one of those "inch or a mile" situations. I have no idea how this got past me. But today I got to chop the hell out of my schedule, which made me very happy indeed.
And I said, "Did you know that it's Shelly's birthday?"
She said, "I think I remember the date,"
"As I recall," I said, "we both kinda liked her,"
"Well then," she said, "that's one thing we've got."
She's catching a baby--
What a wonderful way to say, 'Happy birthday!"
Happiness is here and now
I have dropped my worries
Nowhere to go, nothing to do
Except celebrate Shelly's birthday.
Okay, enough of that. Have a great day, hon. I myself am having some kind of pants emergency (I swear I stopped washing them in hot water, and yet I cannot breathe), but I'll try to hang on.
It's a good thing you're a real sweet guy and say things like, "Have a good day, mija," and "Thank you for helping my son," because your son? Was painting his handprint on a vase that's going to become a very charming symbol of our facility and remind everybody of the individual beauty of the kids we serve, and you know how we use acrylic paint for this project? And how acrylic paint doesn't come out of fabric? Well, your son did a wonderful job following directions up until the point where we were walking into the bathroom to wash his hands, and he turns to me and says, "Nyah ha," and HONKS MY LEFT BOOB. And then I had to walk around with a hot pink handprint on my chest for the rest of the day.
We had an accidental breakfast with our across-the-street neighbors this morning--the Hubster and I had just been seated at the little nearby cafe that we like so much when W&B walked in, prompting much humor along the lines of, "Augh! We're being followed!" "Ha ha! Yes, we saw you heading out and figured you must be going someplace good!" "Is this why the previous owners moved out? You stalked them?" and so on.
W&B are great neighbors. They're a super-mega-cute retirement age gay couple who love to stand around in the street and yuk it up, which is my kind of social get-together. Probably the only downfall they provide is the persistent lawn-induced guilt--the Hubster and I are constantly getting home from work in the evening and standing around in the driveway saying things like, "So, W&B are trimming those front hedges. Our hedges could really use some work." "...yeah. Wanna order a pizza?"
It's been approximately eight months since we moved into this house, and our yard is starting to look noticeably scruffy. This may be a direct result of management style. I prefer the "tough love" school of yard work--"You'll bloom and you'll thank me for it!"--whereas the Hubster prefers to let the yard make its own life decisions. Recently, the yard has been making some rather poor choices. I'm thinking we may need to step in.
Wow. I drank a lot of coffee at breakfast, at break-neck speed, and I think I'm starting to come down. I probably ought to go attack the housework before I crash completely.
1. Not taking that apiculture (beekeeping) class when I had the chance. So what if it would have been a completely useless way to earn biology credits?
2. Never punching anybody when I was young and rash enough to get away with it.
3. Not standing up at the dinner table and screaming, "I am not deaf or stupid!" at the top of my lungs at any point in my adolescence.
4. The way I handled most of the guys I met between ages 18 and 22.
5. Not going that one time that guy in my French class invited me to a "Haitian party."
6. Not lying and saying I wanted to be a French teacher during my interview at Congres my senior year in high school. I sincerely believe I would have won a month-long trip to France instead of two crummy tickets to Wild Waters if I had lied about my career plans.
7. Not quitting the french horn until I was well and truly burned out.
8. Not being more judicious in my choice of teachers to approach that time in grad school when I realized that I was trying unsuccessfully to manage my mood swings with Coke.
9. Not finishing the pigeon story while I was still in XF fandom. I still like that one, and I would have dedicated it to Vehemently, who inspired my first-ever fandom dream.
10. Not thanking the owner of that shop in Skagway, Alaska when, during a vigorous game of "Guess My Accent," he seemed genuinely surprised to learn that I was not from Eastern Canada.
