Monday, Monday

Computer systems are down for over half the office due to a program update that didn’t install correctly. I’m taking calls, writing messages, and telling pts our computers are down, could I please call them back later? and then handing off the messages to the one person in the office who can access the server. Was doing my consult stuff for a while in another program, but I’ve gone as far as I can go. I feel like a paperweight.  I suppose it ought to be frustrating, but somehow it isn’t.

Dr. R brought us breakfast this morning. From Cracker Barrell. Cheesy hashbrowns and biscuits with jelly and a piece of bacon – not nearly as healthy as the banana and yogurt I already had for myself, but I’m compensating with hot tea and water.  Besides, yummy breakfast takes the sting out of the realization that I left my yummy Chinese leftovers and applesauce on the couch this morning. Wince.

Trying to let cooler heads prevail and wait before I speak, but it’s hard to resist the urge to repay someone’s cattiness in kind. I’d feel perfectly justified in doing it. But I’d also feel petty later, and this is why I wait.

I’m in a list making mood. So many things to accomplish.

Picky, picky picky

He said a teacher had to run to a farm house to call police because there wasn’t one at the school, in keeping with Amish custom.

There wasn’t one what at the school? A teacher? A farmhouse? Don’t tell me he meant telephone when the word was never even in the sentence.

Roberts, a father of three from nearby Bart Township and was not Amish,

I shouldn’t even need to say what’s wrong with that.

From the suicide notes and telephone calls, it was clear Roberts was “angry at life, he was angry at God,” and co-workers said his mood had darkened in recent days, Miller said.

That quote – is it from the notes? The phone calls? The coworkers? Miller himself? This is an oddity, since all the other quotes in this piece were so well-documented.

On Friday, a school principal was shot to death in Cazenovia, Wis. A 15-year-old student, described as upset over a reprimand, was charged with murder.

Ok, I could understand if this was a segue into a larger piece about school shootings, but this is the end of the article. Goes nowhere from here. Nothing at all to justify mentioning this isolated incident half a country away from the crimes that are the entire focus of the article. Er?

Maybe I’m being unreasonable, but this is Associated Press.

I’m a light-headed wonder, she said..

In the midst of cleaning this insane room because it helps my mind slow down and I found a to-do list from the last time I compulsively cleaned my room. “Fold clothes, clean desk, take bathe, do homework…” Number 8 on the list said “make phone call.”

It was number 8 because it took doing all that other stuff to find the courage to pick up the phone. I find that funny now. Actually, I found it a little funny then, too.

Travelling parallel to that…

A general consensus, it seems: “You lack passion.”

I don’t. I lack the ability to adequately express it.

to whom it concerns

Communication. Honesty. Straightforward sentences. That’s all I’m asking.

Decide if you can handle that, because I’m learning that I, personally, can handle very little else.

Just spent my entire morning diffusing a very painful bomb. No casualties. Not even me.

Star light, star bright

It’s bad luck to tell wishes, when you’ve made them. “Don’t tell, then it won’t come true!” If you’re at all a fan of Disney logic, then you also know that a dream is a wish your heart makes. So in 43 days, when you ask me “What’ll you do now?” and I tell you “I don’t know” (because that is what I’ll tell you) I might really be saying, “I can’t tell you. I’m afraid it won’t come true.”

Or it might be saying I really don’t know. Either way, it’s honest, and I’m rather through with trying to come up with placating, horse-manure answers to that eternal question.


Originally, this was my comment to someone else’s post, but I thought I’d post it here too, since it’s my opinion and all, and because I’m feeling like a particularly ugly duckling today and wanted something to cheer me up.

My own, personal ideal of feminism is the freedom to choose ‘housewife’ as a career – to have my primary job be maintaining and supporting my home in such a way that it can be just that – a real home, not a place to live and sleep and put all the stuff I buy with the money I make at my Really Great Job. I want to do all the cooking and the cleaning and the pillow-fluffing and the dinner making — and I want to be recognized for it all and deemed just as important and necessary as any bread-winning man.

I don’t want to be a man. I want respect for being a woman.

