gorbachev

The woman who calls me her husband and I (my wife, but I don't like to sound possessive), had a good talk last night about our horrible distaste for our jobs. Neither one of us, we promised, would give notice until we lined up new jobs. Rational, I suppose, but I am wondering if the pressure of finding a job would make either one of us try harder if either one of us were unemployed for a few days. We both like to bitch-and-moan, but we tend to be complacent as well.

Until I changed jobs a year ago this month, we worked at the same red sauce joint, had basically the same shifts, and the same days off. And, while one would think that constant companionship and camaraderie would have us at each other's throats, we actually fought less then. We actually like each other.

Today wasn't a horrible day; not good, but tolerable. Our discussion made some difference somehow.

Tomorrow is Thursday, which, in the German, meansalmost-Friday (Es freut mich, dass Freitag ist!).

So, I have come to a few conclusions about this "journal" thing: first, I like it -- even though it is a distraction from real writing -- and second, I am going to be unapologetic about obsessing about work (in all of its manifestations) when I write here. Work is what we have. Unless one is a shirker, it is what we all have in common. I will write what we know.

Ciao, bella.