Archive for August, 2010

I like my new job. It is challenging, important, demanding, fun, and I get to work with fun, smart, cool people. I love where I’m living. Everything about this decision so far is great, and I’m so happy I did it.

But I could really get used to NOT having people call or email me to tell me that I’m fucking up, and that I know I’m fucking up, in fact I’m fucking up ON PURPOSE to do an end-run around The System because I am evil and in all for the money.* As if it makes any sense whatsoever. As if there were any money. As if all of our clients are even paying us!

And as if I’m not being pulled in five million directions by a workload meant for three, and doing everything I can for all of them. I’m sure I’m not perfect and am making mistakes but holy hell on a stick, in what universe does acting this way make sense?


*Most of the clients I deal with regularly are lovely people. And most of the people making these complaints are not clients, but members of the public–and, more worryingly, politicians and/or bureaucrats who should know better. Still. I would like all of them to remember being civil and polite.

It’s not going to happen, but I would like it.


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PP was home for about an hour, playing and eating the scones I’d just made (from a recipe in a cookbook the Trader got me) when she was off to play at M’s.

An hour and a half later, at PP’s bedtime, I look up from my book and think, I have to go get PP!

Off I go to M’s house. Her parents see me coming through the living-room window and burst out laughing. M’s mom, Shan, comes out. “They’re not here,” she says, chuckling. “They went to Frank’s to beg for candy.”

We head out to Frank’s, and old man who lives by himself on the corner. “I don’t keep candy in the house,” said Shan, “but at his house, enh! Have fun!” She laughs.

She opens Frank’s door. “Hello!”

“Hi!” comes a voice. “Come on in!” PP and M are seated at Frank’s kitchen table eating a Werther’s apiece. PP looks zonked, like she’s been playing all day and had so much fun that she is barely conscious, but clinging for the sake of the candy. Shan and I stand in Frank’s kitchen and talk while the girls kick their legs against their kitchen chairs and suck.

“I always tell M that if she ever needs to, she should come to Frank’s,” says Shan. “It’s a safe house.”

“And I haven’t seen her for a week!” says Frank. “Where did you go, Miss Muffet? I thought you were mad at me!” M giggles.

“Of course all the houses on this street are safe houses. Gosh, I can’t think of anyone I don’t like,” says Shan.

“That’s true,” says Frank. She and Shan talk about a neighbouring couple who recently got married, and after about thirty minutes we take our respective daughters off, chatting as we walk down the street about the festival in town this weekend and school starting up in a few weeks. I tuck PP into bed, a PP excited and chatty now about going to the festival with her friend, and all of the playtime she’ll have this weekend.

So is it any wonder that every time I watch her vanish outside the front door and dash across the street to one friend’s house or another, that I sometimes wonder if I’ve moved into an alternate universe?

Did I mention the part where both girls hugged Frank goodnight?

I so totally scored when I rented this house.

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can’t sleep

It’s 2 am, in case the post stamp doesn’t work.

Why can’t I sleep? Because someone else’s project at work landed in my lap while they were on vacation, and someone somewhere fucked up badly, and it all happened before my time and the project manager being away on vacation can’t answer any questions, so the client is yelling at me a lot and I can’t answer any of it.

It sucks.

There’s a meeting tomorrow with the project manager (who is finally back) and me and the client, and I expect it to be unpleasant. I have been working on nothing else for days but fixes for whatever ails this file, which feels a bit like wandering by accident into an operating room and having someone shove a scalpel in your hand and demand that you do something NOW or the patient will die. Only instead of a life it’s a couple hundred thousand dollars at stake, which is not a life-equivalent, but whatever. It’s stressful, as note that it is now 2:05 am and I am awake.

I suppose mostly I’m terrified that I will bungle it all up and the patient will die and everyone will realize that I’m not a doctor after all. Ah, imposter syndrome. Never mind that I’ve been getting compliments on how I’ve been handling it and that the client has been happy with my proposed fixes (to the extent that ‘happy’ can be used in the circumstances) and that there is no way I logically could possibly know the answers to their questions. It’ll all fall apart tomorrow and it will be all my fault.

And so I can’t sleep, because god knows exhaustion will fix everything.

2:13. Maybe I’ll crochet something. Because crafts are the answer to all of life’s not-so-little problems.

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I can’t claim to be writing weekly updates at this point, so …

New house, new town, weekends, PP, new job, etc., all fabulous. Having a great time. Feeling like a camper sending a postcard home in bullet point format. Need to live with it.

Ex being a dickhead. Not responding to emails, just like last year. Has been given a deadline of this Wednesday, and informed that if he doesn’t get back to me to arrange a new schedule that the old one will still hold, and he won’t get any extra time with Frances. What the hell is wrong with this person?

No, don’t bother trying to answer.

Things with the Trader going swimmingly. I think the un-break-up had a real impact. A lot of the minor and not-so-minor things that had been wrecking our relationship aren’t resurfacing. This is very good. Also, I am much too busy during the day now to get involved in protracted email disputes. Whatever the cause, I’ll take it.

Work largely good. I get to bitch now about the government workers and all their freaking red tape, and there is something very freeing about it. Omigod! The bureaucracy! It drives me cuts! It should be henceforth called the Bureaucrazy!

Seriously, government officials telling us to get a new venue for upcoming public meetings but be sure to provide at least two weeks’ notice–with less than two weeks until the meetings. Anyway. Flux, chaos, unpredictability, lots of work, all that jazz.

But today’s particular bitching session brought to you by the Letter B, for Boss.

This week PP is in day camp. She is getting and from camp by  bus. The bus leaves at 8:25 and returns at 4:35 and I have to be there to sign her in and out. The bus stop is 3 minutes from the office, so I am there 8:30-4:30. I have sent around an email to the entire office letting them know my hours for this week so they know to get me things well before 4:30.

Boss gets in at 10:15 am. We have deadlines at noon and three so I am swamped from this point onwards, trying to get things arranged in time for the governmental bureaucrazy and their demands for time travel. At 4:27, my computer turned off and my bag on my shoulder, he calls and asks me to print out a contract we were working on last week.

This contract is well outside my job description but it’s very important so I volunteered to do what I could for it last week while he was away on business. It is saved to the network.

“Oh no,” I say. “I have to go pick up PP at the bus stop. But it’s saved in the admin folder, it’s not hard to find.”

“I need a printout,” he says.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” I say. Thinking: there are ten other people in this office PLUS YOU who could send this thing to the freaking printer. I am NOT leaving my daughter in the rain to get you a printout!

“Well then I guess it’ll have to wait a week,” he says.


I will let this one sit but if it happens again, watch out Beyond Bob, there will be a fireworks show.

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