Do you ever have those days where you just don't have enough energy to do the things you need to do to get through the day?
Like laundry. Even with a washer and dryer en suite, I can't seem to get the clothes rumbled through the cycle. Getting them rounded up is impossible, remembering to put in the fabric softener on time has caused more than one repeat rinse cycle, and as for putting them away? Why? When the three-season room makes such a convenient walk-in closet (as long as the curtains are drawn)?
And breakfast. Lately I've been eating in the car on the way to the ferry, so I can get another ten minutes of sleep. And then, when I do get to the ferry, I put my seat back and sleep again.
The problem is, I'm tired. But the tiredness is not the problem, it's a symptom. Lately, I can't stand my job. Everything about it just drains the life out of me. Thinking about going is enough to send me into the blue devils. I know the solution is to find a new job, but I'm worried that anything I would apply for will have far, far more qualified applicants--even the receptionist or assistant jobs I've worked at before. Then again, I could go back and retrain for another career entirely, like being a medical transcriptionist. (It is truly depressing the amount of CW people who struggle on their minimum wages for two or three years and then go back to school for an associate's degree to pay the bills...fellow employees with history degrees and a deep love of interpretation) At this point, I would settle for a job where my supervisor actually spoke to me.
There's no point in whining if I'm not actually looking for a new job, but I just don't have the energy. All I see everywhere are brick walls. At least I have a paycheck right now...as long as I show up physically, if not mentally.
Showing posts with label Whinging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Whinging. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Drips of chemicals
It's a funny ol' thing, depression. Today was great. I took full advantage of Jeff being out of town to spend a day doing girly solo things, like getting a massage, shopping at the thrift store (cookie cookbook! $2!), walking the dog, spending two hours on the phone with a friend, made chili and cornbread...The sun was out, the sky was blue, the raccoons were for once not running under the wheels of my car. Life is good.
So what's the problem? The problem is yesterday I was about ready to take to my bed for the rest of the year. For some reason my depression has been getting bad again. Perhaps it is stress about the holidays already creeping in, combined with some challenging commuting to a job supervised by the Captain Ahab? I mean, things were going fine, but now, all of a sudden... I have experience with feeling like this. I know that it is Not Me, it is tiny little drips of chemicals in my brain, and I refused to be stigmatized for having chemicals, or taking pills to counteract those chemicals. But I feel bad. I am wondering if it's not time to medicate again. Or see a therapist.
One factor I can definitely point to is the fact that it has been a year since I last saw Grandma. Saw her, talked to her, hugged her. And the experts say the first year after a person dies is the hardest. So I am giving myself that year. But part of that emotional baggage has been eating, and this year I know I've put on weight: my stays and gown from CW no longer fit. (Why, oh why couldn't I have the kind of depression that manifests itself in loss of appetite? sigh.) I am eating to comfort myself, and also because Jeff and I love to cook and feed each other. So more exercise and some salads would probably help with the thing, and also trying to eat less Splenda.
It's hard to talk about this objectively. Yesterday I could have typed up a beautifully emo post about how I am so depressssed and how my liiiiife is full of uselessness... But today was a good day, and I embraced it fully. I love living in the country--walking the dog in all seasons gives me a chance to watch nature change, and right now the colors are spectacular and the pecans are in full flow. I don't even know what I want to say in this post. Life is good but sometimes I don't want to get out of bed? How can I reassure my loyal readers without worrying them? But this is what is going on, and this is what I wanted to write about. (it was that or the election)
Tomorrow I hope will be more of the same...Jeff will return from the wilds of north Virginia and maybe I'll do some laundry and enjoy a quiet Sunday. I think, more than anything, I needed a few days off to do nothing but catch up on some reading and bake.
So what's the problem? The problem is yesterday I was about ready to take to my bed for the rest of the year. For some reason my depression has been getting bad again. Perhaps it is stress about the holidays already creeping in, combined with some challenging commuting to a job supervised by the Captain Ahab? I mean, things were going fine, but now, all of a sudden... I have experience with feeling like this. I know that it is Not Me, it is tiny little drips of chemicals in my brain, and I refused to be stigmatized for having chemicals, or taking pills to counteract those chemicals. But I feel bad. I am wondering if it's not time to medicate again. Or see a therapist.
One factor I can definitely point to is the fact that it has been a year since I last saw Grandma. Saw her, talked to her, hugged her. And the experts say the first year after a person dies is the hardest. So I am giving myself that year. But part of that emotional baggage has been eating, and this year I know I've put on weight: my stays and gown from CW no longer fit. (Why, oh why couldn't I have the kind of depression that manifests itself in loss of appetite? sigh.) I am eating to comfort myself, and also because Jeff and I love to cook and feed each other. So more exercise and some salads would probably help with the thing, and also trying to eat less Splenda.
It's hard to talk about this objectively. Yesterday I could have typed up a beautifully emo post about how I am so depressssed and how my liiiiife is full of uselessness... But today was a good day, and I embraced it fully. I love living in the country--walking the dog in all seasons gives me a chance to watch nature change, and right now the colors are spectacular and the pecans are in full flow. I don't even know what I want to say in this post. Life is good but sometimes I don't want to get out of bed? How can I reassure my loyal readers without worrying them? But this is what is going on, and this is what I wanted to write about. (it was that or the election)
Tomorrow I hope will be more of the same...Jeff will return from the wilds of north Virginia and maybe I'll do some laundry and enjoy a quiet Sunday. I think, more than anything, I needed a few days off to do nothing but catch up on some reading and bake.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
How to solve a problem like Maria...
The problem with having a blog is that you must have something to write about. Or you launch on your glorious adventure assuming (hoping?) your life will furnish you with enough material to keep going. I was never very grandiose in my blog attempts, this literary corner of the internet is just an attempt to keep my friend and family up to date on what's going on in my life.
Except that there's not much going on in my life right now except for work. And work is... Well, there's the rub. When I got this position I said that I wouldn't write about my current employer, except to share positive stories and potentially embarassing things I do. Except that work is... Well, what I'm trying to say is that there's only so many times your loyal readers want to hear about beagle farts and me running around in crazy costumes.
Work has totally taken over my life. Work means sixty hour weeks just to not make ends meet. Work means being underpaid to be underappreciated. Work means creative enthusiasms meeting an effective wall of silence and a corporate attitude of That's Not How We Do Things Around Here. Work is making me increasingly unhappy, tired, fat and stressed.
And I know--I know I ought to be grateful to have a job in this economy, working at a place that is at least slightly more creative than an office beehive. And I know too that I should chuck it all and start over, free as the wind, confident in my bohemian abilities to get by. Part of me is still tired of surfing that uncertain wave that is Temping+Writing and grateful for a solid workweek, part of me (the 18 to 22 year old part, no doubt) wonders what the bleedin' hell I'm doing here.
The single ray of sunshine that has been sustaining me for the past few months is the fact that my play has been accepted, is in rehearsals and will open July 3rd...but in two plus years, nothing has happened beyond that. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Work is going to continue to wreak havoc on my wellbeing and so... Well, if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain.
Or, perhaps, find another mountain...
Except that there's not much going on in my life right now except for work. And work is... Well, there's the rub. When I got this position I said that I wouldn't write about my current employer, except to share positive stories and potentially embarassing things I do. Except that work is... Well, what I'm trying to say is that there's only so many times your loyal readers want to hear about beagle farts and me running around in crazy costumes.
Work has totally taken over my life. Work means sixty hour weeks just to not make ends meet. Work means being underpaid to be underappreciated. Work means creative enthusiasms meeting an effective wall of silence and a corporate attitude of That's Not How We Do Things Around Here. Work is making me increasingly unhappy, tired, fat and stressed.
And I know--I know I ought to be grateful to have a job in this economy, working at a place that is at least slightly more creative than an office beehive. And I know too that I should chuck it all and start over, free as the wind, confident in my bohemian abilities to get by. Part of me is still tired of surfing that uncertain wave that is Temping+Writing and grateful for a solid workweek, part of me (the 18 to 22 year old part, no doubt) wonders what the bleedin' hell I'm doing here.
