October In The Chair

I am currently not at work. Why is that?

My hours have been cut to 32 a week.

I don't even have any words for this.

Last week, after I was told (on the same day I had to take not one, but TWO finals, mind you), I was full of so much dread and apprehension that my skin was taut with tension and you probably could have bounced a silver dollar off the black cloud hovering above my head. Since then, I've made some plans (like filing for partial unemployment, which I did this morning) and have managed to pull myself mostly together. Mostly.

I'm scared. 40 hours a week is nigh on a disaster for me, paycheck-wise. 32 is almost incomprehensible. The partial UE will help somewhat, hopefully enough to keep my head above water. I just need to keep treading. I plug away at the job websites, but there really isn't much out there that isn't way above my skill sets or impossibly far to travel. I never heard back from the place I actually interviewed with, though. I'm not surprised, though the Engineer is. I kept saying that the likelihood of me getting the very first job I interview for was so slim that I couldn't set my hopes on it. Perhaps that was shooting myself in the foot, but I certainly didn't go into things thinking or acting like it was useless to give it my all. I went in with all barrels loaded; I just missed the target. Or the target missed me, however you wish to look at it.

School's done for the semester, thankfully. I think I managed to pull a B in Abnormal Psych, despite the discovery I had missed one of the exams by accident (and it was the section on schizophrenia, something I could have done with my eyes closed and the book shut). I got a 90 on the final. Moral Choices, I still have no clue as to what I got in that class because the professor does not give us the ability to check our grades throughout the semester like the other classes did. Women in Literature, I think I got a B as well. Given that all three of those were throwaway classes designed to keep my student loans off my back, I'm not incredibly concerned about performance (and lo, does it show), but I'm irritated with myself for doing that to my GPA. Intro to Funeral Service, I got an A (duh) and when I got my final paper back during the last class, the professor had written: This is the best paper I've read all year. THANK YOU! hee.

Next semester starts in late January. Human Anatomy twice a week and Funeral Service Principles, which sounds a lot like Intro to Funeral Service to me. Both are in meatspace, so I'll be hauling ass to campus three times a week, something which does not fill me full of joy and song. A necessary evil.

I've been conscripted by the Engineer and two of our friends into GMing a RPG, something I fought most valiantly. For months, they tortured me because they wanted to play Dungeons and Dragons, but didn't have anyone to run the game. They wanted me to do it, despite the fact I've only ever been a player in any game and hadn't even done that since my ex-husband and I split up nine years ago. I kept telling them no, no, and no. Finally, after waxing rhapsodical about the yesteryears of playing Kult (it was always my favorite game ever), I made the mistake of saying I'd be willing to play it, but alas- the books are out of print!

Cue my birthday and three gaily wrapped presents laid into my hot little hands, which turned out to be the three necessary books to start a proper game. hoom.

I put it off and off and off again, but eventually caved and started writing an adventure for them. I decided to use my old character, Charlie, as the main NPC for right now and wrote her into the history in such a way that some of the others who used to play could easily be inserted if they ever felt the urge to come by for a one shot.

It's interesting picking up a character I'd put so much into, after so long, and seeing what's become of here after all these years. Bill and I had put a lot of work into fleshing her and her story out way back when, but coming back to it is like returning to a previously written character in an actual story. It's weird, I've never revisited something I'd written after quite that much time since first creation. I fell back into her role readily, but it's difficult to play her without having the former surrounding cast there as well.

After only a brief introductory game, where I brought everyone together and set up the bare bones of a storyline, many weeks passed where we did not play. Chalk it up to the general malaise and ennui I was subjecting myself to if you like, but I didn't have the time or energy to put into a game until this past weekend. We played for roughly three hours, much later than the Engineer's normal bedtime generally allows and I'm sure he'll be feeling that when he gets home from work tonight, but it felt...good. We didn't get to quite finish the episode I had constructed, but that's ok. I stopped things at a point where it will fit seamlessly with what I concocted in my head on the drive home from Delaware this afternoon (I'd gone to get cigarettes).

I'm actually kind of nerdishly excited to get the rest of the game going with the seed of the story I've managed to grab onto. It heavily cribs from Caitlin Kiernan's books and cosmology, unabashedly so at that, but her writing fits in so well with the Kult universe that I couldn't resist it. I came home and scribbled notes down in an almost fever, which I'll go back to later and draft into a proper outline. Probably tonight, after I've gone out and deposited my paycheck.

