This morning, I have:
- Re-upped on Dice and Monster.
- Signed up for the Harvard Business Review web site, which has a lot of good info and not nearly as much snootiness as expected.
- Applied for three jobs online.
- Gone out to the local food bank, only to learn they are open on Monday and Wednesdays.
- Sent a letter of inquiry to a technical writing agency.
- Began cleaning out my way overloaded email accounts.
- Had a snacky.
- Pandered to Gussy. I found him sitting under the kitchen heating vent, so I cleared out all the junk, put one of his beds next to the vent. Then I put a big pan of water on the stove to humidify the kitchen. Sheesh.
- Started a load of laundry.
- Avoided really looking at the house.
I was in a weird mood yesterday. I didn't know how to shake myself out of it, so I took a nap.
I am so cold all the time. I have the heat on 68F and I'm freezing. I think I need to drink more tea.
Oh, and insomnia has come bouncing on my chest in the morning. Wakey wakey! Rise and shine, campers! Heloo, wake up now! Are you awake yet? No? How 'bout now? Now? And because yesterday was so strange and so depressing, I have a to-do list that should keep me busy all day and well into the evening.
Alas, I have learned that there is no place in Jersey where I can sell my plasma. Pffft.
Showing posts with label fussing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fussing. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I Must Keep in Good Health and Not Die
Actually, I can do either. I can't do anything in between. I can't get sick. I can't get hurt. But I (preferably) can stay in good health or I can die. Anything else is right out.
I'm thinking of canceling my health insurance. I can't afford to use it. The money it would free up would ease my worried mind greatly.
When I went for my physical, the doctor wanted me to have an ultra sound done of my tummy. She wanted me to have an MRI for my back and hip. She had great aspirations for me, but the end result is that I haven't had any of that done.
And when I went to the gyn a little earlier, she wanted me to have a mammogram. I'm not having a mammogram. Because honestly, if there's anything going on in there, I don't want to know.
When I was updating the "Jingle" blog - actually, before that - it occurred to me that maybe I don't have ten years left. In a weird way, I hope this is true.
I was talking to my insurance agent today and he was nagging me about Roth IRAs and I told him, "I can't afford to retire. I can afford to work. I can afford to die. I cannot afford retirement." He laughed uneasily. No, I don't have life insurance with him. I don't have life insurance, period. What would be the point?
Of course, this all coincide with or is because of the medicine drawer running low to empty. I have to go this evening to pick up everything.
This morning when I got to work, exactly on time for once, I sat in my car in the nicely darkened parking deck. I leaned my seat back and I slept! For half an hour, but still, it amazed me that I could sleep anywhere other than the pile of mattresses with no peas under them.
Then later I was sitting at work and I realized why I have not been beating my brains out at work.
It's because I really don't give a fuck. Stock options, tranches, expirations, I really don't care. It's about as relevant to me as some rock falling into a quarry in Italy.
I realized that I haven't cared for a long, long time. Probably since Fezziwig & Co. made me walk Spanish down the hall. But I think it might have been earlier than that.
Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
When I see the young 'uns at work, when I see how fired up they are about dividends on expired options and how deeply they're into it, it's a nostalgic moment for me. I remember caring that much. And I remember what it got me.
No. Truthfully? I don't give a fuck. I only care as long as I can keep getting a paycheck. Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
I'm thinking of canceling my health insurance. I can't afford to use it. The money it would free up would ease my worried mind greatly.
When I went for my physical, the doctor wanted me to have an ultra sound done of my tummy. She wanted me to have an MRI for my back and hip. She had great aspirations for me, but the end result is that I haven't had any of that done.
And when I went to the gyn a little earlier, she wanted me to have a mammogram. I'm not having a mammogram. Because honestly, if there's anything going on in there, I don't want to know.
When I was updating the "Jingle" blog - actually, before that - it occurred to me that maybe I don't have ten years left. In a weird way, I hope this is true.
