This is my third attempt at writing this post. The first one I deleted accidentally, the second one was too whiny and self-serving. So here I go again; Round Three.
I want to start by saying how frustrating it is for me, personally, not being able to post daily as I did for most of the summer. I am exceedingly grateful to all of you who follow me and comment and have stuck with me through thick (this summer) and thin (the present).
So I no longer work full time but cannot find the time or energy to post daily. What I neglected to account for was the full tilt schedule our family runs on September through November. There is football, soccer, swimming lessons and hockey. I am also running a bit of a home-based business. So between that and the kids' extra-curricular activities, every evening and weekend are currently spoken for.
At times I'll start writing a post in my head and then abandon it because I either don't have the energy and/or the time to get it down 'on paper'. For instance, I took part in a Bridal Show this weekend and that would've provided some great material but now, it's gone, lost in the abyss of the twenty million things I have running through my mind at any given moment.
Yesterday was my day off from my part-time gig. You know the one where I wear my uniform, stand for the entire shift and negotiate the strange and mysterious workings of the 24 Hour Clock. That job, turns out, while easy-peasy brain-wise, is beginning to wreak havoc on me physically. Sore feet, sore legs, sore hips...no fun. Then to top it all off, my first day off, Sunday, I spent at the Bridal Show, also on my feet, in heels, assaulting women with jewelry. That did not help the sore-ness factor.
And yesterday, my second day off, was spent trying to save our home from being featured on an upcoming episode of Hoarders. So now my back, neck and shoulders hurt too. I am not a neat-freak. I may have mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) but trust me, this house needed cleaning. I was merely trying to achieve a state of cleanliness that would allow me to walk barefoot in my home comfortably and enter a bathroom without gagging. No search for perfection here, just livability.
I know I'm not alone. I know there are a number of you who are in the same boat. Running from one day to the next; eating standing up if you're eating at all, washing floors when you'd much rather be either playing with your kids or napping. Or maybe even eating a warm meal while seated...
I've heard it's possible. Sometime after your youngest child moves out and the oldest one moves back in.
For the time being, I'll settle for the fact I got to watch a full episode of Ellen this morning and the shared memory of my daughter and I, both belly up to the counter last night (I've taught her well), eating freshly baked (by her) peanut butter chocolate chips cookies. Not speaking but instead standing side by side staring out the window basking in the perfect combination of cookies and milk. It was a mere five minutes that made the day a little more bearable.
And today's measure of bear-ability will be somewhat improved upon knowing I got a small piece of the day to write. For me. And for you, but mostly for me.
Hopefully it was worth the wait.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Ego Check
For those of you who have been reading for awhile now, you may have noticed I have a tendency to label myself as 'intelligent'. I purposely choose to use 'intelligent' over 'smart' because I think the first word demonstrates said level of intelligence. Ego much?
Not anymore. The other night I left work promptly at 7 p.m. I was kind of annoyed because the shift itself was from 4 to 7 p.m. I muttered and complained to a few people about how I'd have to miss my son's swimming lesson and my daughter's soccer game and that it was right over supper time. Weird shift. Crappy shift. However, it went quickly enough and at 7 o'clock I trounced out of there without a care in the world.
You should know they run things on a 24 Hour clock before we go any further.
Yesterday I showed up promptly for work at 11:30 a.m. I checked the job list and noted my assigned work and then my eyes travelled to the bottom of the page where the following note was written:
'Angela, why did you only work until 7 p.m. when you were scheduled to 21:00 (9 p.m.)?'
Well, that's a good question.
So I re-checked the schedule and sure enough, there it was, plain as day, 21:00. Somewhere in this incredibly intelligent brain of mine, I turned 21:00 into 7:00 p.m.
I had noticed my co-worker, who had just arrived at 19:00 (the actual 24 hour equivalent of 7 p.m.) for his shift, looked somewhat confused when I wished him a good night and bade him farewell.
Shit.
So this was my reply:
'Sorry!! I read it wrong!!'
Obviously intelligent, am I.
