Housework

In the space of a week, I have been outwitted by my washing machine and outsmarted by the buttons on my comforter cover.

The Washing Machine

After being tasked by Pat to get the washing machine going before I left for work, I dutifully put the washing powder and softener into the machine and hit start.

It didn’t start.

Thinking that perhaps this was because the cover wasn’t closed tightly, I tried to open and re-close it.

It wouldn’t open.

So I tried again. And again. And again. To no avail.

While catching my breath, I quickly came up with an alternative course of action, which was to try to yank the thing off violently with both hands while yelling profound curses.

This worked. Because the cover came open without any resistance. It also had the unfortunate effect of sending me spilling onto the kitchen floor like a floundering frog.

Not being one to give up, I gave up. And marched into the bedroom to inform Pat that the machine was being uncooperative and that I needed to leave for work immediately or I would set fire to the damn thing.

Pat found this very funny. And when I returned from work, she explained to me that most washing machines automatically lock up for 30 seconds after the start button is hit. Right…

The Comforter Cover

I have never been one for buttons. The last time I tried to put on a button-up shirt, all I did was frown for 20 minutes. Put me in button fly jeans and other men at the urinal will shuffle warily away from the guy who’s just standing there fingering his crotch.

Clearly, putting the comforter cover back on, with its concealed buttons, would be a challenge and I focused all my intellectual abilities keenly on the task ahead. Despite my cavernous head, it was useless.

By the time Pat had finished her side, I was still glaring at the first button of mine. There was just no conceivable way to insert the button into the slit and keep it concealed at the same time. I pointed this out to Pat who told me to work on it while she packed up the rest of the house, warmed up dinner and watched a bit of TV.

There is a happy ending to this story because I did indeed get the button in and concealed after just half an hour. Now for the blasted washing machine.

Fickle

For the first time in months, I’m sitting at my desk and not hyperventilating. It’s odd. Like I’m forgetting to do something. I’ve checked the Calendar on Outlook a dozen times since the morning and no, everything’s accounted for.

No fires to fight, no last minute scripts to write, no stupid people to explain processes to. I feel lost.

This must be the eye of the storm. The worst is yet to come. There will be blood.

That’s all that’s going through my mind.

We were talking over lunch about how working here is better than working in a traditional ad agency. The hours are definitely more appealing (we leave at 6.30 sharp). But everything else isn’t. Most days, I feel more like I’m working in a fire department than in an office.

After all, it’s a volume-based business we’re in now. The point being to sell as much media as possible, and if we’re going to have to throw in a few free ads, why the hell not?

My ten months here have done nothing for my portfolio. I’m pretty sure that’s not going to change, especially when we spend half our time coordinating radio productions, and the other half explaining to people why they’re stupid.

Oh sure, it’s great when you punch in the numbers, file the bag and close the job. But it’s more relief than satisfaction. Something closer to “I’ve survived” rather than “I’ve achieved”.

So, for the first time in a long time, I’m sitting here wondering what I really want. I left agency life because I was sick of it, and now, here I am thinking of embracing it once again.

Fickle-minded as usual.