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downer
August 08, 2012
Nothing like going to read the morning news and seeing the first three lead stories
concern the perpetrators of mass killings. (One of which took place 2 days ago, about
30 miles from your home.) Loughner's plea deal, the latest on the Aurora theater
shooter, and the skinhead nutbag that cut loose in Oak Creek are all dominating the
headlines. Life is getting so damned disheartening. If it is no longer safe, in Middle
America, to go to the grocery store, take in a movie, or attend Sunday services, what is
the point in even getting out of bed in the morning?
Well, for me, the point is get up and go to work and support my husband.
My unemployed husband.
I know I shouldn't feel mad about it because he was totally justified in quitting and I
gave him not only permission, but orders, to do so. But part of me just gets
so. damned. tired. I have been continuously employed since April 16th, 1989. that, in
case you can't keep track, is one thousand, two hundred and sixty-four consecutive
weeks. That is one hell of a lot of tired. And a big part of the reason for that "success"
is him--I have never been in a position, in nearly a quarter of a century, to throw up my
hands and chuck it. That is luxury has been his and his alone. Over the years I have had
to deal with job loss due to his attitude problems, his dubious work ethic, his pilfering,
his philandering, his bad choices and his just plain bad luck, and what it has meant for
me in pracitcal terms is I HAVE NO OPTIONS. I have to stay where I am, suck the
hind teat, take what they dish out, work with horrible people doing jobs I hate.
And carry all the insurance, to boot.
Naturally, with him home, we are at "GTF out of my space" all over again. He is
underfoot as soon as I get up in the morning, distracting me and keeping me from
following the essential routine that gets me pulled together and out the door on time
every day. Yesterday, he threw me off so bad that I was already at work before I
realized I hadn't even combed my hair! Shows how well he looks at me when he kisses
me goodbye, doesn't it.
And don't even get me started on how much of a PITA he is after work. No
peace and relaxation, because he insists on both blasting that damned idiot box
and chewing my ear off with his repititious list of his "accomplishments" for
the day. Things like picking up the dog poop in the yard and washing a handful of
dishes and grilling a chicken breast. It took every ounce of self-control I have at my
disposal to keep from blurting: "That's nice--would you like to hear what I did today?
Earned a fucking paycheck, that's what!"
I'm just so burnt out. And no one seems to get it. It suits most of my friends and
family to just assume I have it easy. They think I collect a big paycheck for sitting on my
butt in the air conditioning, so why do I need a break? Spouse has never been
continuously employed at one company for more than for more than five years at a
stretch in the entire 53 years he's been alive--and the same goes for pretty much his
whole family! So he has zero comprehension of the kind of job fatigue we are talking
about.
My brothers, (aka the assholes) while they can comprehend what that kind of work
record means to them, can't carry that over to me. They are totally incapable of realizing
that their sister has that kind of a job. In their heads, women have little
woman-y jobs, not big, mannish careers! My friends are usually just waiting for me to
shut up so they can start rattling off how much better I have it than they do.
(And make me feel like it's somehow a failing on my part that I DO have a decent job
while their expensive degrees from Carthage got them no further than HellMart.)
Honestly--I think my dad and my aunt probably get it better than anyone. Auntie had
the same kind of role as the stable one with the demanding career and the benefits
package, and my dad is tremendously proud of me. He thinks I have a genius-level job
and I know he has much respect for my longevity. But I'm certainly not going to be
getting a lot of sympathy from Daddy; he's been working his tail off for 60 years at this
point. 70 if you count the farm work he started doing at five years old and never even
got paid for. And the last time he was unemployed for more than a day or two was
1982.
Reading:"Doc Gordon" (1906), by Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman. Young
Doctor James Elliot joins small-town Doctor Gordon as an assistant/student physician.
It doesn't take long to realize that the doctor, his sister, and his niece are all entangled in
some kind of mysterious secret, involving the niece being stalked by a vaguely
threatening man. It feels like the intent was great mystery, fraught with danger and
suspense. It reads a little more on the tedious, repetitive, and annoying side.
and still picking at "The Enchanted Barn" (1917), by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz. I really
kind of like this one in spots, but between the overbearing goddiness and GLHL's
pathetic attempts at suspense, it seems to be going down best in (very) small doses.
Listening: Sometimes, when the world gets you down, you need some
snappy music to perk you up: that would be Traveling Wilburys Vol. 1, because
it is an awesome classic and I adore every track on it.
And sometimes you need the opposite--the kind of music that gets right down there
and wallows in the misery with you: Jann Arden--her Happy? CD.
Surfing: .
At Random:
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