"Tragedy... Like a pebble in the lake. Even the fish feel it."
-- Christopher Moltisanti
Monday, May 14, 2007
Christufuh....
Sayonara Muthafucka.
"Tragedy... Like a pebble in the lake. Even the fish feel it."
-- Christopher Moltisanti
"Tragedy... Like a pebble in the lake. Even the fish feel it."
-- Christopher Moltisanti
Friday, May 04, 2007
This just in
Question:
How many Bush administration officials does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Answer:
None.
There is nothing wrong with the light bulb; its conditions are improving every day.
Any report of its lack of incandescence is a delusional spin by the liberal media.
That light bulb has served honorably, and anything you say about its going out
undermines the lighting affect.
Why do you hate freedom?
How many Bush administration officials does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Answer:
None.
There is nothing wrong with the light bulb; its conditions are improving every day.
Any report of its lack of incandescence is a delusional spin by the liberal media.
That light bulb has served honorably, and anything you say about its going out
undermines the lighting affect.
Why do you hate freedom?
moon over my attitude
It's official: the baby possums are not cute anymore.
They are getting creepy, they are legion, and they need to GO AWAY.
I got another one into a box tonight, luring him with tuna as suggested by the
Animal Control/Wildlife agent I talked to. She said, "The legal solution to the
possom problem is catch and euthanize. I can't tell you what to do, but that's the law."
The law?
Euthanize?
As if.
Since getting rid of them has apparently become part of my job, I've got
to figure out something. I was told I can get a trap at the local hardware store,
but what the hell?
It's not like I have a lot of spare time to devote to possum wrangling,
and hauling them around in my car is starting to bum me out.
I did relocate the one I caught last night, setting him loose in the woods near my place.
Angry about ending my work night that way, I opened the box and somehow,
as I tipped the little creature toward the damp earth, all the annoyance and
anger I've carried this week slipped into the darkness with him and disappeared.
Gone.
Maybe it was the velvety night sky, stretched out above me and dotted with stars.
Or the astonishing smell of blooming elderberry, so delicate, so sweet.
The moon was almost perfectly round, bright and buttery yellow and I felt, as I stood there
with my empty cardboard box, a benevolence so profound I was humbled.
Comforted.
Hushed.
Now I remember: I am surrounded by beauty.
It is everywhere I am, informing every hour I live and breathe;
filling up each day with a million small reasons to abide, to persist,
to press on.
They are getting creepy, they are legion, and they need to GO AWAY.
I got another one into a box tonight, luring him with tuna as suggested by the
Animal Control/Wildlife agent I talked to. She said, "The legal solution to the
possom problem is catch and euthanize. I can't tell you what to do, but that's the law."
The law?
Euthanize?
As if.
Since getting rid of them has apparently become part of my job, I've got
to figure out something. I was told I can get a trap at the local hardware store,
but what the hell?
It's not like I have a lot of spare time to devote to possum wrangling,
and hauling them around in my car is starting to bum me out.
I did relocate the one I caught last night, setting him loose in the woods near my place.
Angry about ending my work night that way, I opened the box and somehow,
as I tipped the little creature toward the damp earth, all the annoyance and
anger I've carried this week slipped into the darkness with him and disappeared.
Gone.
Maybe it was the velvety night sky, stretched out above me and dotted with stars.
Or the astonishing smell of blooming elderberry, so delicate, so sweet.
The moon was almost perfectly round, bright and buttery yellow and I felt, as I stood there
with my empty cardboard box, a benevolence so profound I was humbled.
Comforted.
Hushed.
Now I remember: I am surrounded by beauty.
It is everywhere I am, informing every hour I live and breathe;
filling up each day with a million small reasons to abide, to persist,
to press on.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
staff infection part 2
Where was I?
Ah yes… my job.
There was a time, not so long ago,
when I ended my workdays more energized than when I began.
I really loved every moment I spent at work.
These days, however, I’m often exhausted before I ever leave my house.
I am not sleeping well, I’m eating strange things at strange times,
and I’m cranky, sluggish, frustrated and drained.
I know that the social service fields suffer a huge turnover.
People burn out and are no longer able to meet the enormous demands of their jobs.
Trauma, tragedy, ignorance and poverty can be soul-crushing.
And when you spend your days offering support to human beings
that have fallen through the cracks in the cracks of the basement of life,
the endless, yawning need is overwhelming.
Yet, all of that – exactly that – is what fuels and sustains me.
I genuinely love tilting at windmills; rising to the occasion
is a meaningful goal that makes the rare victories so sweet.
The basic facts of my job are these:
I work ridiculous hours for a ridiculous wage, in a building that should be condemned.
On any given day, I spend at least 8 hours being referee, nursemaid, policewoman,
counselor, parole officer, mother, paralegal, reference librarian, cook janitor,
teacher and more to roughly 16 people ages 1 to 41. I have at my disposal
an aged printer/fax machine, a local-service only phone, a flashlight, some NA
and AA literature and a first-aid kit.
