I once was asked to call a friend at work if I had to cancel our later gathering, but it was a huge business with attached warehouse and I wasn’t sure in which department she worked. I said to the receptionist, “All I know is that her supervisor is called ‘Mighty Mouse.'” She gasp-giggled and said, “Oh, certainly — hold on, I’ll connect you with Shipping.” It turned out that only Mighty Mouse did not know his nickname, and I was fortunate to not have gotten my friend into trouble!
There are Mighty Mouses (Mice?) in most workplaces. I myself was one, until I was cut to smithereens by my supervisor for thinking so. This is probably why I humored all the Mice who were to come later, who are, it turns out, usually supervisors.
Otherwise, and with the exceptions of Alfred E. Neuman, Bozo the Clown, and Gallant (vs Goofus), many of my heroes are antiheroes (i.e., Ed Norton, for whom I once lived). I arrived at this deduction accidentally. You, too, right? Or perhaps those who grew up with siblings go straight for the main character, the actual hero? (You signed up to study my navel with me, right? Well, it’s Friday — we can be a little frilly!)
Every M – F evening, I don’t think. It’s scary. Beyond the one-sided “You slob!” or “Wipe your damned feet OUTside!,” I don’t think. I have a general plan for the evening, but it’s pretty vague: 1) Get it done. There is no 2). I start in a new place every evening. Others there have a solid (ROCK solid) routine. They cannot function as well if it is disturbed. They do not disturb it.
Really, 4 or 5 hours or so, no thinking? I always pray on the way over to work, “Help me to be real to the others, tonight; and if there’s anything offerable, it’s Yours,” but I’m alone for most of those hours and, as I say, absent daytime people get called names or receive an eye-roll — not least of all the one who eats hard-boiled eggs in a bathroom stall. I KNOW!!
Apparently, one can be TOO simple.. Not thinking — and not praying. I’ve often wished for a job in which I could spend a great amount of time praying (at least). I’d thought this was it. Not even praying, people. Not even praying, except briefly for whomever’s woe of the day hit me prior to hopping into the car.
Hence, Jughead Jones. Honestly, give me a strange pointy cap and call it a night. I’d always liked Jughead, and never knew why. After reading the Wikipedia on him, now I know. Everything you ever wanted to know about Jughead Jones III (all of which is way more than you wanted to know) is there. For the record, he is not asexual; rather, he is aromantic, shortened to “aro” to completely baffle me for a moment.
What have we learned today? To leave well enough alone, for one thing. If you like someone, just like them — don’t go exploring (nor explaining).
And maybe (after 5 years) I’ve learned to formulate a routine for my own good — maybe if I break me out of The Zone, it’ll become a prayer, if not also a real friend.
And maybe this was just safe ‘blog-fodder, because I’m thinking deeply about the tragic deaths of two young people nearby in one week, and wondering why I can still be heartened by the chatterings of little birds on mild days — and I’m not wanting to drag you through it all. ❤
PS: Avoid the ice — it’s NOT solid; and, whatever you do, do NOT kill yourself. LIVE.