I am forcing myself to write because I must. I have papers and articles due. I have several interviews to conduct and then transcribe. I have a house to pack up and a new home to inhabit. I have a graduation to plan and attend. I have resumes to prepare and disseminate and all that that entails. And I have zero inspiration to write. The cacophony of drivel on the Internet often makes me shut down. What’s the point? Do users even care about the quality of the content anymore? Or has it simply become a vicious cycle of compulsive consumption?
I recall once hearing that humans undergo profound changes every seven years of their lives. This isn’t an academic paper, so investigate it yourselves if you care to, but I am going off of what I remember. So, this theory would mean that at I am in the midst of one of the periods of change. And I can feel it in my bones.
I’d wager that it is no coincidence that my child will be seven this year, and my life has been in holding pattern since he came along. I abandoned all that I knew and dove headlong into a life of stability: corporate job, full-time academics, school functions from a parent’s POV, Flexible Spending Accounts (FSA), and all the trappings of adulthood.
My sentence in this adult world is about to expire, no parole, out only because they have to let me out. I have short-timers syndrome something fierce. My attitude at work has undergone a distinct change. As in my give-a-fuck broke and I am no longer inclined to pretend to fix it. Or hide the fact that the machinations of the corporate world disgust me. A teammate was recently promoted to another position; the social slacker on our team, who excelled only at the game of brown-nosing and Corporatese. After this event I made it clear to everyone I directly work with that I was done, and it was probably best if they avoid asking me my opinion on all company or job related matters. I checked out that very day, and they all knew it.
I have spent the past few weeks considering what makes my coworkers stay in this environment. Some of whom have spent the last decade working for the company. I suppose I can understand starting a job in your 20s and believing that eventually you will advance within an organization, but they haven’t. Don’t get me wrong, the benefits aren’t bad, but working for a corporation also means you are at the mercy of shareholder profits.
I have studied business during my time with the organization, and I have explained to my peers the moves the company has made since its stock tanked. Explained how balance sheets and financial statements work, and how the reduction of the more tenured employees lowers liabilities, thereby increasing profits without actually requiring the inflow of cash. Blah, blah, blah… It is the foundation of my argument as to why I do not see a future with the company as a viable option, but they have drunk the Flavor Aid and we will never agree on the topic. I see them as sheep now. Sheep who are working in the slaughterhouse, ignoring all of the warning signs that eventually their necks will be cut. Bleat, bleat, bleat…
So where does that leave me? Fuck if I know. I am tweaking my resume, and reluctantly working on social media profiles that may increase the chances of finding something else. The company I work for has a reputation of having highly skilled and competent workers, so I am fortunate. Odd to be looking for a job while I still have one, but better that than the opposite. I am told that looking for work whilst unemployed is worse, but I wouldn’t really know because I have spent the majority of my life self-employed, which is a perpetual state of unemployment. Not gonna lie, I kind of miss that option. Guess it’s time to put on my Big Girl Panties and deal.
I went out amongst the heathens today, as I do whenever there are errands to be run. As I made my way into the convenience store to retrieve my change from filling up the car with gas I had one of those awkward encounters that happens. You know the kind where you open the door just as someone is about to walk out, and neither of you is sure who should pass through first. I decided to be polite and invited the gentleman to exit as I held the door open. He paused for a moment, looked me up and down, and said with a lecherous smile, “I’d tap that.” as he made his was past me.
It was a brief exchange, but one that left me thinking afterward as I stood in line, mostly because I was not sure if I had heard the person correctly. I had simply smiled and laughed as the man went past me, which is what I normally do in awkward social engagements. OK, every social encounter I have is awkward, but I digress. I was given the change and went back out to my car. Having just come from the Department of Motor Vehicles, where I had overheard at least three men audibly laud their luck at having randomly won the lucky number 69, I was already in the mood to tune out males.
Back in the safety of my car I rifled through a few things, and when I was ready to start the car I looked up. Just in time to see the gentleman from earlier roll his pearl white Cadillac Escalade up in front of my car. Immediately I realized that he must have waited for me because I had been inside for several minutes. He rolled his window down, obviously wanting me to reciprocate, which I did.
“So, what can we do to make that happen?” he asked.
“I am married.” I lied, but what else can a gal do in that situation?
“Ah, well too bad for us, well, me.” he said and then he drove off.
I have had some very strange run-ins with men in my lifetime. This one definitely earns a place in the Top Ten. I wondered what I had done to earn such unwelcomed attention from the man and then I realized I must have brought it on myself. You see I was wearing my Hustler brand sweatshirt, and the Hardcore Since ’74 brand said it all. I wonder what his reaction would have been had I been in my Shut-Up Bitch tee that depicts a bound man in a maid’s outfit with a ball gag in his mouth.
Please enjoy this video.
I bought myself this cooking apron yesterday. It is based on tactical gear worn by law enforcement, and if you know me, it is the perfect kitchen accessory to compliment my home and personality.
I have mastered the art of pancakes. I believe it’s a skill that most parents possess; well the good ones do anyway. Pancakes are the preferred anytime food of most all children. Mine in particular likes blueberry pancakes and I cook them almost every weekend. Earlier, as I was preparing a batch, I was reminded of another breakfast ritual that was once a part of my weekly routine.
A group of my friends inhabited an apartment in the downtown area of Long Beach California. It was near the intersection of Atlantic and Broadway and within walking distance of Fender’s Ballroom. We spent a lot of time going to gigs there, and the apartment became a natural after-hours hangout spot. Every weekend there was a new bunch of random people who would end up crashing on the floor of the apartment. I was accustomed to stepping over people as we made our way in and out of the place.
Long Beach being a Naval port also meant there were a lot of Squids and Jarheads around. The Pike wasn’t that far away either. These guys mostly had nowhere else to go once a venue closed, and my friends were more than happy to party with them because of the copious amounts of cash they were prone to spending off-ship. Invite a few back to the pad and the party was guaranteed not to stop, and be subsidized by members of our Armed Forces.
I don’t recall exactly how the breakfast ritual got started, but I quickly became an integral part of it. Basically we would go around to whoever happened to still be lying around on the floors in the morning, and collect funds to prepare breakfast with. Most of the guys had no problem handing over $20 or more. It was like Monopoly money to them, and they treated it as such. I distinctly recall that we netted over $100 every time we passed the hat around.
Once we had secured the funds, we then made the perilous journey across the street to Vons to purchase the ingredients for the promised feast. I usually took one of the boys with me because they were good for carrying heavy bags and running interference with the vagrants who occupied the area. No sense in putting myself in harm’s way for these fuckers. I don’t remember exactly what the standard cost was, but I do know that I personally netted between $40-$50 for my cooking skills. Yes, I was the one who did most of the cooking during these adventures. I would have been approximately 16 or 17 years old at the time. Not bad for a morning’s worth of cooking breakfast items. The one thing we could never get for them was more alcohol because we were all minors, but the visitors didn’t seem to mind. Once they had been fed they were more than happy to make their way out to buy more beer. And upon their return, the party would always continue.
I just finished up a one of a pair of classes that could best be described as two Acme anvils dropping out of the clear, blue sky upon my happy roadrunner ass. I had developed a routine that was completely destroyed in September, and today I can finally relax, but only just a little.
The worst part is the toll it has taken on my non-Academic writing. My nose has been firmly lodged up the ass of books, leaving me unable to compose anything more than the endless assignments. I know the end is nigh, but fuck this shit is killing me. The entire college experience has been a trip, most likely because of my age; however, no way in hell I would have stuck it out had I attempted it before now. And if I had, I would have certainly picked a discipline that offered no ROI.