The single ray of sunshine that has been sustaining me for the past few months is the fact that my play has been accepted, is in rehearsals and will open July 3rd...but in two plus years, nothing has happened beyond that. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Work is going to continue to wreak havoc on my wellbeing and so... Well, if the mountain will not come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain.
Or, perhaps, find another mountain...
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
le sigh...
Now that evening programs are over, I suddenly find myself with ungodly amounts of time on my hands. I thought that my room would be cleaner, projects would get finished, beagles would get marathon'd, but instead I find myself playing despondently with my new computer. I'm taking it to the Apple Store next weekend for a tutorial, and to have them transfer all my old files since I don't have a cord that will talk to my external hard drive. In the meantime, icanhascheesburger.com has never looked so good.
I'm slightly depressed tonight. I was filled with excitement about finally being able to devote some serious evening time to the Billy Lee Project, but after doing some research tonight I discovered not one but two plays dealing with that very man. One of them musicalized. Before you say it, I know--no one else has done it from my viewpoint, and that's true, but it's depressing nonetheless. So, beyond getting Office installed in preparation for beginning the Great Work, not much else has happened.
Well, that's not true. I walked Kismet and plunged the toilet and made hot cocoa. It's still thirty degrees out, and every time I have to go outside I shake uncontrollably. Until I remind myself it could be worse: it could be snowing.
I'm slightly depressed tonight. I was filled with excitement about finally being able to devote some serious evening time to the Billy Lee Project, but after doing some research tonight I discovered not one but two plays dealing with that very man. One of them musicalized. Before you say it, I know--no one else has done it from my viewpoint, and that's true, but it's depressing nonetheless. So, beyond getting Office installed in preparation for beginning the Great Work, not much else has happened.
Well, that's not true. I walked Kismet and plunged the toilet and made hot cocoa. It's still thirty degrees out, and every time I have to go outside I shake uncontrollably. Until I remind myself it could be worse: it could be snowing.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
This has been a shitty, shitty day
How shitty, you may ask? Well, I'm sitting here, eating chocolate chip cookies straight from the tub and using the word "shitty" in my hertofore PG-13 blog.
Jeff was supposed to come up today and spend the day with me...until the brakes on his car exploded. So instead of spending the day with me, he's spending it with a mechanic.
Undaunted, I ventured out into the historical area with Kismet. I tried to return his birthday present--a designer collar and leash--only to be told that I could only return it for store credit. Since the only thing I wanted from the boutique was a designer collar and leash, there's no point in returning it...but I could really use the money for the new tire. (remember the new tire? Oh yes, last Saturday was a winner too.)
Decided to be productive this afternoon and do a little cleaning. Stopped by the Dollar General for some cheap cleaning supplies and when I returned to the car I discovered that Kismet had thrown up all over the backseat. Now, I have a towel to protect the seat where he climbs in before he jumps into his little booster seat...but guess which side he threw up on? Good thing I had all those church bulletins in the backseat to clean up what I could.
Did I mention I hadn't eaten breakfast yet? I had planned on coming home and making myself a big brunch, but instead I grabbed bucket, brush, paper towels and my new bottle of extra-strength Febreeze and cleaned out the backseat. Discovered that last week's rainshower (did I mention I left the windows down Sunday night and it poured and my car smells like dead rat, hence the Febreeze?) had turned some magazines in the backseat into mulch and that was probably why Chi-Chi smelled like a dead rat. I managed to get the mess cleaned up, with much diligent application of paper towels...and a liberal spraying of Febreeze.
At last I got to eat breakfast. Whipped up a batch of Martha White's self-rising biscuits, which looked like hardtack next to the apple cake my roommate made to celebrate her wedding. (fine. Not her wedding--she's re-enacting a wedding that took place two hundred years ago) The hashbrowns I made from scratch were undercooked and tasted horrible and the meatless sausage was a joke. (I hate being vegetarian sometimes. I'll do it, but I'm not happy about it.) I couldn't even enjoy pretending that my biscuits were hardtack, because that just made me think about how many Aubrey/Maturin books are out there that I haven't read yet and never will because I have no money either to buy them for myself or pay the astronomical fine at the library.
Then I got busy with the cleaning. I even moved some furniture around so I could vacumn, but when I unhooked the hose I discovered that it was smoking. Something is wrong with the belt, but I'm not touching it today. Luckily we have the extra vacuum (thank you Dumpster Gods), but that shining moment in the afternoon was quickly overtaken when I attempted to wet-vacuum our sofas. Not only is the one cushion I attempted to clean still wet (thank God I stopped after only one), but it STILL smells horrible. Horrible but with vinegar, because I was trying to be green. Screw it. More Febreeze!
Then, the worst thing of all happened. A few weeks ago Jeff made me a present of some glorious blue wool and silk fabric, to match some eighteenth century chintz I had. I was planning on turning it into a beautiful upper-midding class outfit, something I could wear when we were promenading and making everyone jealous. Jeff had even offered to make it for me, all I had to do was cut it to length. Cutting out a petticoat is not hard: it's two straight cuts straight across the width of fabric. Yet I managed--because it is just that kind of shitty day--to screw it up. Instead of cutting 38", I cut it at 36", and when you're talking about hemlines in the eighteenth century, yes Virginia, two inches matters.
At that point I gave up, cried, put everything away. I have to go to work in twenty minutes (going early so I can try to return Kizzy's collar...he deserves so much better than me) and it looks like it's going to rain. So I'll probably have to perform inside tonight, which is hot, small and miserable.
The one high point of the day came when I checked the mail...I was bitter when I saw the fat envelope, figuring it was more love for the roommate, until I saw the return address. Inside: baby pictures. Thank God for baby pictures. Mom, Dad, Lily--you have saved the day.
Jeff was supposed to come up today and spend the day with me...until the brakes on his car exploded. So instead of spending the day with me, he's spending it with a mechanic.
Undaunted, I ventured out into the historical area with Kismet. I tried to return his birthday present--a designer collar and leash--only to be told that I could only return it for store credit. Since the only thing I wanted from the boutique was a designer collar and leash, there's no point in returning it...but I could really use the money for the new tire. (remember the new tire? Oh yes, last Saturday was a winner too.)
Decided to be productive this afternoon and do a little cleaning. Stopped by the Dollar General for some cheap cleaning supplies and when I returned to the car I discovered that Kismet had thrown up all over the backseat. Now, I have a towel to protect the seat where he climbs in before he jumps into his little booster seat...but guess which side he threw up on? Good thing I had all those church bulletins in the backseat to clean up what I could.
Did I mention I hadn't eaten breakfast yet? I had planned on coming home and making myself a big brunch, but instead I grabbed bucket, brush, paper towels and my new bottle of extra-strength Febreeze and cleaned out the backseat. Discovered that last week's rainshower (did I mention I left the windows down Sunday night and it poured and my car smells like dead rat, hence the Febreeze?) had turned some magazines in the backseat into mulch and that was probably why Chi-Chi smelled like a dead rat. I managed to get the mess cleaned up, with much diligent application of paper towels...and a liberal spraying of Febreeze.
At last I got to eat breakfast. Whipped up a batch of Martha White's self-rising biscuits, which looked like hardtack next to the apple cake my roommate made to celebrate her wedding. (fine. Not her wedding--she's re-enacting a wedding that took place two hundred years ago) The hashbrowns I made from scratch were undercooked and tasted horrible and the meatless sausage was a joke. (I hate being vegetarian sometimes. I'll do it, but I'm not happy about it.) I couldn't even enjoy pretending that my biscuits were hardtack, because that just made me think about how many Aubrey/Maturin books are out there that I haven't read yet and never will because I have no money either to buy them for myself or pay the astronomical fine at the library.
Then I got busy with the cleaning. I even moved some furniture around so I could vacumn, but when I unhooked the hose I discovered that it was smoking. Something is wrong with the belt, but I'm not touching it today. Luckily we have the extra vacuum (thank you Dumpster Gods), but that shining moment in the afternoon was quickly overtaken when I attempted to wet-vacuum our sofas. Not only is the one cushion I attempted to clean still wet (thank God I stopped after only one), but it STILL smells horrible. Horrible but with vinegar, because I was trying to be green. Screw it. More Febreeze!
