Hi everyone.
I'm writing to tell you that I'm moving. Sort of. It will be just as easy for you to get to me though.
My bloggyblog is moving to libbymparker.wordpress.com.
You can still subscribe to me and know when I write stuff.
You can still even leave comments.
It's better for everyone this way.
I love you.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
I'm Pretty
If there's one thing that the world knows about women, it's that they want to feel attractive. I'm no exception. I always liked to believe that I was something different. I was a girl who didn't need to feel pretty because I was a girl who had other great qualities. I'm smart and literary and sometimes witty and that makes up for the lack luster looks. Right? No, not really.
According to a lot of articles that I've been reading lately, women multi-task in ways they don't even know about. It's nearly impossible for a woman to zero in and concentrate on one single thing. I never thought this was weird--I still don't. I think it's weird that a man could possibly think about only one thing at any given moment. Usually these these articles are about sex, about how difficult it is for a woman to reach orgasm while men can pretty much get there regardless of any interference. For women, though, apparently it takes a subtle balance of self-confidence, a clean house, full (but not too full) tummy, temperature and don't forget the determination and patience. If any of these aspects becomes disrupted, the whole balance gets thrown off and I guess you just hope to God that determination weighs more than the rest.
Feeling attractive works pretty much the same for me. There are way too many factors to keep track of but sometimes they all swing together in a way that causes me to walk out the door and down the street with long, deliberate strides. I don't want to just feel pretty, I want to feel like a good woman. It starts with a shower and is almost guaranteed if I go to the trouble of shaving my legs. It creeps through my check book, into my kitchen and surveys the amount of dishes in the sink and the whole-grains and leafy greens in the refrigerator, it goes into my bedroom and through my journals. It rifles through the Rolodex of recent dreams and friends who need correspondence and then goes into my iPod. If everything seems to be in check, I'll just feel good about myself.
This morning I woke up and threw all of my laundry into the washing machine. Arryn then calls me and asks if I want to go shopping with her and the kids. Of course I do. It's Labor Day and I don't have a thing to do. So I search through my closet. I've got jeans that are two sizes too big and jeans that are one size too small. But any too small is too small and out of the question. So I pull on some gigantic jeans. All the tops that are left in my closet are those tops that I never, ever wear--otherwise they'd be in the laundry right now. But I'm thinking, "I'm going to look cute today," so I hike up my jeans and try on about 5 different shirts. Frustrated, I opt for make up. Purple eye shadow, eye liner, foundation, eew. Let's work on hair... I didn't get a shower today so there's sort of an abundance of oil happening at the roots and crunchy dryness happening in the ends. I'm officially a repulsive human being. So I do what you do when you feel disgusting, I texted my friends and told them about it. And they said, "Hey--I've been there dude. I don't know how to fix it, though."
I did. I put on a belt. I washed my face. I pulled my hair back into a pony tail, tore off all the layers of tops and put on an old dorm t-shirt and a hoodie. I put on my flip-flops and stuffed my self worth into my pockets knowing good and well that feeling pretty is only a minuscule part of being an attractive woman.
As I was buckling Genesis into her car seat after a day of talking and walking around Hobby Lobby and Target she kissed me and thanked me for being her best bud. She told me that she thought I had such pretty collarbones (except she didn't know what they're called, she said "I like your those things, they're so pretty" and pointed at my chest. Needless to say I was confused.) . Nothing in the world could make me feel more beautiful. I've always wanted to be the kind of girl who had nice collarbones.
According to a lot of articles that I've been reading lately, women multi-task in ways they don't even know about. It's nearly impossible for a woman to zero in and concentrate on one single thing. I never thought this was weird--I still don't. I think it's weird that a man could possibly think about only one thing at any given moment. Usually these these articles are about sex, about how difficult it is for a woman to reach orgasm while men can pretty much get there regardless of any interference. For women, though, apparently it takes a subtle balance of self-confidence, a clean house, full (but not too full) tummy, temperature and don't forget the determination and patience. If any of these aspects becomes disrupted, the whole balance gets thrown off and I guess you just hope to God that determination weighs more than the rest.
