There's nothing like returning from a three-day weekend to find your voicemail light blinking.
Wtf, I immediately thought. No one ever calls me.
[Sidebar: How funny would that texting commercial be if the mom started off with a flustery "WTF?"]
As I prayed to the please-tell-me-I-don't-already-have-Alzheimer's gods to please let me remember my friggin' login pin # (only one out of a dozen), I also prayed to the please-not-today god in the hopes that this would not be some smarmy-ass voice message saying anything like the following:
"Uh, hi, duh-neeee-tah. This is ________. Oh, I guess you're not in yet. It's 8:47 ... I don't know though... maybe you stepped away from your desk for a minute to grab some coffee ...? Anyway, I'm calling about the e-mail I told you about last week? You know the one about the setup form that wasn't completed? Well it's still not complete, but I went ahead and left it on your desk. Just gimme a call if you have any questions, m'kay? Thanks. Hope you had a great weekend."
[Come along with me as I journey on this prize li'l digression, won't you?
Ah yes, I've gotten messages like that before. Haven't we all? Several things about it peeve me. Number one, the bright cheery tone that comes alive right when they get to tell me what time it is that they're calling. The other peeving things are obvious (like the leaving of the shiz on my desk which you ought not leave), but I love it when they let me know it's okay for me to call them with questions.
I love thinking about whether or not they'd be so welcoming if my question-call came with, say, expletive-laden questions ... as in, "Hi _______. I'm just calling with some questions about the voicemail, last week's discussion, e-mail and the actual paper. Oh, it was great, my weekend was great. Thanks. Yeah. What the f^ck is this? Why the crap would you leave this shi! on my desk when you just said it wasn't completed? I'm sorry. Can you please remind me of the time when I stupidly said, 'Oh yeah, I take incomplete forms because the missing information is really bloody useful to me, thanks?'"
I enjoy that thought. I really do, and I swear one day it's gonna go down and I'm just hoping that for the sake of my job stability that it happens on the set of like, Office Space 2 or something.]
Anyway.
Yay not-today gods -- it was just a recruiter letting me know that I could let him know anytime if I were interested in joining accounting departments in other Fortune 1000 firms ... uh...
Dude.
I'm on that list now?
* * * * * * *
I'm in yet another state of unsatisfactory flux where I'm once again asking myself, "Exactly what are you doing?"
(Please note "doing" is intended to bear the same semblance to Ludacris's "doing" on Jamie Foxx's "Unpredictable.")
Do I have credible commitment issues or have I, like Juliette Binoche's character, Vianne, in Chocolat, fallen prey to the fated North Wind that ceases yet to blow?
Can I really live my life in this manner -- beholden only to my fed-up whims? And I realize this sounds like a call for someone to suggest The Purpose-Driven Life, which is something from which I could probably benefit, but please don't. There's a chapter in there that includes joining a church in order to continue on with one's mission -- and clearly I can't be expected to join a church. Besides the fact that I take the Lord's name in vain more than He likes (please note how I capitalized the "He" which I know, 'tis not but a few stones' tosses from Heathen!), I'm so far behind on my tithes that returning would require I make what would have to be a down payment on the church's requisite "building fund."
I mean, I can't even commit myself to sitting on the couch for a full hour (and you've seen me so that certainly shouldn't be among my problem-set).
(... and yes, I just said "problem-set," which is like skill-set's in-law or something, but this is what happens when people "touch base" with you too many times.)
I'm not even unhappy in my current situation. I don't have a reason to be. I really enjoy (the majority of) the people with whom I work, the work that I do is thankfully not too terribly mindless, it pays more than I'd probably be earning otherwise (but what job couldn't pay more? Seriously.), and it's helping me do what I need to do.
Or is it?
* * * * * * *
I am eating an entire box of sweetarts.
Damnit.
I can't even stop myself which is most unfortunate seeing as how my "maintain the hygeine" kit does not come with a tongue scraper. I'm still eating them, taking the bitter with the sweet.
In related news, it's sad (isn't it?) that what I'm about to say reveals I dwell far too much in the confines of mine own mind, but consider:
I have a "phobia," if you will, of being stuck -- not literally/physically in that I am not claustrophobic, but emotionally -- stuck in a job or a relationship or worse -- being stuck in between hunkering down on a job or even worse -- that time before a relationship actually becomes a relationship ... in the time span/space where you're still thinking about the other person like it could actually happen and then simultaneously evaluating whether or not it could ever work.
This part is bitter.
And yet, one of my greater characteristics is diligence and perseverance, which when aptly applied have yielded the sweetest results (i.e., graduations, making the varsity teams, moving to nyc).
In short, sweetarts are like catch-22s in candy form. To chew or not to chew?
I chew.
Bless me.