"Women must labor to be beautiful" -- WB Yeats, "Adams Curse"
“Dirty. Ow. Hurt everywhere. Ow. Aw, snow.”
I sent this text message to Jason this afternoon when he sent me a text message asking me if I was working hard. The “aw, snow” was in response to the fact that it is snowing in the Boston area today. The rest of the message refers to the effects of my new part time job.
Today I officially began work as the assistant to a friend of mine who is a real estate developer. Hal offered me the job on Thursday, explained that it would be mutually beneficial. I’ve always wanted to learn about home restoration, and he needed an extra pair of hands. The homes we’d be working on were flooded, some as little as a couple feet, some as much as six or seven. And for the most part, they’ve already been stripped to the bones. What better way to learn about home construction than to work on the “innards” of a house.
It’s not a “real” job, by any means. I work when he needs me and when I have the hours to spare (these days, I have lots of hours to spare). But it pays well and I like that I am helping out a friend. In my mind, though, I had the job all trumped up to be some sort of HGTV or DIY home renovation episode. But, all romance aside, what I really am is a day laborer.
Today I spent a meager five hours doing hard labor clearing out all of the debris, fallen limbs, and trash from Hal’s office. And every single muscle in my body hurts. Hurts! Like crazy shaky horrid pain. Never in a million years would I say that I am “the delicate type.” If anything, I’ve always thought that what I lack in height I make up for in sheer brutish determination (that’s supposed to be a little funny, it’s okay if you want to laugh—but only a little, okay? I’m a pretty tough cookie).
But yowzers, manual labor is hard shit. It’s not the kind of work you’d do around your own house. Around your own house, you’d take it easier, take liberal breaks, lift and carry loads half as heavy. Because you ain’t getting paid to clean your own back yard. You’re on your own clock. You know you can go inside, have a tuna sandwich, and come back and finish the job.
It was fun, though. I’m using a very loose definition of “fun” here. Hal came and went, but when he was around he worked as hard as I did, and he took me out to a wonderful Middle Eastern lunch (you work up quite the appetite hauling crap around). That’s a good boss.
Here’s what I learned: If I had a choice of having to work in a cubical all my life or having to work at manual labor all my life, I would choose manual labor in a nanosecond. That being said, people who lift and carry things for a living have clearly sold their soul to the devil. No “normal” human being’s body can put up with that for very long. Dead rats smell deceptively like rotting fish. I spent the entire morning thinking I’d find a flounder in the back yard that had been stranded by the floods. No such luck. There is, in fact, nothing alive left in the flood-stricken area. I spent the day removing piles of branches, bricks, flagstones, roof parts, building parts, leaves, cans, and other flotsam and jetsam all the way down to the bare earth without ever once seeing so much as a slug or a spider or a worm or a grub. Nothing alive except the occasional fly. There were perhaps three sprigs of something green under all that debris—everything else was dead. Including the rat. I don’t know what that says about what was IN the flood waters. I also don’t know what that says about what could possibly now be in my lungs (when I blow my nose, black stuff comes out—oooh, that’s too much information, Chipman). And finally, if I ever have a chance of getting back into my size 2 jeans, this is it.
It was a fine week at school. It was so great to see the girls. I have 13 seniors, 12 freshfolk, and 4 girls in Drama. I teach only 1st, 2nd, and 3rd period each day, which is convenient. But the first day of school, when third period was over and I left school, I cried. You know, under any other circumstance, this arrangement would be cool. I have time to pursue my own interests (but under these circumstances, I am just plain ol’ uninspired. I haven’t written a word of fiction since Katrina hit). I get to leave school before lunch (but under these circumstances, I miss lunch terribly—it was always the one period a day you got to hang out with the grown-ups, catch up, and be social). I have whole afternoons free to get things accomplished, flit around the city (under these circumstances, there’s just not much to do or see—not to mention the fact that Jas is out of town, so I don’t even have a post-work playmate AND that I’m on half-pay, so I don’t have money to play with anyway). My classes are ideally small. I don’t have all the nasty “extra” duties that teachers normally have (carpool, detention, etc).