Luckily my supervisor was able to laugh over it and I still have a job. Short two hours pay this week that I wasn't aware I was entitled to, but that's what you get when you're as smart as I am.
Further to my intelligence and self-proclaimed maturity level, my daughter and I attended a meeting last night. In the Spring of 2012, she will be going on a trip to Europe. Germany, Italy and Switzerland to be exact. At one point, the man in charge of this excursion spoke of the 'Rathaus' in Germany. I can't even remember what exactly it is. Probably because I spent the next five minutes whispering to my daughter about how I did not want to go to the 'rat house'. And how scared I would be of a house filled with rats. And then giggling quietly to myself.
Later I proceeded to check Facebook on my phone as the meeting carried on. I am not good at sitting still and paying attention to only one thing for any length of time. I didn't have a pen and paper so I couldn't doodle, which is my usual go to activity.
So this is me, the smartest most growed-up blogger on the block, filling you in on my week so far....
Not anymore. The other night I left work promptly at 7 p.m. I was kind of annoyed because the shift itself was from 4 to 7 p.m. I muttered and complained to a few people about how I'd have to miss my son's swimming lesson and my daughter's soccer game and that it was right over supper time. Weird shift. Crappy shift. However, it went quickly enough and at 7 o'clock I trounced out of there without a care in the world.
You should know they run things on a 24 Hour clock before we go any further.
Yesterday I showed up promptly for work at 11:30 a.m. I checked the job list and noted my assigned work and then my eyes travelled to the bottom of the page where the following note was written:
'Angela, why did you only work until 7 p.m. when you were scheduled to 21:00 (9 p.m.)?'
Well, that's a good question.
So I re-checked the schedule and sure enough, there it was, plain as day, 21:00. Somewhere in this incredibly intelligent brain of mine, I turned 21:00 into 7:00 p.m.
I had noticed my co-worker, who had just arrived at 19:00 (the actual 24 hour equivalent of 7 p.m.) for his shift, looked somewhat confused when I wished him a good night and bade him farewell.
Shit.
So this was my reply:
'Sorry!! I read it wrong!!'
Obviously intelligent, am I.
Luckily my supervisor was able to laugh over it and I still have a job. Short two hours pay this week that I wasn't aware I was entitled to, but that's what you get when you're as smart as I am.
Further to my intelligence and self-proclaimed maturity level, my daughter and I attended a meeting last night. In the Spring of 2012, she will be going on a trip to Europe. Germany, Italy and Switzerland to be exact. At one point, the man in charge of this excursion spoke of the 'Rathaus' in Germany. I can't even remember what exactly it is. Probably because I spent the next five minutes whispering to my daughter about how I did not want to go to the 'rat house'. And how scared I would be of a house filled with rats. And then giggling quietly to myself.
Later I proceeded to check Facebook on my phone as the meeting carried on. I am not good at sitting still and paying attention to only one thing for any length of time. I didn't have a pen and paper so I couldn't doodle, which is my usual go to activity.
So this is me, the smartest most growed-up blogger on the block, filling you in on my week so far....
Monday, September 20, 2010
Assholes & Butt Cracks
What to write about today? Well, I did take my two youngest children to see Toopy & Binoo at the Mall today. Is everyone familiar with Toopy & Binoo? If not, good on you. I am jealous. If so, you know what kind of day I've had.
For clarification purposes, some of what I will comment on today is based on the T & B experience and the rest are just general observations made as of late.
First of all, people are typically stupid on an individual basis but get a whole group of them together like that and the stupidity increases exponentially.
Issue #1: When did butt crack become a universally accepted accessory? Buy bigger pants. Get a belt. I loves me an elastic waist and by now this has been firmly established. That being said, I make sure, at all costs, that my pants fit. I would rather go on a fucking date with Toopy & Binoo than join the ranks of the Ass Crack Crusaders of Canada (they shall now be known as the ACCC). Or if it's not ass crack, it's underwear. Big fucking underwear. Which is better than catching a glimpse of someone's thong. Thin or not, it's just not all that appealing, but if you're not thin? It is obviously your choice as to what kind of underwear you wear but that being said, it's my choice to preserve my eye sight and help you preserve your dignity.
