Splenetic 101

I wrote this last week – then, having gotten that load off my chest, I decided to let it just sit on my hard drive, where it would not crank up ennui a notch or two. Then I was awakened at 4:00 am this morning with the sure knowledge that what had been bugging me a bit lately was the onset of a combination of a sinus infection and an infected tooth. SO screw you all, you’re getting the whole spiteful thing:

Everybody knows that Mondays suck. They suck out loud. They suck more than the Queen of Suckland during the High Feast of Saint Suck, to put it in Harry Knowles terms. Yet I suppose it took working full-time in an office once more to really prove to me how much that is true – to give a quantitative overview, to put it in academic terms.

But what I had somehow managed to forget – since, let’s face it, the basic Mondays Suck paradigm is now written into our genetic code, like don’t pick up snakes or jumping off cliffs is not a good idea– what I had managed to forget was that each and every one has its own character – each one manages to suck in a fiercely individual way, and like the wily opponent it is, each Monday seeks to outflank me and take me by surprise.

Working in an office with an off-kilter schedule has not helped, either. We are generally closed on Wednesdays, with the intriguing effect that Tuesday becomes an odd mixture of Monday, Part Two and False Friday. And Thursday becomes Second Monday. One day a month we work a half-Wednesday and a half-Saturday, creating strange, hellish vistas in which Monday has somehow become extended, because these truncated weeklets themselves have become longer. Case in point: next week, when I will be sitting in that office for five days in a row. Anywhere, this is the norm; here, it is horrible, seemingly unending drudgery.

You might think I hate this job. I suppose you are right, though on balance, there are certainly jobs I have hated more. It has enabled me to hone my skills as a clockwatcher. And as far as increasing my endurance for misery goes, well, no one has yet offered me an hourly wage for holding my hand over an open flame, but this comes close. At best, it forces me to be open and social; I had a nasty little flirtation with agoraphobia last year, because my last gig allowed me to become so insular.

As I sit here – deliberately ignoring some tedium disguised as paperwork – well, okay, a stack of bills to be triaged and sent out, so that I may become the most Beloved Man in America. Give it two days for delivery, then let the angry phone calls begin. I feel fine letting two-thirds of that stack fester over the weekend, since already, at 4:15 on a Friday afternoon, it has been a week to inspire shooting rampages. And keep in mind, I got my Wednesday off.

Not helping things – feel free to click away if this is becoming tedious – I have once more received a phone call from the dinner theater I quit last summer – almost a year ago – omigawd, we need an actor tomorrow night, omigawd you’re the only one who can save us aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

I hate these shows, I hate that particular medium (“interactive murder mystery” – pfagh!), I hate this. Three good reasons why I quit. Yet somehow these crises continue to develop, and I continue to get the Help Me Obi Wan entreaties, calling me away when I have company from out of town, or on my wife’s birthday, for God’s sake (four good reasons). The only reason I continue to come to these people’s rescue – besides being cursed with conscience – is they’ve started throwing a ridiculous amount of money at me for pulling their fat out of the fire.
But this has not raised my spirits one bit. In fact, it dropped my spirits in the dirt and proceeded to grind them underfoot. Oh, good. Two jobs I hate.

My son’s eighth birthday is this weekend (so of course I got the call. I should schedule open-heart surgery, just to see if I get the call). I was supposed to go straight from the office to his birthday party – well, his party with his schoolmates – so naturally the emergency calls have come hard and fast. There wouldn’t have been any cake or pizza left by the time I got there, anyway.

Oooh, I’m a bitter little pill. Time to go over to Cute Overload and zen out.

Back to the present. If there is one thing the throbbing swollen mass of my face has allowed me to do, it is to bypass my usual censors and actually glare at people who have insisted on parading their idiocy before my little window today.

One gleam of positiveness, before I take more antibiotics and painkillers: I have already told you of the wonder that is Achewood and The Great Outdoor Fight, whose motto is “Three Days, Three Acres, Three Thousand Men”. Now, I have often said that one of the few things that makes life worth living is Synchronicity, so how cool is it that my friend Chris Holland is pimping a movie called The Outdoorsmen, whose slogan is “10 Men, 15 Events, 32 Cases of Beer”. Coincidence… or hellish design? You can find out easily, since the first six minutes of the movie are available online. I also insist you watch “Big Fat Corporate Hollywood” because it made me laugh.