Or God.
This is pretty much just middle-class whining, so ignore at your leisure.
What I want to know, God, is when I get a break. Sure, I'll go along with...oh, say 80% of this mess I'm in being my own doing. However. There is another 20% that needs to be accounted for. And maybe it's the old 80/20 rule - if you can brush off the 80%, then the 20% must be pretty choice.
Honestly? It hasn't been easy. Stop, I know, it could have been harder. But really. Could you please cut me some slack, or has that rope already run out?
How was I to know the weird pinging headache that I've had for over a week was caused by allergies? How was I to know that Benadryl suddenly made me go face-first into a conference room table? Especially since my past experience with Benadryl has been like waving away a fly. Yes, I know when I went out to my car for a snooze that I should have put my Big Finance badge around my neck. I also know that no matter how clever I think it is, it isn't all that smart to carry my debit card piggy backed in the ID case.
I just took three bags of trash out of my car. Oh - have you looked at my car lately? At the bashes and dings and scrapes? Anyway, I didn't find my Big Finance ID. And I'm kind of sad today because I let down The Worried Man at Big Finance.
Anyway. Ahem. RCW and I used to say to each other, in sternly warning voices, "Don't fuck away the magic." I don't think I did that. I think I gave it away in handfuls to people who didn't deserve it.
The other day, I asked myself, if I had a ten gallon pail filled with magical stardust, what exactly would I expect to have happen if I flung it up into the air?
I couldn't think of answer.
It was like the scene in "Uncle Buck" when John Candy is trying to talk to his girlfriend, who won't let him get a word in edgewise.
I could save some mone - no. I could take a va - no. I could buy new clo - no. It would rain - no. My front steps would stop crumbling - no.
Well, I still can't find my ID. Or my ego. Or my superego.
I also figured out recently that with the Mom Voice In My Head forever stilled, the Annushka Voice in My Head right along with it, that I now have the grooming habits of a 19 year old American male in a frat house. And the cleaning habits, too. I never got to rebel. Oh, I shot my mouth off a lot but I was always home before ten, cleaned the house on Saturday mornings, started dinner when I was told to, did my laundry, bought and ironed (!) table cloths. And used them. Newp. You won't see much of that around here.
So.
The Benadryl was a mistake. Reading Little Bee, despite how wonderful the writing is and how grab you by your throat the story is, I still think it's a mistake. I was going to join a reading group, you know. Oh, it's a long list. Do we have to do that now?
One thing I do have in my thin and ragged bag of tricks is a flashlight given to me by a fire fighter. (Don't ask.) It is a magic flashlight because it always illuminates the lost and misplaced. I'll use that and if it fails me for once, will go through the necessary drudgery of getting my ID and my debit card replaced.
Okay - here's the deal. You can keep raining shit down on me, but save up all the magic for that day in October, okay? Is that a deal?
You never talk back to me but I suppose that's a good thing.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Thursday, July 22, 2010
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.
Friday, March 05, 2010
An Aha! Moment in the Land of Bloody Noses
As I was sitting on the couch this morning, coffee cup in hand, Gussy brushed past me, nudged my hand and I noticed a smear of blood on my hand.
What? I turned Gussy around and yes, there was the Telltale Smudge.
This confirms it for me. I have got to get the humidifier working. Antibiotics are pointless. Phoebe mews like I'm killing her and then spits out the pill, anyway.
It gets me that this was my first suspicion and it turns out to be the likely culprit.
----------
Tired Becs is Tired
Maybe not so sad, but still exhausted and still not interested in doing much more on my days off than equipping ma maisonette with the essentials of living.
I realized during my time at OmniPharma, I shoved aside everything but work and my few social obligations. And I see where that got me.
Yes, it's true, my velocity is usually something along the lines of Prissy moseying down the street to find Rhett Butler, the hem of her skirt in hand, mumbling "Got to tote de weary load". That's unfortunately where I am most of the time. I don't think going much faster will get me much, but that's just me.
Yeah, I give up on any time away from the house. It would mean cleaning it so the petsitter wouldn't be thoroughly grossed out. I haven't had a good petsitter since MD moved to the Great Frozen north and I'm afraid she was poorly rewarded for her efforts.
MD really was the last person I trusted with my cats.
And seriously, where am I going, anyway? My passport's expired. Paris may as well be the moon.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
What? I turned Gussy around and yes, there was the Telltale Smudge.
