Being able to take twenty minutes this morning to snuggle with my sweetie (have I mentioned, ever, that that boy has got the softest skin on the planet?), and get out of bed at 8, not 5 — with some glimmer of light, not total darkness — makes today a winner right out of the gate.
I don’t care what else happens today: that alone made me very, very happy.
I am reluctantly getting used to this wake-up-in-pitch-black, get-home-in-pitch-black thing. And it’s not like I haven’t dealt with worse. I had a teaching gig many years ago which meant getting up at 4:30 five days a week, and where the working conditions were so horrendous that the alarm going off filled me with dread. For the eight or nine summers I did the Chicago farmer’s markets, I had to drag my ass out of bed at 5 on the good days, for the nearby markets, and as early as 2 for the ones that were a long haul, and go from bed to clothes to driving to manual labor to cheerful, overalled sprout-selling. When I ran the school, I usually had to start working around 6:30 and be done at the same time, often with no breaks at all. So, this is hardly some new form of torture, especially since I am a morning person, but I have gotten spoiled by being able to work from home for all these years. It’s a lot easier to wake up at 6 when starting work at 7 just means putting a sweater on over your jammies, plopping your dog in your lap, and starting a morning fire as you leisurely enjoy your coffee. When I’ve had people ask how on earth I can work for as many hours as I do in a week, I usually remind them that even a 60-hour-week in your house, in your pajamas, even with difficult work, is a very different beastie that 60 hours out and about.
Making this work with everything else is also proving the challenge I thought it would probably be. With Scarleteen in particular, I’ve been there full-time for so long now that the rhythm of the thing isn’t so great when there isn’t at least one person basically always around every day and night to keep the question queues from becoming unmanageable. We’re so behind with questions and answers right now, I just don’t know what on earth to do about it. As I expected, the days I work at the clinic, I have to come home and do something else, or just do nothing: I’m just way too wiped to do more counseling at night. I’m pretty much having to kiss the days off I usually gave myself at least in part goodbye for now. Again, I knew I probably would, but that doesn’t mean it’s pleasant to have it verified.
Morning misery and workflow issues notwithstanding, all is still awesome with the new gig. Once I’m there, not getting back and forth, it feels like home (sans dog, disarray and a toasty fire). I am going to add one extra day there to my workweek for a while: I can do it, I like it a lot, it’ll move me faster into where I need to be, plus, I seriously need the cash. I’d decided that before the bill from the ER came, and once I opened it up and had a very satisfying primal scream, I was all the more glad I’d asked for the extra day the day before. Jaysis.
Had a very enjoyable night out with Ben, Mark and tequila last night (the middleman of whom, though I gave him a very close, fair fight, kicked my tucas at darts at the evening’s end), and today I’m shuttling off to get a couple graphics done for new Scarleteen piece, work on another unfinished piece there, and keep slogging through the backed-up photo processing that remains formidable. This weekend will be more of same, and some much-needed housekeeping. I still have little trails of toys and the lot all over the house from The Baby Liam’s visit that really need picking up. However tempting it may be for me to leave out my Playmobil collection to play with it myself, I do have other things that need doing, and finding the right place for the little plastic sheep to sleep in the little plastic house isn’t a priority I can particularly justify.