Feeling attractive works pretty much the same for me. There are way too many factors to keep track of but sometimes they all swing together in a way that causes me to walk out the door and down the street with long, deliberate strides. I don't want to just feel pretty, I want to feel like a good woman. It starts with a shower and is almost guaranteed if I go to the trouble of shaving my legs. It creeps through my check book, into my kitchen and surveys the amount of dishes in the sink and the whole-grains and leafy greens in the refrigerator, it goes into my bedroom and through my journals. It rifles through the Rolodex of recent dreams and friends who need correspondence and then goes into my iPod. If everything seems to be in check, I'll just feel good about myself.
This morning I woke up and threw all of my laundry into the washing machine. Arryn then calls me and asks if I want to go shopping with her and the kids. Of course I do. It's Labor Day and I don't have a thing to do. So I search through my closet. I've got jeans that are two sizes too big and jeans that are one size too small. But any too small is too small and out of the question. So I pull on some gigantic jeans. All the tops that are left in my closet are those tops that I never, ever wear--otherwise they'd be in the laundry right now. But I'm thinking, "I'm going to look cute today," so I hike up my jeans and try on about 5 different shirts. Frustrated, I opt for make up. Purple eye shadow, eye liner, foundation, eew. Let's work on hair... I didn't get a shower today so there's sort of an abundance of oil happening at the roots and crunchy dryness happening in the ends. I'm officially a repulsive human being. So I do what you do when you feel disgusting, I texted my friends and told them about it. And they said, "Hey--I've been there dude. I don't know how to fix it, though."
I did. I put on a belt. I washed my face. I pulled my hair back into a pony tail, tore off all the layers of tops and put on an old dorm t-shirt and a hoodie. I put on my flip-flops and stuffed my self worth into my pockets knowing good and well that feeling pretty is only a minuscule part of being an attractive woman.
As I was buckling Genesis into her car seat after a day of talking and walking around Hobby Lobby and Target she kissed me and thanked me for being her best bud. She told me that she thought I had such pretty collarbones (except she didn't know what they're called, she said "I like your those things, they're so pretty" and pointed at my chest. Needless to say I was confused.) . Nothing in the world could make me feel more beautiful. I've always wanted to be the kind of girl who had nice collarbones.
Monday, August 31, 2009
He said, she wished she'd said
Soo... let's set the scene a little bit. At around 2:00 pm, everyone stops working up front and either goes home or heads to the back to bake or do dishes or other useful things. It's my job to, then, stand behind the counter for the next two hours by myself. Therefore, if someone orders something it's my job to make it and take it to them and also to continue working at the counter.
I'm working this position today when a slightly post-middle-aged man comes in and orders a sandwich. I ring him up, take his money and go wash my hands and put on those God-awful plastic gloves from Lunch Lady Land. Halfway through making his sandwich he's back at the counter summoning me.
Guy: Miss? Miss? MISS. (I don't like being called "Miss" or "Ma'am" I'd much rather be referred to as, "'Scuse me.")
Me: [I turn around] I'm sorry, yes?
Guy: Do you have a local phone book?
Me: I'm sorry, I can't really hear you. [I walk closer]
Guy: Do you speak English? I said, "DO YOU HAVE A LOCAL PHONE-uh BOOOOOK-uh?"
Me: IIII'm sorry? I took your order, didn't I? We had a pretty decent conversation, didn't we? Do I HAVE an accent or dress like the native of some other country? You weren't a total a-hole 12 seconds ago! Sure, I'll get you one, but do you mind if I wait until I'm done making your sandwich so that I don't have to change my gloves?
Guy: *sigh* This really can't wait.
Me: Really? This can't wait for 90 whole seconds? Of course, I'll get that for you. [So I toss my lunch lady gloves into the garbage and grab a phone book from the back. I hand it to him and he takes it and goes back to his table.]
Three minutes later when I bring him his food, he's sitting there with the phone book open. He pulls out his cell phone and says, "What's the area code here?"
Me: So... Seeing the phone book couldn't wait for me to finish your food but making the phone call could? Really? It's 620, Sir. Have a great day.
