- Daniel: I like your dress. It's very cool.
- Me: Really? Capital-C cool?
- Daniel: (brief pause) Maybe even all caps!
I enjoy solitude when I’ve chosen to take it. To suddenly have a handful of days alone stresses me out. I might just end up peeing on the couch with the cat if I don’t find a good outlet soon.
With this kind of sign, I can’t help but imagine they exchange services for pie.
Last night/this morning I allegedly was saying:
Daniel and I sometimes talk about how when I’m sleep talking it’s my personality in its purest form, when it’s intelligible. Lately, I’ve been memorizing the hand and foot bones, and the trapezoid is one of them. I have also been lamenting that there are far too many bones in the body and I am struggling to memorize them all. This somniloqual* outburst demonstrates my frustration perfectly.
* - I’m assuming this is a real word but betting that it isn’t.
Sitting in a coffee shop in Newberg, I can’t help but overhear two George Fox girls share their stories of religious development. Their stories sound familiar, nearly a word-for-word copy to almost every bubbly, raised-in-the-church girl’s story. I never fit in with these types of girls when I was being raised in the church. I never liked sharing my story for this reason: they all sounded the same; they all are peppered with Christian buzzwords and jargon. We all spoke in code, and wondered why non-believers were turned off when we approached them as strangers with a story to tell (I never liked doing that, either).
No story was really honest and brutal. Premarital sex and sibling rivalry were the usual sins to overcome, but the deepest hurts—peer rejection, sexual abuse—were rarely broached. Not everyone has to hurt to have a story to tell, not everyone has to tell a sad story to be genuine, but when everyone is telling the same story my mind starts to wander. Talk yourself in a circle because you know what a Christian is supposed to talk about and how to talk about it until you are effectively saying nothing anymore.
The girls talk rapidly about their “super solid Christian” parents and lack of quality boyfriends (good luck with that), and all I can bring myself to do is study the shine on my shoes. It’s like a jabbering, incessant secret language anymore, because the substance of it is eroding down to nothing.
I have not lost my faith. I have begun to see through this superficial religion more clearly than ever.
- Dr. Karen: Emily?
- Me: Yes?
- Dr. Karen: I have your quiz score ready. [Smiles and slides it across the table to me] There's not much to see.
- Me: Is that a good thing?
- Dr. Karen: [Laughs] Yes.
- Me: [Stares dumbfounded at perfect score plus extra credit. I stand there for a few seconds, then start to walk away with my quiz.]
- Dr. Karen: Don't walk off with it. Don't you want me to put it in my grade book?
- Me: Are you kidding? I want to put it on my fridge!
I appreciate the company I work for, however I am rolling my eyes as hard as ever at the bureaucratic nonsense I occasionally run into. My little niche within the company runs somewhat independently from the rest of the operations, so I have enjoyed a certain level of freedom when it comes to creating and editing forms.
Recently in an all-staff meeting, the gripes about our Critical Incident Forms came to a head. In short: the formatting for this form was absolutely, mind-numbingly terrible. It was obviously made in a rush, and never maintained despite it’s almost constant use by almost every employee. If you attempted to fill this form out electronically, the surrounding text shifted suddenly, fonts changed seemingly at random, and you wasted precious time trying to get everything lined up so it was presentable to outside agencies. I offered to reformat it so it looked the same, but functioned more efficiently. The executive assistant said that was usually his job, but I had time that day and did it anyway, and very quickly, too.
I emailed the revised version (which I saved separately from the official version) to the executive assistant, who was extremely excited about how nice it looked and that he didn’t have to do it himself. A couple months later (this was placed on the back burner almost immediately), I finalized the revision and emailed it to the executive assistant to put it in the shared drive for everyone to use, if he thought it was ready. No real response, but I wasn’t in a hurry.
Yesterday, I received something of a scolding from my direct supervisor, saying that another, slightly-higher-up supervisor needs all form revisions and reformats to go through our executive director first. The director had received those emails with the revisions and had remained silent, because it’s a low priority thing.
So, the take away from this is that even though I made a form look and work better than ever and save everyone time in the future by making things more streamlined and efficient, if I don’t ask permission first I have done something wrong.
Fuck having to go through an unknown number of “proper” channels to get one lousy form fixed. Fuck expecting to be proactive about my work and then getting scolded for doing just that. Here’s hoping Occupational Therapy is less ridiculous when it comes to paperwork.