Then, the worst thing of all happened. A few weeks ago Jeff made me a present of some glorious blue wool and silk fabric, to match some eighteenth century chintz I had. I was planning on turning it into a beautiful upper-midding class outfit, something I could wear when we were promenading and making everyone jealous. Jeff had even offered to make it for me, all I had to do was cut it to length. Cutting out a petticoat is not hard: it's two straight cuts straight across the width of fabric. Yet I managed--because it is just that kind of shitty day--to screw it up. Instead of cutting 38", I cut it at 36", and when you're talking about hemlines in the eighteenth century, yes Virginia, two inches matters.
At that point I gave up, cried, put everything away. I have to go to work in twenty minutes (going early so I can try to return Kizzy's collar...he deserves so much better than me) and it looks like it's going to rain. So I'll probably have to perform inside tonight, which is hot, small and miserable.
The one high point of the day came when I checked the mail...I was bitter when I saw the fat envelope, figuring it was more love for the roommate, until I saw the return address. Inside: baby pictures. Thank God for baby pictures. Mom, Dad, Lily--you have saved the day.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Makes the world go 'round
It is rather frustrating to constantly have to deal with the problem of not having any money. Any time I think I've got a fairly good handle on it, something happens like Kizzy needs a shot or the first of the month comes around or something. I've got money, it would just be nice to have more of it.
The evening programs are changing format, so instead of telling my story from last year, I'm having to learn a new script, which was provided for me. Only I was on exactly no one's email list, so I didn't find out about it until late. And now I can't get my story cleared to get on the schedule. So. No storytelling. And the militia won't be called out this spring due to budget cuts. Arg. I miss my breeches and the sweet, sweet taste of black powder. Interestingly, George Washington also had a problem with money...he, however, was somehow able to win the war for Independence. I'm sure the military programs here will work things out.
In the meantime, I'm thankful to have a job and a beagle. And spring is here in Virgnia. Daffodils and tulips abound, the forsynthia and appleblossoms are in full bloom. Dogwood soon. Things are so much easier when it's warm and sunny. Work today was long, however, I am tired and sore from sleeping on the ground (imagine) and now I'm going to sleep. Good night.
The evening programs are changing format, so instead of telling my story from last year, I'm having to learn a new script, which was provided for me. Only I was on exactly no one's email list, so I didn't find out about it until late. And now I can't get my story cleared to get on the schedule. So. No storytelling. And the militia won't be called out this spring due to budget cuts. Arg. I miss my breeches and the sweet, sweet taste of black powder. Interestingly, George Washington also had a problem with money...he, however, was somehow able to win the war for Independence. I'm sure the military programs here will work things out.
In the meantime, I'm thankful to have a job and a beagle. And spring is here in Virgnia. Daffodils and tulips abound, the forsynthia and appleblossoms are in full bloom. Dogwood soon. Things are so much easier when it's warm and sunny. Work today was long, however, I am tired and sore from sleeping on the ground (imagine) and now I'm going to sleep. Good night.
Friday, January 23, 2009
driving ms crazy
YAY!!!! Friday! Can't wait to get outta here! Yay, car! Yay, driving!
Hey, the person in front of me seems really old and slow. That's cool. I'm not in a big hurry. Wow the weather is nice, maybe I'll roll down the windows---
WHOA, brakelights! *slam* Oh man, that little old lady in front of me must have seen a squirrel or something, there's...oh, wait, more brakelights. *tap* Oh...
Wait, do you think I'm tailgating you? Lady, you're barely doing twenty at this point, and I've OBVIOUSLY got plenty of room to stop, as evidenced by the fact that I am able to do so everytime you *slam* slam on your brakes.
Oh, great, now you're gesticulating angrily at me. Don't you think you should keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road? Ya know, instead of on the car behind you?
Hey, I've got time. Even driving twenty-one miles an hour I'll STILL get home in twenty minutes. Tum tum tum.
I can wave back at you. Notice how I choose not to use my middle finger.
Damnit, stop waving at me and DRIVE.
GO THE SPEED LIMIT.
(which is twenty-five)
Fine. You know what? Fine. I'm going to put on some music and enjoy this ride.
"I need something else...to get me through this...semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby."
Oh man, this song takes me back. Maybe I'll sing along:
"good byeeee...good byeee...good BYEEEEE! do do do, do do do do..."
What, you think I'm going to crash into you because I'm singing along with the radio? At least I'm not slamming on my brakes and waving my hands in the air all the while watching my rearview mirror.
YES, TURN. Good. BYE.
Go home and tell your children about the psycho who tailgated you all the way home.
I've got some blogging to do.
Hey, the person in front of me seems really old and slow. That's cool. I'm not in a big hurry. Wow the weather is nice, maybe I'll roll down the windows---
WHOA, brakelights! *slam* Oh man, that little old lady in front of me must have seen a squirrel or something, there's...oh, wait, more brakelights. *tap* Oh...
Wait, do you think I'm tailgating you? Lady, you're barely doing twenty at this point, and I've OBVIOUSLY got plenty of room to stop, as evidenced by the fact that I am able to do so everytime you *slam* slam on your brakes.
Oh, great, now you're gesticulating angrily at me. Don't you think you should keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road? Ya know, instead of on the car behind you?
Hey, I've got time. Even driving twenty-one miles an hour I'll STILL get home in twenty minutes. Tum tum tum.
I can wave back at you. Notice how I choose not to use my middle finger.
Damnit, stop waving at me and DRIVE.
GO THE SPEED LIMIT.
(which is twenty-five)
Fine. You know what? Fine. I'm going to put on some music and enjoy this ride.
"I need something else...to get me through this...semi-charmed kinda life, baby, baby."
Oh man, this song takes me back. Maybe I'll sing along:
"good byeeee...good byeee...good BYEEEEE! do do do, do do do do..."
What, you think I'm going to crash into you because I'm singing along with the radio? At least I'm not slamming on my brakes and waving my hands in the air all the while watching my rearview mirror.
YES, TURN. Good. BYE.
Go home and tell your children about the psycho who tailgated you all the way home.
I've got some blogging to do.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Of late.
I bought myself a pressie today: a humidifier. I was tired of seeing sparks every time I rolled over due to my sandpaper-like legs, and ultimately it's more cost effective, seeing as how expensive lotion is. I got a hot-mist humidifier, so it's like having an electric kettle going all the time. Complete with cheerful bubbling sound.
On the other hand, having so little humidity around has allowed me to cut back my showers to every other day. Say "ew, gross," if you want, but I really like not having to shower every day: showers are time consuming and I hate walking around with wet hair, but I'm too lazy to sit there and blow it dry. Because, speaking of hair, I've decided to grow it out historical style. Meaning...one length, no fancy schmancy cuts or (sob) hair color. It'll just be easier for interpreting. When I'm militia-ing, it goes in a ponytail, no bangs to get in my eyes while I'm shooting, when I'm storytelling-ing, it's easier to pin up when it's longer. I can always cut my hair back into something fashionable, but for now, it's just easier. And more historically accurate.
Speaking of historically accurate, they cancelled militia this week because it was "too cold" causing me to scoff, "too cold!! Was it too cold at Valley Forge?! Tell the soldiers who didn't have SHOES in three feet of SNOW it was too cold!! Wait--you know what? Next week I'm wrapping my feet in bandages and ketchup to preserve historical accuracy!! Yeah!!"
No, but seriously, loyal readers, it's been a long weekend. I've been hit with the hypo again, mostly due to the stress of wondering about my job and long-term prospects (money, love, current political situations, etc ad naseum). It's not enough for me to have a job I love in a place I like, no, I have to stress and have angst about it, instead of cheerfully accepting my life and just living it. The worst part is I've been taking it out on poor Kizzy--overreacting when he does stuff like steal magnetic poetry off the fridge to get my attention. Oh, he got my attention all right, and a great big shouting monster where his mommy used to be. sigh. It's my fault for not being more disciplined about training him. One more thing to stress out about. I promised to take care of him and love him, not beat us both up when he chews up pizza cardboard that was left hanging over the edge of the counter.
