It has something to do with never feeling accepted by a community that I thought I was part of, that I wanted to be a part of because it was all I knew.
It has something to do with a feeling that I was taken advantage of, that I am still taken advantage of. Back in 1997, someone called me a "sucka" because I often agreed to do things that were nowhere near my job description, out of a desire to impress the bosses. She was right, I was a sucka, because all it got me was exploited. That's not an exaggeration, it's the truth. I won't go into detail, but it was a primary reason why I left healthcare and went into corporate work.
I am feeling like a sucka again, because after seven months, and after I made it very clear that if they offered me a job I would take it, my company doesn't have hiring me anywhere on their radar. Granted, I can't honestly say that becoming an HR professional is a path I feel strongly drawn to walk. I'm a massage therapist, and would like to do that instead. Unfortunately G and I need my temp income too badly right now, so I can't afford to not temp. And after working 40 hours a week, I simply don't have anything left to give. So I'm not massaging right now.
The primary reason I started pushing for a real, not-temp job is that I'm bloody sick and tired of NEVER having any paid time off. Ever. If I'm sick, if I go on vacation, if there's a traffic jam and I'm 15 minutes late getting over the Tappan Zee, that's cash out of my paycheck. I recently have lost all tolerance for this. I get benefits from my husband's insurance - it's the fact that I get no paid time off that is pushing me into a crazy zone.
Feeling like a sucka. Feeling exploited. Feeling that I'm not really part of something.
I'm going to a wedding tomorrow night at 6:30 in central Jersey. I have to work in White Plains tomorrow until at least 2pm. I get an early start, but I have to pick up Gardiner at the train station and drive us both to this wedding, and he won't be at the train station until 5:40. Can you even begin to imagine what the traffic is going to be like during rush hour on the first day of Memorial Day Weekend?
I tried a new hair salon tonight. They almost ruined me. I'm surprised I'm not bald. They screwed up my color BAD, and I have the worst, fuzziest blowout I've ever had. They knew they screwed up too, and all their efforts to fix things just made it worse. So now I look like I dunked my head in beet juice and stuck my finger in a light socket. At least I didn't have to pay for everything. But I'm going to a goddamn wedding tomorrow and don't have time to fix this blowout. Thank G-d I'm confident in my looks and know how to work around this. All those years of costume and makeup training come in handy at times like this.
The day after the wedding, G and I are going on vacation to a place I've never been. I'm happy about that, but two days after I get back I have to start rehearsing for a church service I've been asking to sing in. It's a very special service for someone I truly love, and I really want to kick royal ass with this, but she's asked me to sing a song that I sound utterly ridiculous trying to do. The song I picked out is being co-opted by the baritone she asked to sing with me. I'm going to have to try not to stress about this next week or it will ruin my vacation, and when I get back I'm going to have to explain to my dear friend that if I sing this rock power ballad that she's asked for, I'll sound like Julie Andrews singing Welcome to the Jungle. I hope she understands. I hope this works out. I hate not being able to give people what they want.
I haven't been asked to sing anywhere in around two years.
I could rant about my womb being ready to explode and how waiting until July to start trying is making me INSANE but nobody wants to read that and frankly I don't feel like talking any more about it. It has to do with when we'll be able to finally move out of this teeny eeny teeny tiny itsy bitsy one-bedroom and into a slightly less teeny place that we can at least fit a crib into, with our OWN fucking laundry machines that don't gobble our quarters.
So fuck you, costume lady. Keep your fucking brown track suit. Find someone else to play mother earth. I quit. I have a life to live, and you were lucky I even showed up to that pathetic attempt to relive the 1980's. Every reason I sprinted as fast as I could away from Springfield was all around me in that dream. Maybe the point was to remind myself how far I've come.
The other dream, the one about the wedding... I think it was to remind myself that I know when I'm being treated like shit, and I don't ever have to take it again, from anyone. That's a pretty powerful thing.
Hey Morrigan. Let's go shopping for baby furniture this time. And then go to a pub and do some shots, and sing U2 songs in karaoke.