Time Management Skills (and choices)

My husband has said for years that he loves to see me in my working clothes. These days, the working-clothes closet does not include a uniform. But, the closet is still filled with working clothes (even the holey jeans on the floor: garden work). I work a lot. I like to work. I am a happier person when I have "work" that defines the calendar, structures my day, and brings me both a sense of purpose and a few accolades. Did you know that families are rarely aware of how the refrigerator gets filled, or how those shirts and dresses are ironed, or why the dog doesn't pee on the floor anymore? "Work" on the other hand, is more obviously an effort with rewards: paycheck, take-out once in a while, a mom who doesn't hover. Often, dinner is something from a can, and there is usually a list of chores titled "While I'm at work --." My absence is an adventure for everyone!

My problem, if there is one, is that I have no sense of balance. I seem to have lived much of the last few decades with a "When it rains, it pours" philosophy of work -- or work-karma. I am either unemployed (sometimes for very good reasons, like pending or recent childbirth) or rather over-employed (today, I could say that I have NINE jobs, since adjuncts are independent contractors, always). There were a few years when I changed clothes in the car or in the bathroom at work -- the beginnings of my life as a Bag Lady! Does working a lot make me rich? Not always. Does it make me happy? Yes. That's the great secret, or the confession to be made: I really really really
like to work, and working gives me more satisfaction than cooking, cleaning, or house-training the children and the dogs. There simply isn't enough joy in taking care of myself or my family to make the day seem well-spent. In my defense, I would not work this hard for no pay. Those who know me well, know that without work -- the pay, the structure, the sense of purpose -- I am NOT a happy camper.

I descend into some morass of fattening and fatalism, turning inward and then turning vicious -- to myself mostly, though the crankiness gets sprinkled on everyone. I seek always a purpose that will define me; I am a "Do-er" and not much of a "Be-er." While I heartily recommend self-reflection, and I have often indulged in the adventure of self-knowledge, generally speaking, I am aware that my Self does not provide me with enough material to last through more than a day or two. I need the action -- of chores, of work -- to provide my Self with definition and a reason for being. Reading, gardening, watching re-runs of British murder mysteries are escape strategies: escape from either chores or self-reflection.

So it's Sunday. I got up with the sun. There's homework to do (teachers go to school, too!) and more grading, and I must figure out the on-line grade center for that class.... and there's a party at GM's this afternoon, I want to start a few more seeds, and I really have to get to the ironing.... and I am happy.

The first day is the hardest

I got fired an hour ago. It's probably not a good time to write a blog post; on the other hand, I've got the time now. A month ago, I lectured the Developmental Psych students on the stages of adulthood and the definition of "career consolidation." I have never had a real career -- only for short periods of time have I gone to the same place, same desk, to do the same task. There's been a lot of waitressing, temping in offices, and substitute teaching. The last few years have been the most balanced -- though it seems to the children that I've been gone a lot, I actually worked less than 40 hours a week, and the work(s) itself was balanced in the energy & thought requirements. There was usually a day or two, or a day plus an afternoon, at home in the garden, and weekends could be focussed on family, cookies, ironing, and reading. I told my DevPsych class that, in the middle of "middle adulthood," I had finally achieved what felt like career consolidation. Well..... it's a good thing there is no crystal ball in my kitchen.

I could go on a rant here, about the lack of communication about changing rules and standards, or the boss with a mental illness or two (to borrow a line from As Good As It Gets: we both give mental health a bad name!). But what does that do for me? There is no gain in that. I'll focus on the fact that I'm getting a month's severance pay, and that I have time during the holiday season, and that I can (and did already!!) accept that odd-hour adjunct gig teaching ITV Sociology. A letter is coming, said the committee that greeted me at the office door this morning. They provided boxes and didn't need to go through them: they trust me they said. Ahhhhh.... the tension, worry, daymares, perhaps actual angst is over. That's a good thing.

So, today, I'll do what I was going to do at the other job (babysitting a phone was a primary task) -- grade papers, complete grade reports, set up a Ch. 14 game for class, prepare for the scout meeting tomorrow. And I'll finish that silly mystery novel. And clean the bathroom and water the plants. And I get to work -- at a job I love to do! -- tonight. When I go to bed tonight, the day will seem like a good and productive one (cover the crystal ball!). The sun is shining. That's a good thing. Add "Walk The Dog" to the Do-List.

Autumn is just the end of the chapter

The anniversary of Mom's death was September 22nd, and her house was sold a week later. We have lived through the many firsts of new grief, and the house is -- gone, no more Christmas gatherings there, few reasons to ever return to that city -- that is the end of a chapter.

The last of the tomatoes were eaten or canned, and we had a meal of peas; the fishing started to get difficult, plus windy and cold; the wood ricks were brought up from the basement and EA cleaned the chimney. I put straw thickly on top of the new strawberries and asparagus (-gi?) and spent some time getting the new potting room organized (the table is not yet in, and that space is taken up with drying dahlia & canna tubers). Fall is coming (it's at least 50 degrees today with sunshine!) -- and that is an end of a chapter.

I spent (too) much time these last few months realizing that my LIFE book has only a few chapters left: each body system did an old-age hiccup and then settled into a new "normal." In impulsive rebellion, I picked out new plastic eyeglass frames: sort of like Elvis Costello's, and not so impulsively, I really am going to buy the zipper hightops: it's BOGO month. I read alot, so I naturally begin to see life and its myriad adventures (and those misadventures!) as being set between covers, with chapter breaks intermittently providing a false sense of resolution. Many chapters ended this fall and I feel grief in different degrees, yet -- like those #$&%* squirrels -- I feel at the very same a sense of excitement, about what takes up the space in my head, the hours on my calendar, or this blog spot. I'm waiting for confirmation of my spring teaching schedule; the garden catalogs have been arriving in the mail (another compost bin, I think, and I will try planting potatoes under the little-used clothesline); my gynecologist and I have made a pact to get out with our friends twice as often as we do now (that will equal two times: social networking does not come easily to workaholics with odd artistic and political perspectives). I discovered that I actually waiting to see how well I fare this winter, depression-wise, and if the new tricks I've been reading about will really work (Item 1: abundant plastic plants in my windowless office -done). A chapter has ended. OK, lots of chapters have ended. And every one is followed by a new page.