I had a plan for my life, no really I did. By 23 years old I was going to own my own condo and I was going to have a real career. Well that didn’t pan out now did it? No, as I sit here at my cubical, forgetting that I am supposed to be taking calls. Damn, I do that so much now. It isn’t that I hate my job, it is that it is so damn unfulfilling. Typical day:
Wake up, hate the morning but I can’t handle the dogs nails on the woodlike floor, scratching and clawing to gain purchase on the sleek cheap surface. That in turn starts the other two mutts to moving. I still have 15 minutes to sleep but no, not gonna happen. I get up let the mutts off, remember to check the time to see if I have any time to lay down again, which most days I can get only comfortable enough to hate getting up again.
I let the dogs in. I am their master, I am the provider and it is my turn to serve the masses. I gather the dog bowls and prepare what I have deemed a health meal for them, knock-off moist food and a load of oats. It fills them up and they eat it. I would put a little can food in there but that isn’t an option. It isn’t that I don’t have the food, no I have that, no the real issue is we don’t have any electricity on.
So I get a call on Tuesday. “Jen, the power is off. The guy turned it off.” Shit, I think. Shit, I paid $400 to that so the new billing cycle hit and they turned it off. I am in Phoenix. It is an average of 100 degrees right now around 3pm every day. I have a 10 year old Akita/German Sheppard mix with a hip problem and some sort of not been washed in 8 years smell. This is not good. I go into crisis mode. I think of how much blood is in the human body and if is it is possible to sell that in the time needed to blow the electric company guy not to shut off the electric. I tell my very unemployed polish husband, at the time, I will figure it out and call the electric company.
I am not doing well at work, I see that I have some sick and vacation time left that haven’t been sucked away in other more vital mental health days.
Sidenote: You see, the average corporate employee will without a doubt maintain the minimum amount of work to maintain the maximum time of mental health days. I have done this for years. I wake up and think, “Self, could I be capable of blowing every person in tech support apart with just my stare.” And depending on the answer I will or will not dial the cell phone, which my sister is paying for because I am so screwed up, and call in to the trusty voicemail. I leave my name, supervisor and time. I try to sound sick but everyone getting the messages knows I am physcially fine but I would rather not do 7-10 in a state prison for capping their asses. Sorry for the vulgarities, if you don’t like it, you really need to look into a series of Christian Amish steamy romances. Or if that is not your preference there is a health selection of Quilting romances I stumbled upon at the library. Amazingly the bindings weren’t broken, I know….shocking.
So anyways, on with my plight…I gather the last of my meager vacation and sick and with the time I have wasted in the morning I am covered to not lose my job and still maintain dignity by not crying at work. Again. That day.
I run out of work to my 1992 Suzuki Swift. It has a hamster, I am convinced of it. It runs on Vodka and Hops. Right now, it is remeniscent of my sisters 1985 Grand Am with the broken motor mounts. For those of you that have been unforunate enough to appreciate the 250 horsepower vibrator, you understand that when I start this car it is with both a little pleasure but more pain. I lit my cigarette;
Oh get off me, I smoke get over it. I have nothing better in my life to do than to piss off the non-smokers. I find that I like to litter my butts everywhere just to piss you off. Kiss my butt you moronic self loathing bastards with your perfect pink lungs and your savings account full of unspent money. I could use that money you know. I could buy more cigarettes.
But I digress, onward the car rattles. Around the corners, the bald tires scream, I wonder sometimes if I will slide into another car or an unsuspecting duck but then I figure it would be protected by the insti-popcorn airbags. I get home and wouldn’t you know, the power is off, the Polish Sausage was right. I am still waiting for the power company to call me back on my cell but that wait could be another hour.
I lay down on the floor and cry. What, you expected a miracle, on no, not in this story. No real miracles except I can still laugh at this crap as it hits me.
As I write, I think back to when I was a kid. I used to love Harold and the Purple Crayon. He would take that crayon and draw his world. Nothing bad happened to Harold and he had everything at the tip of his fingers. Now here is my life, I had a purple crayon but it melted in the hot dry unforgiving Arizona sun. Purple puddles surround my life…..I sing Hendrix in my head. That thought will get me through a moment.
Time and again I come back to how my life became the shit storm that it is. I would have to say a series of stupid and unusual events led to this.