There is a huge protocol manual (5+ years out of date), a “handbook of rules
for clients” (which I cannot use my own experience or knowledge to enforce),
and miles of paperwork I must fill out and complete each day so it can go
into files that few people will ever see. I deal with issues and events that can be
so distressing I sometimes hide in the bathroom, where I cry with my face in a towel.
I can handle the lousy conditions of my workplace and the wide-ranging demands
of all the clients that I serve. I can deal with the concepts of futility and neglect –
I can even handle having to buy my own supplies….
What I cannot stand, what is bleeding me dry,
is the gray ceiling of mismanagement
and all the anger, distrust and misery it creates.
And here is where my tale of woe always has to stop, because to vent
in any meaningful way, I need to be specific. But my work is totally
confidential; I can only vent openly with…the very people who are
(and are creating) the problems.
Which is just not going to happen.
So, instead I will close this blah-g with something I can bitch about: rodents.
Baby possums to be exact; they have invaded the building.
They are so super cute with their soft little petal-shaped ears and their bright
little black-button eyes. They look like cuddly bedtime toys - until they open
their little mouths revealing rows of teeth that look like razor blades.
Last night, as I was doing paperwork, I heard an odd noise and looked up to see
the most aggressive baby sitting in the hallway, eating a piece of paper.
After an awkward chase involving brooms, trash cans, some Cracker Jacks and a lot
of shrieking, we got him into a plastic bin. I slapped a lid on him , put him in my car
and took him out to the woods near my house. I know it was likely a bad idea, but I had
to try and save him from poison or the alley cat that has been chasing he and his siblings
around in the alley out back.
I worried all the way home about predators he might encounter – the coyotes and the cougars, and any number of owls. He was perfectly snack-sized, and completely unused to the wild, but I knew that his options back in town were pretty slim to none.
As I was letting him loose I noticed that he had Cracker Jacks stuck all over him, and I felt like I was tossing him to the lions. Like: Hey, look at him! He’s not only tasty – he’s frosted!
I hope he can make it, or that I never know it if he can’t.
This is why I make the little bucks.
It’s not fair, but somebody has to do it.
bs
Ah yes… my job.
There was a time, not so long ago,
when I ended my workdays more energized than when I began.
I really loved every moment I spent at work.
These days, however, I’m often exhausted before I ever leave my house.
I am not sleeping well, I’m eating strange things at strange times,
and I’m cranky, sluggish, frustrated and drained.
I know that the social service fields suffer a huge turnover.
People burn out and are no longer able to meet the enormous demands of their jobs.
Trauma, tragedy, ignorance and poverty can be soul-crushing.
And when you spend your days offering support to human beings
that have fallen through the cracks in the cracks of the basement of life,
the endless, yawning need is overwhelming.
Yet, all of that – exactly that – is what fuels and sustains me.
I genuinely love tilting at windmills; rising to the occasion
is a meaningful goal that makes the rare victories so sweet.
The basic facts of my job are these:
I work ridiculous hours for a ridiculous wage, in a building that should be condemned.
On any given day, I spend at least 8 hours being referee, nursemaid, policewoman,
counselor, parole officer, mother, paralegal, reference librarian, cook janitor,
teacher and more to roughly 16 people ages 1 to 41. I have at my disposal
an aged printer/fax machine, a local-service only phone, a flashlight, some NA
and AA literature and a first-aid kit.
There is a huge protocol manual (5+ years out of date), a “handbook of rules
for clients” (which I cannot use my own experience or knowledge to enforce),
and miles of paperwork I must fill out and complete each day so it can go
into files that few people will ever see. I deal with issues and events that can be
so distressing I sometimes hide in the bathroom, where I cry with my face in a towel.
I can handle the lousy conditions of my workplace and the wide-ranging demands
of all the clients that I serve. I can deal with the concepts of futility and neglect –
I can even handle having to buy my own supplies….
What I cannot stand, what is bleeding me dry,
is the gray ceiling of mismanagement
and all the anger, distrust and misery it creates.
And here is where my tale of woe always has to stop, because to vent
in any meaningful way, I need to be specific. But my work is totally
confidential; I can only vent openly with…the very people who are
(and are creating) the problems.
Which is just not going to happen.
So, instead I will close this blah-g with something I can bitch about: rodents.
Baby possums to be exact; they have invaded the building.
They are so super cute with their soft little petal-shaped ears and their bright
little black-button eyes. They look like cuddly bedtime toys - until they open
their little mouths revealing rows of teeth that look like razor blades.
Last night, as I was doing paperwork, I heard an odd noise and looked up to see
the most aggressive baby sitting in the hallway, eating a piece of paper.