I was talking to my insurance agent today and he was nagging me about Roth IRAs and I told him, "I can't afford to retire. I can afford to work. I can afford to die. I cannot afford retirement." He laughed uneasily. No, I don't have life insurance with him. I don't have life insurance, period. What would be the point?
Of course, this all coincide with or is because of the medicine drawer running low to empty. I have to go this evening to pick up everything.
This morning when I got to work, exactly on time for once, I sat in my car in the nicely darkened parking deck. I leaned my seat back and I slept! For half an hour, but still, it amazed me that I could sleep anywhere other than the pile of mattresses with no peas under them.
Then later I was sitting at work and I realized why I have not been beating my brains out at work.
It's because I really don't give a fuck. Stock options, tranches, expirations, I really don't care. It's about as relevant to me as some rock falling into a quarry in Italy.
I realized that I haven't cared for a long, long time. Probably since Fezziwig & Co. made me walk Spanish down the hall. But I think it might have been earlier than that.
Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
When I see the young 'uns at work, when I see how fired up they are about dividends on expired options and how deeply they're into it, it's a nostalgic moment for me. I remember caring that much. And I remember what it got me.
No. Truthfully? I don't give a fuck. I only care as long as I can keep getting a paycheck. Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Independent of What?
It's supposed to be 95 degrees today. Which means it will be closer to 100. Gah.
I was thinking about Independence Day, and not the Will Smith movie.
After what our ancestors fought for, either as a Revolutionary War soldier or a later immigrant who struggled to survive in a new land, what exactly are we independent of right now?
Just one come-hither-and-pay-up gesture from the Chinese and we're doomed. I don't call that independent.
As someone who owes a great deal of money to her mortgage company and has recently added an enormous debt to that, I don't feel independent.
Yeah, yeah, I get it. No man is an island, blah blah blah.
But I don't think the American War for Independence was fought so an American government could so rampantly pick my pocket instead of a British government doing the same.
Pleasantville picks my pocket to send other peoples' children to inferior public schools. The State of New Jersey picks my pocket to give money to townships far, far away. The Federal government picks my pocket to support retired Congressmen and women.
No. I don't feel so independent. Ask me when I'm living off the grid someplace, making enough money to survive but not enough money to tax. Maybe then I'll feel independent.
I was thinking about Independence Day, and not the Will Smith movie.
After what our ancestors fought for, either as a Revolutionary War soldier or a later immigrant who struggled to survive in a new land, what exactly are we independent of right now?
Just one come-hither-and-pay-up gesture from the Chinese and we're doomed. I don't call that independent.
As someone who owes a great deal of money to her mortgage company and has recently added an enormous debt to that, I don't feel independent.
Yeah, yeah, I get it. No man is an island, blah blah blah.
But I don't think the American War for Independence was fought so an American government could so rampantly pick my pocket instead of a British government doing the same.
Pleasantville picks my pocket to send other peoples' children to inferior public schools. The State of New Jersey picks my pocket to give money to townships far, far away. The Federal government picks my pocket to support retired Congressmen and women.
No. I don't feel so independent. Ask me when I'm living off the grid someplace, making enough money to survive but not enough money to tax. Maybe then I'll feel independent.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
The Body is Annoyingly Weak
Last night, I put together the cubby shelves that I bought from IKEA. And this morning was very annoyed that I could not lift the thing up by myself. I needed at least two strong men. And then two others could lift the shelves up. Ahem.
No. Actually, this would be the point where I got my cray-cray on. I know that near Favorite Bagel Shop, there's a paint store and that's where Los Amigos hang out every day, waiting for work. I was actually half way there before I began to question the wisdom of it.
Girlfriend, I said to myself. Are you cray-cray?
It didn't matter. Los Amigos either had their assignment for the day or they were taking the time off like every other sane person. Mexicans go to the moon, too, I suppose.