One of the things I never knew before, since I'd never run a game, is how easily it is to go arse over teakettle with the power of how fun it is to just purely torture the PCs. Now I know why Bill was so into this for so long, and still is. Perhaps as the game progresses, I'll write entries for what goes on in the game. Energy permitting, obviously.

So, a resume comes across my desk that has one huge glaring error emblazoned upon it.

Well, actually just the cover letter part, but the error was there and it made my entire goddamn life.

Their printer must have shit itself or something because instead of "respectfully yours", it said "respectfully yo".

I have been cackling for hours.

XD

It's March 10th and I didn't even realize it, as wrapped up in my own petty machinations and day to day as I have been. Every year, I always try to say something to any of the staff I can get a hold of, let them know the work they do is necessary and appreciated (even if it rarely feels that way). This year, I just plain forgot. Too much on my mind, not enough room to kick around in. It's become a pattern of mine, as familiar to my eyes as my own fingers and hands.

Regardless, March 10th remains an important date. On this date, in 1993, Dr. David Gunn, the only practicing abortion provider in a poor and rural community- hell, the only OB/GYN in that community period- was assassinated by a single gunman who shot him three times in the back as Dr. Gunn was attempting to enter a clinic in Pensacola. Dr. Gunn was the first casualty in a startlingly long and distressing list detailing the violence perpetrated against abortion providers and their staff.

Obviously, as I was only just out of high school when it happened and had never even heard of my current employer, I never met or spoke to Dr. Gunn. But, his presence is felt within this office every single day. I work with doctors who traveled to Pensacola after Dr. Gunn's murder so that patients could still be seen; one of these physicians still travels there every week. He was a good man, a dedicated physician who himself traveled to a variety of locations that strike fear in the heart of abortion providers: Tallashassee, Birmingham, Savannah, Mobile. All areas that are not exactly known for their friendliness to those involved in the struggle to keep women's reproductive rights legal and widely available.

I've never traveled to the South in line with my work, but I have gone to other areas where it was made quite clear that I and my co-workers were not welcome. Erie, Pennsylvania sticks out the most in my mind because the anti-choice organization that set up shop down the hall from our suite were some of the creepiest people I've ever come across. Never a word to our faces, just watching. They wrote down the license plate number to the rental car we were in, they stared at me as I took cigarette breaks, every time any of us left our suite- they stood out in the common hallway and watched what we were doing. Fantastically unsettling. I didn't sleep easy that night in my rented room at the Microtel and I left that town looking over my shoulder.

My employer's home office, the one I work directly out of, is in a town that seems to have no idea we are here. There are two other providers in this general area and they are usually teeming with protestors on various days, but we really only get them on Saturday mornings. If it's nice out. A small handful of little old ladies will set up camp in their lawn chairs on the other side of the sidewalk to pray the rosary and not even look up at the cars driving by or pulling into the parking lot. Occasionally, we have a middle-aged man who walks up and down the main road with a fairly innoculous sign. It's quiet. We have grown forgetful of the past horrors; we are complacent and make jokes. It's so easy to forget when it's not in your face every day.

I'm not completely mindless. When I go out for cigarette breaks, I am constantly aware of my surroundings and who is in the parking lot. When I walk to my car at night by myself, I take all the necessary precautions. I don't let people into the building when the main door is locked, if I don't know who they are. I don't give out names or addresses over the phone. I hesitate briefly before I get into my car, to make a quick sweep with my eyes, and lock the door as soon as I'm inside. But really, those are the types of things any woman leaving work at night by herself should be doing. It's not special to my own circumstances, which is a scary fact all on its own.

But for Dr. Gunn, Dr. Tiller, their support staff, and even the staff in some of our other locations that are hit much harder than we are, this was and is a very real fact that must be contended with on a daily basis. I tend to allow myself to get swept up with the grind of working, annoyed by the constant drama that comes along with working in HR, that I frequently don't stop to think about those who came before and those I work with who bear more of the load's brunt than I do.

Without them, none of this would be possible.

And for that, I appreciate the hell out of them.

