Change the Paradigm, Muthatruckas!

The other day, I was gently reminded that "that's just the way it is" in retail.

Fuck that.

"That's just the way it is" is the bullshittiest way of saying, "I'm too lazy [scared, content, etc, ad nauseum] to stand up for what is  right". Don't EVER tell me "that's just the way it is" unless you are going to follow that up with "and this is how we can change it". Just because a thing is accepted does not make it acceptable.

Today is "Maker Day", a day of creative crunchiness and physical manifestations of craft. Can "Maker Day" not also be a day of creating excellence in our workplaces? A day where we buck against the norm and create valid, efficient (maybe even profitable?) ways to expedite commerce while continuing to validate the people on the ground who sell you this widget?

"That's just the way it is" creates stagnant, compliant, fucking TIRED widget sellers and fielders of complaints about widgets. From the top of middle management down to the lowliest widget loader-upper, "that's just the way it is" makes more work for less money in the pockets of the widget serf. The Widget Overlords, let it be known, are making record profits. The numbers are (no joke) written on the wall.

So. Solutions. Keep doing more with less? Keep increasing demands on workers with made-up metrics, while removing or impeding access to resources that increase productivity? There is clearly an issue here, but I don't know how to address it without crying out, "Free the Oppressed! The Revolution Begins Now!"

This is the thing, suckas: I've never in my adult life lived anywhere for more than 3 years. As part of a military family, I know that I can deal with anything, as long as it doesn't last more than 3 years. I know that I will move, and start a new job or school; and whatever bothered me in Arizona, or New York, or Alaska, will not exist in the new place. Neighbors who beat their wives, jobs that require pantyhose, the lack of pastrami, all these things fall away on the long drive to the New Place.

I'm stuck here, now. This is our home, and outside forces are not going to change my paradigm. *I* have to change my paradigm. And here's the kicker: I love my job. I looooooove it. I love the people I work with, and I love my customers, and I love the work that I do.

Goddammit.

If I were unemployed...

If I were unemployed...
I could listen to my phonographs in the morning in the parlor every damned day.
My house might get cleaned all at once. Maybe.
I would definitely be more on top of things. I mean, wouldn't I?
My dogs would be super happy because I would be home all of the time.
If I were unemployed...
I would miss my friends at work and lose interest in leaving the house. What would be the point?
I would have time to volunteer, but be disinclined to do so because I disagree with one small part of the organization's charter, or because the volunteer coordinator doesn't like me, or because the day is the same day as my husband's day off.
I would cook more things from scratch.
If I were unemployed...
I would feel guilty about buying things for myself because I wouldn't be contributing to the household in any measurable way. Then I would resent the other people in my household because they don't deny themselves things.
I would go to the gym at least three times a week, and to the library at least four times a week.
If I were unemployed...
I would not be able to afford the gym.
...
I guess I'll just keep my job.

Small is Good.

Haikus are easy
Expressing a tiny thought
Seventeen small breaths

If I only had
a drop of blood in my hand
to tell a story

Questions lead on
imagining the journey
a tale told by ear

Twisted zen koans
hold the wisdom of ages
enfolded in farts

Each haiku seems strange
When hacked into little pieces
Newspaper headlines

A Strongly-Worded Letter to the Supervisor of Sleep

Dear Noctus,

Good Morning, Sunshine! It’s 5 a.m. on a Sunday, and I do not have to work.

What are you thinking?

You have abandoned me in a time of need, and I thought we had already hashed out a perfectly acceptable arrangement years earlier. Perhaps it is time to review our contract?

Remember the early years, when our association was new, and I railed against your authority at nap time? How I protested your appearance with tears, screaming myself red-faced well into the afternoon until succumbing to your persistent pressure? Remember how we compromised, and I spent much of my teenaged and college time in a complicit coma that endangered my permanent school record? I thought we had a deal. I would catch up in the afternoons when my baby was small and had bad sleep-timing, and you would allow me the luxury of sleeping in on days I had a chance?

Where is your honor?

Even now, when my baby is a teenager making his own contract with you (he is an obedient fellow who has a noon-time nap scheduled), you renege on your agreement with me, the one who signed him up for your program. To this day, I cannot donate blood in a semi-recumbent position because of the strictures of your agreement (I fall asleep).

You have failed me, Noctus.

See you at 11 p.m. I hope I can count on your cooperation. I have a busy day tomorrow.

Regards,

Pan Narrans

Fear

The snake of my fear nearly leaves my belly through my mouth,

and I grip the sides of my seat

as if sheer will alone will keep me from ejecting willfully,

on purpose,

in order to clear out of this goddamned situation.

 

My face trembles with the force of my calm,

years of practice in customer service keeping me from

FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

 

The acid in my stomach perpetuates its fervid dance,

my thighs twitch to join,

and my right foot pushes so hard down,

SO HARD.

 

I don’t think I can stand it

I don’t think I can stand it

I don’t think I can stand it

And I have stood it

We made it home.

 

The Kid complains to everyone who will listen:

“She never lets me drive.”

Food Politics and People on Medical Leave and NEVER BEING ALONE

So, I was really going to delve into food politics today. I was going to cite sources and make thoughtful comments and really work out what my opinion was on all of this stuff.
And here I am, sitting with my son, finally the television is off so I can work on writing and here he is, eating ice cream and talking to me. Talking talking talking. So much talking. And I know it is all my fault because I am the one who taught him to speak. He's being super nice and asking me if he can help me with anything. Also, "why are you making that noise?" and "is it something I said?"
Grrrr.
My husband is home on medical leave because he had colon surgery. He is home all of the time now. He is healing. It's great that he is home all of the time. I love him. I married him because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Unfortunately, I didn't realize at the time, I was also marrying the very loudest of volume controls on the television.
In a month, my husband will return to work, and I will be able to listen to Harry Belafonte records again. Until then, I have to listen to every Nazi gold program and Alien Mystery investigative report that the History Channel has ever produced. I can't write during this time. I can only complain.
I'm TRYING to read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. I went through a phase of reading everything she wrote (mostly memoirs and diatribes on the oppression of migrant workers), until I just couldn't take any more righteous indignation. This particular book is about growing your own food and eating seasonally, and it's a memoir as well as an investigation into modern U.S. food ways. It's pretty good. Lots of citations! I'm so jealous!
Poem tomorrow. Sorry, Michael Vargas, it's as good as it's going to get for the next few weeks. I just can't coordinate my thoughts.
It might even be a haiku.
Haikus are easy.

Kitchen Poem

The striated flesh of a bisected potato

The fistfuls of spinach thrown in a hot pan

Hot steam flashing up like a magician’s trick

When I am elbows-deep in a mound of dough

Creating stealthy well-being under the guise of cookies

That’s when I am most me.

 

Teeth gritted in a determined smile

Whirlwinding across the linoleum timing pot to pan

Snapping at anyone who dares cross the invisible line into my domain

That’s when I am happiest.

 

And when it’s over and I am sitting at my own meal

Plate neatly piled with veg and starch and meat and bread

I’m actually disappointed that I have to eat this now and the fun part’s over

Where I am the witch who wields the ladle.