But in the end, no matter how cheerful I try to be about my situation, what matters most to me is that I miss being part of the community. All the literature on recovering from trauma says that you should surround yourself with friends, get involved with your community, give back to people, and get involved. Get back on the horse. Resume as much of your “old” routines as possible. And damned if this part-time gig doesn’t thwart all that in spades. My friends at school have been amazing. Looking out for me, checking up, calling me at home, and inviting me to do stuff. My seniors email me at home at all hours looking for help with their college essays. But it’s not the same. This whole week, I was at sixes and sevens with “routine.” Monday night I stayed up until 4am. (Don’t worry, I don’t work Tuesdays). On Tuesday, it felt every bit the same as having a “sick day;” I flitted listlessly around the house, ate lunch in front of the TV, stressed out until Erin invited me over for dinner. Oh… there’s a funny story there.
So Erin emailed me around lunchtime and asked me to dinner at her sister’s house, where she’s currently living (while her home is livable, in the basic sense, she has no gas—and it’s freezing now—and her neighborhood is completely desolate). She sent the address. When it came close to 6pm, I re-read the address and hopped in the car. I got around a mile down the road and realized I FORGOT the address. I knew the number but not the street. I did some quick thinking and decided it was on Camp St. I drove down Camp Street—that number didn’t exist AND it was in the wrong neighborhood. Okay, maybe it was First Street. Right neighborhood, but again the house number didn’t exist. Well, maybe I was wrong about the neighborhood and didn’t look carefully enough down the block on Camp St. Back to Camp St. No, no number. Maybe I didn’t look close enough on First St. Back to First St. No. I called Erin’s cell. No answer. My message began, “Erin, honey, I’ve lost my freaking mind….”
I got back in the car to head home to read the email. It was 630pm and my “hot” crab dip appetizer was cold. Thankfully, Erin called and let me know it was Second Street. I walked in the door and said, “Well, the good thing is that you don’t have to ask me how I’m feeling. The fact that I’m 45 minutes late pretty much sums it up.”
So that’s the state of me these days. Very achy, very spacey, a little sad, a little lonely, but in marginally better spirits (largely because I’m sick of being SO very sad all of the time).
State of the city to come soon. (Preview: Just about nothing new in the past two weeks)
I sent this text message to Jason this afternoon when he sent me a text message asking me if I was working hard. The “aw, snow” was in response to the fact that it is snowing in the Boston area today. The rest of the message refers to the effects of my new part time job.
Today I officially began work as the assistant to a friend of mine who is a real estate developer. Hal offered me the job on Thursday, explained that it would be mutually beneficial. I’ve always wanted to learn about home restoration, and he needed an extra pair of hands. The homes we’d be working on were flooded, some as little as a couple feet, some as much as six or seven. And for the most part, they’ve already been stripped to the bones. What better way to learn about home construction than to work on the “innards” of a house.
It’s not a “real” job, by any means. I work when he needs me and when I have the hours to spare (these days, I have lots of hours to spare). But it pays well and I like that I am helping out a friend. In my mind, though, I had the job all trumped up to be some sort of HGTV or DIY home renovation episode. But, all romance aside, what I really am is a day laborer.
Today I spent a meager five hours doing hard labor clearing out all of the debris, fallen limbs, and trash from Hal’s office. And every single muscle in my body hurts. Hurts! Like crazy shaky horrid pain. Never in a million years would I say that I am “the delicate type.” If anything, I’ve always thought that what I lack in height I make up for in sheer brutish determination (that’s supposed to be a little funny, it’s okay if you want to laugh—but only a little, okay? I’m a pretty tough cookie).
But yowzers, manual labor is hard shit. It’s not the kind of work you’d do around your own house. Around your own house, you’d take it easier, take liberal breaks, lift and carry loads half as heavy. Because you ain’t getting paid to clean your own back yard. You’re on your own clock. You know you can go inside, have a tuna sandwich, and come back and finish the job.
It was fun, though. I’m using a very loose definition of “fun” here. Hal came and went, but when he was around he worked as hard as I did, and he took me out to a wonderful Middle Eastern lunch (you work up quite the appetite hauling crap around). That’s a good boss.