I know this post doesn't demonstrate it well but it's important that you know that my attitude about/ during work has dr
amatically improved over the past week. I think it's that now that I'm working forty hours I know that my rent will be paid and I can overlook a lot knowing that I've got a roof over my head for the next thirty days. Also, I officially and legally have my very own space and that alone is absolutely liberating. This post just suits to be one of those must-get-it-out-of-my-system kind of things. Some people are, simply put, personal manifestations of nails on a chalkboard (or my personal aural nemesis--Styrofoam vs. Styrofoam).Today, I love everything. Even that guy.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Perspective, perspective, perspective
Rarely will my boss ever say anything that strums a positive chord with me. Generally if she's speaking to me, I picture myself rolling my eyes (and pray to God I don't actually roll them) and try to stave off tears of frustration. But the other day during a particularly hairy lunch, she said, "Just remember, no matter what, there's always someone out there who's got it worse off than you." I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to sucker-punch her for pulling out the pep-talk but then she came back with, "and when you think about it--there's some poor schmuck out there who's got it worse off than any of us."
At first I was oddly touched by the use of the word "us", which indicated that she was also feeling overwhelmed and understaffed. It's a rare occasion when I feel like she knows what it feels like to be one of us. Measly, peasant employees.
Later, as I was slicing meats and cheeses for the next day's lunch, my mind wandered to that guy. That guy who's got it worse than all of us. I'm sure everyone would choose someone else to be That Guy based on his or her own standard of horribleness but in my world, there's a quadriplegic in Papua New Guinea. He has a gluten allergy and his hut is in danger of foreclosure. This morning, when his girlfriend was making his oatmeal, she turned and tripped and splattered all of the hot cereal all over his face and hands. She, then, started in with "it's not you it's me" and "let's just be friends". Now he's a burn victim without a girlfriend or health insurance.
At first I was oddly touched by the use of the word "us", which indicated that she was also feeling overwhelmed and understaffed. It's a rare occasion when I feel like she knows what it feels like to be one of us. Measly, peasant employees.
Later, as I was slicing meats and cheeses for the next day's lunch, my mind wandered to that guy. That guy who's got it worse than all of us. I'm sure everyone would choose someone else to be That Guy based on his or her own standard of horribleness but in my world, there's a quadriplegic in Papua New Guinea. He has a gluten allergy and his hut is in danger of foreclosure. This morning, when his girlfriend was making his oatmeal, she turned and tripped and splattered all of the hot cereal all over his face and hands. She, then, started in with "it's not you it's me" and "let's just be friends". Now he's a burn victim without a girlfriend or health insurance.
"My mother always told me that, even when things seem bad, there's someone else who's having a worse day. Like being stung by a bee, or getting a splinter, or being chained to a wall in someone's sex dungeon." --Kenneth Purcell
Sunday, August 23, 2009
When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Mavricky.
Before we moved to South Dakota, I bought a microwave. I felt like I'd been living off things that other roommates had for too long and it was high time that I contribute to our living situation. I saw a need, I went to Target, and I filled that need. And, I know it sounds a little ridiculous because it's a dumb kitchen appliance but I felt a strange little attachment to it. Anyone who knows me know that it's not out of the ordinary for me to feel camaraderie with inanimate objects.
Well, I abandoned SoDak long before my roommate did, so I just left the microwave with her and she'd get it back to me. It was cool and that's how it all happened.
Well here's what happened next. We met in a Chipotle parking lot and Mr. JD stuck this guy in my trunk and we were all on our happy way. Until a few days later when I was in a pretty serious car accident. The day after the accident, Alyssa took me to the junk yard to get the stuff out of the trunk. I wedged it open and saw boxes exploded and papers spilled but my dear and loving microwave was perfectly unharmed. We hoisted it out and bid adieu to Clarence the Cadillac. "It was nice knowing you, Bub."
That was all a few months ago. Since then, the microwave has been in a garage--kept safe for storage awaiting this weekend when I would plug him in and we would again be joined in kinship and frozen dinner gladness. The timer works. The light works. The door works. The heating thingamijob does not work. And he is deadish. And I am too broke to purchase another one and a little too disinterested to try and fix it.
So I, being a modern day woman and a go-getter of sorts, tell myself that it's not a problem--I'll just cook on the stove top. That's what I prefer anyhow! Except that I just went to the grocery store and bought a bunch of single-person microwavable food. Again, I'm too broke to just go purchase more food. So here's to creativity!
