Napkins. I don’t have them. I just don’t.
Why is that a thing?
Napkins seem like one of those extras. Something you have, but can live without. Like a change purse. Or that felt tomato my grandma once stuck pins in.
“But why don’t you have any napkins?” my 7-year-old niece, Kayla, and 9-year-old nephew, Mikie ask like they are enduring some paper-product nightmare.
Not to brag, but I have mastered the following:
- getting food into my mouth,
- catching food with my massive boobs,
- and as a last resort, having cats who happily eat their puke and assorted insects – inhale any crumbs on the floor like it’s crack.
Need I say more?
“Um, can’tcha just use a paper towel?” I offer. [Since when have they become, Miss Manners? They’ve literally made a career out of dropping random crap on my floor.]
They comply, utterly perplexed by my lack of adult life skills to maintain the appropriate paper products. [Another disappointed customer. My work is done here…]
But now they have a new obsession.
“My kids brought you a gift,” their mom said cryptically, “They say it’s very important. We’ll drop if off before soccer practice.”
She called me at work. So it must be an “urgent” gift, something I really need.
- Like a full-time hairdresser. [I’m over the hair thing. If I didn’t have a weird-shaped cranium, I’d chop this long curly hair-helmet off.]
- Or how about someone who cleans up dead birds [like the one I found on my porch? Honestly, one of my only house rules is don’t die on my property. Is that so hard?]
Anyway, when a kid gives a “gift” it’s usually a piece of shit made with macaroni and boogers, which then must be praised for 5 hours.
But so far I’ve lucked out with gardening tools. A shovel. Gloves. [See? Brainwash them young. It pays.]
For the most part, I don’t really understand getting more stuff to clutter my home. That’s not a gift. That’s a future donation.
I already have everything I need.
And those demanding little rugrats are adorable. That seems like enough.
More than enough.
Quick! Run! I’m at work.
The place where “adorable”
and one’s hopes and dreams go to die.
“Great,” Execubot 1 chirps, “You’re just in time for a game. It’ll be fun” [just like a urinary tract infection.]
And I am late. I am always late to meetings. But this time I should have propelled myself backwards in time.
“We’re answering questions?” [See? This game sucks.]
But allow me to interrupt the orgasm of fun that’s about to ensue to explain…
A couple of months, The Powers That Be decided individuality sucks and working in committees called “silos” would be super-productive. As such,
- All employees put their brain cells into a blender to make one big, mediocre brain – that’s big and slow to act. [Kind of like Congress.]
- Now, we never really finish anything because getting a group of people to decide on anything is like trying to put my cat in that stupid carrier to go to the vet. Torture.
- But not to worry. All that matters is that we think collectively and talk to each other a lot – by adding 20 additional meetings to my frakking calendar every week. We are one. Isn’t that touching? Like when you slam your hand in a door.
For some reason, I ended up on two committees [not one, but TWO?!] – which means my karma is clearly fucked.
Perhaps my palpable apathy and bad attitude didn’t convey my work-message, but…
- I have no desire to climb any stupid corporate ladder,
- I’d rather have herpes than be on any management teams,
- and the only validation I need is my paycheck.
I am not saying anything is wrong with that stuff. It’s just not for me. I just like to make stuff with my hands. Think without a partner. Build shit
in my office with my closing door, only having necessary or entertaining conversations.
Being mandated to have 20 million meetings where no one knows what they are doing is my idea of purgatory.
Now, back to the fun…
“What unique talents do you bring to the table?,” Execubot 1 continues. [An acute disregard for authority. Sarcasm. Email deletion.]
“Isn’t this game great?,” Execubot 2 calls out. “It’s a great way to get to know each other.” [You mean unlike the 6 unimpressive years that I’ve known you?]
“What problems do you foresee completing the task?,” the
game interrogation continues. [Aside from stabbing myself?]
The question game went on and on and on until all the attendees answered the riveting questions. Just long enough for the Earth to complete a full rotation and leg warmers to come back in style again.
After the meeting, someone – who needs to have their fingers stapled together – sent an email to a few continents, their mother and the entire cast of Sesame Street – telling them how awesome our meeting about nothing was.
And I still haven’t answered the most import question.
Why am I still doing a job that is getting progressively dumber by the second?
I don’t want this. And I realized that I don’t want this halfway through a grad school degree that my job paid for.
I sit in these meetings thinking, “This can’t be it?” It just can’t be.
It’s not that my job is awful…
I just don’t want to be there anymore.
And it’s not that the people are awful.
I just don’t want to be around them anymore.
It’s not about money or my boss.
It just feels like a lot of nothing. Nothing I care about or want to do or perceive any value in anymore.
Sometimes things start out as enough. And then, one day it becomes very clear that it’s not.
It’s just not.
I need to stop being lazy and open the door to something new.
Like pronto. Before I go crazy.
“Surprise!” my niece and nephew were beaming when I opened my front door.
Thank the goddess, my neighbor cleaned up the dead bird on the porch for me [They freak out at the mere sight of an ant. I am sure a dead bird would require therapy.]
“We have something,” Kayla screams, “and you don’t know what it is?!” [The kid’s a genius.]
Question: Why do kids always look like they work in a chain gang? Always clean and smelling human at the start of the day. But covered with dirt by its end.
“We got you a new purse!” Mikie screams before I open the present.
Question: What’s with kids saying everything in 10 octaves louder than necessary?
Dude, it’s a big white COACH shopping bag with a big gray Coach bag in it. I take my gray masterpiece into my loving arms and cradle it like a baby as my mouth hangs open.
I’m not gonna lie. This is so much cooler than a shovel.
“Yeah, your bag is so old and ugly,” Kayla screams. [Old? Yes. But Ugly? That seems harsh.]
“What she means is they wanted you to have something nice. They were very concerned and wouldn’t stop talking about it,” she smiled. [I love when parents have to fix what their kids say. It’s hysterical.]
“Yeah, because you never ask for anything,” Mikie blares. [Sweet. But not true. I asked my neighbor to clean up the dead bird. Trust me. That’s something
I’m not really sure what to do with a fancy designer bag. The fanciest thing I have is a Swiffer Wetjet. [I love that thing!]
I don’t know what to do now.
I just know I need to do it.