This is why I don't wear a bikini. Never mind how ridiculously self conscious I would be, I am thinking of you, the people, when I make the smart choice and cover up all evidence of my Vodka and chocolate binge-based activities.
Issue #2: Other people's kids are assholes. I don't think they intend to be assholes or realize that's what they are; it's simply behaviour that's been modeled for them by their asshole parents. Seriously. And yes my children can be assholes too, but in public they're generally pretty good, as they were today. They sat and patiently waited. We got there about forty minutes before the show started. Our friends we were meeting were there waiting for us. So we got our seats. (Our seats on the mall floor, I might add; sitting cross legged on a cement floor stops being fun or easy once one reaches age seven). Our collective children sat nicely. Only to have some other assholes (which is how their children ended up that way) show up five minutes before show time and seat their kids in the two inches of space directly in front of ours. I, with my own asshole-ish tendencies, tugged on a little girl's shirt toward the end of the show as she was standing right in front of my friend's child and said child's two year old cousin. Standing kid's mom, Asshole Sr., was oblivious. The child, was more than a little alarmed and surprised. To clarify I wasn't mean. I simply asked her to sit down. She looked puzzled and slightly annoyed but did sit down. Unless a child knows me well and/or I've made it clear I would appreciate interacting with them, I tend to intimidate them. I'm not proud of it, it's just a fact.
A fact that may not only apply to children, actually. Plus today I braved the world sans make-up so that always adds an edge to my ever-present charm.
Issue #3: When one knows they are going to be spending a portion of their day in public, it's wise to bathe and/or tend to other necessary and appreciated hygiene practises such as brushing one's teeth. We are in close quarters here friends.
And that is all I have to report on today. Unless someone can tell me how to get my 16 year old to stop 'horking up' phlegm and touching his 13 year old sister. No he's not touching her inappropriately or with the phlegm. He has a cold right now. So it is pretty disgusting. He simply has perfected the art of driving his sister mad with the slightest look, heavy breath or even by his very presence.
Sometimes it's funny.
And I laugh.
Which makes him happier and infuriates her. Especially if she can't help herself and laughs as well.
Sigh.
At least all of our butt cracks remain un-exposed to the general public.
Sometimes it's the little things that get me through.
For clarification purposes, some of what I will comment on today is based on the T & B experience and the rest are just general observations made as of late.
First of all, people are typically stupid on an individual basis but get a whole group of them together like that and the stupidity increases exponentially.
Issue #1: When did butt crack become a universally accepted accessory? Buy bigger pants. Get a belt. I loves me an elastic waist and by now this has been firmly established. That being said, I make sure, at all costs, that my pants fit. I would rather go on a fucking date with Toopy & Binoo than join the ranks of the Ass Crack Crusaders of Canada (they shall now be known as the ACCC). Or if it's not ass crack, it's underwear. Big fucking underwear. Which is better than catching a glimpse of someone's thong. Thin or not, it's just not all that appealing, but if you're not thin? It is obviously your choice as to what kind of underwear you wear but that being said, it's my choice to preserve my eye sight and help you preserve your dignity.
This is why I don't wear a bikini. Never mind how ridiculously self conscious I would be, I am thinking of you, the people, when I make the smart choice and cover up all evidence of my Vodka and chocolate binge-based activities.
Issue #2: Other people's kids are assholes. I don't think they intend to be assholes or realize that's what they are; it's simply behaviour that's been modeled for them by their asshole parents. Seriously. And yes my children can be assholes too, but in public they're generally pretty good, as they were today. They sat and patiently waited. We got there about forty minutes before the show started. Our friends we were meeting were there waiting for us. So we got our seats. (Our seats on the mall floor, I might add; sitting cross legged on a cement floor stops being fun or easy once one reaches age seven). Our collective children sat nicely. Only to have some other assholes (which is how their children ended up that way) show up five minutes before show time and seat their kids in the two inches of space directly in front of ours. I, with my own asshole-ish tendencies, tugged on a little girl's shirt toward the end of the show as she was standing right in front of my friend's child and said child's two year old cousin. Standing kid's mom, Asshole Sr., was oblivious. The child, was more than a little alarmed and surprised. To clarify I wasn't mean. I simply asked her to sit down. She looked puzzled and slightly annoyed but did sit down. Unless a child knows me well and/or I've made it clear I would appreciate interacting with them, I tend to intimidate them. I'm not proud of it, it's just a fact.
