Reason #2 I must get out of here...

This is Freddie #4 - Freddies #1 through 3 died due to no fault of my own (water changing is rough on the Bettas, turns out).

I am insanely, spectacularly, outrageously jealous of this fish. Why? You might ask...because Freddie has a function in life that was defined upon his birth. He swims around, looking frisky, looking forward to me feeding him three miniature pellets of Betta food every day (except Sat/Sun when he starves). He is generally enthusiastic about the little orange plant in his tank because, let’s be honest, it probably appears to be a BRAND NEW PLANT every time he swims by it. I am convinced that Freddie doesn't actually know he isn't in the ocean or whatever any more. I think he lives in a Nemo-utopia that I created for him.

And I want someone to create a Utopia for me.

When I was in my youth, I wanted to be a doctor. A physician. I dreamed of it. Read books I had no business reading. Fantasized about my loft in Boston down the street from Mass Gen, where I was going to be a renowned trauma surgeon. I would subsist solely on coffee which would make my physique svelte and lithe. I'd have convenient sex with street musicians when I felt lonely and I would be married to and defined by my work.

Except I didn't do that. I took the MCAT. I made a passable score. I applied to and was accepted to UAMS in Little Rock, AR. And then I panicked. Flat out, full on, pull your hair out freak out.

"Who in the fuck do you think you are? Smart people go to medical school. Not you. You didn't do any extra-curriculars...you don't know enough Cell Biology. You aren't good enough. You aren't smart enough. And let's be real...no one you know really likes you."

That was my internal monologue in 2004.

So, instead. I packed up my shit and moved home to my Gran's house. I bartended...met my juicy delicious husband. Applied to Graduate School. Got accepted. Had two kids. Got a PhD. I did the easy thing.

And it isn't that I don't like my life....I love my life. It's just not what I imagined it would be. And while the personal stuff...the husband, the kids, the house, the good sex...it's all more than I ever dreamed I wanted or deserved...the professional stuff is shockingly unfulfilling.

I go to work. I sit at a cubical, staring at Freddie and trying to make a difference in the lives of the 500 students at the University I'm at. I tried science. I wasn't very good at it. I'm not creative enough or driven enough, frankly. So I fell back into teaching and figured I'd try and be an administrator to elicit change in a positive direction. But I'm not the boss...so everything I try and do for the kids gets vomited back into my face by some asshole corporate monkey at our corporate office saying that it isn't cost effective. Then I sit in 3 hour meetings listening to a bunch of middle aged white men telling me they don't have enough time to do their jobs and I just want to SCREAM at them and tell them how god-damned lazy and stupid and inefficient they are. Because I'm a giant in the land of Lilliputians here. And I was once a midget trying to keep up with the big kids...So I'm frustrated. Who isn't? Jobs everywhere suck. I just want my job to be more satisfying than it is infuriating. I want some balance back.

So I envy Freddie #4. I envy his silent satisfaction. I envy his lack of awareness of his place in this world. I envy his position of helplessness where someone else feeds him and loves him and makes sure his tank isn't full of shit.

I've got to clean my own tank. And I'm just not sure how to do that.

