Posted on by crystal · 19 Comments

The breakfast of champions?

In my house, I have this pretty little mirror. It’s round, with an ivory-coloured plastic frame, and it’s about 18 inches in diameter. I love to look at it [and in it], but I can’t really see very much. So each morning when I come to work, I pass by the bathroom to make sure there’s no veg in my teeth.

I’ve just come from the bathroom. I need a break, clearly. My eyebags are so deep I could store pennies in them and they wouldn’t fall out. Yes, I know we don’t use pennies, but somehow ‘ten-cent coins’ doesn’t have the same ring to it. ‘Silvers’ might work, but I don’t think we have those anymore.

I am sitting at my desk assembling my weetabix. I usually do this at home, but I was so exhausted last night that I totally overslept. 8 hours of sleep and I still feel finished. Things are thick!! Anyway, there’s a little book we have to sign when we get into the office. The book has a big red line to show who has shown up late, and you do not want to be on the wrong side of that line.

So when I realised I was late, I grabbed my cereal and some milk and dashed to work. I still ended up on the wrong side of the line, but so did everyone else. I think we are all burning out. So, just for today, there is no line.

Back to my power breakfast. My workmate walked in and saw the dry weetabix tablets in my bowl. She stared at it for maybe five seconds before she found her tongue and asked what I was eating. I told her. She stares blankly, then after another five seconds, asks me why I’m eating something that looks like a ceiling board. Now I am blank. Ceiling board? She doesn’t know weetabix? A ceiling board??

A few minutes later, another workmate walks in. This time I’m pouring my milk and stirring in the sugar. She’s staring at me all mesmerized, but I don’t really notice until I take up the first spoon and see her staring at me like she expects my head to explode. The spoon stayed suspended in mid air for a few seconds as I decided whether I should offer her a taste or not, but she giggled and walked away. Strange people I work with.

A few minutes later, I was finishing off the leftover milk. It was in one of those little juice boxes with a straw. The workmate was still staring at me and giggling. Really now. I’d be concerned if I didn’t have other things on my mind. Like anticipating the hellish stomach pain I shall have later. I’m lactose intolerant, but tell that to my taste buds. Plus, weetabix is such good comfort food.

Ceiling board. Hm.

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Posted on by crystal · 19 Comments

Bow down!!

This is an ode to my frenemy. [I sure hope she doesn’t read this … but just in case she does, no hard feelings hun. I got madd respect for you. Madddd!] Also, kahenya, my inspiration, [and JustDes, his inspiration] for teaching me to curse politely. Muchos gracias.

So today I [re?]discovered that I’m not really an editor. It’s a [re]discovery that I make often. Usually when I have spent hours poring over a manuscript and handed it in to the boss, only for him to spot a missing full stop on page one.

Or when I have scanned a 250 page novel cover to cover, looking for a particular paragraph, then some genius comes and finds it right at the beginning of the book. Yeah, it happens.

[I should spend more time looking at my page one, yeah?]

Or even when my boss is explaining the difference between ‘en and em dashes’ and I’m thinking about some VOK advert that had kids in knitted cotton pulling KICC bougainvillea poses and screaming Dash!! Then, subsequently, my mind drifts to my favourite song by those Msenangu people, ‘Can you be my dash-dash!!’ What was that band called again?

Boss says I have a problem with consistency. No, that doesn’t mean I’m unreliable, it means I sometimes spell organize with an ‘s’ and sometimes I spell it with a ‘z’… in the same sentence. I don’t give a first-syllable-in-the-Coffee-shop-slash-sports-bar-opposite-Jubilee-Insurance about stuff like that, but editors are supposed to care, and my boss blows a gasket over colonary content like that. Yeah, that was a bit much. I like the sound of it though.

I watched a previous boss go on and on about a book called ‘Eats shoots and leaves’ that dissects punctuation. What the coitus? [I can say WTC instead, yeah?] Anyway, things like that don’t move me. When you’re an editor, they should move you from skirting board to ceiling.

