Another day slips into the vortex of history; I barely noticed its passing. I am neither gruntled nor disgruntled.
The neighbor wars continue with a new survey line; one line only. The cheapest way they could go to try to prove their point. The Heffalump chortled conspiratorially with the two surveyors while I sat and watched. The surveyors seemed to think I was perhaps contentious; I assured them to the contrary, but accepted the proffered business card anyway. Never know when I might need their professional services.
I do not think the results were exactly what the Heffalump hoped for. Still, she snapped pictures for their do-it-yourself website, cackling in her invasive and irritating voice, her lumpy thighs rippling, the cheap, dyed hair covered by a crappy baseball cap. She and her husband both have bad teeth and grayish skin. They both have the look of being unhinged.
A visit to the nursing home resulted in watching a man sleep. When I asked my step-grandfather if he would wake up for a few minutes, he replied, “for what?” Further prodding from me prompted him to answer, eyes half-shut, “What’ll I do?” I guess those are good questions, coming from someone who has nothing to do, and plenty of time to do it in.
Driving home, it’s rush hour. I wonder how many people going my direction are coming home from work. A man moves slower than mud in his little Toyota truck, and I turn the corner to get away from him. A bicyclist zips through an intersection, ignoring the stop sign. I see her and avoid cutting her in half. A middle aged woman at the stop light smokes a cigarette, twiddling her hair. The smoke wisps out of her passenger window and into my car. The tinkle of music from the Farmer’s Market quickly comes and goes as I move away.
I wish I were coming home from work, too. The job descriptions on Craig’s List are almost too much to bear: must have all the skills necessary to survive on a desert island. Be able to skillfully navigate on all computer platforms, charm the pants off the clientele, and usually the boss, too. Communicate flawlessly, have a shark’s keen sense of direction in all things. Wear pretty clothes. Hold a Master’s Degree in an esoteric field. Have proficiency in a software program called, variously, Razer’s Edge, Raiser’s Edge, Razor’s Edge or Raser’s Edge. I do not know what this is, and will very likely not learn it for the ludicrous offering of $11.00 an hour.
I do not want to be bright, shiny, creative, peppy, eloquent, pretty and gruntled for $11.00 an hour. But I do want a job, not the perfect job, just a job with real tasks and set hours and maybe a decent work environment. I’d like a job that doesn’t require a hellish commute and one that paid maybe slightly more than $11.00 an hour. That is, from the last year’s job hunting expedition, asking far too much.
Perhaps at the age of 48 I am still too nascent to understand what the fuck is going on. I do know that what all is going on is entirely in my head, where it doesn’t count.
