Archive for exhaustion

Just a Job

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 1, 2009 by 1writegirl

Cleaning houses
Not what I saw
Myself doing

In college…
Ten years ago…
Six months ago

But the need for
Money
Is ever-present
And sometimes
You can’t be picky

It was a mobile home
2 bedroom 2 bath
Shag carpet
Greasy stove
Stained floor
Brown toilets

It had clearly
NEVER
Been cleaned

I toiled away for hours
Till everything
Sparkled and shone

No cobwebs
No dust
No grime
No spots
Splatter or
Splooge

Every muscle hurt
Every bone ached
My finger tips
Were blistered
My knees bruised
A knuckle bleeding
Mindlessly cut as I labored

Yet I still had
The front porch to do
Christ! Where the seven
Cats lived…

I’ll come back tomorrow
I whispered
And thought
If I’m still alive

I’ll finish the job
Bright and early
I didn’t realize
How long it would take

The next morning
I was there at eight
Finished up in
Two hours and ten

Alice paid me in full
Plus twenty-five tip
You did such a good job
She smiled

Pressing the money into
My hand
She said
And you came back!

As if I would leave it
Undone

I loaded my supplies
Into my car
Then headed to
Another
Smaller job

Helping Lola
Clean out her garage
And put together a bed

As I prepared to leave
She turned to me
Have you got a card?
She asked

I’ve got lots of friends
Like myself
Who could use
A hard worker
Like you

I thanked her and told her
I’d get some made
Then drove home
Thinking
If I did this often
My hands would toughen up
My muscles wouldn’t hurt
I’d be in fit shape
And my bank account…

A fast calculation said
6 houses a month
Would pay my rent
And then some

In the end, of course
Sprawled prostrate
On my bed
It felt the same
As any job
I might do
Or have already done

They all leave me
Moaning
Cursing
Pulling my hair
Telling myself

I’m too old for this
I’m not cut out for this
What’s the point of this
Oh god, why this?

It’s how I feel about all
Work for pay
And I’ve tried
My fair share
To be sure

It’s just a job
If it isn’t
Writing

Fuck, man
I’ve gotta
Sell that book…

Right-now Jobs

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2009 by 1writegirl

A friend called me last night to ask me how I like my new job. I thought for a moment about the best way to describe it to her. Finally, I said “You know your worst nightmare about having kids?” She’s childless by choice. “Yeess,” she said slowly. “OK,” I said. “Now multiply that by a roomful of 10 or 12 toddler brains in the bodies of full grown adults, who aren’t ever going to get any older mentally.” I gave that a moment to sink in. “Now, consider that some of these people have so little going on that they just sit there and stare at you, never saying a coherent word. Some of them, on the other hand, will babble nonstop, only what they’re babbling isn’t coherent either. But they’re demanding your attention and you have to respond. Some of them have ideas about what they want to be doing, which isn’t what they are supposed to be doing, according to the powers that be, which you have to reflect. So you’ve got a battle of wills going on to prevent them from acting out on their impulses, which don’t seem to be affected by being told a gazillion times that the particular activity they wish to engage in is off limits, no longer available to them, or my favorite, inappropriate.” I could hear my friend take a deep breath and slowly exhale. “Then you’ve got the ones that want to hold your hand all the time, sit in your lap if you’ll let them, and get upset when they discover you have boundaries.” I paused, and sighed. “You know how I am,” I reminded her. “I can only take social activities of any kind in limited doses.” I’m the one at the cocktail party on the fringe of the circle, sipping my drink and listening to what everyone else is saying, slipping off in my mind every few minutes to someplace else I’d rather be. “At this job,” I told her, “I have to be socially engaged every single minute, I can’t even retreat into myself to escape. All my energy is directed outward toward the constant care of these people.”

As I was talking, I was thinking about women who get pregnant in their 40’s with Downs Syndrome babies and choose to give birth to them. I was wondering if they have any idea what they’re in for. These people I’m caring for are in my custody for 8 hours a day. How could I manage to care for even one of them 24 hours a day, for years on end? It isn’t about a lack of compassion or understanding, it’s about having the energy it takes to try and relate to someone who will never, no matter what you do or how much love and attention you give him, be able to care for himself in even the most basic of ways. It’s about being surrogate mother to a dozen little kids when it’s all I can do to be a mother to my own teenager.

“I’m just not cut out for this kind of work,” I said. If it was my own child, my parent, even my spouse who could no longer care for himself, I’d find the strength and the will because of the heart connection. But I’m not altruistic enough to want to earn a living this way.

“So what are you gonna do?” my friend asked.
“For now, I’ll go to work, do the best I can, and save every penny possible. It’s not a forever job. It’s a right now job.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I’ve had a few of those.”

We talked a few minutes more and hung up. All I could think about was crashing, I was so exhausted from my day. As I fell asleep I thought about what it must be like to see the world through a three year old’s eyes your whole life. It probably isn’t so bad for them. The ones it’s so hard on are the ones who love them most, their parents usually, who know they can’t always care for them, and who wish in vain their children could grow up to experience some sort of choice in life. Yet they never will. All their choices, large and small, all their lives, will be made for them. Many of them won’t even realize it could be any other way. For the rest of us, our successes and our failures – however affected by others, by luck, by circumstances – belong to us, if only because at some point, we were able to make a choice about something.