Cubical Warfare

I work in a shared office. I share this office with about 20 people. Before I was demoted for having a vagina and for not being 50 just yet, I had an office all to myself...it was blissful...I digress. In said office, I have hung the things that have been re-homed from days when I had a modicum of respect on my cubical wall. I have a fish, a few photos, a calendar, a few drawings from the kids. Good stuff. The thing is...I work beside a dude who will NOT get off the phone. Every single day it goes like this: "Hi, Marjorie? This is INSERT NAME HERE. I was calling....hmmmmm hmmm har har har...well, you see, I have a silly question. I got this phone, you see, and I was told that the data plan was included in the price of the phone and now I'm getting charged for data and I was hoping you might extend your kindness to me and explain what data actually is." Awkward pause. "Oh, thank you for your kindness." Another awkward pause for Marjorie to gag and transfer him to the supervisor she hates most. "Hello? Yes. No, I'm sorry, I apologise, I can't hear you so well...ah, yes, that's better....(grating donkey laugh/inhale....like one long bray) This is INSERT NAME HERE. I was calling....hmmmmm hmmm har har har...well, you see, Marjorie was very helpful, but perhaps you can help me.... I have a silly question. I got this phone, you see, and I was told that the data plan was included in the price of the phone and now I'm getting charged for data and I was hoping you might extend your kindness to me and explain what data actually is." 10 minute pause. Just long enough for me to believe this madness is over. Extensive change in tone. "No, sir. I did not want to get a data plan. I understand that I bought the top of the line smartphone because I'm a pompous asshole and I have to bankrupt myself getting everything top of the line even though I'm teaching instead of practicing medicine except that I like to pull out the MD card....Wait - I digress...sorry. "No, sir. I didn't want to get a data plan unless it was included in the price of the phone as the lady on the phone said it was. No, I do NOT want the data plan. I should be able to browse the internet with my messaging plan." Awkward pause. "Maybe you should define "data" for me." Donkey laugh. "Ah, I see, well...please cancel the data plan for me. You see, I'm a physician who teachers here at XXXXXXXXXXXXX...so I'm always sitting at a computer so I can get on the internet. I recently [3 years ago] moved from Florida and I'm helping my daughter out during a troubled time [unspecified amount of time] and I thank you for your kindess sir. Thank you so much. Thank you. I was also hoping to talk with you about how I can get access to the internet on my phone....." And it will continue. For HOURS. Then he'll call his cable company, a car rental agency...anyone with whom who he can have a 45 minute circular conversation about nothing. We generally like this man. He's sweet, in a grating and saccharine sort of way. But the constant tilting at windmills, on a company phone, in a shared office. I cannot handle it. Reason #1 that I MUST find another job.

Gender Roles and Why Your Husband Hates that Sweater

I know what your husband or boyfriend or both wants for Christmas and it isn’t a monogrammed sweater vest for him to wear to your family Christmas party. You see, men, in particular married men, don’t actually give a shit about anything that you care about.

In point of fact: I am married to one of the world’s most sensitive and enlightened men and HE doesn’t want that stupid sweater. My two best friends are men. My children are men. I live in a sausage factory. That makes me an expert. So listen up:

Your husband/boyfriend/whatever wants one of the following three things for Christmas/Birthday/Insert Your Favorite Holiday:

1.Sex of some sort
2.A Saturday to do nothing but scratch himself and watch some sort of sport
3.An entire week without you asking him to do something stupid
Let me clarify: something stupid is anything that isn’t listed in numbers 1-3.

So ladies, seriously, get a girlfriend. Quit trying to make your husband/boyfriend/whatever fill that role. By definition, a man is NOT a woman. Enjoy lady time with the ladies. Enjoy man time with your men.

And gentlemen, if you want a lady to treat you like a man, for God’s sake, start treating her like a lady. Gender roles are in place because they make sense. If you want her to give you guy time, open doors, put your hand on the small of her back, change the toilet paper roll, protect her in a bar, and for GOD’S SAKE, quit grooming yourself in front of her. If you’re going to be the alpha, you’d better get really good at it because women in the 21st century are fucking amazing. If you want to rule your roost, do it…but you’d better do it right. And ladies…quit emasculating them. If you want a quality goose, quit cutting off his balls.

Jesus, I loathe the 21st century feminism/gender politics/political correctness.

Just saying.



.

Polish

.....Not, you know, the nationality, but the sort of poise and grace I can never hope to have.

When I was 19 years old, I was dating a man we'll affectionately call "The Alcoholic" or AA for short. AA and I shacked up together after my previous boyfriend shacked up with his "big brother" in his fraternity AKA some random blonde who he slept with on my birthday after getting piss-drunk and then called me to have me come get him the next morning. Oh yeah. THAT guy was the first person I ever slept with. Ever. And he didn't cuddle.

Bastard.

I digress.

So AA and I shacked up. He was a poet who was trying to learn to be that guy from "A Beautiful Mind" but was ending up more like what would happen if Ike Turner and James Joyce had a baby. If you're unsure about those references - Ike Turner took to beating Proud Mary and James Joyce was a good Irish who lost his damn mind and wrote a couple of books; one of which ends and begins in mid-sentence. Good stuff.

