Thursday, May 27, 2010

Thank you for choosing....

New cell phone number: $10 fee, plus time and effort

Paycheck: $580

Effort to collect money for group lunch: more than it’s worth

Orchestrating said lunch, collecting the money (a mere $73 total) from the agents, lying to the manager, telling them that you can’t give the money to them because you have already ordered the sandwiches from a different store than was originally discussed, changing your cell phone number to avoid attendance sharks when you decide to skip town with the $73, lose your job, and forfeit your last paycheck (the pay period for which had just ended—checks sometime next week)—PRICELESS.

Just a reminder that little stories that bring some small measure of joy can be found all around us.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Silence Is Golden

Sometimes silence is just yellow.

Pithy has experienced the golden kind—at the end of a long, hot day with lots of people that expect smiles and handshakes—when head meets pillow in that sweet moment of renewal. The soft expulsion of pleasure is inevitable, and we smile just a little as the quiet lulls us to our dreams. Sometimes, it’s the easy silence shared by two friends—no expectations, no disappointments—just a companionable peace that reaffirms and secures. The muffled silence of first snow, when the world stills, caught in reverence for the simple miracles of life. Or when a room holds its breath as a loved one passes—the indecisive moment of silence when hope and longing meet in that final sigh.

Sometimes we find ourselves in the silence, we meet that version of who we want to be—the one that is too scared to face the critics and the pressures. We sit in the empty clarity and ask ourselves what comfort we find in all the noise.

But sometimes—sometimes silence is too empty, a reminder of our loneliness—that the indifferent quiet that held off sleep, mocking our efforts to let go—will be the same indifferent quiet that stares blankly at us when we awake. Sometimes the moments are too silent—just bearable enough for prayer.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Are We There Yet

The moment night groaned to morning in that awful, jarring disconnect devoid of all possible optimism, Pithy knew. Something was not right. Temporarily, we were content to blame the alarm’s negligence in allowing not one, not two, not even four, but six—yes, six!—snoozes (don’t worry, its employment has been terminated—the replacement will not cower so easily). However, upon leaving the house for work at an alarming speed, Pithy knew it was more than sleeping late. Indeed, all around were signs of notquiteright which slipped passed notice, but, upon reexamining at a later time, were painfully obvious: the day was counting up its birds and couldn’t get the answer right; Murphy’s daughter stayed out all night without checking in; Karma was cranky for an unmentionable reason—which wasn’t that hard to figure out.

Consequently, Pithy’s day was long—not I------I this long…but I--------------------------------------------------------I this long. We’ve all had those days when lunch felt like we should be clocking out to go home, but it’s not every day that morning “take 5” at seven thirty feels like lunch and nine o’clock’s “take 15” finds you biting back “K guys, cya later—gotta get home, I’m beat!” Today, Pithy was dazed and confused to find that clock-out came a full EIGHT hours after clock-in. Stranger still was the fact that they keenly felt as if the eight hours had actually transpired.

Death by PowerPoint, Microsoft’s “classic view” (note to Microsoft: there is nothing timeless about it—it’s UGLY. Get rid of it.), thermostats governed by a heating/cooling system in OREM (reminder: we’re in Cedar)—all these lend to foot tapping and count downs; when coupled with the human factor—hmmm, not entirely sure that’s 100% accurate—the venting of which would lead to HR inappropriate comments about people and their intelligence, and which Pithy will reserve to tell in person (but we will clue in that they involve words like retard and moron)—this day has been dubbed: Day Too Long. So let it be written. So let it be done….please!

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Some Other Time

It’s summer. Well, at least school is out—and by school we refer to those institutions which recognize that scholastics should end as early in May as possible. Cedar refuses to acknowledge the inevitability of the sun. This week the flowers cowed under yet another layer of suffocating snow; the trees look more equipped for the last stages of autumn, afraid to open their foliage and be the dumb one that didn’t get the memo. We, being all green-aware (and by green we mean money), didn’t turn the heat on yesterday night (and by didn’t we mean forgot). This led to all sorts of unpleasantness with the toilet seat this morning, which in turn led to fasting and prayer for the overdue thawing.

Cold or otherwise—IT. IS. SUMMER. On this we will not negotiate. We have compiled (or at least started) the overly ambitious lists that characterize the golden months: we have one for cleaning, for reading, for eating, for not eating (still working on that one), for sleeping, for avoiding. Strangely, we do not have one for writing—yet, here we sit, postponing all our vital projects to address you, Internets. That’s right—feel special. Or don’t—after all, isn’t that what summer’s about? A compiled list of all the lists to be saved for later? There must be something to do in order to feel like we have accomplished the lazy perfection of ignoring responsibility.

Oh, we imagine some of it will get done—we will tackle the laundry eventually, in its cyclic time—like taxes and death. Real tasks, like paper revisions and Spanish practice, belong to August, when we can justify them because, “School starts next week.” For now, we reassure ourselves of summer’s presence, combating the cold with the comfort of some other time.