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All Work . . .
Dec. 28th, 2005 09:52 pm. . . and no play makes Dean a dull dick! I've proven myself at CH, now I'm going for hero status. The holidays' rush is largely behind me now but its volume is still in front of me. Somewhere in the months I've spent mastering the existing system and the days I've spent relaxing my focus has shifted and I've managed to drop the ball. I've discovereed a couple of holes in the processes I've been carefully engineering and haven't come up with a fool-proof method for plugging them yet. You see, I need two things to complete the tasks that are assigned me: organization, and help. Organization is my newest hobby/lifestyle/obsessive compulsion, and help I, sometimes, have trouble admitting I need. The problem is that the 'help' foils the organization and I simply cannot handle the volume by myself - I can't control everything.
. . .and I hate that!
Without going into detail (which would be meaningless very soon) even the people with whom I thought I was on the same page work diligently to undo the delicate process that keeps donations flowing in and notifications flowing out in a balanced fashion. I won't let myself become a micro-manager; especially because I'm not a manager to begin with. In the evening there are always more hours to throw at the tasks at hand while things are quiet and there aren't the distractions that the first eight hours of any given weekday hold for me. But then, the overtime isn't working out like I had planned either; any 'extra income' that I anticipated quickly becomes the pocket liner for uncle sam (America, you fucking liar! If we're all created equal why are we taxed at different rates?). I know that in time this will be over; and I might even come to miss being under the gun in the way I am now. But I must keep in mind that, for better or for worse, in time this too will come to pass.
In time this, too, will pass. And for the mean, mean time that is this moment contains everything I need to realise the ideal . . .
. . .and I hate that!
Without going into detail (which would be meaningless very soon) even the people with whom I thought I was on the same page work diligently to undo the delicate process that keeps donations flowing in and notifications flowing out in a balanced fashion. I won't let myself become a micro-manager; especially because I'm not a manager to begin with. In the evening there are always more hours to throw at the tasks at hand while things are quiet and there aren't the distractions that the first eight hours of any given weekday hold for me. But then, the overtime isn't working out like I had planned either; any 'extra income' that I anticipated quickly becomes the pocket liner for uncle sam (America, you fucking liar! If we're all created equal why are we taxed at different rates?). I know that in time this will be over; and I might even come to miss being under the gun in the way I am now. But I must keep in mind that, for better or for worse, in time this too will come to pass.
In time this, too, will pass. And for the mean, mean time that is this moment contains everything I need to realise the ideal . . .
