July 25: Back to Work, Divided Life, Perfect Job

On the morning after that wet dream, Billy decided to go back to work in his office in the shopping plaza.  Business was booming as usual.  His assistants were keeping up with it nicely.  They were startled to see him.  They had been told by his daughter that he might never practice again.

But Billy went into his examining room briskly, asked that the first patient be sent in.  So they sent him one--a twelve-year-old boy who was accompanied by his widowed mother.  They were strangers, new in town.  Billy asked them a little about themselves, learned that the boy's father had been killed in Vietnam--in the famous five-day battle for Hill 875 near Dakto.  So it goes.

Billy's daughter thinks that Billy is losing his mind.  He's living in a house without heat or food, talking about alien abduction and time travel.  If I were in his daughter's shoes, I would probably be checking into nursing homes and psychiatric medications for Daddy, too.  Yet, Billy goes back to work, because that's what he always does.  It's his life.

I have to say that I've never really had a job that I was excited about every day.  In fact, I've never had a job that really excited me at all.  I like the people I work with at the medical office, for the most part.  I find some satisfaction in making patients laugh and relax.  I like teaching young people at the university, opening minds up to new ideas and experiences.  For a while, I was the poetry editor of the university's literary magazine.  That excited me.  However, for the most part, job satisfaction is kind of illusive.

I think my problem is that my life has always been divided.  I work in the medical office for the health insurance.  I teach at the university for the money and creative outlet.  It's like I'm two separate people, using two different skill sets for the jobs I hold.  My dream has always been to have one job that allowed me to have free time and disposable income to pursue some of my interests.  Instead, I get up before the sun, every day, work all day, sometimes into the night, and return home tired.  Dead tired.

If you can't tell, I'm feeling a little down on myself this evening for some reason.  Nothing really triggered this attack of self pity, aside from this little passage from Slaughterhouse.  I guess I'm tired of being tired.  I'm sure, after I take my vacation next week, I'll be in a better frame of mind.  Four days away from all of my daily worries and cares.  I'm hoping it will exorcise all of these negative thoughts from my mind.

There are very few people, probably, who have their dream jobs.  It just doesn't happen that often.  Maybe for Oprah Winfrey, Stephen King, and Tiffany Trump.  That's about it.  The rest of us go through the motions, punch the time clock, and hopefully have a few laughs during the course of the day.

I stay sane by writing these blog posts, working on poems, reading books that make me believe in beauty and goodness.  It's not a perfect life, but I am able to go to bed every night feeling good about myself, for the most part.  That's something.

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful for his upcoming vacation.

October 22: Essay Revision, Robert Frost, "Christmas Trees"

I have been working on a revision of a Christmas essay for a few weeks now.  For some reason, I'm having a really difficult time.  The editor who wants to publish the essay gave me a couple of suggestions, and I thought the rewrite was going to be easy.  I was wrong.

I sit, listening to Christmas music, every night, trying to get some inspiration.  I'm not sure if anything I've rewritten is good.  In fact, I'm pretty convinced I have lost my touch.  I'm slowly sinking into a little bit of a funk.

So, in another attempt to gain some inspiration, I've chosen a Robert Frost Christmas poem.

Saint Marty needs to get back to work now.

Christmas Trees

by:  Robert Frost

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Ho, ho, help!

May 5: Back Home, Back to Work, Back "Dip"

Well, I'm home again, home again, jiggity jig.  I pulled into my driveway around 7:30 p.m., and we've been unpacking and doing laundry and planning out the week's activities every since.  I'm ready for bed, but I'm not ready to get back to work tomorrow.

It's going to be a tough week.  It's my last few days of work at my medical office job.  I'm already a little depressed about it, and I'm sure this feeling will only grow stronger over the next four days.  I'm not good at change, and I'm certainly not good at goodbyes.  Letting go is not one of my strengths.

And, since it is Monday, I will do a Web dip.  My question is:

Will something good come of all this upheaval and change in my life?

And the answer from E. B. White is:

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Mr. Arable.  "Tell us."

