Yesterday I went home from work early. I didn’t feel well, I was exhausted, and I have a big! traveling! weekend! ahead of me. So, I went home to nap.
After about two hours of sleeping, I woke up, but still wasn’t feeling great, and it sounded like my roommate had people over. So I picked up the book I’d started just the other day: Olive Kitteridge. It’s a novel, composed of vignettes of about a dozen or so people in this little town in Maine, all of whom have Olive in common, in one way or another.
It’s a sad book that made me realize how short life really is. Olive is a mean woman — quick to judge, throws things at her husband, puts her son at a distance, and then doesn’t understand why he doesn’t want her in his adult life — and I don’t want to be anything like Olive.
Sometimes it’s easier to say something cruel and cutting — sometimes it just feels good to use a verbal knife and cut someone down. But it’s not right. It’s not nice. And none of the slights — real or perceived — ever really matter in the long run.
So I’m going to be more loving, while the ones I love are around to listen. I’ll keep Olive in my mind and think what would Olive do? and I’d do the opposite.
In today’s economy, it’s enough to have a job. Let alone a job you like. With people you like.
I realize that I am exceedingly lucky to have found “the right fit” for me, employment-wise.
We got a lot done today, and yet there were a few funny moments.
In an instance where I just can’t keep my mouth shut, one of my coworkers said, “I barely pay any attention to politics.” To which I replied, shouting from the other room, “I wouldn’t brag about that!”
I filled up my water bottle, and spilled a little on the ground. Then my boss came by and said, “Oh, no, did the dog pee over here?” Thinking I was explaining quite clearly the situation at hand, I said, “Oh, no. That was me.”
I brought caramel to work and my boss said, “has anyone tried them and lived to tell the tale?”
Like I said, I’m lucky.
I would like to read every novel that has won the Pulitzer prize for fiction (or before that, novels). I have a Google document to help me keep track. So far, I have been exceedingly happy about this decision, and I feel like the people giving this prize know a thing or two about really good fiction.
This is in contrast to how I feel about the Nobel Prize for literature. I feel like that prize is awarded to important pieces of fiction, verses a really well-told story. I don’t have enough free time to read books I don’t like. I’m a recovering book-finisher — up until this summer, there wasn’t a book I picked up that I didn’t finish, save (loaned by an ex as his “favorite book of all time” — I couldn’t understand it, couldn’t see how it was “about more than motorcycle maintenance,” and generally did not like it) but this summer, I happened upon a couple of really awful books, and I was able to put them down after reading a chapter or two. of Motorcycle Maintenance
Anyway, Mr. Pulitzer has very good taste. And by “very good taste” I mean “selects things I like” — though, let’s be honest, that’s what everyone means when they say that something is good, is it not?