ew, I got your drama on me

This whole week I’ve been stunned, eyes wide, mouth open like a squirrel that’s just realized his destiny is to become roadkill.  I now know that you should never, ever ask “what could possibly happen next” cause the answer will always make you redefine what you thought was normal.  

One minute you’re walking around your office knowing that so-and-so is a lying whore and what’s-her-name is a back-stabbing bitch, but you have learned to deal with that and go along with your day.  Then, someone does something that makes whoring and backstabbing look like charity work and you have to adjust your world view to accommodate this new data.  I’ve adjusted my world view so many times I think the threads are stripped.  

I won’t go into the details because we all have or had sucktastic jobs and I don’t want this to turn into a “my office is crazier than yours” contest.  That’s like arguing which circle of hell is this hottest.  Hell only has one fan, people, and it’s always pointed at the wall.  No one wins.  

What really bothers me about working in the absolute hottest circle of crazy office hell (it’s my blog, of course I win that contest, duh) is that it’s weakening me.  I’m becoming overly sensitive to all this drama. 

Once upon a time, when I was unwittingly made privy to unsavory happenings in my workplace (affairs, drugs, desk sex, unwanted advances, involuntary manslaughter, more affairs . . . ) I would stir my coffee, shrug my shoulders and go back to my desk.  I basically had a “sucks to be you” attitude.  It doesn’t affect me so why should I care?

But now, after so much irritation, my teflon exterior is worn through and the drama is starting to get to me.  Every day at work I get headaches, my stomach knots and I obsessively clock-watch, itching for the moment when I can be free.  This unease is also following me home and that is absolutely unacceptable.  I can’t be worrying about work crap while I am at home.  I got enough home crap to worry about! 

I don’t want to be this way, all weak and pukey.  I want my rock-hard shell back.  I’ve learned that not only did this shell shield me from caring about any office drama, it protected me from feeling dirty by association.  You can only be exposed to skeevy behavior for so long before it leaves an oily film on you.  And believe me, there isn’t enough Dawn in the world to wash that oil slick off. 

It is Friday.  I have the whole weekend to recharge, reconstruct my anti-drama force field and strike the words “what could possibly happen next” from my vocabulary.  I just hope that two days are enough.

is a little less death too much to ask?

My alarm clock is dying.  It’s set on buzzer, but instead I get a combination of buzzer and radio static.  I can’t tune any stations to come in clearly.  I used to be able to turn down the volume on the static but still hear the alarm.  No longer.  Now I am rudely roused from my blissful slumber by buzzing, crackling, squeaking and the occasional voice blurting out random phrases before it is lost in a void of white noise.  This morning, no joke, the alarm went off and before I could roll over and slap the snooze button,  the radio said “MENTAL ILLNESS” in a stern, announcer voice.  I contemplated not getting out of bed.

This is just one of about 42 trillion reasons why I am not a Morning Person.  Thankfully, I only have to endure the indignities of morning five days a week.  On the weekends I don’t rise until the crack of noon.

During the week, after the alarm clock is silenced, breakfast eaten and the rest of my morning routine completed, I hop in my car and start the 20 minute drive to work.  The first half of my trip involves tree-lined back roads and bucolic scenery.  If the weather is nice, I’ll roll down the window and enjoy lungfuls of fresh air.  My morning crankiness slowly subsides, and I even catch myself singing along to an 80′s classic on the radio. 

Before you can say “come on Eileen” I see the turn up ahead and my mood darkens once more.  I’ve come to the most dreaded leg of my journey:  The Highway.

It’s not the traffic, left lane hoggers or cell phone talkers that make the highway unbearable for me.  No.  It’s the roadkill. 

I love animals.  They don’t even need to be covered in fur and I love them.  Yes, I even love some of them grilled and slapped on a bun, but that does not mean that I love seeing them in various states of dismemberment along the side of the road.  Georgia seems to have such a wide variety of roadkill, too.  Most common are possums, but lately armadillos are just as prevalent.  I see countless squirrels, rabbits and raccoons.  One time, I even saw a cow as road kill.  It looked like a semi hit it.  Then there are the freakin’ deer.  Those are always a gory mess.  As the weather gets warmer, the body count climbs.  After only a few miles down the road I feel like I’m starring in some sort of sick horror movie or one of those films they show kids in driver’s ed classes.

Now, I’m not what you’d call “overly sensitive,” but I do have a soul and seeing this much carnage gets to me after a while.  Some mornings are especially bad.  After a few indistinguishable chunks of bloody flesh, I might see a tiny fawn, not even out of his spots, lying by the road looking so peaceful, you almost think he’s sleeping.  But he’s not sleeping.  Then, there are the dogs.  The dogs are the worst.  I imagine some little girl’s best friend dying alone, afraid and in pain while cars heartlessly speed by.  It’s more than I can take!

I start crying during my commute!  It’s ridiculous.  I’m a grown woman crying because of some dead dog on the side of the road.  Eventually, I get a hold of myself, but it’s too late.  

My face is a mess, makeup ruined.  I look like an extra from a goth metal music video.  And I’m depressed.  And I’ve just pulled into the parking lot at work and need to make myself presentable.  Then, I have to keep myself from remembering this incident throughout the day or else I’ll start crying at my desk and that’s downright dangerous.  I can’t show weakness or else my back-stabbing co-workers will be all over me like hyenas on a water buffalo.   

And that’s another one of the 42 trillion reasons why I’m not a Morning Person.