Work Whine

I am writing this to you as I eat my sliced-chicken-and-yellow-mustard sandwich.

Work sucks right now. Mood at an all time low. The problem is I can't really think of really good reasons why it does. There are lots of little things, but nothing seems to add up to the whole. Here is the brief list:

1. My client can be, um, unpleasant. I got a snarky, but not super snarky e-mail yesterday from a guy that I respect and think well of that made me both frustrated and upset. Frustrated because I can't communicate well enough, upset because we can't finish off this one part sucessfully, upset because he is mad at me.*


2. General fatigue from pushy entropy away. Usually, I don't mind fighting entropy like Ripley fights off the Aliens with a flamethrower, but lately, I have just felt sacked and every time something threatens the order I have created, I just want to wither.


3. M. retiring. I think this is probably the biggest one. He gets to frolic most of the days, and says things like, "Oh, is today Friday? I didn't notice." The compare-and-contrast is so stark and never ending. Misery loves company, and I had lots of company when M. was working. Now I am alone in my sucky job.

The weird thing is that my job doesn't suck that much. I am employed, I make a good salary, and aside from the snippy client, I usually enjoy my work. I have been focused on working through the list of elements required to make a job self-fulfilling.
Three aspects of a self-fulfilling task:

1. You are in control of your work.


2. You know that your work matters and is important.


3. Your work is graded and you receive feedback on the quality of your work.

[My friend Jim adds a fourth one: Gets you laid.]
And I think that I am not getting any one of the three well right now, and it just makes me feel like I am sloshing through mud. (Nice mud, eh?)


* M. was on line when I got the message and alternated between rage and depression. Later when I got home, he asked me if I was okay. I said I probably wasn't build for business. Too much of a pansy. He just sat there silent. I went and patted his knee. I let him know he didn't have to spring the trap -- there was no way he was going to put out an answer that wasn't going to cause some sort of trouble. Ah, emotional snares; the pitfalls of relationships.

Stuffy head; achy heart

My head and throat hurts. Sick.

The one bonus of having a raspy voice is that kinda-cool Kathleen "I am hungover, starting my next drinking binge" Turner voice. However, I just sound like I am going through puberty all over again. The voice cracks and wavers.

I checked out this photography site of Erik Refner and it was one of the few things that has moved me in the past few weeks. I have stayed away from sites that threaten to poke through my insulation.

On a related note, my long delayed two CD combo is almost finished. "All is Not Lost" is pretty much set, "Fight" is next up for the finishing touches. Stay tuned for release details.

Living with Schmidt.

In About Schmidt, Jack Nicholson plays guy who just retires, finds his life adrift. Being an insurance actuary, he understands the finiteness of life, and after the death of his wife (adoring and annoying), that time gets shorter. So he embarks on a journey in his winnebago to stop the marriage of his daughter to a skeezy waterbed salesman.

In a late night fit of depression and restlessness, he watches a Sally Struther's Weepfest, and decides to sponsor a child for just $23 a month. A photo and brief letter comes back, telling him that he has sponsored Ndugu from Tanzania. The narrative gimmick (which works really well) is that he writes Ndugu about his life, his wife, the wedding etc.

Why does this pertain to me?

M. retired a couple of weeks ago. He is still employed but the end is in sight and the daily schedule has changed. More importantly, the attitude has changed. Time is less important than money. And this morning, after a quick bowl of cereal, he hopped back in bed, to watch a religious fund gathering thing to save the poor children in the Ukraine. Covers pulled up to around his double-pillow-propped head, he watched with horrifying glee at the saccharine pitch that this religious person gave.

Ok. So M watches for irony and not connection, but I have to say, the connection was pretty startling.

I really don't want my life to be like this movie: his wife dies vacuuming . But I should be safe; I don't vacuum.