Slimey

Beautiful fruit, extras from the fact shack. Persimmons. Such an odd thing. So sweet and gooey but slimey as well.

The color is one of my favorite.

I’m on day three of a rare five-day jag at the news factory. So time is limited. I’ve been trying to sleep in so I’m not so dragged out at work after 6 p.m.

I may have turned into one of those people who need to buy a sleep mask and ear plugs. I’m a light sleeper but I need real sleep in order to do a full day.

I worked Thanksgiving. It was very pleasant I had plenty to do and got to work with very positive people. Friday it was back to slime of another kind. Negative Nelly and her right hand man were getting on my nerves in a major way.

I had a dream this morning in one of my falling back to sleep periods about this grouchy coworker. Someone had take her baby and killed it and stuffed it into a small space, like under a theater chair.

Negative Nelly said “What do you think the tattoo is for?”

I take this to mean that something that N.N. valued, her metaphorical baby, has been hijacked by outsiders before she really got to put her mark on the effort. The tattoo (on the baby) was very, very small. This dream allows me more empathy for the woman who has invested her life in this thing called journalism. She finally takes over the newsroom only to have a mixed bag of folks tearing it down at every turn.

Sadly, she mostly looks at me as part of her problem. But I’m not the only one put off by her tough exterior. Sometime I wonder if she ever has fun. Then I tell myself she just must love to tussle and fight and grouse her way through each day. Maybe that’s her modus operandi.

People will rise to your expectations if you encourage them to do so in a way that makes sense to them. They will give up and write you off if you give them nothing but sour puss interaction.

I wish I was more detail oriented. I wish I could crank out perfect copy the whole 7 or 8 hours I’m at the factory but I’m flawed. Still, I’m determined to feel good about the good things and the cool people who remain and I intend to stick with it until I can open another door to a place that will blend more naturally with my sensibilities. Beggars can/cannot be choosers?

I was flummoxed to see J. back at the fact shack last night. It was so incongruous. In my mind she is free of the ever-moldering, once-kinda-cool enterprise and wanders on clouds of joy about the City by the Bay charged with new life.

I was off on a break. It was late and I didn’t want to open that can of sentimental worms (btw: For clueless grown ups “Slimey” is also a cute Sesame Street worm character) for a departed former coworker even though she rocks excellently.

Slimey of Sesame Street:

Sometimes I get so carried away with things I’ve mostly invented in my mind. I’m a mental embroiderer and I have to remind myself that I’m fanciful. Most often the people I make up stories about don’t even know how much mental landscape they have occupied.

I’ve always been that way.