I have a great time in the evenings as a storyteller and now working on the Messiah...but I'll be happy when the holidays are over and I can go back to just eight hour days.
On the other hand, having so little humidity around has allowed me to cut back my showers to every other day. Say "ew, gross," if you want, but I really like not having to shower every day: showers are time consuming and I hate walking around with wet hair, but I'm too lazy to sit there and blow it dry. Because, speaking of hair, I've decided to grow it out historical style. Meaning...one length, no fancy schmancy cuts or (sob) hair color. It'll just be easier for interpreting. When I'm militia-ing, it goes in a ponytail, no bangs to get in my eyes while I'm shooting, when I'm storytelling-ing, it's easier to pin up when it's longer. I can always cut my hair back into something fashionable, but for now, it's just easier. And more historically accurate.
Speaking of historically accurate, they cancelled militia this week because it was "too cold" causing me to scoff, "too cold!! Was it too cold at Valley Forge?! Tell the soldiers who didn't have SHOES in three feet of SNOW it was too cold!! Wait--you know what? Next week I'm wrapping my feet in bandages and ketchup to preserve historical accuracy!! Yeah!!"
No, but seriously, loyal readers, it's been a long weekend. I've been hit with the hypo again, mostly due to the stress of wondering about my job and long-term prospects (money, love, current political situations, etc ad naseum). It's not enough for me to have a job I love in a place I like, no, I have to stress and have angst about it, instead of cheerfully accepting my life and just living it. The worst part is I've been taking it out on poor Kizzy--overreacting when he does stuff like steal magnetic poetry off the fridge to get my attention. Oh, he got my attention all right, and a great big shouting monster where his mommy used to be. sigh. It's my fault for not being more disciplined about training him. One more thing to stress out about. I promised to take care of him and love him, not beat us both up when he chews up pizza cardboard that was left hanging over the edge of the counter.
I have a great time in the evenings as a storyteller and now working on the Messiah...but I'll be happy when the holidays are over and I can go back to just eight hour days.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Dizzy & Ill
I swear, I've been feeling crappy more in the past month than I have the last two years. This morning I got up an hour early to wave at the Today Show people, which confused the hell out of Kizzy, since we were walking at quarter to six (yes, you read that right) when it was still pitch dark out. I tried to convince myself that the drumming I heard off in the forest was actually the William and Mary marching band practising early, but when I got to work I found out that Williams and Mary...doesn't have a marching band. The only other explanation I can come up with is ghostly drummers beating the march. Awesome.
The Today Show was a bust, I'm afraid. I hope everyone saw it so they could get a taste of the historical area, but we arrived too late to be visible. I was just behind a large group of people waving McCain signs, coughing "yes we can!" under my breath every now and then. I left early for work because I was starting to feel bad...sort of light headed and chilly and my stomach hurt. But it was cool to see CW getting some national attention...this is where I live!
I kept feeling bad at work today--after the chills, I started getting feverish, and I wasn't really able to focus. I stuck it out though, since there wasn't any one thing that was weird enough to warrant me going home. I did skip militia though...probably shouldn't be shooting off a musket when I'm having problems keeping my balance. My roommate was courteous enough to take Kizabiz for a walk when she got home, so I snoozed for a half hour. Then I had some bean soup ($1.50 for a bag of mixed beans! For three quarts of soup! Crap economy be dammed!) and a sourdough roll and now I feel better.
I'm so ready to go home in October--for anyone who hasn't heard, I'm leaving on the 10th of October for a week or so of family, weddings, homecooked meals and cheese curds. I can't wait. Lately I've been thinking a LOT about London and really missing it, but I think that's just because I have the wanderlust again. Hopefully going home will help. If not...London next year possibly. Possibly. Economy permitting.
The Today Show was a bust, I'm afraid. I hope everyone saw it so they could get a taste of the historical area, but we arrived too late to be visible. I was just behind a large group of people waving McCain signs, coughing "yes we can!" under my breath every now and then. I left early for work because I was starting to feel bad...sort of light headed and chilly and my stomach hurt. But it was cool to see CW getting some national attention...this is where I live!
I kept feeling bad at work today--after the chills, I started getting feverish, and I wasn't really able to focus. I stuck it out though, since there wasn't any one thing that was weird enough to warrant me going home. I did skip militia though...probably shouldn't be shooting off a musket when I'm having problems keeping my balance. My roommate was courteous enough to take Kizabiz for a walk when she got home, so I snoozed for a half hour. Then I had some bean soup ($1.50 for a bag of mixed beans! For three quarts of soup! Crap economy be dammed!) and a sourdough roll and now I feel better.
I'm so ready to go home in October--for anyone who hasn't heard, I'm leaving on the 10th of October for a week or so of family, weddings, homecooked meals and cheese curds. I can't wait. Lately I've been thinking a LOT about London and really missing it, but I think that's just because I have the wanderlust again. Hopefully going home will help. If not...London next year possibly. Possibly. Economy permitting.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
My Friends, I Am Dying
Weep not for me, but gather 'round and smile sadly upon this visage that was once the proud and noble house of Nicki. For I am dying. Yea, I shall pass away unto the earth and lie down with my ancestors and feel no pain, nor happiness, nor any mortal emotion save that of relief that I am dead, for only in death will I find relief from such pain.
Oh yes. It's that time of the month. I managed to make it through two hours of work today before I finally broke down, crying and nauseous, and went home. Agony, such as poets can only dream of, splitting the heavens, causing my heart to pound, my limbs to shake, my eyes to start from their head, and thoughts of self-harm to flit through my mind. I'm so unfocussed that I can't even fall asleep.
The worst part is I'm missing militia. Although, since my medicine of choice is all-natural Beer, it's probably a good thing I'm not shooting off a weapon tonight.
Oh yes. It's that time of the month. I managed to make it through two hours of work today before I finally broke down, crying and nauseous, and went home. Agony, such as poets can only dream of, splitting the heavens, causing my heart to pound, my limbs to shake, my eyes to start from their head, and thoughts of self-harm to flit through my mind. I'm so unfocussed that I can't even fall asleep.
The worst part is I'm missing militia. Although, since my medicine of choice is all-natural Beer, it's probably a good thing I'm not shooting off a weapon tonight.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
I'm not a number
Now more than ever I'm aware of the uniqueness of the human body, the one of a kindness that makes every individual a different shape. Where I work, sizes are merely numbers so you know where to hang the clothing in stock. Then they come to me, and I tailor it into a perfectly fitted garment. So I was slightly embarrassed at how excited I was to discover I'd dropped two waist sizes. I figured that Old Navy would be running small, but their size sixteen fits me. That's the first time I've gotten into a sixteen in, oh, fifteen years. It's brilliant. I celebrated by having pizza.
Yesterday was slightly frustrating though. I have been having these odd pains in my side, so I finally went to see a doctor about it. He examined me and told me he thought it might be kidney stones. I was actually slightly relieved at that diagnosis--it's better than the horrifying images of ovarian cancer I had dancing through my head--although, of course, it's far from a walk in the park. The way to find out for sure was to have an x-ray taken. To do this, I needed to trot down to another building, about a block away. When I got there, however, I discovered that they wouldn't take my insurance. The place I had to go to to get x-rays taken was all the way across town. ("Over by Wal-Mart," were her exact words, actually) By this point, however, it was about twenty after eleven, and I had told my boss I'd be in by noon. So I decided against medical attention and called a taxi to come get me. An hour later...it arrived. I was so mad at the taxi company for misleading me (they had originally said half an hour) that I forgot to put a tapestry needle under my first two buttons on my waistcoat. I'm trying to focus on the positive things about my experience, like a good doctor who listened to my thoughts, being able to get off of work and oh, how about HAVING insurance and only having to pay $15 for the whole experience.