Saint Marty doesn't have the faintest idea, either.

This is where my ass is going tomorrow morning

August 26: First Day, Kicked by a Donkey

Well. I didn't work at the medial office today.  However, I did teach this afternoon.  After those few hours on campus, when I got home, I felt like I'd been kicked by a donkey in a very sensitive place.  I thought I'd been doing really well.  Obviously, I'm not quite as strong as I thought.

I talked to a friend who's a surgical nurse this evening, and she said, "It's the anesthesia.  It kicks you in the ass."  Well, there ya go.  I'm being kicked in the ass.

I'm probably not going back to work in the medical office until after Labor Day.  That doesn't break my heart, but it also worries me.  There's going to be a huge pile of crap to deal with when I get back.  Did I say "huge"?  I meant monstrous.  I'm going to be drowning in paperwork.

OK, I'm going to stop talking about it now, or else I'll never get to sleep tonight.

Saint Marty needs to put his feet up and breathe deeply.

My parts are hurting

August 14: Hallo, This Time of Day, Back to Work

"Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice as near as he could feign it.  "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"

Scrooge is toying with Bob Cratchit here.  He knows Bob is going to be late for work.  Scrooge himself sent the turkey that pretty much guaranteed Bob would be making "rather merry" the day before.  He fully expects Bob to be tardy.

This morning I go back to work.  I will miss my kids.  I will miss hearing my son call out "I want to get up!" when he wakes.  I will miss going into my daughter's dark room mid-morning to rouse the sleeping crocodile that is my eldest offspring.  I will miss running in the morning, swimming in the afternoon.  Most of all, I will miss the connection I have with my children right now.  My son actually calls for me in the morning.  My daughter told me yesterday that she had "the best day ever."

Society casts mothers as the nurturers, the ones who are always there to pick the kids up from school, make the lunches, give the baths, help with homework, change the diapers.  As a nurturing father, that bothers me a little bit.  Granted, there are fathers who are removed and distant, who would rather go to a business meeting than a parent/teacher conference.  I am not one of those fathers.  I like making cookies for my children and planning their birthday parties.  I love all that stuff.

Maybe Saint Marty was Carol Brady in another life.

I used to have this same outfit

December 27: Back to Work, Christmas Tie, No Eggs

Well, this morning I go back to work.  I always find it difficult to resume my job duties after a really long weekend.  I've had four days off.  It's going to be a few hours before I'm totally back in the game.  I'm going to feel like I'm one step behind all morning long.

It doesn't help that I forgot to bring eggs for my breakfast.  Without my eggs in the morning--a little runny with cheddar cheese--I tend to get all thrown off.  Remember, I'm the person who doesn't like change.  I need those eggs in order to keep the universe in its proper alignment.  Worlds are going to shift this a.m.

When I was getting dressed for work, I decided to wear one of my Christmas ties.  I don't know why.  I hardly ever wear ties to the office.  I guess I'm just not ready to let Christmas go yet.  And I'm sure that I'm going to be totally annoyed by the other workers in the office, so anything I can do to bolster my good spirits will help.  If I can just sustain that Christmas iPad glow, I'll be able to make it through the day without killing anybody.

I haven't got much else this morning.  Back to work.  No eggs.  Christmas tie.  I'm going to try to work on a poem today, but no promises.

Let me remind everyone about my 500th Post Contest.  Yesterday, I wrote post number 500 for my blog.  To commemorate the occasion, I'm running another contest.  The rules are pretty simple:

1. You must come up with a creative nickname for my new iPad. 
2. You must put your suggestion into a comment. 
3. You must do this by 12 noon on January 1. 
4. The winner of the contest will receive two items:  an autographed saint holy card and an autographed copy of my book of poems, The Mysteries of the Rosary.

Put on your thinking caps.  Be creative.  Be funny.  Be irreverent.  Be whatever you want.  I'm not against some good, old-fashioned sucking up, either.  If you ave problems posting a comment, try enabling third party cookies on your computer.  That usually does the trick.

Saint Marty is waiting to hear from you.

You know you want to win this...