By the time I had downed a venti hazelnut coffee, I thought, well, the house is so desperate for attention, I can clean around the cubby shelves and wait until Stash and Stash Jr. return home. I can put the house into order and not be ashamed when they come in.
I have cleaned about one-third of the kitchen. It has taken me two hours. I find I have to break frequently and this annoys me, too.
Where has Big Strong Woman gone? That was me. Where did she go? Come back. You are needed.
I had big plans on how clean I was going to get this house, but I think I need to reassess those plans.
At least the IKEA shelves served a the jump-start I've been needing for a very long time now.
There are shiny things in the kitchen now. It's nice.
No. Actually, this would be the point where I got my cray-cray on. I know that near Favorite Bagel Shop, there's a paint store and that's where Los Amigos hang out every day, waiting for work. I was actually half way there before I began to question the wisdom of it.
Girlfriend, I said to myself. Are you cray-cray?
It didn't matter. Los Amigos either had their assignment for the day or they were taking the time off like every other sane person. Mexicans go to the moon, too, I suppose.
By the time I had downed a venti hazelnut coffee, I thought, well, the house is so desperate for attention, I can clean around the cubby shelves and wait until Stash and Stash Jr. return home. I can put the house into order and not be ashamed when they come in.
I have cleaned about one-third of the kitchen. It has taken me two hours. I find I have to break frequently and this annoys me, too.
Where has Big Strong Woman gone? That was me. Where did she go? Come back. You are needed.
I had big plans on how clean I was going to get this house, but I think I need to reassess those plans.
At least the IKEA shelves served a the jump-start I've been needing for a very long time now.
There are shiny things in the kitchen now. It's nice.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Family Circus of My Brain
You know. How Billy always wanders around. His mother sends him to get a pencil and he goes to a toy shop, a golf course, hangs out on the playground and at the last minute, comes home. With a pen.
---
Cousin Karen's coming to visit for the 4th. I have warned her that the house now looks like something out of "Hoarders". And I'm serious. I may empty the wastebaskets and will def. change the sheets on her bed and stash the laundry, but that's it.
------
Scarlett O'Hara to the rescue.
To say that the white folks are greatly outnumbered by the brown folks at work is not an exaggeration of any kind. For five Vishanueswathalmy Burusumpwaddi, you will find one Bob Smith. I work with two guys who are both Indian and both pretty tasty looking. One of them is named Gopal. The other is Vijay. I can never tell who's who. The other day, Gopal (or Vijay) came over to my demi-cubicle and I completely drew a blank.
"And your name," I said, "is..."
"Gopal!"
"I'm sorry, Gopal. I always confuse you with Vijay. That's because I never can decide which of you two is the handsomest."
Gopal, a married man, blushed furiously and laughed. Beside me, Rosy snorted. Gopal went away. I punched her with my elbow. "Shut up. It worked for Scarlett O'Hara and it just worked for me. Doesn't that sound a lot better than 'You all look alike to me'?"
----------
Some bug crawled up Rosy's ass. I have only an inkling that it has to do with what she's going to do with her house, now that Tony the Guinea has upped sticks. In her heart, she wants to go back to the Bronx. I can see it in her, this ache to go back. I know what that ache feels like, but I wonder if it really is home again.
---------
Rosy has stopped eating lunch with me.
---------
I have found Praireprincess's blog. I didn't go looking for it, but she wanted to friend me on Facebook.. She told me where the blog is.
I wish I knew why people that I thought were my friends just disappear. Wolf Woman's parting gifts to me were books. One was called "Living the Science of Mind". The other was a Buddhist monk's musings on anger.
From this, I conclude that she thought I was angry. She gave me those gifts. And that was the last I heard of her.
I wish I knew what it was. It would be nice to have a couple of friends within 25 miles of me before I die.
----------
I have a piano lesson in an hour. I have not touched the piano for two weeks. I just burned my fingers. I don't want to go. I wonder if I could just ask him to play for me for half an hour? Seriously, what am I paying for?