This confirms it for me. I have got to get the humidifier working. Antibiotics are pointless. Phoebe mews like I'm killing her and then spits out the pill, anyway.
It gets me that this was my first suspicion and it turns out to be the likely culprit.
----------
Tired Becs is Tired
Maybe not so sad, but still exhausted and still not interested in doing much more on my days off than equipping ma maisonette with the essentials of living.
I realized during my time at OmniPharma, I shoved aside everything but work and my few social obligations. And I see where that got me.
Yes, it's true, my velocity is usually something along the lines of Prissy moseying down the street to find Rhett Butler, the hem of her skirt in hand, mumbling "Got to tote de weary load". That's unfortunately where I am most of the time. I don't think going much faster will get me much, but that's just me.
Yeah, I give up on any time away from the house. It would mean cleaning it so the petsitter wouldn't be thoroughly grossed out. I haven't had a good petsitter since MD moved to the Great Frozen north and I'm afraid she was poorly rewarded for her efforts.
MD really was the last person I trusted with my cats.
And seriously, where am I going, anyway? My passport's expired. Paris may as well be the moon.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Parting is No Sorrow At All
Over the course of the last couple of months, I've decided that publishing and I are going our separate ways.
There's no excuse at all for the chaos the industry is experiencing.
Once upon a time, maybe ten years ago, the Old Guard began moving out. The gentlemen and ladies of the age of A Gentleman's Pastime retired to their summer homes. In the meantime, the up and comers were people who could afford to live in New York City on $20,000 a year because they had their trust funds to make up the difference.
The industry was repeatedly stabbing itself in the gut and wondered at the same time where all the blood was coming from.
I began seeing the problem with publishing over thirty years ago, when I worked for a small magazine.
But ten years ago, there wasn't just one problem. There were many, many, many problems. And now when S&S cry and mourn loudly about a lousy year, I have no sympathy.
A friend of mine bought a Rocket reader and I thought, this is a new beginning and I don't think that many people are paying attention.
I went to industry conferences and soaked up every word. What the leaders in publishing didn't realize was that they were running on the same track and due to have a head-on collision with technology. The few that came to their senses made feeble attempts at correcting them.
One thing that I heard and shuddered at was "We've made books too precious. People don't want to throw them away." Now the industry is making certain books entirely too precious. The Kindle is a wonderful thing to behold, but could I loan a friend of mine a book that she just has to read? I somehow doubt it.
Five years ago, I heard one of the head honchos at SanDisk talk about putting a year's worth of school books on one thumb drive. It only made sense. But nothing was done with it.
Publishing has ignored technology at its peril. Technology will kill the publishing industry as it exists today. This was something I said at Unnamed Co. over and over again. I was smiled at politely and told to run away now, dear.
Oh, and the Big Idea that won me my "prize" at Unnamed Co.? Barnes and Noble has it and anyone with a smart phone can download the app. Unnamed Co. is still off wandering in the woods.
Publishing is going to be forced to change. The people coming to the fore now grew up with technology and expect nothing less in their workaday lives and in the products they offer.
I realize that there's a great deal about publishing that I was never savvy about.
For the first few months after I was laid off from Unnamed Co., I faithfully followed the comings and goings, I read PW Daily, I checked it out at the library.
Changing publishing is like trying to stop a train with one hand. You'll just be - briefly - an ugly blot on the landscape but you won't slow the train for one second.
I give. Not that anyone would notice.
There's no excuse at all for the chaos the industry is experiencing.
Once upon a time, maybe ten years ago, the Old Guard began moving out. The gentlemen and ladies of the age of A Gentleman's Pastime retired to their summer homes. In the meantime, the up and comers were people who could afford to live in New York City on $20,000 a year because they had their trust funds to make up the difference.
The industry was repeatedly stabbing itself in the gut and wondered at the same time where all the blood was coming from.
I began seeing the problem with publishing over thirty years ago, when I worked for a small magazine.
But ten years ago, there wasn't just one problem. There were many, many, many problems. And now when S&S cry and mourn loudly about a lousy year, I have no sympathy.
A friend of mine bought a Rocket reader and I thought, this is a new beginning and I don't think that many people are paying attention.
I went to industry conferences and soaked up every word. What the leaders in publishing didn't realize was that they were running on the same track and due to have a head-on collision with technology. The few that came to their senses made feeble attempts at correcting them.
