tuckova

The temporary call center job I took, at which I really enjoy the work and my co-workers and the money and really loathe the management, went ugly last week. Specifically, I was bullied by management, was unprepared for the level of bullying, failed to stand up for myself, and had to run out crying from that horrid middle-school combination of fury and shame. Fortunately it appears that they are so clueless that they didn't even notice that I'd walked out two hours ahead of schedule so they totally beat up my feelings but at least they don't know.

I am lucky to be the sort of person who finds a restorative shot or three of whiskey in the early afternoon to be perfectly reasonable. Thanks, Deadwood! The next day I dragged my nails across a dragon's hide and now have resumed my self-defense stance, which is to say the next time someone gets that far into my space, I will head butt them. I mean figuratively. And until that happens, I will continue to call strangers in the UK and ask them to assign numeric values to things they probably don't care about, in exchange for which I will take piles of money that I can later turn into delicious sushi dinners in California this summer.

I am bit bogged by emotion that has not yet acquired the shape of words and this makes it hard to write, hard to speak. I have a lot of anger, a lot of real pain and a lot of anticipatory pain as well. Flowing around this is of course my well-paid voice reminding myself that I am happy, that I am fine, that I am lovable and loved, but so often these clear words seem less real than the inarticulate murmurs of doubt and hurt.

I find myself in the world nearly in love with some people because of their ability to combine intellect and kindness, how they sparkle. I feel words like brilliant and dazzling, and yet it is better, a rich warm light that doesn't hurt the eyes. And with other people how I must bite my tongue because it's not always a choice to be clueless and rude, and not every ignorance that upsets me is aimed at me. 

Sumer is icumen in. I bought a fantastic pair of pants a few months ago and it's finally warm enough to wear them, and now I am sitting on my hands to keep myself from ordering five more identical pairs. How many pairs of pants does a person who normally works in pajamas actually need, anyway? The amount of time I spend constructing a minimalist wardrobe in my head is clearly a reflection of the amount of time I've spent packing for long trips and the fact that I was never as sartorially happy as when I wore a uniform and didn't have to think about clothes at all. Three pairs of identical pants and six tops should do it, don't you think?