A fact that may not only apply to children, actually. Plus today I braved the world sans make-up so that always adds an edge to my ever-present charm.
Issue #3: When one knows they are going to be spending a portion of their day in public, it's wise to bathe and/or tend to other necessary and appreciated hygiene practises such as brushing one's teeth. We are in close quarters here friends.
And that is all I have to report on today. Unless someone can tell me how to get my 16 year old to stop 'horking up' phlegm and touching his 13 year old sister. No he's not touching her inappropriately or with the phlegm. He has a cold right now. So it is pretty disgusting. He simply has perfected the art of driving his sister mad with the slightest look, heavy breath or even by his very presence.
Sometimes it's funny.
And I laugh.
Which makes him happier and infuriates her. Especially if she can't help herself and laughs as well.
Sigh.
At least all of our butt cracks remain un-exposed to the general public.
Sometimes it's the little things that get me through.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I Throw Like a Girl
I'm a bitch. I don't like it if other people call me this unless we are acknowledging it together and laughing about it as I often do with my friend 'Stacey'. However, this whole bitch business started waaaayyyy back in the day.
Like in Grades 1 through 6 (and beyond) where some exercise or another prompted the teacher to make everyone take turns reading out loud to the class. I read like a motherfucker and always have. I read fast, I can spell, have spectacular pronunciation and enunciate like nobodies business. Since I was 6. I'm not making this up. Now other kids may have lucked out more in the athletics department, common sense or even looks but when I was 6? Or any age since then? I lack all patience for those who can't read well. So as a little bitchy elementary student, when those kids who could kick my ass on a volleyball court, stuttered and stumbled over their assigned reading? It was not beneath me to sigh loudly or glare or make fun of them (behind their back like all good bitches do) afterwards.
Now as a mature woman; a kind woman; an empathetic woman, I would never do such a thing.
Well, never may be a bit of a stretch.
I had training, again, last night and it was decided we would take turns reading sections of the manual out loud. It was not pretty. And because I would choke and be just as uncomfortable if someone asked me to skate as part of anything anytime? I can empathize because I skate like a two year old. Legs stiff and straight, arms out. It's not pretty. And it makes me self-conscious. Now some of these people who may be able to skate like Nancy Kerrigan before her knee was bashed in, or maybe sing like Susan Boyle or whatever that chick's name is from Britain's Got Talent, cannot read out loud. Not well, anyway. Do you know how tortuous it is to listen to someone read out loud badly? Do you know how tortuous it must be for said person to realize they suck at this but are being forced to do it anyway? It would be like the time I had to fill in during a Slo-Pitch game for my husband's team. I literally wanted to puke but more than that? I wanted the game to be over. I am the definition of "throws like a girl". I wanted off the field and safely back in my lawn chair with a drink in my hand.
So here's what I think: After one is finished with, at the very least, elementary school, where it makes some sense for the reading out loud business, no one, who is not comfortable with it, should ever have to do that again.
And in reference to my inherent bitchiness, at the very least, even if you can't pronounce words like 'innovative' or what have you, you should at all costs, be able to pronounce the name of the company you are now working for. It's spelled phonetically (which means you can sound it out and be exactly right). That's all I'm saying.
One more thing (you knew I couldn't leave it there, right?): adults being trained by reading aloud to one another is, in my mind, a bit of an issue in and of itself but that's where I'll leave it for today.