I was a teenager this evening. Hanging out with an old high school friend, talking trash on one another while playing video games. I got deadleg from sitting on the floor and he started to beat the tar out of me in our game. Now, the apartment is silent except for planes overhead and the one a.m. freight going past.

Work is full of drama. Full to the point where my boss asks me about moon phases because she knows I'm weird and hold that sort of knowledge. Three quarters of our insurance department got into a fight on Wednesday. It started on Facebook, despite the fact that they all sit within five feet of one another, then escalated into a screaming match while everyone else was in a meeting. Lovely.

Last weekend, I tried to convince the Engineer it would be a fantastic idea if he went up to the counter at our local video rental store to ask them if a particular film was the one where Dakota Fanning gets raped. He didn't think it was such a great plan. (I honestly wanted to know if it was the film, because I'd heard something about it and heard it was good. But, the devil on my left shoulder who likes to scatter golden apples got in the way.)

This weekend, I will blow off steam. I will dance, drink rum, and maybe wear feathers in my hair. I will hang out with my girl, Miss Janette, and be unladylike. I will not throw myself at any rockstars, should I happen to meet them, and nor will I get into any trouble I am unable to get myself back out of.

Then, I will sleep. Sleep has turned into an old friend I rarely see anymore. We run into each once in a while and there is stilted and awkward exchange, the type where we shuffle our feet against the ground and refuse to make eye contact.

I should be sleeping right now, but instead- I am writing.

Joanna visited me at work today to say hi and drop off the holiday gift she had gotten for me.

It's cookie cutter shaped like a fetus, which fills my embittered heart with so much joy and song.

I plan on making cookies for the next Mason bake sale with this. Tell everyone they're supposed to be bears or something. hah!

Also, I am currently eating a honeycrisp apple. It tastes strangely of perfume, which is probably due to the fact it's been in my messenger bag all damn day.

So, a minute ago I went around to the back of my computer in my office to grab the speaker cord. Everyone else has left for the day, I'm still here for another half hour, and I wanted to hook up my iPod and get retarded with the loud music. King Crimson, perhaps. Or maybe it's a stand on my desk and go-go dance kind of day, so it could have been Deee-lite or the B-52s.

And to what do my wandering eyes appear? NO GODDAMN SPEAKER CORD. BECAUSE APPARENTLY, SOMEONE STOLE IT.

Who steals a speaker cord, I ask you? Seriously. And I know someone took it because where the hell else would it be, but attached to the back of my computer? I was so baffled by all of this, I even looked back there twice. Like, oh, maybe I just imagined it not being there so I should look again OH MY GOD IT'S STILL NOT THERE.

Now I'm pissed.

I get to sit here, in my cold ass office (because they turn the heat off at a certain point of the day, normally it's five o'clock, but I suppose they reckoned since it was Christmas Eve, no one would be here), with no music. I can't even watch YouTube because it's blocked from our server. Boo and hiss.

Goddamnit.

Fuck. The. Phillies.

Yeah, that's right. I said it.

My office is directly across the street from a PATCO station. PATCO, for those of you not from this area, is the train which runs from New Jersey to Philadelphia. Many stops on both sides of the bridge and I've used it more than once (in my misspent youth and my more cantankerous years) to travel.

Today, there's a giant fuck-off parade in the city because the Phillies won the World Series. Many people from South Jersey support the Phillies and wish to go to the parade, but not drive there.

I don't know if you can see where this is going. However, LET ME TELL YOU INTERNETS, I was not pleased in the least to pull into the parking lot this morning and almost get hit by some parade-going jackass going in reverse. Our wee parking lot is almost full, or rather- was almost full when I came in half an hour ago. It's probably full by now.

I'm so angry I could spit. This is private property. We are a goddamn doctor's office, who will be seeing patients shortly. How will our patients park, if there are no spots and no street parking?

Personally, I think they should all be frigging towed. This, apparently, is not a popular opinion around the office. I do not believe that the local team winning the World Series, which is not a global game and thus, the name gets on my fucking nerves, is a good enough reason for people to just start blatantly ignoring private property signs (which state you will be towed if you are unauthorized to park here). I do not care in the slightest that the Phillies won. I didn't care yesterday and I REALLY don't care today. I don't like sports, I don't follow any sports teams, and I certainly don't give a good goddamn who wins what "important" game.

