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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.
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01 - Introduction
02 – Your first love
03 – Your parents (this is long as HELL
04 - What you ate today
05 - Your definition of love
06 - Your day
07 - Your best friend
08 - A moment
09 - Your beliefs (photo insensive)
10 - What you wore today
11 - Your siblings
12 - What's in your bag?
This week )

14 – What you wore today
15 – Your dreams
16 – Your first kiss
17 – Your favorite memory
18 – Your favorite birthday
19 – Something you regret
20 – This month
21 – Another moment
22 – Something that upsets you
23 – Something that makes you feel better
24 – Something that makes you cry
25 – A first
26 – Your fears
27 – Your favorite place
28 – Something that you miss
29 – Your aspirations
30 – One last moment
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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.

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A smeary article appeared in one of the local newspapers this week about my work and its CEO. What fun that has been, I must say.

And like any good reporter, the falsehoods were mixed so intricately with the truths that it's a bit difficult to tell them apart. I, like some of the other oldheads at the office, have just been going about my way and keeping my head down to the desk. The HR department has been such a swamp lately, both in temperature and in actual workload, that I don't really have all that much time for wild hysterics, not that I'm really prone to them in the first place. Other departments, however, are doing their very best to fling around paranoia and it is growing irritating by leaps and bounds.

On top of the article, and because of the article, Operation Rescue darkened the doorstep of one of our offices. And for once, I mean that literally. They actually stepped foot in the fucking office, thrust a camera phone in the face of one of the employees and took her goddamn picture.

Not fun.

All of this during the third week of a new Director of Operations starting with us. And here we thought we'd be able to convince her that this is such a nice and normal place to work, at least for a little while. Trial by fire, ya'll. I've been trying to keep her sane by taking her out to Starbucks for chai and lending her Jason X.

It's times like these that make me long for the days of mindless mortgage companies or soul-crushing retail work. At the same time, it also reminds me of why I continue to work here.
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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.
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The Director of Patient Support Services where I work posts articles on a bulletin board in our lunch room once in awhile that she thinks are good for the staff to read. The most recent one is about Dr. Hern in Boulder, CO. He's the last doctor in the United States who will perform late trimester abortions since the murder of Dr. George Tiller.

It's an extremely eye-opening article, which may be found here.

I didn't say much online in response to Dr. Tiller's murder. In meatspace, I wouldn't shut the hell up about it, but online- I just couldn't muster the energy. It was extremely close to home for me and I was saddened, sickened, and a host of other emotions. I wrote something up in a community in response to some abortion!wank, but that's about it.

For those who care, what I wrote is behind the cut.

Dr. George Tiller )
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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.
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The very next time I refer to Math for Liberal Arts as "Math for Retards", someone please punch me in the head. That shit is no joke, son. And it is made even less of a joke by being at nine in the morning on a frigging Saturday.

Combine that with me being sicker than I've ever been in a long-ass time and you've got an unhappy me, who is slightly worried about her GPA.

Yeah, it's that bad.

The illness I have been struck down by is refusing to leave my system. It's centered in my sinuses and makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a cold spoon. My mouth is horribly dry because I am forced to breathe through it, my nose is raw from being blown over and over, and I have a constant headache from my congested sinuses. It's as if some Devil Squid has taken up residence in my sinus cavities and refuses to jump ship.

All of this, whilst in the midst of an open enrollment for benefits at work with a two person HR department. hoom. I went home early yesterday because I couldn't think straight anymore.

I have two online exams due by the 16th or 17th that I haven't even cracked the book open for, I took one exam on Tuesday for another class that I'm pretty sure I screwed, I have Math for Geniuses homework due on Saturday (and he gives us a fucktonne of work), the apartment is a disaster, the snake needs to be fed, I need to gather up clothes for Ella's Naked Lady Party on Sunday, I need to arrange for Purple Heart to come pick up the Caddy, I need to take the Mini to be inspected, and I have three packages which desperately need to go to the post office.

If I wasn't feeling so sick, I wouldn't only be slightly crazy at all of this. But, the illness makes me shut down completely. I'm so scared of this developing into an infection because I don't have health insurance (can't afford it) and can't afford a doctor's visit.