I have that microwave Chinese food that is delicious and comes in little take out boxes. That company makes the most delicious potstickers that you're just supposed to microwave into instant gladness. Well, I needed some potstickers in me. So I pulled out my one skillet and dumped a bunch of these frozen dumplings into it and thought, "Hhhhow is this going to work?" I put a little water in, covered it (with a lit that was much too small, but you work with what you've got) and then cooked it until all the water was evaporated and those little guys got brown and crispy. And you know what? They were much more freakin' delicious than they ever could have been in the microwave. When you nuke them, they don't get brown and crunchy. While I was cleaning up my mess I realized that there are stove top directions on the side of the box.
After doing some research (I Googled "how the hell am I supposed to cook without a microwave?") it turns out that there's a whole movement of sans-microwave living. It's the new green thing and you know how I like to be on top of environmental trends like that, I have recycled aluminum foil in my cupboard and Scott's brand natural toilet paper under the sink. I still don't know how I feel about that whole movement but I'm going to be completely honest with you, I like the package design and that's why I buy it. I'm that shallow. Once I decide my position on the Green Movement I'll let you know.*
So here I am with my stove and my oven and my vegetable steaming basket. I'll let you know how all of that goes for me. Hey, maybe I won't get cancer! Who knows?
Libby
*Sub-point: My friend, Ryan, was in a park in Colorado a few weeks ago and saw signs that read, "Do the Green thing! Clean up after your dogs!" We all thought that was a little ridiculous on account of the fact that leaving excrement in the woods is probably the "Greenest" thing a person could possibly do.
Well, I abandoned SoDak long before my roommate did, so I just left the microwave with her and she'd get it back to me. It was cool and that's how it all happened.
Well here's what happened next. We met in a Chipotle parking lot and Mr. JD stuck this guy in my trunk and we were all on our happy way. Until a few days later when I was in a pretty serious car accident. The day after the accident, Alyssa took me to the junk yard to get the stuff out of the trunk. I wedged it open and saw boxes exploded and papers spilled but my dear and loving microwave was perfectly unharmed. We hoisted it out and bid adieu to Clarence the Cadillac. "It was nice knowing you, Bub."
That was all a few months ago. Since then, the microwave has been in a garage--kept safe for storage awaiting this weekend when I would plug him in and we would again be joined in kinship and frozen dinner gladness. The timer works. The light works. The door works. The heating thingamijob does not work. And he is deadish. And I am too broke to purchase another one and a little too disinterested to try and fix it.
So I, being a modern day woman and a go-getter of sorts, tell myself that it's not a problem--I'll just cook on the stove top. That's what I prefer anyhow! Except that I just went to the grocery store and bought a bunch of single-person microwavable food. Again, I'm too broke to just go purchase more food. So here's to creativity!
I have that microwave Chinese food that is delicious and comes in little take out boxes. That company makes the most delicious potstickers that you're just supposed to microwave into instant gladness. Well, I needed some potstickers in me. So I pulled out my one skillet and dumped a bunch of these frozen dumplings into it and thought, "Hhhhow is this going to work?" I put a little water in, covered it (with a lit that was much too small, but you work with what you've got) and then cooked it until all the water was evaporated and those little guys got brown and crispy. And you know what? They were much more freakin' delicious than they ever could have been in the microwave. When you nuke them, they don't get brown and crunchy. While I was cleaning up my mess I realized that there are stove top directions on the side of the box.
After doing some research (I Googled "how the hell am I supposed to cook without a microwave?") it turns out that there's a whole movement of sans-microwave living. It's the new green thing and you know how I like to be on top of environmental trends like that, I have recycled aluminum foil in my cupboard and Scott's brand natural toilet paper under the sink. I still don't know how I feel about that whole movement but I'm going to be completely honest with you, I like the package design and that's why I buy it. I'm that shallow. Once I decide my position on the Green Movement I'll let you know.*
So here I am with my stove and my oven and my vegetable steaming basket. I'll let you know how all of that goes for me. Hey, maybe I won't get cancer! Who knows?
Libby
*Sub-point: My friend, Ryan, was in a park in Colorado a few weeks ago and saw signs that read, "Do the Green thing! Clean up after your dogs!" We all thought that was a little ridiculous on account of the fact that leaving excrement in the woods is probably the "Greenest" thing a person could possibly do.
Friday, August 21, 2009
I am always where I need to be and I always thought I would end up with you eventually.
I'm right where I need to be. In bed (a real bed) with my computer (after a long day without any Facebook access) and a big hunk of Coconut Cream Pie. God--can life feel any more gracious than it does right now? Probably, but right now feels (physically) pretty damn good.
