Work has been this crazy up and down of stress lately. Just when I think I have things a little under control, and the boss is out of the office the next day and I will be able to get caught up.. BAM something happens and I'm all sorts of behind.
Now to validate my complaint... I really like to be so on top of things that at the end of the day my desk is completely clean and I have nothing carring over to tomorrow. That does not happen. But currently, I am about... however long I've been at this new position... behind on like 3 projects. And now I'll lok dumb if I have to back and tell my trainer-person 'um, yeah can you tell me how to do this project again... I know you did the first week I started. But. I have not done anything with it. Ever.'
And I can sense some frustration from some of the managers I work with because of these projects that are not being completed... and I'm trying not not be frustrated with them because I cannot tell when my frustration is valid or when I'm off on some crazy pregnancy hormones. But honestly... cleaning the break room?! It's my job?! On top of all the real work I'm doing. p-shaw.
I've got two days ahead of me with less managers. However I spent a day and a half workingon their presentation... so I'm more behind now... and I'll be getting doctored one of the days everyone is gone. Sigh, and then I need to pick up the diaper care and feeding for another manager, who is very high maintantance. *sigh*
From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale
People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
--Diane Setterfield
--Diane Setterfield
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