Here’s what I learned: If I had a choice of having to work in a cubical all my life or having to work at manual labor all my life, I would choose manual labor in a nanosecond. That being said, people who lift and carry things for a living have clearly sold their soul to the devil. No “normal” human being’s body can put up with that for very long. Dead rats smell deceptively like rotting fish. I spent the entire morning thinking I’d find a flounder in the back yard that had been stranded by the floods. No such luck. There is, in fact, nothing alive left in the flood-stricken area. I spent the day removing piles of branches, bricks, flagstones, roof parts, building parts, leaves, cans, and other flotsam and jetsam all the way down to the bare earth without ever once seeing so much as a slug or a spider or a worm or a grub. Nothing alive except the occasional fly. There were perhaps three sprigs of something green under all that debris—everything else was dead. Including the rat. I don’t know what that says about what was IN the flood waters. I also don’t know what that says about what could possibly now be in my lungs (when I blow my nose, black stuff comes out—oooh, that’s too much information, Chipman). And finally, if I ever have a chance of getting back into my size 2 jeans, this is it.
It was a fine week at school. It was so great to see the girls. I have 13 seniors, 12 freshfolk, and 4 girls in Drama. I teach only 1st, 2nd, and 3rd period each day, which is convenient. But the first day of school, when third period was over and I left school, I cried. You know, under any other circumstance, this arrangement would be cool. I have time to pursue my own interests (but under these circumstances, I am just plain ol’ uninspired. I haven’t written a word of fiction since Katrina hit). I get to leave school before lunch (but under these circumstances, I miss lunch terribly—it was always the one period a day you got to hang out with the grown-ups, catch up, and be social). I have whole afternoons free to get things accomplished, flit around the city (under these circumstances, there’s just not much to do or see—not to mention the fact that Jas is out of town, so I don’t even have a post-work playmate AND that I’m on half-pay, so I don’t have money to play with anyway). My classes are ideally small. I don’t have all the nasty “extra” duties that teachers normally have (carpool, detention, etc).
But in the end, no matter how cheerful I try to be about my situation, what matters most to me is that I miss being part of the community. All the literature on recovering from trauma says that you should surround yourself with friends, get involved with your community, give back to people, and get involved. Get back on the horse. Resume as much of your “old” routines as possible. And damned if this part-time gig doesn’t thwart all that in spades. My friends at school have been amazing. Looking out for me, checking up, calling me at home, and inviting me to do stuff. My seniors email me at home at all hours looking for help with their college essays. But it’s not the same. This whole week, I was at sixes and sevens with “routine.” Monday night I stayed up until 4am. (Don’t worry, I don’t work Tuesdays). On Tuesday, it felt every bit the same as having a “sick day;” I flitted listlessly around the house, ate lunch in front of the TV, stressed out until Erin invited me over for dinner. Oh… there’s a funny story there.
So Erin emailed me around lunchtime and asked me to dinner at her sister’s house, where she’s currently living (while her home is livable, in the basic sense, she has no gas—and it’s freezing now—and her neighborhood is completely desolate). She sent the address. When it came close to 6pm, I re-read the address and hopped in the car. I got around a mile down the road and realized I FORGOT the address. I knew the number but not the street. I did some quick thinking and decided it was on Camp St. I drove down Camp Street—that number didn’t exist AND it was in the wrong neighborhood. Okay, maybe it was First Street. Right neighborhood, but again the house number didn’t exist. Well, maybe I was wrong about the neighborhood and didn’t look carefully enough down the block on Camp St. Back to Camp St. No, no number. Maybe I didn’t look close enough on First St. Back to First St. No. I called Erin’s cell. No answer. My message began, “Erin, honey, I’ve lost my freaking mind….”
I got back in the car to head home to read the email. It was 630pm and my “hot” crab dip appetizer was cold. Thankfully, Erin called and let me know it was Second Street. I walked in the door and said, “Well, the good thing is that you don’t have to ask me how I’m feeling. The fact that I’m 45 minutes late pretty much sums it up.”
So that’s the state of me these days. Very achy, very spacey, a little sad, a little lonely, but in marginally better spirits (largely because I’m sick of being SO very sad all of the time).
State of the city to come soon. (Preview: Just about nothing new in the past two weeks)
posted by M at 4:45 PM
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