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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.
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I had an "incident" at work a week or so ago with our new Director of Strategic Marketing that I've been brooding mulling over.

She was sitting in the break area with our Insurance Director and I had walked in to hand out some new keys (I'm the keymaster) because all of our locks had recently gotten changed. Now, keep in mind it's only her second week working with all of us.

her: So, you really do wear black every day, don't you?
me: Yep. Since I was 12.
her: I had started to wonder about it the other day when I first realized.
me: Yeah, you should see my closet. It's kind of funny. I've attempted to wear colors once in a while, but I've been doing this so long that it makes me uncomfortable to wear anything that isn't black. I like it, though.
Insurance Director: And it suits you.
her: You should totally go on one of those makeover shows.

More conversation happened after that, mostly me ranting about "those makeover shows" because all they would do is make me throw out all the clothes I've spent my hard-earned money on, cut my hair, tell me to cover my tattoos and take out my piercings. There was also a bit of soapboxing over unfair and unrealistic beauty standards being perpetuated by those shows. Needless to say, I'm not a fan of them.

And? She didn't get the hint. Not even in the least. She kept pushing the subject and trying to convince how good of an idea it was and I got pregressively angrier and more uncomfortable with the situation. It got to the point where I told her about how our previous accounts payable clerk made a joke about volunteering me for a show and how I told her if she ever did, she would have to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life. And she still didn't get it.

At first, I was only slightly peeved by the entire affair. I'm used to hearing shit like this because I dress outside the norm and have done so for more years than most LJ users have been in existence on the planet. I can usually shrug it off. My boss, who had not been there that day, heard about this incident through the grapevine (another thing I'm annoyed about, because I wasn't going to tell her) and quizzed me about it, wanting to know if I wanted to make a complaint. And I told her I didn't.

But, the more I think about it- the more it bothers me.

God knows I'm not a fashion plate; I recognize this. However, I dress professionally (even if it is mainly all black and normally involves combat boots). I'm allowed to wear my piercings at work and have my tattoos visible, therefore I do. Shit, it's half the reason why I continue to work there. I've worked in uber-corporate environments and it sucks, but I can do it if I have to. My clothes may not be found on the pages of Vogue, but I do have a sense of style. It's just my own style.

But, this chick thinks she can just waltz in and dole out advice on my appearance? Who does she think she is?

On top of all of this is the constant talk in the office of everyone's weight (and I've complained about this before). Almost every single person in the office constantly bemoans how fat they are when very few of them actually are. Eating disorders seem to be de rigueur and that's quite annoying as well. They go on unrealistic diets, constantly scruntinize each other's food in addition to their own (that's always a party), talk about how they need to exercise, and ask our doctorboss (who runs a weight-loss service) for help. Fat is a dirty word.

I'm very open about being fat. How could I not be? You know as soon as you look at me. But, you should see their faces when I refer to myself as fat and not in a negative sense, but only in a descriptive way. It even happened on Friday which just passed.

I made a comment along the lines of not being able to find some article of clothing (it escapes me as to what, at the moment) at the fat girl store (my pet name for Lane Bryant). And our purchaser almost had a heart attack over it.

her: Don't call yourself that?
me: Why? Was it a secret?

She was horrified.

I don't get it.


Dec. 24th, 2008 04:43 pm
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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.


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.

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I had a candy bar a minute ago.

No, seriously. I had it. And now I don't. It was sitting on my desk. And now it's effing melted. What the blithering fuck?

It was a Lindt Lindor extra dark 60% cocoa extra dark chocolate shell with a smooth filling, goddamnit. And I bought it yesterday while out with the Engineer looking at candy displays in Target. And I was so happy at the idea of actually eating the chocolate bar, instead of hoarding it away in a cabinet for six months (which is what I normally do with chocolate).

I have a space heater on in my office, but it's not chortling along at full blast or anything. And the chocolate wasn't sitting in front of it. What gives?

All of that being said, I really need to get on the ball and come up with an attack plan for what I'm cooking on Thanksgiving. I have to go shopping tonight for supplies because it is the only night this week I can do it and I have barely the vaguest idea of what I want to make.

I was thinking of making carmelized onion-apple bites as an appetizer. And I just now found a recipe for bacon-wrapped green beans which kind of looks promising. And these mashed potatoes. Maybe. I don't know.