Emotionally, I'm a tad unsettled. I just signed a year-long lease and wrote a check for over seven hundred dollars. I'm not sure I've ever had that much money in the bank before (you know, as a result of good, old fashioned honest-day's work anyway) and now that I do I'm giving it over to this guy. This really nice guy who pays the majority of the utilities and takes very good care of his tenants. And on top of that, I'm telling him that I'll write him a dozen similar (though not so spendy) checks in the coming months.
Anyone who knows most things about me knows that I'm not really a commitment-phobe, I crave and beg for it, actually. Too often I've been on the heavy end of a lop-sided relationship, knowing good and well that I gave way more than what was expected/ wanted of me. There's something about committing to this place, though, that makes me feel a little in over my head. Before this, there had always been a clear plan about what the next step would be but right now I'm pretty sure I don't know where we're going after this. Which is fine, I have until Aug. 31, 2010 to figure that out.
There's one thing I know for sure, for the next six months I will be saying "I'm never moving again!!" That will be a lie, of course. But God, I really hate moving. Especially after coming off an incredibly tiring week at work (but, hey! I put in 39 hours and 54 minutes). But it's coming together swell. I know exactly where I want to hang my Monster Art. I will show you pictures as soon as I can. I want you to see what it says in the back of my freezer. I want to invite you over for a Woodchuck. You can tell me how to arrange my living room.
I need to put you to bed, though. I'm 3/4 of the way through The Lovely Bones and I've never been so hooked to a novel like I am to this one. The suspense is killing me--figuratively, of course. Obviously.
Emotionally, I'm a tad unsettled. I just signed a year-long lease and wrote a check for over seven hundred dollars. I'm not sure I've ever had that much money in the bank before (you know, as a result of good, old fashioned honest-day's work anyway) and now that I do I'm giving it over to this guy. This really nice guy who pays the majority of the utilities and takes very good care of his tenants. And on top of that, I'm telling him that I'll write him a dozen similar (though not so spendy) checks in the coming months.
Anyone who knows most things about me knows that I'm not really a commitment-phobe, I crave and beg for it, actually. Too often I've been on the heavy end of a lop-sided relationship, knowing good and well that I gave way more than what was expected/ wanted of me. There's something about committing to this place, though, that makes me feel a little in over my head. Before this, there had always been a clear plan about what the next step would be but right now I'm pretty sure I don't know where we're going after this. Which is fine, I have until Aug. 31, 2010 to figure that out.
There's one thing I know for sure, for the next six months I will be saying "I'm never moving again!!" That will be a lie, of course. But God, I really hate moving. Especially after coming off an incredibly tiring week at work (but, hey! I put in 39 hours and 54 minutes). But it's coming together swell. I know exactly where I want to hang my Monster Art. I will show you pictures as soon as I can. I want you to see what it says in the back of my freezer. I want to invite you over for a Woodchuck. You can tell me how to arrange my living room.
I need to put you to bed, though. I'm 3/4 of the way through The Lovely Bones and I've never been so hooked to a novel like I am to this one. The suspense is killing me--figuratively, of course. Obviously.
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Change I Want to See
Everyone came home from Nebraska. Safe and sound. I was a little surprised, if we're being totally honest. I think an itty bitty part of me expected them to get into an accident. Restitution for me being so thrilled to have alone time. I got restitution enough, after only a few hours I was bored out of my mind and missed the babies. I missed the babies every day. But I got used to it and now I'm primed and ready to have an apartment all to myself (on Friday).
I did a few fun things though. I drove to Lindsborg (little Sweden) and wandered around taking in Lingonberries wherever I could. Vegan baked goods--not good. I tried to give them a real honest shot. I tried to give them a more than honest shot. But alas. Gross. I watched the meteor shower. I walked in the rain to the movie theatre and watched Funny People. I had such a low-key week.
Aaaand I'm tired. I'm trying to decide if I really fucked up my knee or if I just am experiencing pain from standing for 9 hours today. After I got home, I sat on the couch and read to Genesis and when supper was ready I popped up to run to the kitchen with her but found my knee in such immense pain that I couldn't hold myself up anymore and crashed to the ground. I sat on the ground for a while moving my leg back and forth to get it going again and I was fine. Well, I haven't really been "fine" in a while. When I'm not at work I walk with a limp. I don't know where it came from and I can't really tell what it is exactly that hurts but it does.