So yeah, in moments like that, I expect to see a bulb light up over ze bosi’s head and scream male bovine excretory product, coz that’s largely my editorial career staple.

Oddly enough, I didn’t really like being called an editor till I saw the reaction it draws from peers. I studied Music and Literature in campus, and often got asked by the med and law students ‘Kwani you want to be a teacher?’ No offense to the teachren btw. So, when said lawyers and med-people now hear I am an editor and go all jaw-drop on me, well, it feels kinda nice. So yeah, I do generally put a little stress on the I’m an Editor, see me type. Rather sad to [re]discover that I’m really not.

Oh, and some pretty boy walked into the office juzi when I was bopping my head and banging my keyboard [no gutter implied] and said that I type like a journalist. Hehehe.

There are moments when I scream to leave my job coz I just don’t fit. But there are other moments when I’m so in the zone that I wonder why I‘m fighting my genes for jeans. I have just realized that it always [or is it only?] happens when I’m construing, when I’m cooking up stuff, when I’m pulling Master of Equestrian Rear Fallout. My job highs are never about editing, they’re all about creative.

First, let me explain editing. It’s not just about fixing typos and finding full stops. It’s about quality control. You make sure the sentences are the right length, the nuances have the right tone, the registers are at the right level, the market trends are included, the censors are inoffended [what. I like the way it sounds, so there].

When you are interviewed for an editorial job, you’ll be given a 6 year’s old story about a cow and asked to turn into legal jargon. Then you will be given a work contract with a million different fine prints and asked to translate it from lawyernese into kinderspeak.

When I was given that test, I threw around words like bovine, cow, gestation, maziwa lala and yoghurt in appropriate places. Nice, yes? When she was given the test, she drew a stick figure of a cow and coloured it. Yes, she got more brownie points.

We have worked together, lived together, and have had the same taste in men. Bad. I admire her, respect her and detest her in equal volumes. And today, she literally saved my life.

Here’s what happened. I got my first PJ. Yay! They paid in advance. Double yay!! I promised to deliver. Because I could. Except that contents of sewer happened, and I was too overwhelmed by mania, exhaustion, and deadlines at the day job. So I didn’t deliver.

I tried to find some intimates to bail me out. One did, voluntarily. EB, you rock!! A couple of my other darlings had prior engagements. My baby brothers commiserated … but they have the combined attention span of a feather, so with all the love they have for me, they couldn’t help.

Enter she. I called her on a whim, cursing and grumbling while I did. It’s pride really. I’ve always known she’s better than me, I just didn’t particularly want to buy her a badge to prove it.

One [of the many] thing[s] I give this girl, she’s gracious. There was not a touch of arrogance or superiority or anything at all. She just said ‘Cool, swing it my way, I’ll work on it.’ She did. And how.

I am looking at her work now. Awe does not even begin to describe it. My work is good, but hers is brilliant!! It’s like comparing a roman column to a toothpick. Well, maybe not, but the metaphor sounded really nice in my head.

Anyway, point is she’s good. She makes this excrement look easy. And she’s so copulating nice! Coitus! I’m looking at a chapter she’s done vs a chapter I’ve done. I know you’re not meant to compare yourself to anyone yada yada yada, but copulate it, she’s good! Cowdung!!

It comes down to style really. I’ve got ideas, but she’s got technique. I dazzle my boss with whiffs of brilliance when I come up with some unexpected concept that looks good in print. She fixes the text and makes it look all neat and sensible. I do the quirk, she does the polish. Which is all well and good, except that we’re editors, so we’re supposed to do less quirk and more polish. Hence, she is way better at th’ish than I am.

I am not complaining though [uh-huh, eyes on the nose now…]. She works somewhere else now, so the rivalry is all in my head. And she has done this beautiful job for my client. She gets the cash even though I get the glory, I am forwarding every cent to her. I don’t need bad kharma stalking me around.