Williamsburg is not designed for people without cars. It's just not. Things are spread out, stores are clustered into little mini-malls that all seem to have their own parking lot, divided by roads and trees. Most of the time (like this morning, when I had all the time in the world) it's fine. When I'm in my regular routine of working and coming home, I get along fine. But every time I have to do something out of my routine or I'm doing something for the first time, it seems to take three times as long as it should, and that's frustrating.
I'm not meaning to bitch about my situation here. Whining about it doesn't help anything. And besides, if it weren't for my bike, I probably wouldn't have a size sixteen waist and calf muscles that would make any fop jealous.
Yesterday was slightly frustrating though. I have been having these odd pains in my side, so I finally went to see a doctor about it. He examined me and told me he thought it might be kidney stones. I was actually slightly relieved at that diagnosis--it's better than the horrifying images of ovarian cancer I had dancing through my head--although, of course, it's far from a walk in the park. The way to find out for sure was to have an x-ray taken. To do this, I needed to trot down to another building, about a block away. When I got there, however, I discovered that they wouldn't take my insurance. The place I had to go to to get x-rays taken was all the way across town. ("Over by Wal-Mart," were her exact words, actually) By this point, however, it was about twenty after eleven, and I had told my boss I'd be in by noon. So I decided against medical attention and called a taxi to come get me. An hour later...it arrived. I was so mad at the taxi company for misleading me (they had originally said half an hour) that I forgot to put a tapestry needle under my first two buttons on my waistcoat. I'm trying to focus on the positive things about my experience, like a good doctor who listened to my thoughts, being able to get off of work and oh, how about HAVING insurance and only having to pay $15 for the whole experience.
Williamsburg is not designed for people without cars. It's just not. Things are spread out, stores are clustered into little mini-malls that all seem to have their own parking lot, divided by roads and trees. Most of the time (like this morning, when I had all the time in the world) it's fine. When I'm in my regular routine of working and coming home, I get along fine. But every time I have to do something out of my routine or I'm doing something for the first time, it seems to take three times as long as it should, and that's frustrating.
I'm not meaning to bitch about my situation here. Whining about it doesn't help anything. And besides, if it weren't for my bike, I probably wouldn't have a size sixteen waist and calf muscles that would make any fop jealous.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The ox is slow, but the earth is patient
So now for the unfun part: waiting to hear back from all the exciting things I applied/auditioned/porfolio'd for. Patience is not one of my virtues, but I am learning it here at CW, where everything happens when they are ready. Good and.
I have to keep reminding myself that even if nothing comes through--even if I don't get that position of "writer in residence" that I was fantasising about the other day--I am still Fully Employed at a job I look forward to, and I occasionally get paid to swallow black powder and shout huzzah in a lusty manner.
(That reminds me--I want a t-shirt that says "I'd Rather Be Eating Black Powder." hee.)
And I love Virginia. I can see how George Washington could never shut up about it in his letters back home. It's constantly hot and humid and languid and I've never appreciated shade so much in my life, but the smell here is incredible: nine parts dead pine needles and one part growing green things. I took myself off for a bike ride this afternoon because I was feeling frustrated, and by the time I came back, I was singing "Hearts of Oak" at the top of my lungs.
(That also reminds me--I need to learn some American military songs...somehow singing British naval songs while marching onto the field just seems...odd.)
Virginia has a lot of insects though, including the famed Wolf Spider (ask dear brother about that one) and two kinds of roaches, and crickets that will keep you up at night with their string quartets. I'm covered in bites after rolling around in the grass on Saturday while babysitting, and when I was out bike riding tonight I must have swallowed half a cloud of gnats. (You're still a vegetarian if you accidentally get your protein from biking through an insect cloud.) I'm not used to living in an area that's so vibrantly, unashamedly alive. While returning home tonight I was startled to see an animal cross the road--at first I thought it was a greyhound (what can I say, they're on my mind lately)--but then I realised it was a deer. In the middle of the day, in a middle of a suburb. Granted, heavily wooded suburb, but still.
So I'm focused on counting my blessings and being content with what I have. It's not so long, after all, since I was miserable and had nothing good. Steady job, good. Mad sewing skillz, good. Black powder, good. Five more pages of a new play, good. Men in breeches...very good.
I have to keep reminding myself that even if nothing comes through--even if I don't get that position of "writer in residence" that I was fantasising about the other day--I am still Fully Employed at a job I look forward to, and I occasionally get paid to swallow black powder and shout huzzah in a lusty manner.
(That reminds me--I want a t-shirt that says "I'd Rather Be Eating Black Powder." hee.)
And I love Virginia. I can see how George Washington could never shut up about it in his letters back home. It's constantly hot and humid and languid and I've never appreciated shade so much in my life, but the smell here is incredible: nine parts dead pine needles and one part growing green things. I took myself off for a bike ride this afternoon because I was feeling frustrated, and by the time I came back, I was singing "Hearts of Oak" at the top of my lungs.
(That also reminds me--I need to learn some American military songs...somehow singing British naval songs while marching onto the field just seems...odd.)
Virginia has a lot of insects though, including the famed Wolf Spider (ask dear brother about that one) and two kinds of roaches, and crickets that will keep you up at night with their string quartets. I'm covered in bites after rolling around in the grass on Saturday while babysitting, and when I was out bike riding tonight I must have swallowed half a cloud of gnats. (You're still a vegetarian if you accidentally get your protein from biking through an insect cloud.) I'm not used to living in an area that's so vibrantly, unashamedly alive. While returning home tonight I was startled to see an animal cross the road--at first I thought it was a greyhound (what can I say, they're on my mind lately)--but then I realised it was a deer. In the middle of the day, in a middle of a suburb. Granted, heavily wooded suburb, but still.
So I'm focused on counting my blessings and being content with what I have. It's not so long, after all, since I was miserable and had nothing good. Steady job, good. Mad sewing skillz, good. Black powder, good. Five more pages of a new play, good. Men in breeches...very good.
Monday, June 23, 2008
smoke on the waaaaater...
I'm going to apologise for that last post: there's a place for whingy, why-me melodrama, and NLD is not it. Sorry for making you all read that crap. I know I have one of those obsessive personalities that makes me constantly re-evaluate my life, but I shouldn't subject my Loyal Readers to it. No, no, I save that kind of stuff for my journal: let the generations of the future suffer through it. Can't you just picture it? "Mom, wth, seriously?!" I promise to stop and count my blessings before I start whinging next time. Thanks everyone for the supportive slaps upside the head...just what I need to knock me back to reality.
Yesterday I ended up going back to Yorktown for another swim. I put on less sunscreen this time, so I'm beautifully tanned, save for the two pink squares on my back where I couldn't quite reach into the corners of my suit. Whoops. I was only there for about an hour (just long enough to grab a quick swim and a Ben & Jerry's Cookie Cookie Sundae oh my god...), and by the time I got back to Williamsburg it was thundering and lightening. Not too much rain, just enough to make the tourists run for the nearest building. I spent the rest of the afternoon napping.
Today I have a sore throat, which I blame on the fires currently raging in North Carolina and the Dismal Swamps. Interesting historical note: Geo. Washington owned stock in the Dismal Swamps and was part of a group trying to drain it and develop it for sale, but it never happened. I suspect this was because he was busy being distracted by being president. Anyway, the smoke from these fires is drifting northward, right over the Peninsula, and since I spent quite a bit of time outside on my bike (read: panting for air) yesterday I think I probably inhaled more than was good for me. Hence, sore throat. I'm going to have to stop and get some Haribo gummies.
I stayed late again tonight helping out with the Fife & Drum coats. Imagine, if you will, a bag full of pieces of coat, red and blue wool, white lining, a smaller bag of pewter buttons, ties, thread, etc, and no directions. Oh, sure, there's a mockup on a mannequin in the corner, but exactly how you put this together is up to you. And it's totally backwards from what you'd think: you want to put the cuff buttons on last, don't you? No! You put them on first, punching a hole through that pristine wool with an awl--a hole you CAN'T TAKE BACK--and then tie them together with a bit of India tape and THEN you sew in the lining. Just thinking of it gives me the vapours. I am going incredibly slowly: two sleeves done and my coworkers are already attaching the name tags on theirs. But I want it to be perfect. And hey--better to practise on company fabric before I get my hands on my own stuff.