One thing that I heard and shuddered at was "We've made books too precious. People don't want to throw them away." Now the industry is making certain books entirely too precious. The Kindle is a wonderful thing to behold, but could I loan a friend of mine a book that she just has to read? I somehow doubt it.
Five years ago, I heard one of the head honchos at SanDisk talk about putting a year's worth of school books on one thumb drive. It only made sense. But nothing was done with it.
Publishing has ignored technology at its peril. Technology will kill the publishing industry as it exists today. This was something I said at Unnamed Co. over and over again. I was smiled at politely and told to run away now, dear.
Oh, and the Big Idea that won me my "prize" at Unnamed Co.? Barnes and Noble has it and anyone with a smart phone can download the app. Unnamed Co. is still off wandering in the woods.
Publishing is going to be forced to change. The people coming to the fore now grew up with technology and expect nothing less in their workaday lives and in the products they offer.
I realize that there's a great deal about publishing that I was never savvy about.
For the first few months after I was laid off from Unnamed Co., I faithfully followed the comings and goings, I read PW Daily, I checked it out at the library.
Changing publishing is like trying to stop a train with one hand. You'll just be - briefly - an ugly blot on the landscape but you won't slow the train for one second.
I give. Not that anyone would notice.
Monday, November 03, 2008
An Inauspicious Start to the Week
Run, run, run, run awayyyy
It's been a long time since I've had any escape fantasies. For a long time, it was a Holden Caulfield-ish fantasy of being a mute waitress in the Coalville, Utah's sole restaurant.
Next came the t-shirt fantasy. There were some extremely cool t-shirt shops in St. Augustine, FL when I visited there many years ago. I had a fantasy of working in the t-shirt shop along the colonnaded walkway. I would rent a little house or apartment and ride my bike to work every day. My sustenance would consist of one meal a day, bought at a cheap diner, where presumably the waitresses were not mute. My apartment would be bare as a nun's cell and about as active. That was it, all day. Ride bike to work. Work, selling and making t-shirts (I have exhibited exactly zero talent at either), and riding my bike back home again.
Well, an escape fantasy came to me this morning. I don't deal with the details of what I leave behind. It's all shrouded in a mist, because the whole purpose of an escape fantasy allows no room for concern over things past.
This fantasy is to go to someplace like Columbus, Ohio or Charlottesville, Virginia where I would roll into town in the Becsmobile, find a charming empty storefront, and poof! There would appear my version of Shakespeare & Co. I would grow my hair and stop dyeing it. In a few years, it would be a shining white braid down my back. I would wear basic comfy clothes, just barely stopping short of being one of the Birkenstock Brigade. My shop would be clean and cozily lit - well enough so that old eyes can see the titles. There might be a fireplace or a faux fireplace. There would be a cat to live in the shop. I would live in a one-bedroom apartment above a florist's shop. (Hey - it's my fantasy. I can be as specific as I want.) I would occasionally have favorite customers over for dinner and when a special author came by on book tours, a reception for him / her.
That's it. And that's where I hang my sanity this morning.
---------------------
Disaster! Mayhem!
The blessed Heated Mattress Pad blinked an error code at me this morning. "FF!" it said. "FF!" I actually have a manual for the HMP and it says I need to check the connection (check), unplug the HMP (check) and then visually examine every square inch of the HMP (negatory. Maybe tonight.)
If it's dead for sure, I'll buy a heated throw and put that on the bed only when I am in the bed. I have a feeling one of the kitties (Dylan) was probably stretching (Dylan) with his claws out (Dylan) and snagged one of the wires.
-------------------
And furthermore...
My hypochondria has kicked in and I found two skin lesion on my left arm. Time to make an appointment with the dermatologist to find out if I have a rogue mole.
The kitchen clock isn't working. $1.99 from IKEA nine years ago. Hmmm... I sit in the living room every morning and write down the lastest adventures in my oh-so-exciting life and keep an eye on the time by that clock. Dang.
I think Fred's back in the office today, which scares the crap out of me since I've done bugger all in the weeks he's been gone.
There are two convention halls in central Jersey. I decided at the last minute to go to the home show. I completely forgot about Hall A and instead went to Hall B, where the Sugarloaf crafts fair was going on.