The Light of Day

When I get angry, I get angry fast. It’s immediate and it’s intense. I leave rooms, I take long walks, I drive around and sing really loud, I do anything but say things I will regret to the person who has provoked this reaction. A product of emotion that strong is that it burns itself out very quickly. I get over things (or at least get sensible about them) in record time. Water off a duck’s back, or under a bridge.

Last night, someone’s tasteless sarcasm hurt me far more than it should have. On any other day, I think the comment would’ve annoyed me at worst, stung a little, and then fluttered out of my mind. However, due to Extenuating Circumstances, the same words instead left me by turns fiercely angry and deeply wounded. I spent hours last night curled in my bed trying to sleep, saved from tears only by a text message from a friend who didn’t even know I was upset, and River’s Dance on an endless loop over my headphones. (I defy that anyone can listen to that song and not smile.)

I’m not mad anymore at all. Unless someone was acting way out of character for no reason (in which case, explanations are warranted), the comment was not intended to wound. It’s easily the sort of thing that might be said without thinking. I’d be lying, though, if I said I wasn’t still a little hurt by it. I won’t ask for an apology, I don’t think it’s even necessary, but I don’t think I’m going to take my usual tack of just letting things go. This time I want, if not an “I’m sorry,” then at least an “I understand.”

In other news, I think I might be a little too competitive in the tech writing class. We were given a basic assignment today: a page of ten sentences with definite grammatical errors of varying degrees of subtlety. Locate the problem, articulate it completely, and revise. We were to do the exercise individually, then compare with a friend to see if we’d come up with the same thing. I objected to that. Even if two people find the same errors, it is entirely possibly that they will fix the sentence in completely different ways, making it a little more difficult to compare. And why should I have to share my technical knowledge – and good grade – with someone else, anyway?

Why? Because it is a classroom! A learning environment, not a competitive workplace. When it comes to this particular subject matter (I’m not the Grammar Goddess for nothing, yes?), my brain has a little trouble processing the difference.


Funny how little things, past things, can completely blindside you.

It isn’t funny at all, you know; it’s devastating.

I have simultaneously lost six months of progress and gained a year or so of internal growth, all in the last two hours. Honesty is swimming in a cold pond; I am exhausted but refreshed.

My better judgement said “don’t answer the phone.” My hands reached for it on instinct. All in all, I feel better for that automatic reponse (and the ensuing conversation) than I have for most of my well-planned decisions in the past year.

And there are still things I’m denying. And I still think it’s for the best.

I should be over this all; behaviour that suggests otherwise is behaviour deserving of examination.

Pardon me if I seem a little selfish. I’m more entitled than you know.

An Open Letter

The rage and utter frustration I felt when I composed this all in my head are long since gone, dissipated by good food and warm hugs,  fleece quilts and Christmas songs on the radio, but the sentiment isn’t any less valid because it’s calmer now. I believe it bears saying, even if I’m no longer in the mood to yell.


You may take your dumbed down, jazzed up, desanitised, demoralised, degraded and disheartening excuse for a “Holiday Season” and shove it up your collective ass. You have taken Christmas and wiped it clean, leeched it dry of emotion and meaning, made it pc and palatable for the average consumer’s consumption. We have become a nation of overly sensitive, pansy-assed whiners far too willing to cry victim, and you are doing nothing to slow that process by giving in to the madness of equal freedom through opression of all.

I have been thus far able to ignore the swelling tide of intolerance by cheerfully doing just that – ignoring it. This year, you have struck a personal blow. You have taken away my music. The songs I grew up with, the songs I sang as a child, the songs I still sing to myself in the car, in the shower, in the dark at night when there’s nothing left but the frost on the window and the glow of Christmas tree lights – you have dubbed them all outdated, old-fashioned, and unworthy of your new, improved Holiday.

This year, I will send away every customer I serve with a smile and a “Merry Christmas.” And they will return that smile, and that greeting, and some of them will even thank me just for saying it, for not giving it to the “Happy Holidays” craze. You have no heart, no soul; there is no magic in your world of “buy and sell and get gain.” This does not give you the right to take it from ours.