Yesterday I ended up going back to Yorktown for another swim. I put on less sunscreen this time, so I'm beautifully tanned, save for the two pink squares on my back where I couldn't quite reach into the corners of my suit. Whoops. I was only there for about an hour (just long enough to grab a quick swim and a Ben & Jerry's Cookie Cookie Sundae oh my god...), and by the time I got back to Williamsburg it was thundering and lightening. Not too much rain, just enough to make the tourists run for the nearest building. I spent the rest of the afternoon napping.
Today I have a sore throat, which I blame on the fires currently raging in North Carolina and the Dismal Swamps. Interesting historical note: Geo. Washington owned stock in the Dismal Swamps and was part of a group trying to drain it and develop it for sale, but it never happened. I suspect this was because he was busy being distracted by being president. Anyway, the smoke from these fires is drifting northward, right over the Peninsula, and since I spent quite a bit of time outside on my bike (read: panting for air) yesterday I think I probably inhaled more than was good for me. Hence, sore throat. I'm going to have to stop and get some Haribo gummies.
I stayed late again tonight helping out with the Fife & Drum coats. Imagine, if you will, a bag full of pieces of coat, red and blue wool, white lining, a smaller bag of pewter buttons, ties, thread, etc, and no directions. Oh, sure, there's a mockup on a mannequin in the corner, but exactly how you put this together is up to you. And it's totally backwards from what you'd think: you want to put the cuff buttons on last, don't you? No! You put them on first, punching a hole through that pristine wool with an awl--a hole you CAN'T TAKE BACK--and then tie them together with a bit of India tape and THEN you sew in the lining. Just thinking of it gives me the vapours. I am going incredibly slowly: two sleeves done and my coworkers are already attaching the name tags on theirs. But I want it to be perfect. And hey--better to practise on company fabric before I get my hands on my own stuff.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
What to Do with my Life (pt 72)
Have you ever seen a movie where an ex-junkie, now reformed and living a normal life in everyday company falls completely, totally, utterly off the wagon and goes on a heroin and cocaine fueled binge that only stops when they wake up, three days later, disoriented and not knowing where they are, usually someplace like Neasden?
Okay, now picture that, but with dogs.
So I thought I was doing okay with the no dogs in my life thing, ya know, you get used to not having a small furry to trip over. But this morning I went to a "meet and greet" with the local greyhound rescue group and spent two glorious hours surrounded by needlenosed ex-racers. And I am totally out of my gourd for a dog. It's all I talk about. I am covered in dog fur, as God and nature intended, and even if I don't end up with a greyt, I'm so gaga for a puppy that I may actually do someone physical harm if I don't get dog.
Which, naturally, has led me to reflect on my life. One of the women I work with is contemplating buying a house with her nearly-fiancee who just joined the Navy, all the while making fabulous reproduction period fashions and eventually going back to school for a master's degree in historical design. And she's 22. I, on the other hand, have cul-de-sac'd here in Williamsburg. Don't get me wrong, I still love it here. I love the history, the costumes, the people, the two kinds of roaches. I'm so grateful to have a full-time job in this economy, with health insurance, and I'm looking forward to moving into an apartment that has both a kitchen and private bathroom. But I'm not using my degree, I'm not even writing very much anymore. Without any pressure to produce written words--either for a class or other public consumption--I've just sort of drifted away from it. The Goals of my Life include A) getting a dog and, uh, B) well, that's pretty much it.
I feel like I'm not building on anything I've done. Other people my age are buying houses, building lasting relationships with members of the opposite sex, demanding higher wages, raising children, and saving the planet. I'm not leaving so much as a footprint on this world. My colleage noted how "lucky" I was to be able to pack up and move anytime I wanted--I wanted to shake her and say "no, for once in my life I'd really LIKE to have some things tying me to a particular area, person, anything that stops me from picking up and moving." I'd really like to buy a house, raise children, publish a novel, maybe even, ya know, get married, but that just doesn't seem to be happening. People keep telling me I need to move back to London. I wish it were that simple.
So I'm going to get a dog. And that will be what I do.
I didn't mean for this to be a depressing post...I'm afraid I've got the hypo today, even though I spent the morning with puppies and in a few minutes I'm going to go get a wasabi (wasabiii! hyah!) veggie roll. I think I'm just lonely and reflective. I need to meet more people. Next week is going to be fun: I'm finally going to get to train for the military programs so next Thursday I'll be learning how to fire a black powder musket. And we all know what happens next: that's right, breeches. Jealous? Oh yeah.
Okay, now picture that, but with dogs.
So I thought I was doing okay with the no dogs in my life thing, ya know, you get used to not having a small furry to trip over. But this morning I went to a "meet and greet" with the local greyhound rescue group and spent two glorious hours surrounded by needlenosed ex-racers. And I am totally out of my gourd for a dog. It's all I talk about. I am covered in dog fur, as God and nature intended, and even if I don't end up with a greyt, I'm so gaga for a puppy that I may actually do someone physical harm if I don't get dog.
Which, naturally, has led me to reflect on my life. One of the women I work with is contemplating buying a house with her nearly-fiancee who just joined the Navy, all the while making fabulous reproduction period fashions and eventually going back to school for a master's degree in historical design. And she's 22. I, on the other hand, have cul-de-sac'd here in Williamsburg. Don't get me wrong, I still love it here. I love the history, the costumes, the people, the two kinds of roaches. I'm so grateful to have a full-time job in this economy, with health insurance, and I'm looking forward to moving into an apartment that has both a kitchen and private bathroom. But I'm not using my degree, I'm not even writing very much anymore. Without any pressure to produce written words--either for a class or other public consumption--I've just sort of drifted away from it. The Goals of my Life include A) getting a dog and, uh, B) well, that's pretty much it.
I feel like I'm not building on anything I've done. Other people my age are buying houses, building lasting relationships with members of the opposite sex, demanding higher wages, raising children, and saving the planet. I'm not leaving so much as a footprint on this world. My colleage noted how "lucky" I was to be able to pack up and move anytime I wanted--I wanted to shake her and say "no, for once in my life I'd really LIKE to have some things tying me to a particular area, person, anything that stops me from picking up and moving." I'd really like to buy a house, raise children, publish a novel, maybe even, ya know, get married, but that just doesn't seem to be happening. People keep telling me I need to move back to London. I wish it were that simple.
So I'm going to get a dog. And that will be what I do.
I didn't mean for this to be a depressing post...I'm afraid I've got the hypo today, even though I spent the morning with puppies and in a few minutes I'm going to go get a wasabi (wasabiii! hyah!) veggie roll. I think I'm just lonely and reflective. I need to meet more people. Next week is going to be fun: I'm finally going to get to train for the military programs so next Thursday I'll be learning how to fire a black powder musket. And we all know what happens next: that's right, breeches. Jealous? Oh yeah.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
A Friday Night In
During our orientation stroll around the historical area last week, our orientation leader pointed out the hospital and said a few things about historical surgery, prompting me to note that back then a good doctor could have someone's arm off in under thirty seconds. (I know this because I learned it at the National Maritime Museum, and did I ever mention I saw the tourniquet that may have been used when they amputated Nelson's arm? Yes? Well, not recently, anyway.)
Anyway, the very opposite of that speed and skill would be when an incompetent doctor--say, a doctor who's been out carousing and suddenly needs to perform emergency surgery only the only tool he has to hand is a rusty knife--a rusty butter knife, with the crumbs still on it from that morning's toast. Yes, this incompetent, drunken doctor, rooting around in there, attempting to have your arm off, possibly pausing at times to take another swig, or point out to an observer the intricacies of the human body or (more likely) to stand back and wipe his brow, exclaiming "My God, didn't expect THAT!" as the patient lays there, dazed and praying for death.
The only reason I paint this lovely little picture is because that's what I felt like last night, and if it hadn't been for sweet, sweet Midol I might just have thrown myself in front of the cannon.
Luckily, I'm feeling much better.
But I brought my magic pills with me. Just in case.
