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.

A Madness in My Method

I've been me and worked with myself long enough to know how I roll.

Like the stages of grief to acceptance, I have my own way of doing things. I wish I had Visio on this PC. I'd draw you a picture. It's not a real process unless it has a flowchart.

Anyway, here's how it works:

Step 1. I am handed a new project. I am overjoyed. Here at last is the project for which I was made. My mother labored in a delivery room 54 years ago just for this specific moment.

Step 2. Boldly, I dive into the new project. I feel like I'm in a David Hockney painting because everything is so clear, no shadows, so linear, no toxic heaps on the floor. I swim flawlessly for 25% of the time. Then...

Step 3. I submit my work thus far for approval. Any confidence I had on steps 1 and 2 has by now disintegrated into jitters and the inability to look the project in the eye while I know my superiors are reviewing my work. I imagine them burying their heads in their hands, saying, "I'm not gonna tell her. You tell her. I know she was really counting on this, but for crying out loud, can't she even write a simple Whatever?"

Depending on my mood, the alternative is Ralphie Parker's fantasy in "A Christmas Story" when he hands in his "What I Want for Christmas" essay. The teacher is in such ecstasies that she writes "A+ + + + + +" all around the room.

Either scenario results in my hiding my head and playing Bejeweled 2 obsessively.

Step 4. I finally trank myself down enough to ask the question that seldom fails:

I don't know what to do next but if I did, I would ___________

Usually, it's simple to fill in the blank, even when I'm waiting for feedback.

I realize right now I'm operating in what feels like a vacuum to me and that does nothing to quell my nervousness.

Step 5. Accept that no answer will be immediately forthcoming and get to work. I realize that I may be leading myself down my own primrose path, but eh, it's something to do.

Step 6. Receive feedback. There are three possible scenarios here.

Scenario 1: They love me! They love me and think every word I write, including if, and, and the, is a perfect shrine to Strunk & White. Carry on, carry on!

Scenario 2: They hate me. I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. The document is covered with so many corrections that it looks like it's bleeding. I hang my head in despair and wait for the axe to fall.

Scenario 3: They think it's good but it needs some work. Could I finish up with the task matrices?

This whole business will be repeated until, um, it ends.

Is This the Complaint Department?

In Famille Annushka, when you're doing unnecessary bitching, someone (usually T) will pipe up, "Is this the complaint department?" To which the bitch-er will usually say, "Why, yes. Yes, it is."

I realize I have a very strong Eeyore tendency - no, really. Swear to God. You never noticed it, did you? Hahahahaha.

Well, anyway. On Monday, I decided that there is a No Bitching rule in effect for Becs.

This was not so easy yesterday when I found myself in a class on business processes and I kept thinking, this is never going to work. Unnamed Co. is never going to put the manpower behind this stuff. We just don't have the people and even if we did, I've done that Sisyphus stuff before. (Hello, Yentl?)

Still, we had clients in the room and I was sitting in the front, so if I was unconsciously making faces, none of them saw it. And I also managed to refrain from doodling.

In the best of all possible worlds, this process stuff would be wonderful.

Then again, I kept boggling at it, thinking, this is a shitload of work. And some of it looks like make-work. It's so Dilbert-esque. And it's a shitload of work. And I'm lazy. Oh, mannnnn......

Hm. I guess this is the Complaint Department.

It's okay. I'll do it. I know no one else would and nobody likes me, Pooh, but that's okay. I'm used to it....

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.

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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.

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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.