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Maybe I'm a dog who's lost his bite
Aug. 14th, 2005 09:33 pmSpent the day with my sister in DC, sketching at the National Gallery, wandering through other museums, chowing down on dimsum in Chinatown, and walking entirely too far in weather that was much too hot for any sane human being to be out in. It was a very nice day, and it served as a good distraction.
The distraction was needed, and appreciated. Although Bemo and I are dealing with things as well as can be expected, the news is bad news: he was fired from his job this Friday. Yes, the one he loved. Yes, the one where they said they loved him. He had been there about six weeks. One of the shows he worked on was paid for and organized by Mr. Details. Mr. Details wants things done the way he wants them done, provides copious notes to the point, and pays a lot of money for the airtime. The first time Bemo worked on the show, a computer glitch screwed up the recording of the show. It was fixed before it went to air. The second time, Bemo was told to produce a "twenty-five minute show and two sixty-second commercials." Assuming that the "and" in that sentence was meant in an additive sense, he edited together a twenty-seven minute show. It was supposed to be a twenty-five minute show total. The third time, which resulted in the firing, was when Bemo followed Mr. Details' instructions to the letter. But the instructions themselves were incorrect, and the show was not the correct length. Mr. Details demanded that the person responsible for screwing up the show be fired, or else he would take his hefty check elsewhere. As far as we can tell, nobody at the station tried to convince Mr. Details that Bemo wasn't actually at fault. Or maybe they did, and it didn't matter. Impossible to know.
Three strikes, we're out. And I find myself angrily wondering if this is how Job felt. We're going to deal, somehow. We have before. But even though this line of thinking is the least useful and most corrosive, I can't help but wonder what this all looks like from the outside. Are people thinking that they've heard this song and dance too many times from us? Are we tainted with bad luck, is Bemo just not trying hard enough, is there a little black raincloud or fatal flaw at work here? I wonder if people are pitying me for marrying him, and resenting their hypothetical pity. In point of fact, I am wallowing in the biggest, most egocentric pity party the East Coast has ever seen, but it's one I threw for myself, goddamnit. It's also an intermittent one, and as per my instructions from my sister today, I will do my best to pull out of it and stop brooding. Writing it all out helps a bunch. (But then again, so does screaming really loudly.)
The distraction was needed, and appreciated. Although Bemo and I are dealing with things as well as can be expected, the news is bad news: he was fired from his job this Friday. Yes, the one he loved. Yes, the one where they said they loved him. He had been there about six weeks. One of the shows he worked on was paid for and organized by Mr. Details. Mr. Details wants things done the way he wants them done, provides copious notes to the point, and pays a lot of money for the airtime. The first time Bemo worked on the show, a computer glitch screwed up the recording of the show. It was fixed before it went to air. The second time, Bemo was told to produce a "twenty-five minute show and two sixty-second commercials." Assuming that the "and" in that sentence was meant in an additive sense, he edited together a twenty-seven minute show. It was supposed to be a twenty-five minute show total. The third time, which resulted in the firing, was when Bemo followed Mr. Details' instructions to the letter. But the instructions themselves were incorrect, and the show was not the correct length. Mr. Details demanded that the person responsible for screwing up the show be fired, or else he would take his hefty check elsewhere. As far as we can tell, nobody at the station tried to convince Mr. Details that Bemo wasn't actually at fault. Or maybe they did, and it didn't matter. Impossible to know.
Three strikes, we're out. And I find myself angrily wondering if this is how Job felt. We're going to deal, somehow. We have before. But even though this line of thinking is the least useful and most corrosive, I can't help but wonder what this all looks like from the outside. Are people thinking that they've heard this song and dance too many times from us? Are we tainted with bad luck, is Bemo just not trying hard enough, is there a little black raincloud or fatal flaw at work here? I wonder if people are pitying me for marrying him, and resenting their hypothetical pity. In point of fact, I am wallowing in the biggest, most egocentric pity party the East Coast has ever seen, but it's one I threw for myself, goddamnit. It's also an intermittent one, and as per my instructions from my sister today, I will do my best to pull out of it and stop brooding. Writing it all out helps a bunch. (But then again, so does screaming really loudly.)