So, then I called all of the places where I put in my resume--all of the places that remembered me and seemed excited about me, and they all said, "The position has been filled." Subsequently I told my boss that I wasn't going to be leaving and that I'd be happy to take over Alisha's hours when she leaves at the end of the week. The truth is that I'm not totally happy to take over Alisha's hours at all and I don't really want to keep working here. But if everything goes as planned (and, let's be honest, it rarely does), this is a temporary gig. I'm not anxious to start planning Phase Two (or what phase are we on? 136?) anytime soon but I am aware that this won't be forever. I'm also aware that I'm now considering myself a writer--that's what I want to do. Until I can make money doing that, I'll have to make money doing something else and this is a decent something else. Especially since more than ten percent of the current population doesn't have a fall back plan.
But more than anything else I decided that if I won't be changing my job, then I absolutely need to be changing my attitude. On Saturday I was in such a goofy mood. I got in to work and everyone was tired and weary and complainy. But I had been in such a weird little mood and I didn't feel like being irritated along with them. I had three cups of coffee and Weezer stuck in my head. I was throwing ice into glasses and wiping down tables and taking orders and doing the robot for my co-workers while singing, "You'll never do (slap the counter) the things you want (slap the counter) if you don't move (slap the counter) and get a job. Waste my days! Drown away! It's just the thouuught of yoouuu in love with someone else." And you know what happened? We all started doing the robot and laughing and no one else was being tortured by coming in to work. I started thinking, "What if I was that person that people looked forward to working with? What if I didn't feed the discontentment the way that everyone else did? What if I was the girl who did the robot when we were slow?" And that's my new mission. Might as well grow where you're planted, I suppose.
I did a few fun things though. I drove to Lindsborg (little Sweden) and wandered around taking in Lingonberries wherever I could. Vegan baked goods--not good. I tried to give them a real honest shot. I tried to give them a more than honest shot. But alas. Gross. I watched the meteor shower. I walked in the rain to the movie theatre and watched Funny People. I had such a low-key week.
Aaaand I'm tired. I'm trying to decide if I really fucked up my knee or if I just am experiencing pain from standing for 9 hours today. After I got home, I sat on the couch and read to Genesis and when supper was ready I popped up to run to the kitchen with her but found my knee in such immense pain that I couldn't hold myself up anymore and crashed to the ground. I sat on the ground for a while moving my leg back and forth to get it going again and I was fine. Well, I haven't really been "fine" in a while. When I'm not at work I walk with a limp. I don't know where it came from and I can't really tell what it is exactly that hurts but it does.
So, then I called all of the places where I put in my resume--all of the places that remembered me and seemed excited about me, and they all said, "The position has been filled." Subsequently I told my boss that I wasn't going to be leaving and that I'd be happy to take over Alisha's hours when she leaves at the end of the week. The truth is that I'm not totally happy to take over Alisha's hours at all and I don't really want to keep working here. But if everything goes as planned (and, let's be honest, it rarely does), this is a temporary gig. I'm not anxious to start planning Phase Two (or what phase are we on? 136?) anytime soon but I am aware that this won't be forever. I'm also aware that I'm now considering myself a writer--that's what I want to do. Until I can make money doing that, I'll have to make money doing something else and this is a decent something else. Especially since more than ten percent of the current population doesn't have a fall back plan.
But more than anything else I decided that if I won't be changing my job, then I absolutely need to be changing my attitude. On Saturday I was in such a goofy mood. I got in to work and everyone was tired and weary and complainy. But I had been in such a weird little mood and I didn't feel like being irritated along with them. I had three cups of coffee and Weezer stuck in my head. I was throwing ice into glasses and wiping down tables and taking orders and doing the robot for my co-workers while singing, "You'll never do (slap the counter) the things you want (slap the counter) if you don't move (slap the counter) and get a job. Waste my days! Drown away! It's just the thouuught of yoouuu in love with someone else." And you know what happened? We all started doing the robot and laughing and no one else was being tortured by coming in to work. I started thinking, "What if I was that person that people looked forward to working with? What if I didn't feed the discontentment the way that everyone else did? What if I was the girl who did the robot when we were slow?" And that's my new mission. Might as well grow where you're planted, I suppose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)