I've learned my lesson...for the most part. ;)
Like in Grades 1 through 6 (and beyond) where some exercise or another prompted the teacher to make everyone take turns reading out loud to the class. I read like a motherfucker and always have. I read fast, I can spell, have spectacular pronunciation and enunciate like nobodies business. Since I was 6. I'm not making this up. Now other kids may have lucked out more in the athletics department, common sense or even looks but when I was 6? Or any age since then? I lack all patience for those who can't read well. So as a little bitchy elementary student, when those kids who could kick my ass on a volleyball court, stuttered and stumbled over their assigned reading? It was not beneath me to sigh loudly or glare or make fun of them (behind their back like all good bitches do) afterwards.
Now as a mature woman; a kind woman; an empathetic woman, I would never do such a thing.
Well, never may be a bit of a stretch.
I had training, again, last night and it was decided we would take turns reading sections of the manual out loud. It was not pretty. And because I would choke and be just as uncomfortable if someone asked me to skate as part of anything anytime? I can empathize because I skate like a two year old. Legs stiff and straight, arms out. It's not pretty. And it makes me self-conscious. Now some of these people who may be able to skate like Nancy Kerrigan before her knee was bashed in, or maybe sing like Susan Boyle or whatever that chick's name is from Britain's Got Talent, cannot read out loud. Not well, anyway. Do you know how tortuous it is to listen to someone read out loud badly? Do you know how tortuous it must be for said person to realize they suck at this but are being forced to do it anyway? It would be like the time I had to fill in during a Slo-Pitch game for my husband's team. I literally wanted to puke but more than that? I wanted the game to be over. I am the definition of "throws like a girl". I wanted off the field and safely back in my lawn chair with a drink in my hand.
So here's what I think: After one is finished with, at the very least, elementary school, where it makes some sense for the reading out loud business, no one, who is not comfortable with it, should ever have to do that again.
And in reference to my inherent bitchiness, at the very least, even if you can't pronounce words like 'innovative' or what have you, you should at all costs, be able to pronounce the name of the company you are now working for. It's spelled phonetically (which means you can sound it out and be exactly right). That's all I'm saying.
One more thing (you knew I couldn't leave it there, right?): adults being trained by reading aloud to one another is, in my mind, a bit of an issue in and of itself but that's where I'll leave it for today.
I've learned my lesson...for the most part. ;)
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Roseanne?
I am neglecting this blog and not by choice. My life, despite working only part-time, is chaotic at best. I feel like a hamster on a wheel. Racing, racing, racing and getting nowhere fast. Tis also the season where my children's lives take over. It's not a matter of over scheduling. Each child is in one activity and that's enough to tip the scales in dramatic fashion. Today in and of itself will be a balancing act by day's end.
Yesterday I made a little road trip and listened to the radio on the way home after enjoying some classic Elton John on the way there. And I happened to be listening to a country station. Don't judge. I'm just as likely to listen to Eminem or Jimmy Buffet or Ray Charles; depending on the day.
Anyway I was listening to this song that is actually pretty good. I really like one specific part at the end. Then I got pissed. Because the message of said song is: we don't have a lot of money but we have love and that's all we really need.
Fuck off.
I love each and every person in this house more than I can possibly put into words but oddly enough, love doesn't actually pay bills. Try as I might, the phone company is not moved by my fierce love for each of my children. And I'm sure my husband and I could perform a...ahem, 'demonstration' of our love for one another right in the middle of the grocery store and I think all that's going to get us is arrested. For a number of things, including blinding patrons. We love each other but we also love food. Like McDonald's and anything sold at 7-11. Brad and Angelina, we are not. If I put on another hundred pounds or so the resemblance between us and Dan and Roseanne would be striking.
Speaking of which, a dear friend of mine often says I remind him of Roseanne. In attitude and life alone, not physically. Otherwise we would not be dear friends. And last night, that couldn't have been more true. You see last night, I received a bit of training at work from a 16 year old boy. For those of you familiar with Roseanne, remember when she worked at the chicken place and that high school kid was her manager? It was like that. Almost exactly. Except this boy was nice and pleasant and meant well. Oh, and my uniform is nicer. And smaller. Don't forget smaller.
I was angry. Talk about swallowing your pride. Which is probably why when discussing future plans with him and another adolescent male co-worker, I felt the need to throw out that I have a Bachelor's Degree. Which what the fuck was the point of that? Hey kids, this is where post-secondary will get ya'.