Anyway, the very opposite of that speed and skill would be when an incompetent doctor--say, a doctor who's been out carousing and suddenly needs to perform emergency surgery only the only tool he has to hand is a rusty knife--a rusty butter knife, with the crumbs still on it from that morning's toast. Yes, this incompetent, drunken doctor, rooting around in there, attempting to have your arm off, possibly pausing at times to take another swig, or point out to an observer the intricacies of the human body or (more likely) to stand back and wipe his brow, exclaiming "My God, didn't expect THAT!" as the patient lays there, dazed and praying for death.
The only reason I paint this lovely little picture is because that's what I felt like last night, and if it hadn't been for sweet, sweet Midol I might just have thrown myself in front of the cannon.
Luckily, I'm feeling much better.
But I brought my magic pills with me. Just in case.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
hell hath no fury like a writer who knows how to construct a complaint letter
Okay, loyal readers...what do you think, should I send it?
Jack Potter
Postmaster General
475 L’Enfant Plaza SW
Washington DC 20260-0010
USA
12 February 2008
Dear Sir,
I am writing this letter in regards to my recent experience at the post office located at 4850 N. Broadway St., Chicago Illinois, 60640-9998. I use this post office because it is the nearest location to my house and I do not own a car, but after today I am going to be taking my business elsewhere.
My goal in using USPS today was to mail a small package (5.9 ounces, by your scale) in an Express Envelope, overnight to Williamsburg, Virginia. I arrived at the post office at 8:15, unaware that this location opened at 8:30, and decided to wait. By the time 8:30 rolled around, there were at least seven other people waiting—people mostly like myself who had to mail a small parcel or letter. When the location did not open promptly at 8:30, some of the people grew upset and knocked on the door prompting an employee to come over and indicate, by pointing to his watch, that it was not yet eight-thirty. Several of the people waiting with me pulled out their watches and cellphones in response to show that yes, it was in fact past 8:30. According to my cellphone, it was 8:37, according to the bank across the street, it was 8:35 and according to the watch of the lady next to me it was 8:34 by the time your doors were finally opened.
I had intended on using the Automated Postal machine, since I was using regulation envelopes and had no dangerous items, but after I punched in the zip code, the machine helpfully informed me it was unable to help me and I should get in line. Which I did at approximately 8:45. By this point—even though I had been the first person to arrive at your location at 8:15, I was now five places back in line. Some of my fellow customers who had been waiting outside with me were growing belligerent, calling for more windows to be opened, and to be sure, I could see USPS employees moving around behind the two open windows who were apparently not assisting customers. (The second window, I should add, was opened after I got into line, which means it would have been after 8:45, a full fifteen minutes after the location officially “opened”)
My turn at the window came at 8:57. (My accurate timekeeping was helped immeasurably by the Art Noveau clock on the wall.) Unfortunately, I was not able to get the name of the clerk who assisted me, but my receipt tells me it was Clerk No. 10, my address label tells me her initials were C. V. and at nine o’clock on the morning of February 12th she was working at window number four. When I stepped up to the window, the clerk apologized for the delay, and I told her I understood, trying for patience. After all—I had put my items into an envelope that only needed to be weighed and metered, so I figured that after my half-hour wait, things would go smoothly. The clerk told me that due to a post office closing early somewhere between Chicago and Williamsburg, I would not be able to use their express service. My package would arrive on Thursday instead of Wednesday. I told her that was all right, and she took my debit card.
I had accidentally affixed a “Priority” address label to my Express Envelope, so she pushed an Express address label toward me and told me to fill it out. As she rang up my debit card I quickly filled out the address label, pausing to punch in my PIN as she directed. When the transaction had gone through, she told me to step aside and finish filling out the address label, but I was nearly done and had waited for so long that it seemed to make more sense to me to stay here until I had finished. If I had moved over, another customer would have been able to be helped, but I would have had to wait another five minutes—instead of another fifteen seconds while I wrote. I told her to “hang on a second.” She told me to move aside. I said “I’ve been here since eight-fifteen—“ she cut me off and said “Ma’am, no you haven’t, we opened our doors at eight-thirty,” and I tried to explain I’d been waiting outside. At this point she raised her voice so everyone behind me could hear and said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside so I can help another customer!” and I said “They’ll understand—“ meaning, they’ve been waiting as long as I have. To which she replied “All they’ll understand is you’re taking up the window—“ And at this point, I pushed the completed label back towards her.
I have no doubt, if this clerk had allowed me to finish my label without arguing with me, I could have done it in half the time. As it was, I was very upset that this person—who clearly understood that I had been inconvenienced to some degree, as she had apologized when I first stepped up to her window—could not allow me the extra ten seconds to fill out an address label. Instead of listening to me, she interrupted me and insisted that I move over, causing more of a delay than if I had moved. She accepted the label, rolling her eyes at the trouble I had caused her by not moving over and stuck it on my package, handing me the receipt without a thank you, and I left as quickly as I could.
The only thing that prevented me from taking by business elsewhere today was the fact that seconds before the clerk began to get belligerent, my debit card went through. Not only did I pay the full Express Shipping rate for a package that will not get there tomorrow, but I had to suffer being inconvenienced—I was more than an hour late for work—not to mention being publicly humiliated. I respect the fact that dealing with impatient customers all day must be a demanding job, but I cannot understand how a clerk will not summon up the patience for a customer who only needs an extra fifteen seconds to fill out an address label.
I finally exited the post office at about 9:15, an hour after I had arrived. This is not the first time I have stood in line for more than twenty minutes at this location, but it is the first time I have been shouted at and abused. In the future, I will be avoiding this location all together, and I will use a private company for my shipping needs. It is my hope that this letter will illustrate the need for USPS employees who display patience and who are willing to listen to their customers, instead of treating us like we are a nuisance.
Sincerely,
Nicole M. Lemery
CC: Jack Potter, Postmaster General
Vice-President & Consumer Advocate
Consumer Affairs
4850 N. Broadway (via fax)
Jack Potter
Postmaster General
475 L’Enfant Plaza SW
Washington DC 20260-0010
USA
12 February 2008
Dear Sir,
I am writing this letter in regards to my recent experience at the post office located at 4850 N. Broadway St., Chicago Illinois, 60640-9998. I use this post office because it is the nearest location to my house and I do not own a car, but after today I am going to be taking my business elsewhere.
My goal in using USPS today was to mail a small package (5.9 ounces, by your scale) in an Express Envelope, overnight to Williamsburg, Virginia. I arrived at the post office at 8:15, unaware that this location opened at 8:30, and decided to wait. By the time 8:30 rolled around, there were at least seven other people waiting—people mostly like myself who had to mail a small parcel or letter. When the location did not open promptly at 8:30, some of the people grew upset and knocked on the door prompting an employee to come over and indicate, by pointing to his watch, that it was not yet eight-thirty. Several of the people waiting with me pulled out their watches and cellphones in response to show that yes, it was in fact past 8:30. According to my cellphone, it was 8:37, according to the bank across the street, it was 8:35 and according to the watch of the lady next to me it was 8:34 by the time your doors were finally opened.
I had intended on using the Automated Postal machine, since I was using regulation envelopes and had no dangerous items, but after I punched in the zip code, the machine helpfully informed me it was unable to help me and I should get in line. Which I did at approximately 8:45. By this point—even though I had been the first person to arrive at your location at 8:15, I was now five places back in line. Some of my fellow customers who had been waiting outside with me were growing belligerent, calling for more windows to be opened, and to be sure, I could see USPS employees moving around behind the two open windows who were apparently not assisting customers. (The second window, I should add, was opened after I got into line, which means it would have been after 8:45, a full fifteen minutes after the location officially “opened”)
My turn at the window came at 8:57. (My accurate timekeeping was helped immeasurably by the Art Noveau clock on the wall.) Unfortunately, I was not able to get the name of the clerk who assisted me, but my receipt tells me it was Clerk No. 10, my address label tells me her initials were C. V. and at nine o’clock on the morning of February 12th she was working at window number four. When I stepped up to the window, the clerk apologized for the delay, and I told her I understood, trying for patience. After all—I had put my items into an envelope that only needed to be weighed and metered, so I figured that after my half-hour wait, things would go smoothly. The clerk told me that due to a post office closing early somewhere between Chicago and Williamsburg, I would not be able to use their express service. My package would arrive on Thursday instead of Wednesday. I told her that was all right, and she took my debit card.