Instead, I came home by way of South Bluecollar, which has a real butcher's shop. It was open. When I went in, still in search of fillet mignon, I was astounded when Joe the Butcher told me he was completely out. "I don't know what happened," he said. "It was crazy in here yesterday and everybody wanted fillet." He sold me a New York strip. I had it for dinner last night. Poor baby. It just wasn't the same.
I realized this morning that the last time I had a vacation was...was...November, 2006. I mean real vacation, splashy vacation. I know I must have done something last year, but at the moment, I can't think of what it was. I need to do something, now, even if it's just a week at home cleaning Ma Maisonette so I don't have these frustrating escape fantasies any more.
I know I am not likely to get a real vacation for some time to come. Although lately, a seductive voice has been whispering to me, what about Paris next March? With your tax return money...Paris...Paris...
How can I hate my job when I should be very freaking grateful to have it?
How many clonazepam am I going to have to take to get through this day? Somebody start a pool. I'm saying two.
It's been a long time since I've had any escape fantasies. For a long time, it was a Holden Caulfield-ish fantasy of being a mute waitress in the Coalville, Utah's sole restaurant.
Next came the t-shirt fantasy. There were some extremely cool t-shirt shops in St. Augustine, FL when I visited there many years ago. I had a fantasy of working in the t-shirt shop along the colonnaded walkway. I would rent a little house or apartment and ride my bike to work every day. My sustenance would consist of one meal a day, bought at a cheap diner, where presumably the waitresses were not mute. My apartment would be bare as a nun's cell and about as active. That was it, all day. Ride bike to work. Work, selling and making t-shirts (I have exhibited exactly zero talent at either), and riding my bike back home again.
Well, an escape fantasy came to me this morning. I don't deal with the details of what I leave behind. It's all shrouded in a mist, because the whole purpose of an escape fantasy allows no room for concern over things past.
This fantasy is to go to someplace like Columbus, Ohio or Charlottesville, Virginia where I would roll into town in the Becsmobile, find a charming empty storefront, and poof! There would appear my version of Shakespeare & Co. I would grow my hair and stop dyeing it. In a few years, it would be a shining white braid down my back. I would wear basic comfy clothes, just barely stopping short of being one of the Birkenstock Brigade. My shop would be clean and cozily lit - well enough so that old eyes can see the titles. There might be a fireplace or a faux fireplace. There would be a cat to live in the shop. I would live in a one-bedroom apartment above a florist's shop. (Hey - it's my fantasy. I can be as specific as I want.) I would occasionally have favorite customers over for dinner and when a special author came by on book tours, a reception for him / her.
That's it. And that's where I hang my sanity this morning.
---------------------
Disaster! Mayhem!
The blessed Heated Mattress Pad blinked an error code at me this morning. "FF!" it said. "FF!" I actually have a manual for the HMP and it says I need to check the connection (check), unplug the HMP (check) and then visually examine every square inch of the HMP (negatory. Maybe tonight.)
If it's dead for sure, I'll buy a heated throw and put that on the bed only when I am in the bed. I have a feeling one of the kitties (Dylan) was probably stretching (Dylan) with his claws out (Dylan) and snagged one of the wires.
-------------------
And furthermore...
My hypochondria has kicked in and I found two skin lesion on my left arm. Time to make an appointment with the dermatologist to find out if I have a rogue mole.
The kitchen clock isn't working. $1.99 from IKEA nine years ago. Hmmm... I sit in the living room every morning and write down the lastest adventures in my oh-so-exciting life and keep an eye on the time by that clock. Dang.
I think Fred's back in the office today, which scares the crap out of me since I've done bugger all in the weeks he's been gone.
There are two convention halls in central Jersey. I decided at the last minute to go to the home show. I completely forgot about Hall A and instead went to Hall B, where the Sugarloaf crafts fair was going on.
Instead, I came home by way of South Bluecollar, which has a real butcher's shop. It was open. When I went in, still in search of fillet mignon, I was astounded when Joe the Butcher told me he was completely out. "I don't know what happened," he said. "It was crazy in here yesterday and everybody wanted fillet." He sold me a New York strip. I had it for dinner last night. Poor baby. It just wasn't the same.
I realized this morning that the last time I had a vacation was...was...November, 2006. I mean real vacation, splashy vacation. I know I must have done something last year, but at the moment, I can't think of what it was. I need to do something, now, even if it's just a week at home cleaning Ma Maisonette so I don't have these frustrating escape fantasies any more.
