violetcheetah: (butler)
From May 21's writing workshop. Warning: cursing ahead:


I have a doctorate in dread. The diploma hangs on the wall in a two-sided gilt frame with the PhD in procrastination on the other side. I’m now an adjunct professor of perfectionism, but no one signs up for my class because they’re all too afraid they’ll fail. Of course, if they’d just show up for the first class and read the syllabus, they’d realize that’s the whole fucking point: the goal is to fail. The way you pass a class in perfectionism is to suck at perfection. You have to whole-heartedly embrace not giving a shit that you are never going to understand anything ever in your life well enough to do it as well as you want to do it. And then you have to do it anyway. The first step, of course, is not to listen to me. After all, those who can, do, those who can’t serve as an object lesson to their students to keep moving — forward, backwards, doesn’t matter, just keep moving, because eventually the laws of chance dictate that if you take enough steps you’ll end up… well, maybe not where you want to be, but at least somewhere other than where you are now.


violetcheetah: (butler)
Dear well-dressed, perfectly coiffed lady on my commuter rail train:

It's called a weather forecast. They're on the the big light-and-sound box in your living room on a regular basis. Heck, there's a whole channel for them. They're also on the smaller light-and-maybe-sound box on your desk or desks; the intertubes most likely reach both your home and your workplace, and not to stereotype, but you are dressed like someone who works in an office.

But I digress. That forecast thing? The time to check it is maybe before you leave home in the morning, or at the very least before you leave work. Because when you are standing on the second step of the train as it pulls to a stop at your station, peering with mournful indignation at the pouring rain that that they've been forecasting for two days, and when you're saying "I didn't know it was going to rain; I didn't bring my umbrella" in that cajoling way like you think surely someone on the train is going to jump up and offer you the spare umbrella they carry for just such an occasion, and when you repeat variations of this twice while standing motionless on that step with about 40 people waiting to get off the train, well, that's a little too late.

On the plus side, thanks for that warm, smug feeling you imbued me with; I needed the boost.

Yours truly,

The lady wearing the men's XL raincoat over her backpack like a hunchback, who probably scares you while making you feel fashionably smug, but whose untrendy hair will look better than yours by the time you totter to your car in your spike heels.
violetcheetah: (daisy tongue)
I've been seeing this  ad for a couple of months, and it just played now, while I have time to pause on my DVR and dissect.

Young frazzled-looking woman comes in the front door with two grocery bags.  "Get home from one job."  Two kids come running out of the hall past her as she makes her way toward the kitchen.  She indicates the kitchen and possibly the kids with a head tilt: "Start my second job, and I'm running on empty."  Voice perks up. "So I turn to 5-hour Energy! I was a little nervous at first, but my husband kept talking about how great 5-hour Energy was [rolls eyes]: zero sugar, only 4 calories [rolls eyes again, makes 'yap yap yap' motion with hand that is not holding the six-pack of bottles], so I finally tried it."  Sits down next to presumed husband on couch, where he is relaxing contentedly with a magazine (which I first thought was a newspaper, since it's only showing white paper with black text; maybe real men don't read periodicals with color pictures), hands him the remainder of the tiny six-pack. "For once, he was right." "Told you so." She grabs six-pack back from him. "For both my jobs, I count on 5-hour Energy." Husband calmly reaches for six-pack; shot ends will him still gently pulling, not having yet succeeded in getting a bottle from his wife.

So, we have a mother who works, then apparently stops to get groceries, while at least her husband hangs out with the rugrats, albeit in a hands-off way.  But now that she's home, I guess his childcare duties are done, and dinner is up to her.  Also, I guess he's too absorbed in his magazine to get up and put groceries away.  Or perhaps he's just too tired because they were out of 5-hour Energy and his buzz has worn off.  We also have the dismissive, harpy, bitchy wife, making fun of her patient husband who doesn't rise to the bait.

It give 'em two months.

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Violet Wilson

October 2016

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