2
(Not) Earning My Keep
It has recently come to my attention that I'm not very productive at my nine-to-five. This harsh fact was brought to my attention by a good friend - and co-worker - who has noticed my half-hearted attempts at looking busy. What she calls half-hearted, I prefer to call by a more accurate moniker: apathetic. In other words, I no longer give a damn.
You know where my mind is, right? You know that dimly lit, musty mental place in which you can't really think of a good reason to keep pretending to care about your J.O.B.? You know, when you show up late for work and no longer bother to call in and say, "Hey, a delivery truck ran into a city bus which ran into a mustang-toting trailer on my route, so I'm running a little late" OR "You know, I thought I had the mumps this morning, but I'm over it. See you after lunch!"
That's where I am. I mean, they're lucky to get a "My morning toilet time ran a little longer than I planned" or a "What? It's not like you really expected me to be on time."
I have resorted to using the following techniques to entertain myself as I wait for the imaginary bell to signal the time to activate voice mail and log out of this ankle bracelet they call a computer. (Like Big Brother really needs to know how I voted on the Lindsay Lohan vs. Gabrielle Union "Who Wore It Best" online smackdown!):
And, yes. There are more. But, I'm sure you're so busy judging me that you don't have time to read on.
I know the economy is slowly recovering, but I'm not oblivious to the fact that there are thousands of people right now praying the government extends their unemployment benefits so that they can continue enjoying creature comforts like, I don't know ... sustenance. I'm grateful for that direct deposit on the 15th and the last. It always signals Wine Buying Day, and that's my favorite holiday of all.
However, there has got to be more than this. And there is. I try to remind myself daily of something that Mr. Do-Right said to me after my first month at this job. I was wracked with self-pity after my "boss" excoriated me for writing like I "don't know what I'm talking about." (She told me a month later that my writing is "exquisite." Hmph!) He said, "Remember why you're there." So, at times like these, when I start sending out Evites to my annual pity party, I try to remember why I'm doing this. I want to be able to give my children the things that make them smile. I want to be able to have a girls night out or spend New Year's Eve in a cabin with some of my closest friends. I want to be able to fill my gas tank up, and not just stop at $10. I want to be able to open my refrigerator and have choices. I want to be able to give to people who need it, and throw a little away on something ridiculous like a Salad Spinner or a Snuggie.
And, of most import to my readers, I want to be able to spend a night with my favorite man, eating something sinfully cheesy and sharing a bottle of some bad-ass vino. Salud!
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You know where my mind is, right? You know that dimly lit, musty mental place in which you can't really think of a good reason to keep pretending to care about your J.O.B.? You know, when you show up late for work and no longer bother to call in and say, "Hey, a delivery truck ran into a city bus which ran into a mustang-toting trailer on my route, so I'm running a little late" OR "You know, I thought I had the mumps this morning, but I'm over it. See you after lunch!"
That's where I am. I mean, they're lucky to get a "My morning toilet time ran a little longer than I planned" or a "What? It's not like you really expected me to be on time."
I have resorted to using the following techniques to entertain myself as I wait for the imaginary bell to signal the time to activate voice mail and log out of this ankle bracelet they call a computer. (Like Big Brother really needs to know how I voted on the Lindsay Lohan vs. Gabrielle Union "Who Wore It Best" online smackdown!):
- Reading a book from the pull-out supply drawer in my desk. (Once you've read the first [insert Sookie Stackhouse, Twilight, Dan Brown novel here] book, you can't stop until you've read 'em all!)
- Booting up my laptop next to my work computer. (Why should I do freelance work on my own time? That's just working hard, not smart.)
- Making my next to-do list during meetings. (I have a list of lists I need to make. Help me.)
- Searching for things on Craigslist. (I'm going to need something at some time, and I will expect it to cost between a minimum and maximum dollar amount.)
- Taking extended bathroom breaks. (I can SO get facebook on my phone in the John. Sweet!)
And, yes. There are more. But, I'm sure you're so busy judging me that you don't have time to read on.I know the economy is slowly recovering, but I'm not oblivious to the fact that there are thousands of people right now praying the government extends their unemployment benefits so that they can continue enjoying creature comforts like, I don't know ... sustenance. I'm grateful for that direct deposit on the 15th and the last. It always signals Wine Buying Day, and that's my favorite holiday of all.
However, there has got to be more than this. And there is. I try to remind myself daily of something that Mr. Do-Right said to me after my first month at this job. I was wracked with self-pity after my "boss" excoriated me for writing like I "don't know what I'm talking about." (She told me a month later that my writing is "exquisite." Hmph!) He said, "Remember why you're there." So, at times like these, when I start sending out Evites to my annual pity party, I try to remember why I'm doing this. I want to be able to give my children the things that make them smile. I want to be able to have a girls night out or spend New Year's Eve in a cabin with some of my closest friends. I want to be able to fill my gas tank up, and not just stop at $10. I want to be able to open my refrigerator and have choices. I want to be able to give to people who need it, and throw a little away on something ridiculous like a Salad Spinner or a Snuggie.
And, of most import to my readers, I want to be able to spend a night with my favorite man, eating something sinfully cheesy and sharing a bottle of some bad-ass vino. Salud!
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