There was a part of me thinking today that this blog might die. I truly can’t decide.

Here’s the dilemma. I’m just not pissed off enough or disgruntled enough or suffering enough. Without a huge chunk of malaise, what you got here is B-O-R-I-N-G. Dullsville.

Face it, a good story needs a little heartache, pain, hardship, something to keep the dramatic tension humming tight and holding interest. Today, my HUGE, ANGRY rant was like “Huh, you know what M.? The joy of impulse buying has been lost. I mean, here we are in the grocery store, and I can no longer get the same lift from a spontaneous soda or bag of M&Ms. You know? ‘Cuz, I can like just get them at work. For free.”

The hardship for today? The faucet fell off in the kitchen sink, so one of us has to call the landlord. Boo hoo hoo.

Yeah, I know, tragically uncompelling dialogue. Numbing, stultifying, who-gives-a-fuck action. I’d gas myself, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before I slip into a coma, born of tedium so rich the mere act of breathing feels like extreme sport in comparison.

Work is like the bizarro opposite of what I have been through in the past. Everyone has been incredibly friendly. From a dastardly, multi-layered bureaucracy rife with secrets and alliances, in which survival was best accomplished by keeping a low head, a sycophantic awareness of place or toxic political capital, I entered a place in which someone who has been truly helpful explained to me today, “Everyone knows their job, there’s no competition or jockeying for position, so generally everyone just helps out.” What the fuck?

In my last place, the board of directors may as well have met in a secret, robed ceremony around an altar in the basement for all the info that was filtered down to the rank and file. If there was an opportunity to close doors, they were closed. Everything was dense, opaque and on a need to know basis.

So, I’m Alice in the rabbit hole, wide-eyed and wondering in a new place that uses the word “transparency” in it’s literature and official reports. Post the board meeting, there’s an open to all staff meeting, where apparently it’s perfectly OK, maybe even pleasurable for folks to interact and ask questions. The president of the not exactly Mom and Pop operation introduced yours truly, by name and everything. Seriously, what the fuck?

The other weird, bizarro effect — I have yet to witness a meeting of strictly self-aggrandizing collection, with bullshit, blustery fronting. At no point, yet, have I felt the very marrow drain from my bones as my life force ceases to cling to this mortal coil, because I have been forced to wallow and wither in meeting hell. It could happen, but so far, I don’t see it. Maybe it’s because there seems to be so much content and context actually being shared.

This place ain’t normal, I tell you. They probably don’t even know from schadenfreude.

Maybe I’ll just convert this space to the adorable playfulness of otters: or maybe the stunning vistas offered in our nation’s national parks: