Work Woes

A few days ago I wrote about living by myself. I don't think I really expressed myself well - I don't mind living alone. I mean, I've lived alone since I started grad school. If I really hated it, I would have picked up a roommate somewhere along the way. What I really hated was peoples' pity. It always bugged me - there I was, doing more work and undertaking more responsibility than most of my friends, and holding my life together better than most of them too. But I never got credit for making my own way through the world - instead I just got pitied. Instead of being respected for being independent, I just got belittled for being alone. That's what bothered me.

Ah well. Enough griping about my living situation.

Let's gripe about my job instead!

As I've mentioned, I've been working evenings at a nursing home. It's not an ideal facility. In fact, if an ambitious lawyer strolled through we'd be knee-deep in lawsuits - everything from patient care complaints to paperwork snafus. Sometimes at night I want to go home and double-check that I still have malpractice insurance.

Anyway, I finally got fed up and sent my staffing agency a list of things that were wrong with the nursing home they'd lent me to. The email I sent them was much longer, but here's a shortened version of my complaints:

1. It's in a violent neighborhood - once I even heard what might have been a gun
2. The sewer backs up into the therapy area
3. I'm doing other therapists' paperwork
4. I have no tests or materials
5. My caseload is radically different than I was told it would be - instead of a bunch of ventilator-dependent patients, I'm seeing more psychiatric patients

My staffing agency supervisor got right back to me. Her reply was reassuring, telling me that the situation wasn't a good one, but don't worry, they'd fix it. I shouldn't be having to do other therapists' paperwork.

Um...what?

That was her big concern out of that whole list. The paperwork. Pardon me, but isn't the sewage or the lack of materials or the GUNFIRE a bigger concern than paperwork?

I love my job to death. Seriously. I think it might kill me.

Weighing In

Lately I've been struggling with my weight a little.

Okay, a lot.

Not that I've gained a bunch of weight, really. But I have gained some, and I'd like to get rid of it.

I've taken to giving myself a little disclaimer, or pep talk, or whatever you call it, after I step on the scale but before I look down at the numbers.

It goes like this:

What I'm about to see is a number.
It's doesn't decide whether I'm ugly or beautiful.
It doesn't give the whole story on my health.
It doesn't tell whether I have willpower or not.
If I don't like the number I can change it. And if I do like the number, I'm capable of keeping it.
It's just a number.

It actually sort of works. Losing weight is easier, or at least more pleasant, if you aren't in a panic every time you weigh yourself.

I don't get no respect, no respect at all

I haven't been blogging much lately because life has been incredibly busy. It's the last week of school, which is always hectic, and with my work at the nursing home on top of it I'm barely keeping my head above water. Grocery shopping is a major inconvenience. Laundry and housecleaning are almost out of the question. Doing something truly extraneous - like buying a new pair of pants for work or getting my hair done - isn't even on my radar.

Sometimes when I get some spare time I pack. I'm moving in with Mike on the 25th, in just three weeks. Since I won't be living alone much longer, I wanted to write about something that's been clunking around in the back of my mind: how hard it is to live single.

After you reach a certain age and the novelty of independence wears off a little, you start to realize that living on your own and making your own way is tough. Unfortunately, most people don't see it as tough, they just see it as sad. I got my share of pity and condecending advice from many of my happily coupled friends and relatives which just angered me. Single adults don't deserve pity. They deserve recognition. Maybe even a little admiration.

It's the little things that are hard. When I was having my couch delivered this summer there was no husband whose work schedule might be different than mine, who could be there between the hours of 8 and 5, which was when they wanted to drop it off. When I forget something at the grocery store or pharmacy there's nobody I can call to get it on their way home. When money's tight I worry on my own, rather than sharing my concerns or asking a significant other to snag some overtime.

The worst is when my car needs work. I've been ripped off by mechanics before, so I feel like I have four choices when it comes to automotive repair:

1. Call everyone I know in a search of a mechanic who won't rip me off just for being female

2. Settle on a random mechanic, be polite and hope they're fair

3. Settle on a random mechanic, be demanding and know that they're calling me a bitch after I leave

4. Wait for my dad/brother/Mike to have time to take it in for me

When my car needed a brake replacement this spring I drove around on faulty brakes for two or three days before I decided on option 2, hoping desperately that because I went to a dealership they'd be fair. I have occasionally acted demanding in hope that they'd think twice before padding the bill. But with my schedule I rarely have time to call around or wait for someone else to take it in.

Now that I'm moving in with Mike I'm starting to realize all the little conveniences that, hopefully, we'll both enjoy. But, in the meantime, props to all the single people out there. Here's some of the recognition you deserve.