Maybe Wolf Woman got tired of my seeming inability to complete anything.
Hey, I ended my marriage. Doesn't that count for something?
------------
I don't feel funny anymore. But at least I'm getting more work done at work.
----------
I'm listening to a great recorded book, "Pompeii" by Robert Harris.
---------
I burned my fingers because I was making grits for dinner and they popped right out of the saucepan and onto my hand. That freakin' hurts.
--------
Is anybody else sick of heroic cripple stories? I am up to the gills with them. The latest came from my Speechifiers Monthly, about a guy who nearly died from burns when he was two years old but is now a freakin' inspiration. Is that a job description? Does anyone realize when they're writing this crap how demeaning it is? Is that idiot on Long Island who sawed off his arm going to have to be the one-armed hero now and for the rest of his life?
----------
I'm going to my piano lesson. Stay tuned for further fussing.
---
Cousin Karen's coming to visit for the 4th. I have warned her that the house now looks like something out of "Hoarders". And I'm serious. I may empty the wastebaskets and will def. change the sheets on her bed and stash the laundry, but that's it.
------
Scarlett O'Hara to the rescue.
To say that the white folks are greatly outnumbered by the brown folks at work is not an exaggeration of any kind. For five Vishanueswathalmy Burusumpwaddi, you will find one Bob Smith. I work with two guys who are both Indian and both pretty tasty looking. One of them is named Gopal. The other is Vijay. I can never tell who's who. The other day, Gopal (or Vijay) came over to my demi-cubicle and I completely drew a blank.
"And your name," I said, "is..."
"Gopal!"
"I'm sorry, Gopal. I always confuse you with Vijay. That's because I never can decide which of you two is the handsomest."
Gopal, a married man, blushed furiously and laughed. Beside me, Rosy snorted. Gopal went away. I punched her with my elbow. "Shut up. It worked for Scarlett O'Hara and it just worked for me. Doesn't that sound a lot better than 'You all look alike to me'?"
----------
Some bug crawled up Rosy's ass. I have only an inkling that it has to do with what she's going to do with her house, now that Tony the Guinea has upped sticks. In her heart, she wants to go back to the Bronx. I can see it in her, this ache to go back. I know what that ache feels like, but I wonder if it really is home again.
---------
Rosy has stopped eating lunch with me.
---------
I have found Praireprincess's blog. I didn't go looking for it, but she wanted to friend me on Facebook.. She told me where the blog is.
I wish I knew why people that I thought were my friends just disappear. Wolf Woman's parting gifts to me were books. One was called "Living the Science of Mind". The other was a Buddhist monk's musings on anger.
From this, I conclude that she thought I was angry. She gave me those gifts. And that was the last I heard of her.
I wish I knew what it was. It would be nice to have a couple of friends within 25 miles of me before I die.
----------
I have a piano lesson in an hour. I have not touched the piano for two weeks. I just burned my fingers. I don't want to go. I wonder if I could just ask him to play for me for half an hour? Seriously, what am I paying for?
Maybe Wolf Woman got tired of my seeming inability to complete anything.
Hey, I ended my marriage. Doesn't that count for something?
------------
I don't feel funny anymore. But at least I'm getting more work done at work.
----------
I'm listening to a great recorded book, "Pompeii" by Robert Harris.
---------
I burned my fingers because I was making grits for dinner and they popped right out of the saucepan and onto my hand. That freakin' hurts.
--------
Is anybody else sick of heroic cripple stories? I am up to the gills with them. The latest came from my Speechifiers Monthly, about a guy who nearly died from burns when he was two years old but is now a freakin' inspiration. Is that a job description? Does anyone realize when they're writing this crap how demeaning it is? Is that idiot on Long Island who sawed off his arm going to have to be the one-armed hero now and for the rest of his life?
----------
I'm going to my piano lesson. Stay tuned for further fussing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)