I had accidentally affixed a “Priority” address label to my Express Envelope, so she pushed an Express address label toward me and told me to fill it out. As she rang up my debit card I quickly filled out the address label, pausing to punch in my PIN as she directed. When the transaction had gone through, she told me to step aside and finish filling out the address label, but I was nearly done and had waited for so long that it seemed to make more sense to me to stay here until I had finished. If I had moved over, another customer would have been able to be helped, but I would have had to wait another five minutes—instead of another fifteen seconds while I wrote. I told her to “hang on a second.” She told me to move aside. I said “I’ve been here since eight-fifteen—“ she cut me off and said “Ma’am, no you haven’t, we opened our doors at eight-thirty,” and I tried to explain I’d been waiting outside. At this point she raised her voice so everyone behind me could hear and said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside so I can help another customer!” and I said “They’ll understand—“ meaning, they’ve been waiting as long as I have. To which she replied “All they’ll understand is you’re taking up the window—“ And at this point, I pushed the completed label back towards her.
I have no doubt, if this clerk had allowed me to finish my label without arguing with me, I could have done it in half the time. As it was, I was very upset that this person—who clearly understood that I had been inconvenienced to some degree, as she had apologized when I first stepped up to her window—could not allow me the extra ten seconds to fill out an address label. Instead of listening to me, she interrupted me and insisted that I move over, causing more of a delay than if I had moved. She accepted the label, rolling her eyes at the trouble I had caused her by not moving over and stuck it on my package, handing me the receipt without a thank you, and I left as quickly as I could.
The only thing that prevented me from taking by business elsewhere today was the fact that seconds before the clerk began to get belligerent, my debit card went through. Not only did I pay the full Express Shipping rate for a package that will not get there tomorrow, but I had to suffer being inconvenienced—I was more than an hour late for work—not to mention being publicly humiliated. I respect the fact that dealing with impatient customers all day must be a demanding job, but I cannot understand how a clerk will not summon up the patience for a customer who only needs an extra fifteen seconds to fill out an address label.
I finally exited the post office at about 9:15, an hour after I had arrived. This is not the first time I have stood in line for more than twenty minutes at this location, but it is the first time I have been shouted at and abused. In the future, I will be avoiding this location all together, and I will use a private company for my shipping needs. It is my hope that this letter will illustrate the need for USPS employees who display patience and who are willing to listen to their customers, instead of treating us like we are a nuisance.
Sincerely,
Nicole M. Lemery
CC: Jack Potter, Postmaster General
Vice-President & Consumer Advocate
Consumer Affairs
4850 N. Broadway (via fax)
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Terribly snobby
Would it be terribly snobby of me to say that "For Unto Us a Child is Born" by Handel just doesn't sound as good unless it's being played in St. Martin's in the Field?
Okay, then, I won't say it.
Things I am grateful for:
1. My knees, both of which still work.
2. Annie's Honey Bunny Cereal which does not contain high fructose corn syrup.
3. Overactive radiators that I don't have to pay for.
4. The first chapter of "The Uncommon Reader" by Alan Bennett, posted on Amazon.com.
5. Hershey's new Truffle Kisses. Bliss in a kiss.
I'm feeling rather low-ish today. Working two jobs is taking its toll, plus I'm panicking that I'll never get out of this cycle of working low-paying jobs. Which I WILL, but sometimes when it's five o'clock at night and it's fully dark out, this primal fear of an eternity of mediocrity kicks in and I have trouble breathing.
I know things will get better, because they always do. I'm still looking for a "real" job as well as other theatre opportunities. And breathing. Breathing is key.
Okay, then, I won't say it.
Things I am grateful for:
1. My knees, both of which still work.
2. Annie's Honey Bunny Cereal which does not contain high fructose corn syrup.
3. Overactive radiators that I don't have to pay for.
4. The first chapter of "The Uncommon Reader" by Alan Bennett, posted on Amazon.com.
5. Hershey's new Truffle Kisses. Bliss in a kiss.
I'm feeling rather low-ish today. Working two jobs is taking its toll, plus I'm panicking that I'll never get out of this cycle of working low-paying jobs. Which I WILL, but sometimes when it's five o'clock at night and it's fully dark out, this primal fear of an eternity of mediocrity kicks in and I have trouble breathing.
I know things will get better, because they always do. I'm still looking for a "real" job as well as other theatre opportunities. And breathing. Breathing is key.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Saturday!
After breakfasting on Midol, I went to meet a composer about potentially working together on a script. The meeting went well and I have high hopes we'll work together.
Afterwards, I was going to see a movie, but instead I went to Wal-Greens and bought:
1. Feminine products
2. A microwaveable heating pad
3. Two (2) bars of Lindt dark chocolate
The woman behind the counter did NOT ask how I was doing.
Comfortably wrapped around my new heating pad now, waiting for the nausea to subside so I can have chocolate for dinner.
aargh.
Waste of a perfectly good Saturday, if you ask me.
Afterwards, I was going to see a movie, but instead I went to Wal-Greens and bought:
1. Feminine products
2. A microwaveable heating pad
3. Two (2) bars of Lindt dark chocolate
The woman behind the counter did NOT ask how I was doing.
Comfortably wrapped around my new heating pad now, waiting for the nausea to subside so I can have chocolate for dinner.
aargh.
Waste of a perfectly good Saturday, if you ask me.
Monday, October 29, 2007
No Drama in the Theatre
I am very sorry for being a whingy b!&@h princess when I have nothing to really complain about.
I have awesome friends on two continents who are helping me with my applications.
I have a roof over my head and a soon-to-be-awesome William Shakespeare bathroom.
I have a job(s).
I'm finally making contacts about getting one of my plays put on.
I'm going dancing on Wednesday.
I have a roommate who ordered "A Cock and Bull Story" on Netflix.
I talked to three of my awesome friends this weekend, all of whom have assured me that I am, infact, awesome.
I have a birfday coming up.
I got a Lord Nelson bookmark in the mail, courtesy of an awesome friend.
so really, I have nothing to complain about.
I'm sorry for being jealous.
Much love,
Nicki
I have awesome friends on two continents who are helping me with my applications.
I have a roof over my head and a soon-to-be-awesome William Shakespeare bathroom.
I have a job(s).
I'm finally making contacts about getting one of my plays put on.
I'm going dancing on Wednesday.
I have a roommate who ordered "A Cock and Bull Story" on Netflix.
I talked to three of my awesome friends this weekend, all of whom have assured me that I am, infact, awesome.
I have a birfday coming up.
I got a Lord Nelson bookmark in the mail, courtesy of an awesome friend.
so really, I have nothing to complain about.
I'm sorry for being jealous.
Much love,
Nicki
Friday, October 26, 2007
the greene eyed monster
Okay, I'll admit it. I'm jealous. Lately everytime I get an email from a friend all I hear is the good news about projects they're working on, or trips they're planning, and I go all green-eyed, thinking about how I'm here, bored and not doing anything near what I'd hoped to be doing. Oh, it's easy to say that I'm just getting my feet under me or that this year is a "rebuilding year" but I know people who are happily employed in their field or at least using their degrees. And I'm proud of y'all, obviously you've worked at whatever it is harder than me and you deserve your success and I'm proud of everyone. And jealous. Ooooo, ragingly envious.
I hate that I can't seem to get any momentum going. Everytime I do a show I end up working for awhile, then I can't get back into it. And I have no idea how to do this professional playwright thingy. Somehow, just taking a jump and bumbling into it--which is how I normally do things--doesn't seem to work here. Somehow people seem to think, at my age I should know what I'm doing.
Yeah, that makes two of us.
I'm so happy that everyone is successful and enjoying reaping the fruits of their labors. I just wish that I could figure out how I could it as well.
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