Our executive assistant went outside to speak to a couple of the boneheads hanging around their Mazda. It would seem there is a two to three hour wait just to buy tickets to get on the goddamn train (the Engineer was unable to go to school today because three of the train stations closer to our apartment building were also overrun by these bagger-smashers). Some people are leaving, but most of them are not.

Now, I'm concerned about leaving the office at any point today for fear of losing my parking spot. I'm also not very fond of the idea of what kind of state these people will be in on their way home after the parade. I work until 8 o'clock; everyone else in the building is usually gone by 5 or 6. I do not want to be dealing with shitfaced a-holes. And given the events on Broad Street the other night, I'm sure there will be at least a couple.

This is irritating beyond all possible belief.

I am at work at 9:30 in the morning; I have been here since 8:45. THIS IS UNNATURAL.

(and before anyone starts crying about how they go to work at stupid o'clock, please bear in mind that I have been arriving at work at 10am for the past four and a half years.)

Class yesterday left me with an angry face. For starters, the air doesn't apparently work in that room and yesterday was quite warm. It's also a small room and the door and windows were shut. Full house.

Yeah, can you imagine that funk? It smelled like sweaty ass. Gag.

On top of that, the professor doesn't seem to know what the fuck she is doing. If she has a lesson plan, I'll eat my hat. Not only that, but at one point, she took us into the drawing studio and gave us paper and charcol and told us to draw. DRAW?! This is a fucking art history class. If I wanted to draw, I would have taken DRAWING. The syllabus also instructs us to buy a sketchbook and graphite. I can't draw to save my goddamn life; I'm not a fucking artist.

I'm giving it a couple of classes, just to see if maybe this was only first day issues. But, if things don't ship the fuck up, I'm shipping the fuck out.

I was also not alone in these feelings as there were mighty grumblings from the other students. At one point towards the end of class, the professor was kind of waffling around and flipping through the text book, trying to figure out where her fucking shoes were or something, and a girl on the other side of the room spoke up and said, "Would you like us to read the chapter, so we can be prepared for next class?" in this very pointedly snarky voice. And the professor looked up from her navel meditation and said, "Oh. Yeah. That would be great." and went back to it.

I do not compute.

How the hell can you be a teacher and be like this?

The third person we hired for the HR department three weeks ago submitted her resignation (by email, yesterday) and slid her keys under my door for me to trip over this morning.

Oh, great.

Thus, starts a whole new round of recruitment.

I am so not looking forward to this.

And the oh-so-glorious three-day-weekend did nothing but make me resistant to coming in today. But, I knew if I called out, there would be a mighty avalanche of bullshit. Because that's just how we roll here. Lo and behold, I come into work to this resignation nonsense. See?

Maybe I'll leave early today.

Why can't I be independantly wealthy and live my life as a lady of leisure? That would be awesome. I would eat hot and sour soup and play video games every day, then go to class at night. MADE OF AWESOME.

I get the hot and sour soup today, but no video games. And no leisure. What I get is a big bucket of bitchflakes and a TMJ headache from clenching my jaw all night as I slept.

If gays were allowed to marry, the population would drop.

If gays were allowed to marry, the population would drop.

If gays were allowed to marry, the population would drop.

IF GAYS WERE ALLOWED TO MARRY, THE POPULATION WOULD DROP.

...

...

It is amazing my how head has not shot clear off my neck in that class yet. By the time I finished with the rondo idiot who made the above statement, he had minor scarring and a pronouced stutter. That boy is lucky he didn't leave the room with a goddamn limp.

Ridiculous on so many levels.

In other news: I has a samosa. My Director of Operations brought it in for me because she knows of my deep, un-changing love for samosas.

Also, I got to spend last night watching men in tuxedos swan about with their henpeck gossip and political machinations. It was all so incredibly Roman senate-like and it was almost too much to hide my giggling. I tried to convince one of my favorites my friends that now was the time for him to Hulk out. Instead of Hulk-ing out, he told me a story about how when he was a stockbroker, he got stabbed in the chest with a pencil by a competitor.

Awesome!

Afterwards, I went home and read Shakespeare's sonnets to the cats.

The end.