Is there a point to this rant. Er…yeah. Editorial side-hustle = fail. I will stick to writing and blogging. I toyed with the idea of copy-writing a while back, I might look into that. But I shall leave the editing to the editors. Woman, bow dooooown! I salute you.

Oh, PS: she’s the tiny petite damselesque boys-fall-all-over-themselves-to-save-her type. Short and sweet and pretty little figure. And she’s got glasses and a Sophie Ikenye bob. Sigh. Some girls have all the luck. Back to my corner. **grin**

PPS: I’m considering telling my boss that I can’t do the 6-months-shrunk-into-one project. What are the odds he’ll fire me? I’m thinking he will bribe me instead, to try and make me bite the proverbial bullet. Hmm. This might be the week I discover what my price is. Interesting.

PS 3: I was supposed to go for a wedding tonight. [Yes, the four separate TZ wedding ceremonies generally happen at night]. I had my pretty little dress and my pretty little shoes, but the hair was a mess!!It hasn’t seen Rashidi in months because I’m always at work. The horror!! I tried to sneak an appointment today, but he was all ‘I’m too tired, call me tomorrow’. Sigh. Anyway, I put on the pretty dress and the pretty shoes and pranced around to the sound of my little girl’s camera click.

Then I put princess and nanny in a cab and sent them on their way … without me. Yep, I’m chicken. Cluck cluck. So now I’m sitting with my top in my lap and my pretty little dress grazing my kness while I work. Later I shall hear tales of the bride and the groom and a small piece of cake, but for now, I happy in my little girly dress, even though no one but me can see it 🙂

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Posted on by crystal

Burning out in 3…2…

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to scream. I want to go and sit quietly in a corner by myself, shut my eyes, and let music take me away. But I can’t. I want to hug a certain someone, because he’s warm and kind and his arms are big and strong, and he always makes me feel safe and protected, like everything will be fine. But I can’t have that either, because Joe is too far away.

I’m at work, and I’m burnt out.

My boss adores me. He says I have limitless amounts of energy. That means no matter how much work he gives me, I will do it, and I will do it well. And I will do it without [much] complaint. Sometimes, when it gets too much, I will throw a tantrum. I have done that just twice in three years, so he knows it will pass.

But not today. Today, I am finished.

For the last two months, I have worked from 8.00 a.m. to 8.00 p.m. Sunday to Sunday. My child has seen so little of me that she has suggested I quit my job and go teach at her school so that she can see me more. She said she wishes I could get sick at work, so that I have an excuse to come home and hang out with her. She is only six.

I have worked long hours before, but not like this. In my line of work, we do this two or three times a year. We rush to meet deadlines during submission season, so for a few weeks at a time, we work all out, just like we are doing now. But this time, it’s just too much.

My gummi-juice is drying up, my reservoir is kaput. I’m so tired I can’t sleep, I just lie in bed with my body and mind sore, unable to function, unable to think, almost unable to breathe. I’m spent.

But I love my work. I’m committed to it. And I love my baby. So I keep pushing. I keep saying one more day, one more week, one more project then I can rest.

Last week I talked to my boss. I told him I was utterly exhausted, and that I needed a break. He said I could take two weeks early in August. That was it. That gave me drive. Each time I felt like collapsing, too tired to eat or chat or even to tweet, I told myself two more weeks, just two more weeks and I’m free! It’s all that’s been keeping me going.

Today is Friday. It has been decreed that we are not leaving this office till the project is done. Leo, hakuna kurara. My baby is pissed but I tell myself ‘two more weeks, just two more weeks’.

Then my boss called me. New project. It’s six months long, but they need it in one. He knows I can do it. He knows I will do it, simply because I’m me. He says he will give me whatever motivation I require [and he says it with confidence because he knows I won’t extort him. How I wish I had it in me to extort him!!]

He says I can have a month off, two months even, but only after I am done. He knows that by that time, our window slump will be gone, there will be other projects to be done, so no holidays for me. He knows that I choreographed my holiday keenly and carefully, because I knew it was the only time I could safely get away before next March. And he knows I will perform regardless, because I am me.