Oct. 31st, 2008 10:30 am
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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.
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Watching House with the Engineer this evening and the thought passes through my mind: Why can't the doctors I work with be hot and funny and snarky?

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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?


Jun. 24th, 2008 06:06 pm
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I totally just had to write an email to El Presidente of ORGANIZATION X and inform him that if he does not get DOCUMENT X to me by Thursday, he can not continue working at ORGANIZATION X until he does. Not only that, but I also told him that in the event an employee of ORGANIZATION X does not have DOCUMENT X, their employer (meaning, him- the owner of said organization) may be subject to repurcussions of a judgey-type nature.


My business-letter writing skills are where it's fucking at, yo. Tail up.

Hilarity. Let's see how well this one blows through.
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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.
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The other day, I was heading outside for a cigarette with one of my co-workers and I paused at the copy machine to look at something that had come off the printer. I had turned around to walk away when my co-worker, Gloria, teased me impatiently for holding her up and, out of nowhere, said:

Come on, Matilda.

And it froze me in my tracks.

My mother used to call me Matilda; it was a pet name. When I was wee, I had this little, hand-me-down plastic giraffe toy that I called Matilda from some Playskool zoo or jungle set. And I took her everywhere I went for years. I don't know if the giraffe came first or the pet name, but no matter where the name came from- that's what my mother called me.

She would stand and brush my hair at the kitchen table in the morning, and sing to me.

One of my earliest memories is of that. The autumn sun spilling through the curtains, the hard bristles of the brush running rhythmic against my scalp, the dark and spicy scent of my mother's favorite perfume, and her voice.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
"Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me?"

I stood stock still there and stared at Gloria for a minute, until she gave me a funny look and said, "What?!"

I told her the story I just related to you and it made her brain blink. She didn't even know why she called me that, she said. She'd never called me anything like that ever before, never called me anything by my given name. It had just popped in her head and came out of her mouth before she even realized she was saying anything.

Mother's day is coming up.
Strangeness is afoot.

I miss my mother so fucking much.

Her absence has become so commonplace, so business-as-usual to me that it almost bowls me over when I suddenly remember and that wave of loss comes roaring back again. It washes over my face and I taste the sting of the ocean on my lips, the wave that knocked me down after I threw my arm in a wide arc and scattered her ashes into the sea.

I wish I could find that giraffe.
I miss her, too.
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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.


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

The end.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Every time I start to think that the Skesis is beginning to be kind of human, she reminds me that I shouldn't ever let my guard down.

I emailed my upcoming class schedule today, detailing when I'm going to be in the office during the week and including a note that any hours after that I need to make it back to my 50 hours a week will be made up at the weekend. This is how I've always done it.

My proposed schedule:

Monday- 10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.
Tuesday- 10:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
Wednesday- 10:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
Thursday- 10:00 a.m. to 7:30 p.m.
Friday- 10:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m.
= 41.5 hours
with 8.5 hours worked over the weekend

Now, apparently, that just doesn't fly. If I plan to work 50 hours a week, then it needs to be a scheduled 50 hours a week. Which. Fucking. Sucks. I don't always go in during the weekend, sometimes I'm just too fucking tired to do it. Sometimes I'm unable to do it because of things going on at home. And sometimes, I do go in, but I don't stay for an entire day.

If I don't want to commit to a Saturday schedule, then I constantly have to be approved every week to work on Saturday. And going in that particular direction makes me wary. I don't want it to come around on a Friday and have me get told "no can do" when I say I'm going to be working that weekend. It's bad enough when they pull the "even though we hired you all as having 50 hour wages, we need to drop you down to 40 hours" bullshit.

Additionally, I can't stay at 41.5 hours because of how badly it changes my paycheck. Those OT hours really carry me and I desperately need it to keep my head above the waterline.

I hate this place so fucking bad sometimes. Like now. But, my hands are totally tied with having to stay. No other company that I can think of would even begin to let me play with my hours every semester for school. Not only that, but most companies would be loathe to hire me purely because I'm in school and that automatically equals "not staying here for the rest of her life".

Fuck this noise.
I'm going outside for a cigarette.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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