I know I am not likely to get a real vacation for some time to come. Although lately, a seductive voice has been whispering to me, what about Paris next March? With your tax return money...Paris...Paris...
How can I hate my job when I should be very freaking grateful to have it?
How many clonazepam am I going to have to take to get through this day? Somebody start a pool. I'm saying two.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Monday on a Tuesday
The Envelope Please....
Is it just my job PTSD acting up or am I in for some serious shite when I go in to work today? I don't know. I can't tell. Other than Science Boy's email to me on Thursday, I saw no other email flying back and forth. Which is probably because it went on in the stratosphere above my unworthy head.
Will I be back today sooner than my usual 5:30-ish, 6-ish? Time will tell.
-----------------------
In the meantime, a rant
One of the supermarkets near me - which I don't go to, for this very reason - has something like "Mommy parking". These are choice spaces right out front. In Jersey, parking is an art, a science, and a blood sport, especially the closer you get to the Turnpike.
I first saw this about ten years ago and thought, why do I have to give up a choice parking spot just because Tony and Tina decided to let loose their spawn upon the world?
When I went to IKEA last week (which is literally right next to the Turnpike), I saw at least forty parking spaces marked "Family friendly!".
Look, the wheelieman spaces just make sense. These are intended for people who need them to get their business done without adding the additional burden of wheeling the half an acre through the parking lot.
No matter that the temptation has been very strong a couple of times (in the rain or slush, when I knew I would just be running in and out), I haven't used a wheelieman space.
But these family friendly things bug me. Should the ability to reproduce guarantee good parking? Does it make them somehow better and more worthy than me?
What about the guy I saw waiting in the pick-up area, where you wait for the stacks of boxes you ordered to be delivered to you, who was talking on the phone while his seven, yes, that's right, SEVEN brats were running wild? (And yes, they were literally running wild.) He was from an ethnic group that believes the care of children should be left to wives and his was absent. And when I did see him hug a child, it was one of the boys.
Hereby decided - I'm not observing the 'family friendly' stuff. Not no how, not no way. That fact that you are eight months pregnant and are holding two toddlers by the hand cuts no ice with me. It was your choice. Live with it.
------------------------
Welcome back to traffic hell
Because all the breeder have unleashed their spawn back into school (did you know it costs $10,000 a year to "educate" each kid in public school in New Jersey?), traffic will now become hell again.
Thanks.
And have a nice day.
Is it just my job PTSD acting up or am I in for some serious shite when I go in to work today? I don't know. I can't tell. Other than Science Boy's email to me on Thursday, I saw no other email flying back and forth. Which is probably because it went on in the stratosphere above my unworthy head.
Will I be back today sooner than my usual 5:30-ish, 6-ish? Time will tell.
-----------------------
In the meantime, a rant
One of the supermarkets near me - which I don't go to, for this very reason - has something like "Mommy parking". These are choice spaces right out front. In Jersey, parking is an art, a science, and a blood sport, especially the closer you get to the Turnpike.
I first saw this about ten years ago and thought, why do I have to give up a choice parking spot just because Tony and Tina decided to let loose their spawn upon the world?
When I went to IKEA last week (which is literally right next to the Turnpike), I saw at least forty parking spaces marked "Family friendly!".
Look, the wheelieman spaces just make sense. These are intended for people who need them to get their business done without adding the additional burden of wheeling the half an acre through the parking lot.
No matter that the temptation has been very strong a couple of times (in the rain or slush, when I knew I would just be running in and out), I haven't used a wheelieman space.
But these family friendly things bug me. Should the ability to reproduce guarantee good parking? Does it make them somehow better and more worthy than me?
What about the guy I saw waiting in the pick-up area, where you wait for the stacks of boxes you ordered to be delivered to you, who was talking on the phone while his seven, yes, that's right, SEVEN brats were running wild? (And yes, they were literally running wild.) He was from an ethnic group that believes the care of children should be left to wives and his was absent. And when I did see him hug a child, it was one of the boys.
Hereby decided - I'm not observing the 'family friendly' stuff. Not no how, not no way. That fact that you are eight months pregnant and are holding two toddlers by the hand cuts no ice with me. It was your choice. Live with it.
------------------------
Welcome back to traffic hell
Because all the breeder have unleashed their spawn back into school (did you know it costs $10,000 a year to "educate" each kid in public school in New Jersey?), traffic will now become hell again.
Thanks.
And have a nice day.
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