Except I’m not me, not anymore, at least not today. I’m finished. It’s taking all I am just to type this. I haven’t got the edge to handle this, I haven’t got the drive. I haven’t even got the time. What I’ve been using is borrowed. The only reason I haven’t crashed is because I was vice-gripped to the promise of those two weeks. So even the month he has promised after, I cannot see or feel it. For me, it’s nothing.

Lately I’ve been thinking about my faith. I love my God,and I want to live for Him, but I never do. There’s no reason for it, no excuse, no deep-seated psychological generational demon or anything. It’s just something I desperately want to do, but just can’t seem to.

I’ve made a new friend. He’s lovely and sweet and smart, and he teaches me something new every day. He’s deep and wise, and I’ve no idea how he got that way. But he helps me when I’m lost in my faith, and he doesn’t even know it. I value him a lot. I was talking to him yesterday, and I got so many lessons. I was going to say his name, but he’s really very private and he might get mad. Plus I don’t think he reads my blog. Just in case you do, you are one cool brother, and I’m very glad I met you.

Anyway, so thanks to this new friend, I got an insight. I prayed for the desire to love and serve my God. I prayed for the hunger, the thirst, the intense desire that will make me pursue belief with the zest it requires. I prayed for a miracle, an invitation to faith.

I’ve had lots of miracles in my life already. Enough to know that God is on my side, that He works in my life, and either I’m really really lucky, or he really really likes me. I know that He provides for me. He gives me everything I need in the very moment when I need it. His provision has ranged from a cheap house next to my office to a bonus to pay my baby’s school fees to a beautiful unknown career to the courage [and the necessary burst of adrenaline] to leave an abusive marriage. So why is it that I still doubt?

Because my God is dramatic. He likes things last minute. He likes to push us to the very edge of insanity before He pulls us back. He likes to take the Israelites right up to the Red sea before he parts it, or to push his son right to the very edge of despair, until the child cries ‘My Father, why have you forsaken me’ then he whispers ‘My child, it is finished’ and gives sweet release.

He likes to take me right up to the deadline, when I’m tugging at my hair and the landlord is banging at my door before I get the call that my money has come through. I don’t know why He operates like that, but he does, and it builds my faith. Well, it should. Instead, it fills me with doubt.

So I prayed for the courage to believe, and to keep on believing, no matter what. And then today happened. Perhaps this is my answer. Perhaps this is how I shall plant my kernel of faith. Perhaps this is my proverbial defining moment, when I finally truly realise what He is to me.

For the longest time I have wanted to hustle, to work freelance, to quit the rat race grind, But I am afraid to. I don’t know where to start. A few days back, my baby got so upset that I asked my boss to let me take my work home so I could be with her, he agreed. Best day ever. It strengthened my need to work on my own. Not for the money, not for the freedom, not for the space. Just to spend more time with my little girl.

This week I have seen so many freelance opportunities. I don’t know why they are coming now, or if they have been here all along and I just didn’t see them. I even got a side gig that paid in advance. How cool is that? But I’m so exhausted that I can barely hack it. I’ve applied for a bunch of those gigs, but I don’t know if I’ll get them. And even if I do, with my day job being what it is, I may not have the strength to fulfill them. I believe in signs and symbols, and this may be my time, but I don’t know … why now, in the very thick of timelessness and scheduled madness?

If I get my side job done in time, if I make it through this day, through this week, through my boss’ project, it will not be because of me. It will not be because of my talent or my intelligence or my competence. It will not be because of my endless bubbles and my boundless energy. It will be pure unadulterated providence. Coz I’ve soaked my wick with tears, crumbled it and bled it dry. My fire is gone, quenched beyond redemption. This candle is utterly, totally and completely burnt out. Father, please take me home.

I am thankful for my weakness, because it is only when I am weak that I can see my Jesus’ strength. Thank JC, and be blessed.

♫ Creed ♫ One last breath ♫

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