Musing on a Sunday, Not At the Office

The lingering winter and my steadily deteriorating work situation have worked in concert to lobotomize me. My brain is mired. I am completely uncreative, totally uninspired, and borderline unable to interact with people. My life has, in essence, turned me back into me at 13, but without the urge to write truly awful poetry.

I mistakenly believed that things wouldn’t ever get as bad at Corporate Happy Fun Job as they did last year at this time. I can only attribute that ridiculous assumption to optimism born of desperation—to have believed otherwise would have melted my soul and destroyed me. Now, in the throes of misery, I’m too close to it to reflect upon it. There is only the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other forced death march, interspersed with momentary speculation about how much my manager resembles a swaggering dildo frat boy.

That explains a lot, actually. That whole swaggering dildo thing.

As works sucks up more and more of my time, the rest of my life concomitantly begins to ravel around the edges. Things like socks and clean panties sort of fall by the wayside, and let’s not even talk about the whole damn dust situation.

And winter. . .winter. I am so done with winter. Rather than becoming more accepting of the entire season situation as years go by, I fight it more and more. I feel like I have done my time and paid my dues, and should no longer have to suffer the indignities of winter. Unfortunately, February is only beginning. Spring is at least a six weeks away, and the days when we can be confident there will be no frost are longer still.

The madness, he is lurking.

On the bright side, the dark and hopeless days of the Bush administration are finally, fabulously, behind us. President Obama (*swoon*) has impressed me incredibly during his first two weeks in office. Further, I don’t believe I’m impressed solely by the contrast between Obama and his idiotic predecessor, but rather by his determination to do right; to be a statesman and a leader rather than a politician.

When he signed the Executive Order to close Gitmo, I sat there sort of dumbfounded, thinking to myself, “Huh. He can just do that. Just . . . make good things happen. Because he’s the president. Fuckin’-A right.” And then he signed the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act into law, and I almost wept, because suddenly I no longer felt so much like I had a target painted on my ass and a sign around my neck that said “Fucking Sucker” in letters 3 inches high.

Hand to god, I would likely hump the President’s leg, but it would upset Michelle and his kids and the Secret Service would wallop my ass. The Boy, though, would understand because I am a woman of serious and sudden wants and, as my husband, he knows and accepts this about me.