Fuck.
And despite my best efforts to keep my chin up? It's starting to drag. We still are not making enough money. I really have doubts about returning to my previous field of work and whether or not I'll even be able to get a job in said field, but it may be a necessary evil in order to make these far reaching ends meet.
In the meantime I am trying my hand at anything and everything shy of prostitution and porn. Which is really only because I'm already tired and I'm not sure what my 'draw' would be. Maybe free laundry service on top of, um, well... you know. Or maybe I could organize something for them. Because I'm more of a homemaker at present than a porn star. I feel I should clarify: I've always been more of a homemaker than a porn star.
Much like Roseanne.
Yesterday I made a little road trip and listened to the radio on the way home after enjoying some classic Elton John on the way there. And I happened to be listening to a country station. Don't judge. I'm just as likely to listen to Eminem or Jimmy Buffet or Ray Charles; depending on the day.
Anyway I was listening to this song that is actually pretty good. I really like one specific part at the end. Then I got pissed. Because the message of said song is: we don't have a lot of money but we have love and that's all we really need.
Fuck off.
I love each and every person in this house more than I can possibly put into words but oddly enough, love doesn't actually pay bills. Try as I might, the phone company is not moved by my fierce love for each of my children. And I'm sure my husband and I could perform a...ahem, 'demonstration' of our love for one another right in the middle of the grocery store and I think all that's going to get us is arrested. For a number of things, including blinding patrons. We love each other but we also love food. Like McDonald's and anything sold at 7-11. Brad and Angelina, we are not. If I put on another hundred pounds or so the resemblance between us and Dan and Roseanne would be striking.
Speaking of which, a dear friend of mine often says I remind him of Roseanne. In attitude and life alone, not physically. Otherwise we would not be dear friends. And last night, that couldn't have been more true. You see last night, I received a bit of training at work from a 16 year old boy. For those of you familiar with Roseanne, remember when she worked at the chicken place and that high school kid was her manager? It was like that. Almost exactly. Except this boy was nice and pleasant and meant well. Oh, and my uniform is nicer. And smaller. Don't forget smaller.
I was angry. Talk about swallowing your pride. Which is probably why when discussing future plans with him and another adolescent male co-worker, I felt the need to throw out that I have a Bachelor's Degree. Which what the fuck was the point of that? Hey kids, this is where post-secondary will get ya'.
Fuck.
And despite my best efforts to keep my chin up? It's starting to drag. We still are not making enough money. I really have doubts about returning to my previous field of work and whether or not I'll even be able to get a job in said field, but it may be a necessary evil in order to make these far reaching ends meet.
In the meantime I am trying my hand at anything and everything shy of prostitution and porn. Which is really only because I'm already tired and I'm not sure what my 'draw' would be. Maybe free laundry service on top of, um, well... you know. Or maybe I could organize something for them. Because I'm more of a homemaker at present than a porn star. I feel I should clarify: I've always been more of a homemaker than a porn star.
Much like Roseanne.
Friday, September 10, 2010
I Will Not Make the Same Mistake Twice
I really will not make the same mistake twice but it's so tempting. What mistake am I speaking of? You know, the one where I got fired for blogging about work. I have a new job now. And man, there is some good material there. It's like when I used to blog about the other place I would essentially write the blog in my head throughout the day as it transpired.
That happened to me today at my new job. I felt a slow smile creep across my face as I thought of the title and content of this blog. And then, the smile, slowly crept away.
Sigh.
There are new characters screaming for nicknames. They are scenarios begging to be written about. Laughs to be had...and yet here I am; blogging about my unwillingness to sacrifice another job.
But...
This job literally pays one-third of my old one. Losing it would not be the end of the world...think of the material.
I better not.
So what to write about instead? Pedestrian happenings of every day life like the food caught between my teeth that flossing was unsuccessful in removing? How tired I am? Bad reffing at my son's football game?
Nah.
