In service to my country....

So, my place of employment is facing what may or may not turn out to be devastating budget cuts. This places a bit of a damper on the whole holiday spirit thing. Especially since I have plans to spend money. In light of the economic crisis, I was hoping to do my part to revive the economy through conspicuous consumption. I bought a 40in Sony Bravia television for the spouse for Christmas with the intention of reworking the entire dining room into an entertainment room in January. This will involve paint, new curtains, and masses of new furniture. Because of course, that is just the sort of patriot that I am! How am I supposed to complete my plan to save America if I may be facing an economic downturn myself? This is ridiculous.
I would expect that my employer strongly consider the damage my loss of spending power could bring to the local and national economy. Instead, this should be the opportunity to encourage the early retirement of some of the dross currently not earning their ridiculous paychecks. Please hear me oh gods of budget and planning!

Dream Drama

My spouse has been advocating that I enter psychotherapy for several years now. To be clear, not to study the field, but to be a patient in it. I admit I have some issues, but I am working them out through avoidance right now (and the occasional alcohol misuse). Maybe once I have some other things fixed in my life, I will again explore the benefits of therapy. Anyway, one of the triggers for me hearing about how I need psychotherapy is when I relay one of my dreams to him. I have some pretty out there dreams that a Jungian or Freudian therapist could have some real fun with. Case in point: last night's dream. I was death. In my dream, I was the official ender of life. I was hunting down two women (no one I actually knew). These were magical women by the way - think fairies or elvin people. I recall grabbing their souls, but not actually killing them. They were marked for death without being dead. I let them continue to live out of the goodness of my heart. Only not really. They had escaped me and I found them both in Australia working as maids at a resort. Their one joy was sunning themselves on the beach during their off time. I let them go to continue to enjoy the simple things in their menial lives. So, psychotherapy..... any recommendations out there?

Encouraging Retirement

As a feminist I understand the need to reclaim and celebrate the "crone" in terms of her wisdom and years of experience. However. Sometime the "crone" refers to a self-important, socially retarded animated corpse. This is such am instance. The crone needs to retire or die peacefully in her sleep tonight (so, how wrong is that, really, if the (read: my) world would be a better place free from her?).
This story involves the crone messing with the wrong gal (me). I told her I would not send her a copy of what I already to sent to someone else so that she could make sure it gets done. Gasp! Oh no, she didn't... hell yes, she did. The crone had the temerity to imply that I had not done something that I had a record of doing, because when she checked up on me (double gasp) the person in question did not recall receiving it. So, no crone, I will not allow you to tell me how to do my job, imply that I somehow am incompetent, and then assume I would defer to you. Who do you think you are and more importantly, don't you know who I think I am?!
Obviously since she has time to do a portion of my job, I will chat with her superior about giving her more work to do. We would not want the crone to feel that her vast knowledge is going underutilized. Oh, and bite me.

The Only Good Ant is a Dead One

One morning just prior to the Thanksgiving holiday, I came in that Monday to find that my entire workspace had been overrun by ants. They had made a new home in one of my plants. After squishing a couple hundred by hand (yum!) I called my dear friend in Facilities to save me from the invasion. (I watched Ants! as a child.... I know what they are capable of.)They decided not to spray, but to place two bait boxes strategically in my area. The next day, my desk looked like a mini Pompeii. The poison stopped many ants in their tracks. I felt like the gods in Clash of the Titans... looking down at the poor mortals from above. So I joyfully swept up the carnage. Since then I have seen signs of ant life, but it has been fairly minimal and is trumped by continued piles ant corpses. So far I am winning this battle... but only time will tell.

Progress

Another seven sessions will be behind me, and at least another seven are ahead. I have been going to see a personal trainer once a week at the rec center. This involves me and a just twenty-something young woman who exercises professionally on top of her just twenty-something metabolism in a room of mirrors. It is a form of hell. I exercise while watching sweat pour out of every wrinkle and roll of fat. Yes, I can watch my chins perspire. I both hate myself and feel great satisfaction with me simultaneously. I like that I can see progress not in terms of the actual reduction in said fat rolls, but in the incremental changes taking place. I can lunge across the room holding 8 lb weights in each hand twice then do squats without crying. I can balance on the bose and do push up after push up. One day I will see these incremental changes translate into fitting in my old clothes. In the meantime, I am taking my sessions seven at a time.... and moving to twice a week.