December 28: P.O.E.T.I.O.V. Day, Getting Work Done, Choices

Yes, today is P.O.E.T.S. Day.  That’s Piss On Everything Tomorrow’s Saturday Day.  This morning, however, it’s actually P.O.E.T.I.O.V. Day.  That would be Piss On Everything Tomorrow I’m On Vacation Day.  Yes, I’m off for two weeks after I complete my work this Friday.  

I haven’t had this much time off in years, so I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do with myself.  I’m sure I’ll figure it out pretty quickly.  There are still tasks I need to complete during my vacation (like finishing my syllabus for the winter semester).  For the most part, though, the next two weeks are blank pages.  Now, as I writer, I can’t stand blank pages.  I have to fill them with something.  A poem.  A short story.  A dirty limerick.  Something.  But the great thing is that I have a choice of what I want to do.

That’s one of the things I struggle with a lot in my current job at the medical office.  I don’t have a whole lot of choices.  The place is owned by a fairly large health care organization, so the welfare and happiness of one tiny, insignificant employee does not make a huge blip on its radar screen.  Pretty much, the company asks, “Can we make money with this office/person?”  If the answer if “yes,” then you’re safe.  If the answer is “no,” start packing up the pictures of your kids on your desk.

I don’t resent the company for being that way.  They’re huge, and they’re in it for the money.  It’s as simple as that.  It leaves little room for individuality or autonomy.  I’m a good employee.  I was named Employee of the Month a couple of years ago.  For the past few years at the university, I’ve been nominated for Adjunct of the Year by the English Department.  I work hard for my employers.  That mentality was pretty much driven into me by my parents.  I always try to do my very best at my jobs.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed the jobs I enjoy the most are the ones that allow me a lot of freedom.  I think that’s why I love teaching at the university.  I’m assigned classes and have to follow a certain curriculum.  However, there’s this little thing called academic freedom.  I can decide how I want to teach.  I can choose the textbooks, the movies, the novels for my classes.  I can shape the entire semester to my liking.  I even get to decide when I want to hold my office hours.  I appreciate the ability to make choices.

For the next two weeks, I can pretend that I’m a full-time professor at the university.  Set my own hours.  Prepare for the upcoming semester at my leisure.  I won’t have to get up at 4 a.m. to leave for work by 5 a.m.  I’ll be able to see my kids in the morning.  I’ll be able to drive my daughter to dance, visit my son’s Head Start classroom.  I might even do some pleasure reading.

Saint Marty is ready to live on the edge.  He may even sleep in until 6 a.m.

Which way do I go?

December 17: Resentment, "Carol" Dip, Job

I have a confession:  there is a part of me that resents the fact that my wife is able to stay home and take care of our children.  I know she didn't choose to be pink slipped.  The day she lost her job, she called me, crying, and said, "I'm not sad about getting fired.  I'm sad about not being able to help you with money.  I know how hard you work."  All I think about right now is how to pay the next bill or buy the next Christmas present.

Since she joined the ranks of the unemployed, my wife has been visiting my son's classrooms and going to Bible study at church on Tuesdays.  She's catching up on the laundry, and dinner is usually made by the time I get home from work.  But, when my alarm goes off at 4 a.m. every morning and I have to drag myself out of bed, there's a part of me that gets a little bit angry.  I can't remember the last time I slept past 6:30 a.m.  I'm tired.  I was thinking of canceling my vacation at the beginning of January because I could earn a lot of overtime pay if I worked, but I can't bring myself to do it.  I am really looking forward to having two full weeks off.  Now, I feel guilty about my vacation.

I've said before that I know I'm lucky for having the jobs that I do.  Not many Americans have jobs that give them health insurance and paid time off and vision coverage.  Many people would kill for the kind of benefits that I have.  I'm lucky.  I'm blessed.  I'm grateful.  There, I've said all the things I should say.

