goodbye, fair fish.
One of my cousin Emma's new fish died the other day. She was distraught, sobbing and yelling how she didn't want a stupid fish in the first place, she'd wanted a DOG.
The fish is in Heaven, my aunt Kelly explained. And then Emma looked at my aunt like she was crazy, pointed at the corner of the fish tank where the fish-that-was was floating, and yelled "No he's not! He's right there!"
Ah, so literal. Of course! How could he be in Heaven? He's right there! And I'd never realized before how Emma must think of Papa's death: Papa leaving one day, catching a train to Heaven, leaving the rest of us behind. Why did he have to go? She's been asking this often lately. I didn't want him to. I want him to be here and do puzzles with me.
How do you explain the business of dying to a five year old? You can't, really. Kelly told Emma she was bringing the fish back to the fish store after Emma went to school. Emma reminded her that she'd better hurry since the fish has to make it to Heaven and all. Can't miss the train.
Holiday time and no one's feeling very holidayish around here. I've always loved Christmas, the music and the decorations and the shopping, but this year I keep forgetting what time of year it is until I hear a song or see a wreath. My mother keeps walking around the house apologizing for not being in the spirit, telling us she's not in the mood to shop so we'll probably just get a few things, or maybe just money. This has been her line to us since we were old enough not to believe in Santa Claus, but this is the first year I believe her. I don't really mind, I don't need anything. I just feel bad because she feels guilty about it.
Should I make her put up the decorations? I don't really want to myself, but should I make myself do it for her? Would it make her feel better? I don't know. I wish I knew. There should be an instruction manual for such things, Dealing With Parental Holiday Grief: Merriment Amidst Melancholy. Every morning we get ready to leave for work and tell each other that tonight we're going to put them up, and every night we end up sitting together at the kitchen table snacking on Triscuits and declaring that tomorrow we'll have more energy.
Part of me keeps thinking: There's a disturbance in the Force. Something's not right in every family gathering, something missing, something wrong, and I have to keep reminding myself that it won't go away. Things are different now.
Anyway. What brought this on? Am hormonal and thusly wallowing. Moving on.
In other news: self esteem is still heartily intact. I got the call at my temp job today that I didn't get the stupid job I interviewed for last week. You know, the interview that went over two hours? That one. I'd decided over the weekend that I wouldn't want the job anyway, so it wasn't the not-getting it that bothered me.
"He doesn't think you have the experience to handle the office when he's not there," Temp Agency Woman told me.
"What, you mean the office that will consist of just him? His calls? His paperwork? Pardon me while I go pick up the SIX OTHER LINES THAT ARE BLINKING RIGHT NOW and then GET BACK TO YOU IN A TIMELY MANNER because I CAN HANDLE ANSWERING THE PHONE! What kind of crack is he on?"
Maybe those weren't my exact words.
But still! I was outraged. Outraged! I can't handle the office when he's not there? What does that mean? My first week at the Skeevy Law Firm, Mr. Boss was out of the office and I was answering his phones! Returning calls! Arranging adjournments! And I won't be able to HANDLE IT when Mr. Long Winded is gone for an afternoon? WhatEVA!
I seriously felt like calling him up. Also? Why keep me at an interview for two and a half hours if you're not going to hire me? If you don't think I'm experienced enough to handle an office for an afternoon (an office that consists of, well, JUST HIM), why not just let me be on my merry way? Why make me smile through your completely inaccurate interpretations of classic films? Why force me to SMILE WINNINGLY while you imply that what you really want is a girl Friday?
Am I not GOOD ENOUGH to be your girl Friday? WhatEVER.
This was all I thought about after I got off the phone. It didn't even strike me until much later that I probably should have had a moment of doubting myself, wondering if I'm Just Not Good Enough. Instead, I just wanted to call him up and give him a piece of my mind.
In yet other news: Tomorrow is the last day at my receptionist's job. What will I bore you about now that I'm done with that? I'm sure I'll find something.
The fish is in Heaven, my aunt Kelly explained. And then Emma looked at my aunt like she was crazy, pointed at the corner of the fish tank where the fish-that-was was floating, and yelled "No he's not! He's right there!"
Ah, so literal. Of course! How could he be in Heaven? He's right there! And I'd never realized before how Emma must think of Papa's death: Papa leaving one day, catching a train to Heaven, leaving the rest of us behind. Why did he have to go? She's been asking this often lately. I didn't want him to. I want him to be here and do puzzles with me.
How do you explain the business of dying to a five year old? You can't, really. Kelly told Emma she was bringing the fish back to the fish store after Emma went to school. Emma reminded her that she'd better hurry since the fish has to make it to Heaven and all. Can't miss the train.
Holiday time and no one's feeling very holidayish around here. I've always loved Christmas, the music and the decorations and the shopping, but this year I keep forgetting what time of year it is until I hear a song or see a wreath. My mother keeps walking around the house apologizing for not being in the spirit, telling us she's not in the mood to shop so we'll probably just get a few things, or maybe just money. This has been her line to us since we were old enough not to believe in Santa Claus, but this is the first year I believe her. I don't really mind, I don't need anything. I just feel bad because she feels guilty about it.
Should I make her put up the decorations? I don't really want to myself, but should I make myself do it for her? Would it make her feel better? I don't know. I wish I knew. There should be an instruction manual for such things, Dealing With Parental Holiday Grief: Merriment Amidst Melancholy. Every morning we get ready to leave for work and tell each other that tonight we're going to put them up, and every night we end up sitting together at the kitchen table snacking on Triscuits and declaring that tomorrow we'll have more energy.
Part of me keeps thinking: There's a disturbance in the Force. Something's not right in every family gathering, something missing, something wrong, and I have to keep reminding myself that it won't go away. Things are different now.
Anyway. What brought this on? Am hormonal and thusly wallowing. Moving on.
In other news: self esteem is still heartily intact. I got the call at my temp job today that I didn't get the stupid job I interviewed for last week. You know, the interview that went over two hours? That one. I'd decided over the weekend that I wouldn't want the job anyway, so it wasn't the not-getting it that bothered me.
"He doesn't think you have the experience to handle the office when he's not there," Temp Agency Woman told me.
"What, you mean the office that will consist of just him? His calls? His paperwork? Pardon me while I go pick up the SIX OTHER LINES THAT ARE BLINKING RIGHT NOW and then GET BACK TO YOU IN A TIMELY MANNER because I CAN HANDLE ANSWERING THE PHONE! What kind of crack is he on?"
Maybe those weren't my exact words.
But still! I was outraged. Outraged! I can't handle the office when he's not there? What does that mean? My first week at the Skeevy Law Firm, Mr. Boss was out of the office and I was answering his phones! Returning calls! Arranging adjournments! And I won't be able to HANDLE IT when Mr. Long Winded is gone for an afternoon? WhatEVA!
I seriously felt like calling him up. Also? Why keep me at an interview for two and a half hours if you're not going to hire me? If you don't think I'm experienced enough to handle an office for an afternoon (an office that consists of, well, JUST HIM), why not just let me be on my merry way? Why make me smile through your completely inaccurate interpretations of classic films? Why force me to SMILE WINNINGLY while you imply that what you really want is a girl Friday?
Am I not GOOD ENOUGH to be your girl Friday? WhatEVER.
This was all I thought about after I got off the phone. It didn't even strike me until much later that I probably should have had a moment of doubting myself, wondering if I'm Just Not Good Enough. Instead, I just wanted to call him up and give him a piece of my mind.
In yet other news: Tomorrow is the last day at my receptionist's job. What will I bore you about now that I'm done with that? I'm sure I'll find something.