So, AA was a drunk, hot-mess, Irish, poet who really liked to see his handprints on my flesh. Not my finest hour.

He was also the man who taught me how to be a grown-up...or at least put me on the path to become what I am today. In addition to telling me that I was really more into being the victim than was generally acceptable, he also said this:

"You know, someday, you're going to have to start dressing professionally instead of like some gothic-slut-poet-nerd. Because, like, people aren't going to take you seriously as a doctor if you look homeless all the time."

Oh, really.

Well, it turns out, the idiot/asshole savant was right. I'm about to have to buy a new wardrobe. And I'm conflicted about this. I do NOT want to dress all stodgy and gross and dull. But I don't have enough money or a small enough ass to dress in an appropriately adorable/professional manner. I am all atizzy. What to do?

A. Lose weight.
B. Win lottery.
C. A and B
D. Revert to 19 and give the world the finger.

Man....D is so very tempting.

Politics

So - I've been taking it all in for a while. Whirlygigs waving around me in the form of people with whom I work freaking the fuck out about silly things and big things and things I didn't even know one should freak about.

Issue #1: Shoes. The school at which I teach has a dress code. I seldom abide by it. I realize this is irresponsible. Typically, from the ankles up, I'm all professional. I teach for 5 hour stretches, twice a day. That's a LOOOOONNNNNGGGGG time to be standing and pacing and walking and teaching. I want my feet comfortable. So I wear Chuck Taylors or flip flops or flats....sometimes heels...but not that often. Today, El Presidente de Collegirito rolls into a meeting and steps on my toes.
He says, "Dr. Smith, what are those?"
"Why, they're shoes, El Presidente."
"Oh, really?" says he, "Do we think those are appropriate?"
"Do you think it's appropriate and/or legal to comment on my dress and the alleged dresscode when I've never seen a single handbook on this campus, sir?"
"Let's start the meeting," says he.

Issue #2: Coffee. I love coffee. I spend many hours of my day dreaming of swimming in a lake of rich Colombian brew chilled to a refreshing 75 degrees. Alas, not possible. In lieu of said fantasy, I drink it. Copious amounts...except not so much any more because of that pesky Generalized Anxiety Disorder that is triggered by too much caffeine.

I digress.

Coffee in question was at Coffee Haven, my local watering hole, where I met one of my 3 bosses for coffee today to discuss the shambles of my performance on my last job assignment. No bueno.

Asshat in question orders a "large cappucino with no milk".

The barista kindly tells him cappucinos are impossible to make without milk, he is ordering espresso. He FLIPS THE FUCK OUT.

At some point, I hallucinate cutting this man. He berates the barista. She makes him an Americano (espresso + water) which is what he actually wanted. When he realizes, he tells her that she should make "her fucking signs more intelligible". Seriously? Dude. Who talks to people like this? I'd have gouged out his eyes with the stirring spoon.

Issue #3: Husbands. Mine. I spend a large part of my life contemplating what a joy it is to be married to JDH. The other, smaller part, I spend torturing him and acting like a total bitch. This issue has to do with the fact that on Tuesday, I came home from a very long day of work and found the house reasonable messy and him on the couch. I was pissed. I got MORE pissed the following morning when, shlumping from the bedroom with both kids awake for the second day in a row and school delayed two hours for the SECOND DAY IN A ROW and husband gone to work, I cleaned said house. With a vengeance. I vaccuumed at 7 a.m. Not my finest hour.

Then that night, he has the audacity, the out and out balls to text and say he'd like to catch a beer with the guys from work! The nerve! Even though I've been telling him for, like, 6 months to do just that. On MY bad day!

So I vaccuumed again. And put away laundry. And acted like a total bitch when he got home. He noticed. Went to bed pissed. We sent nastygrams all day today and we're now over it. Adult fight accomplished.

Suck it, JDH, that's what you get for being perfect 95% of the time. A self-rightous, outrageously demanding wife who wants to know just how you plan on fixing the totally unacceptable 5% of the time when you're only semi-awesome.

Seriously. Assholes of the world. Get over yourself.

:)