But I'm still resentful and tired.  I don't want to get up at 4 a.m. for the rest of my working life.  I want a normal existence.  One job with decent hours and pay and benefits.  Of course, my choice would be to work for the university as a full-time instructor.  It's the one thing I do in my professional life that provides me with a sense of fulfillment.  I love being on campus and teaching.

I bet you can guess what my question for Carol dip Monday is going to be:

Will I get a full-time teaching job at the university this coming year?

And the answer (although I don't hold out too much hope) from Scrooge and company is:

...What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen months presented dead against you?

Hmmmmm.  Paying bills without money.  Balancing my books and having every item for a year listed as a debt or liability.  Sounds pretty bleak.

Looks like Saint Marty's going to be setting his alarm to 4 a.m. for another year.

My least favorite time of day

November 26: 4 a.m., Early Bird, "Carol" Dip

The Early Bird gets Coke Zero

I have never been an early bird.  I don't believe in catching worms or sunrises or anything related to mornings.  It is 5 a.m., and I have already taken a shower, gotten dressed, and driven to work.  I have piles of work to get done, and I am not looking forward to the day ahead of me.  Mornings pretty much suck in my book.

I don't know how I ended up with a job that gets me out of bed so early.  Don't get me wrong--I'm grateful to have a job.  I am completely aware that there are many people in this country who would kill to be in my position.  My job provides health and vision and dental insurance.  I have a ton of vacation time accrued.  I'm really lucky.

However, I don't like getting up early.  I don't like having to suck down 52 ounces of Coke Zero in order to make it past 8 a.m.  (Keep in mind, by 8 a.m., I have already worked three hours.)  On weekends, when I'm able to sleep in until 6:30 or 7 a.m., I feel positively decadent.

I know what job I want.  My dream job.  My Oprah job.  That is what my question for Carol Dip Monday concerns:

Will I ever be hired as a full-time instructor at the university?  (I may have already made this query, but it doesn't hurt to check back every once in a while, either.  And I have taken steps to accomplish this goal.)

The answer from the book of Dickens is:

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

I think I may have received that same answer the last time I asked this questions.  That's OK by me.  Martha doesn't like to disappoint her father, Bob Cratchit.  I don't like to be disappointed, either.  I will get that full-time job at the university.  Charles Dickens says so.

That's good enough for Saint Marty this morning.

September 18: Cellar-Door, Booming Sound, Phone Call

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

This describes the entrance of Marley's ghost.  It's Dickens trying to scare the pants off his readers, a passage that you might find in any Stephen King story (with a lot more profanity and someone crapping himself to boot).  It all boils down to one fear:  the approach of something unknown and frightening.

This morning, just as I was about to jump in the shower, the phone in my house started ringing.  Now, when a phone rings at 10 a.m., I don't necessarily jump to the conclusion that it's anything dire or tragic.  When a phone rings at 4 a.m., I make a couple of assumptions:  (1) someone is dying, or (2) someone is dead.  So I picked up the receiver with a little bit of anxiety.

It was one of my sisters.  She was calling to tell me they had to call an ambulance for another one of my sisters.  Most of my siblings are diabetic.  The sister for whom they called the ambulance had an extremely low blood sugar (hypoglycemic) reaction in the middle of the night.  When the EMS people got there, my sister's blood glucose was 23.  She was thrashing and screaming in bed.  They worked on her for close to an hour and got her stable.  She's doing well.  At least at 4 a.m. she was doing well.  Speaking from experience, however, she's going to have one heck of a headache for about two days.

I didn't need any caffeine to get myself moving today.  That phone call was enough, better than any ghost rattling around in a cellar or booming doors open.  I have been a diabetic for close to 30 years now, and I've had my share of close calls.  They scare the hell out of you.  They scare the hell out of the people who care about you.  I'd prefer no more phone calls at four o'clock in the morning.

Unless you are the Swedish Academy, calling to tell him he's won the Nobel Prize, don't dial up Saint Marty before 8 a.m.

Unless you speak Swedish, don't call