See besides all the great new characters and scenarios at my new job, it's not pissing me off. Unfortunately anger seems to be one of my greatest inspirations for writing. At present I'm not angry; I didn't fall down today; Rhett continues to be joyful about his penis but that's nothing new. And for any new readers Rhett is my three year old and this is developmentally appropriate behaviour; I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea.
I'm reluctant to publish it because it is so mundane but more reluctant not to publish because then I'll have gone *gasp* two whole days without blogging! I shan't do it.
So here it is...I can't blog about work because the other place took all the fun out of that. I'm not angry and therefore am ill-inspired and I have something caught between my teeth. That is annoying but not enough to fuel a rage-y but humorous rant.
So I'll end with something equally commonplace and call it a night...Have a Good Weekend.
anyone interested in pissing me off so can write???
That happened to me today at my new job. I felt a slow smile creep across my face as I thought of the title and content of this blog. And then, the smile, slowly crept away.
Sigh.
There are new characters screaming for nicknames. They are scenarios begging to be written about. Laughs to be had...and yet here I am; blogging about my unwillingness to sacrifice another job.
But...
This job literally pays one-third of my old one. Losing it would not be the end of the world...think of the material.
I better not.
So what to write about instead? Pedestrian happenings of every day life like the food caught between my teeth that flossing was unsuccessful in removing? How tired I am? Bad reffing at my son's football game?
Nah.
See besides all the great new characters and scenarios at my new job, it's not pissing me off. Unfortunately anger seems to be one of my greatest inspirations for writing. At present I'm not angry; I didn't fall down today; Rhett continues to be joyful about his penis but that's nothing new. And for any new readers Rhett is my three year old and this is developmentally appropriate behaviour; I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea.
I'm reluctant to publish it because it is so mundane but more reluctant not to publish because then I'll have gone *gasp* two whole days without blogging! I shan't do it.
So here it is...I can't blog about work because the other place took all the fun out of that. I'm not angry and therefore am ill-inspired and I have something caught between my teeth. That is annoying but not enough to fuel a rage-y but humorous rant.
So I'll end with something equally commonplace and call it a night...Have a Good Weekend.
anyone interested in pissing me off so can write???
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Mitigating Factors
As we all well remember, and for those of us who don't, head back to the beginning and read 'The Jig is Up' and you'll be caught up to speed; I was fired. Or in their terms, 'terminated' on July 27. However I had one final meeting last Friday as to the state of said termination and any potential wiggle room regarding acceptance of a resignation as an alternative to being terminated and thereby completely fucking up any chances of me working in that field again.
There is no wiggle room. There is not even any tight shuffling room. And this? Made me angriest of all. Of all the meetings I've been involved in since the end of June in regards to this blog and that career, this is only the second time I've had to fight back tears. The first meeting I was less successful. This is likely because that meeting was spent voicing my concerns and frustrations within said career. Because hating aspects of it or not, I cared, a lot, about what I did. And I'm afraid that's what did me in.
When I was terminated though? I was cool, calm and collected. Unfazed. Not even slightly rattled. I was polite and professional. I flashed them my winning-nest of smiles and thanked them for their time.
However this last meeting when we discussed non-existent flexibility in terms of my job loss status? I fought a good fight and did not shed a tear in front of them. Why was I emotional? Because they decided there were no mitigating factors in reference to all that has taken place.
And that is where I beg to differ.
Never mind I worked there for ten years and was held in pretty good favour by co-workers and community members alike. Never mind I worked ridiculous hours and fought with all my heart to do what I thought was in the best interest of others and put my self and my family on the back burner. Never mind I ate shit day after day because I thought that what I was doing meant something and was for the greater good. Let's leave those things right out of the equation.
What should we talk about? Lack of direction given? Or lack of support provided? Should we talk about time-owed or time stolen? Or should we talk about plain old insubordination and the consistent clean up of others' work time and time again?
No.
Why aren't we talking about any of these things? Can someone tell me why?
Never mind.
