I don’t know why this popped into my head yesterday, but…handwriting. I like writing by hand, I like writing in cursive, and I have no idea why. Okay, maybe I have a couple of ideas…
Back when things were going to hell on a buttered slide (the handbasket was neither big enough nor fast enough), I spent a lot of time trying to find new homes for most of my cats.
Oh, you robo-calls. You spammy, scammy robo-calls.
How I loathe you.
When I was out and about over the weekend to get my hair done (looks AWESOME, by the way — my stylist ROCKS), I took with me a notebook I hadn’t opened in ages. I used it a bit for journaling (or trying to get into the habit of) for a year or so before things blew up, general note-taking a time or two at the Job That Unceremoniously Ended Without Notice, and once things had in fact blown up, I used it a lot during the writers’ group at the women’s day shelter where I spent a lot of my time.
I miss that group.
I was going to write about ikigai, but I found an exercise related to it and I’d like to plow through it a time or two and see what comes up first. So instead, I shall mention that this is the anniversary of my first day at a job where I had spent not quite half my life, based on when that company outsourced my department and we started working for someone else.
This one’s not about my work. It’s about other people’s work. Specifically, the desire of some people who are, broadly speaking, members of one flavor or another of the majority religion in this country, using their religion as justification for not doing their jobs.
Warning: I’m going to get ranty. Feel free to skip it if you wish.