I Wish the Internet Worked in Candlelight.
Yesterday and the night before, I had no internet.
I didn’t realize quite how much my world revolved around internet until I didn’t have it.
Kind of like when the electricity goes out for a couple of days, and you think it’ll be fine because you have plenty of leftovers you can just pop in the microwave for dinner, except oh yeah, the microwave doesn’t work and so all meals henceforth, including your morning toast, will need to be cooked on the grill out back. And I don’t mind not having television (since we don’t even have cable anyway) so I’ll just read, except reading by candlelight is much more difficult and less romantic than expected, and so not worth the inevitable squinting headache at the end of the night. And you can forget about hot showers because it’s electricity, my friends, that heats the water.
In Costa Rica we couldn’t even flush the toilets when the electricity went out, but somehow not being able to poop near common living areas during power outages there seemed a lot less inconvenient than not being able to make toast here.
It’s like that with the internet, too. The internet is my baby. It’s my connection from this secluded suburban pocket to the outside world. It’s how I stream Dexter and Downton Abbey and The Bachelor.
It’s how I talk to you.
Anyway. This is my long-winded way of telling you why I haven’t posted.
Well, if we’re going to be honest, the internet thing isn’t the only reason.
See, someone commented not too long ago that if I don’t have something worth writing about or can’t put together a coherent post, maybe I shouldn’t write. Maybe I should wait longer between posts. And I’ll admit that jarred me a little — I thought, maybe I shouldn’t just throw all of these inane thoughts out into the vastness of the internet where anyone can see.
But then I quickly remembered that thoughtfulness and coherency are not what this blog is about.
So. Speedbump hurdled. (Thanks for talking me through that one, Rhome410.)
The third reason is that my job — not career, but job — has suddenly become more stressful.
Despite the fact that my boss and I came to a mutual agreement that I would not be working full-time for him, I was shifted into the position of my other boss’s assistant, which is, I’m finding, pretty much a full-time job.
I think I’ve been manipulated.
Worse, I’ve been manipulated into a respect-less, opinion-less role of subhuman dignity, where apparently the idea is for me to work my ass off in order to make someone else look good and collect all of the money.
I don’t hate it.
The world of real estate is a pretty shallow, bitchy, self-righteous place full quirky and interesting characters. From the extreme end of clients who think that in hiring a realtor they’ve invested in some form of legalized slave labor, to the extreme end of agents who think selling real estate is akin to saving the manatees and all the rest of you would-be manatee savers better back the f*ck off because I’m the only person allowed to save manatees in this town — ME, my days are filled with interesting sociological observations of the extremes and the dawning realization that no one, no matter how old, experienced, wealthy, or intelligent, really knows what he or she is doing.
My job is anything but mundane.
And that’s what makes it work for me.
There are some atrocities, however, that I find difficult to move past.
Take, for example, a would-be client who currently can’t get approved for a mortgage. Is it because he has questionable history, late payments, bankruptcy, or any other blemish on his credit report?
It’s because he has no credit report.
The bank will not give him a loan because he has no debt. He’s financially responsible. He pays for everything with cash, therefore ensuring that he never buys more than he can afford.
In other words, because he doesn’t owe the bank any money, they won’t loan him any money.
And this is exactly the kind of thing that makes me want to experience other countries.
Even if I’m not allowed poop during thunderstorms.