I think I know the answer to that question. Nobody wants to look at the bigger picture. I was made an example of. A good one at that. Often known for working hard; again the long hours, lots of travelling, the tendency to get worked up when fighting the 'system' on behalf of someone else. I had been there for ten years. Generally had a good reputation. On the other side of that? I am opinionated and passionate. Those two things when combined with frustration do not an easy employee make. I am also intelligent. Add that into the mix and it's a great big bowl of Shut the Fuck Up from their point of view.
I was reprimanded at this final meeting for posting about having been terminated. Funny, because I assumed once my ass was fired I could pretty much do whatever the fuck I wanted because they do not own me anymore. For the first time in, at the very least, four years, my mind, body and soul are again my own.
I sleep at night. I speak to my family members instead of barking at them or asking them to just "please (not to) talk to me". I have trouble, at times, blogging because I'm not angry all of the time anymore.
I'm just me. The girl with a Bachelor's Degree that is pretty much useless at present. The girl who had a career but now has none. The girl who now punches a clock, wears a uniform and a couple of times a shift, sweeps the floor. A girl who, when done sweeping the floor and punching the clock, walks out without a worry on her mind. A girl whose marriage is improved and whose husband is adamant she should never go back to work there even if it were an option. A girl whose children are again her priority and don't have to complete with a job for my attention, my energy; for me.
A girl.
And if my one anonymous follower is them? It's time for you to leave now. We are done.
There is no wiggle room. There is not even any tight shuffling room. And this? Made me angriest of all. Of all the meetings I've been involved in since the end of June in regards to this blog and that career, this is only the second time I've had to fight back tears. The first meeting I was less successful. This is likely because that meeting was spent voicing my concerns and frustrations within said career. Because hating aspects of it or not, I cared, a lot, about what I did. And I'm afraid that's what did me in.
When I was terminated though? I was cool, calm and collected. Unfazed. Not even slightly rattled. I was polite and professional. I flashed them my winning-nest of smiles and thanked them for their time.
However this last meeting when we discussed non-existent flexibility in terms of my job loss status? I fought a good fight and did not shed a tear in front of them. Why was I emotional? Because they decided there were no mitigating factors in reference to all that has taken place.
And that is where I beg to differ.
Never mind I worked there for ten years and was held in pretty good favour by co-workers and community members alike. Never mind I worked ridiculous hours and fought with all my heart to do what I thought was in the best interest of others and put my self and my family on the back burner. Never mind I ate shit day after day because I thought that what I was doing meant something and was for the greater good. Let's leave those things right out of the equation.
What should we talk about? Lack of direction given? Or lack of support provided? Should we talk about time-owed or time stolen? Or should we talk about plain old insubordination and the consistent clean up of others' work time and time again?
No.
Why aren't we talking about any of these things? Can someone tell me why?
Never mind.
I think I know the answer to that question. Nobody wants to look at the bigger picture. I was made an example of. A good one at that. Often known for working hard; again the long hours, lots of travelling, the tendency to get worked up when fighting the 'system' on behalf of someone else. I had been there for ten years. Generally had a good reputation. On the other side of that? I am opinionated and passionate. Those two things when combined with frustration do not an easy employee make. I am also intelligent. Add that into the mix and it's a great big bowl of Shut the Fuck Up from their point of view.
I was reprimanded at this final meeting for posting about having been terminated. Funny, because I assumed once my ass was fired I could pretty much do whatever the fuck I wanted because they do not own me anymore. For the first time in, at the very least, four years, my mind, body and soul are again my own.
I sleep at night. I speak to my family members instead of barking at them or asking them to just "please (not to) talk to me". I have trouble, at times, blogging because I'm not angry all of the time anymore.
I'm just me. The girl with a Bachelor's Degree that is pretty much useless at present. The girl who had a career but now has none. The girl who now punches a clock, wears a uniform and a couple of times a shift, sweeps the floor. A girl who, when done sweeping the floor and punching the clock, walks out without a worry on her mind. A girl whose marriage is improved and whose husband is adamant she should never go back to work there even if it were an option. A girl whose children are again her priority and don't have to complete with a job for my attention, my energy; for me.
A girl.
And if my one anonymous follower is them? It's time for you to leave now. We are done.
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