The Blergh Chronicles, Volume 485, No. 6,437

This week the "mini-sabbatical" ends and two major projects are due: a finished, revised/revamped Act I of my play, and the A-form, my last application for my final promotion at the college.

Things are not going well with either project. I have made the tiniest dent in my A-form and I haven't worked solidly on the play since last week. The weekend was spent hyper-involved in the domestic sphere, shuttling kids to parties and playdates and working with A. on making our house, and our yard, look less tenement-like. 

THAT hasn't really gone well, either, in that we have a bunch of half-started (or half-finished, if you like) projects scattered all over the yard(s) and house -- felled trees that still need to be cut into logs and hauled outta here (and no one wants ME playing with a chainsaw, people); about 7 yards of mulch that needs to be distributed between tree beds and flower beds; weeding, lawn-feeding; laundry -- always laundry, particularly with Vampire Toddler's 16 costume changes a day; a broken garbage disposal; a bathroom that still lacks a ceiling; and clutter, clutter, clutter (paper, toys, books) that desperately needs to be removed from the house. Basically, I should just invite the Salvation Army into my home and ask them to take whatever they want. 

I'm giving serious thought to whether or not I should even apply for promotion this cycle. Everyone at work acts like we should apply for promotion exactly when we're eligible because that's how you make more money, particularly when it comes to retirement, but I don't give a fuck about the money at this point. It's the least of my concerns. That may not be smart -- it's not like we're living in luxury with three kids and a disaster home to maintain -- but I'm feeling really apathetic about rehashing the last five years of my life where work is concerned. I did the work, and I'm done with it, and I don't have an interest in selling myself to people who really don't know me and when it comes down to it, don't give a fig for the projects to which I've dedicated the bulk of my time and energy over my career.

I've had similar thoughts about finishing this act of my play and participating in the script development lab at Southampton. I have a half-written first act of play in metrical verse (that may or may not hold up to scrutiny) about an old lady who's losing her mind. How's THAT for a hard sell? At the very least, I have more of an idea of where the play will go, but writing in verse -- and trying to approximate something that might actually be poetry -- is far more time consuming than writing in prose, and behind it all I'm afraid I'm just spinning my wheels creating an epic theatrical disaster. 

On top of this, The Boy was doing boy-things on Friday and with all of his frenetic boy-energy he crash landed on his little arm and after resting it all weekend it's STILL hurting him and I'm afraid my morning is going to be spent in a doctor's office and possibly traveling to some other location for x-rays. 

Ultimately, how the hell am I supposed to get all of this done and is it all even worth it?

People ask themselves that question all the time, and about bigger and more important things. Ultimately, I'm a boring privileged suburbanite with first-world problems. I'm mired in pessimism at the moment and that makes me even more boring. Sorry for the yawn-fest post. And for being self-obsessed. I mean, Orlando. Bigger things. More important things. My own concerns are petty and ridiculous, you know?

I'm going to go call our pediatrician now.


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