After an awkward chase involving brooms, trash cans, some Cracker Jacks and a lot
of shrieking, we got him into a plastic bin. I slapped a lid on him , put him in my car
and took him out to the woods near my house. I know it was likely a bad idea, but I had
to try and save him from poison or the alley cat that has been chasing he and his siblings
around in the alley out back.
I worried all the way home about predators he might encounter – the coyotes and the cougars, and any number of owls. He was perfectly snack-sized, and completely unused to the wild, but I knew that his options back in town were pretty slim to none.
As I was letting him loose I noticed that he had Cracker Jacks stuck all over him, and I felt like I was tossing him to the lions. Like: Hey, look at him! He’s not only tasty – he’s frosted!
I hope he can make it, or that I never know it if he can’t.
This is why I make the little bucks.
It’s not fair, but somebody has to do it.
bs
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
staff infection
My job is making me sick.
I thought it was only a lack of sleep,
or maybe the way I was eating once a day;
and then mostly crackers and cheese, or soup.
So I've upped my protein and my fiber as well,
eating Luna bars and Cliff bars and tuna and tofu.
I've been trying to get more sleep, and succeeding some of the time,
yet I continue to feel tired, and depleted and worn down.
Last week I began a breakfast routine, forcing down a bowl of healthy cereal
instead of jamming the usual french press coffee IV into my arm and heading out the door.
So far, I've found I can tolerate Mini-Wheats and Raisin Bran, though both leave me feeling
a little like I chowed through a bale of hay. I also like Crispix, though I'm afraid I like it mostly because it is closer to Count Chocula (sugar-wise) than it is to Muesli or Grape Nut Flakes.
This morning I had a bowl of what may be the worst cereal currently available on the planet (uness they've found a way to turn old shoes into nuggets, or tweed overcoats into frosted O's).
Uncle Sam... the toasted barley/flax seed nightmare that sums itself up nicely with the question written on one side of its box: Why Uncle Sam?
Why indeed!
I dunno why, but I can go on for days about why not.
Brown like soil, like bark - like poo.
Little and hard and woody and bland, with a hint of something burnt to keep your taste buds interested (in getting away from the load in your mouth so they can live another day).
If you can't find this item on your grocer's shelves, spread a layer of wallpaper paste on a cookie sheet. Paint it brown, let it dry, and then shave it into flakes. Add some tiny, dried black beetles (to approximate the flax seeds) and you've got it. And if, when you add milk, it turns into a chewy version of its former, pasty self - you're in U.S. heaven.
But - as usual - I digress.
And while I think my forays into healthier eating and deeper sleeping are fine and necessary changes for me to be making, I still believe my job is making me feel toxic and ill.
I've got an infection - a staff infection -
and I'm starting to think that quitting might be the only cure for me.
On that note - I just looked at the clock.
Unless I plan to start quitting now, I need to change
(out of my pj's and into a better attitude)
and head off to the salt mines.
Stay tuned.
bs
I thought it was only a lack of sleep,
or maybe the way I was eating once a day;
and then mostly crackers and cheese, or soup.
So I've upped my protein and my fiber as well,
eating Luna bars and Cliff bars and tuna and tofu.
I've been trying to get more sleep, and succeeding some of the time,
yet I continue to feel tired, and depleted and worn down.
Last week I began a breakfast routine, forcing down a bowl of healthy cereal
instead of jamming the usual french press coffee IV into my arm and heading out the door.
So far, I've found I can tolerate Mini-Wheats and Raisin Bran, though both leave me feeling
a little like I chowed through a bale of hay. I also like Crispix, though I'm afraid I like it mostly because it is closer to Count Chocula (sugar-wise) than it is to Muesli or Grape Nut Flakes.
This morning I had a bowl of what may be the worst cereal currently available on the planet (uness they've found a way to turn old shoes into nuggets, or tweed overcoats into frosted O's).
Uncle Sam... the toasted barley/flax seed nightmare that sums itself up nicely with the question written on one side of its box: Why Uncle Sam?
Why indeed!
I dunno why, but I can go on for days about why not.
Brown like soil, like bark - like poo.
Little and hard and woody and bland, with a hint of something burnt to keep your taste buds interested (in getting away from the load in your mouth so they can live another day).
If you can't find this item on your grocer's shelves, spread a layer of wallpaper paste on a cookie sheet. Paint it brown, let it dry, and then shave it into flakes. Add some tiny, dried black beetles (to approximate the flax seeds) and you've got it. And if, when you add milk, it turns into a chewy version of its former, pasty self - you're in U.S. heaven.
But - as usual - I digress.
And while I think my forays into healthier eating and deeper sleeping are fine and necessary changes for me to be making, I still believe my job is making me feel toxic and ill.
I've got an infection - a staff infection -
and I'm starting to think that quitting might be the only cure for me.
On that note - I just looked at the clock.
Unless I plan to start quitting now, I need to change
(out of my pj's and into a better attitude)
and head off to the salt mines.
Stay tuned.
bs
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