Redistribute the wealth!!!!

The human capacity for judgment never ceases to amaze me.  I know it is every where and I shouldn’t be surprised by it at all, but every once in awhile it stops me in my tracks.  Both when I hear and see other people doing it and when I find myself doing it.  I know it is a human trait that is impossible for most of us to overcome, but it still strikes me as petty in most matters.  For example:  The “grass is always greener on the other side of the fence” judgment.  I have the type of job where I can have a flexible schedule.  This is one of the benefits of doing billing and accounts receivables for a living.  And, for dealing with the angry public.  For the summer, I am working four, 10-hour days a week.  This gives me a day off plus the weekend.  I organize it so that every other weekend, I have a four day weekend with the Friday and Monday before and after off.  I still work 40 hours a week.  80 in a pay period.  Anything more would be overtime.  In order to work from 6am to 4:30pm , I get up at 4am .  I am not skipping merrily into work at noon and leaving at 2.  I slog just like the rest of you.  But, my room coworker seems to think that I skip in to work merrily at noon and leave at 2.  Just because I have a day off during the week.  Her job is an 8 hour Monday through Friday deal.  That’s the nature of that position.  When you are “on-call” for other depts that are open during the full week, that’s the way it is.  However, she snarkily comments on my cushy schedule and how it must be nice to have “long weekends every week”.  It doesn’t occur to her that I’m still working a 40 hour week, the same exact amount of hours she works, but because I arrange the days so that I do have a four-day weekend every other week this allows her to pass judgment on my “cushy” schedule.   

 

On a much larger scale, the green grass on the other side is glaringly apparent in folks who want more than what they have.  The people who want to be richer than they are and use whatever example comes to mind.  Big business, oil companies, computer gurus, and any other person who has some unbelievable amount of money are the usual targets.  “Why does “X” deserve all that money, he/she/it should give it to me!”  “Let’s redistribute the wealth!”  Why?  Why does anyone have to give their money to people who are jealous and judgmental?  Isn’t that what taxes are for?  But, wait, here’s “they should have to pay their fair share of taxes!”  Really?  And you don’t take advantage of all the credits and deductions you can too?  Are you paying your “fair share” when you’ve pumped out a bazillion kids and now I, as a taxpayer that doesn’t get a kid credit, have to fork over more than my “fair share” to pay your kid credit?  Just because you can procreate doesn’t mean I owe you money.  That doesn’t seem “fair” in my book.  Maybe you shouldn’t have kids you can’t afford?  And, that’s where my judgmental side comes out. 

 

We have lost in this country the ability to say, “hey, I want “X”, maybe I should work for it.”  I have worked for everything I have in my life.  And while some folks would see me as the target of their “redistribute the wealth” scheme, I happen to think that if I got what I have today by working hard, so can they.  I made choices in my life that allowed me to save my money and not squander it.  I live below my means.  That is how you save money.  You do not live above your means.  And, when the crap storm of recession hits, you have something to fall back on.  Do I want the 4,000 sq ft house with all the amenities?  You betcha.  Do I have it?  No.  I have a 1200 sq ft house that is exactly what I need to live comfortably but doesn’t keep up with the Joneses.  And, it’s paid off.  Four years early on the mortgage because we chose to put extra money to the principal instead of squandering the cash on clothing, eating out, expensive toys, and other frivolous stuff that judgmental human beings seem to think they need to prove themselves worthy individuals.  So, again, why should I have to redistribute my wealth to pay for you and your frivolous pursuits?  You can do the exact same thing I did.  You want to judge me?  Well, I can judge you right back.  Stop wasting and whining your life away and do something about it.  You don’t like your job? Find a new one.  You don’t make enough money? Get an education and find a why to improve your financial status.  Or, here’s a thought, you don’t really need the latest fashions from Paris .  You don’t need the giant-ass house, you don’t need the Harley, you don’t need a $20,000 plus car.  You don’t need a $500 a month phone bill.  You don’t need all the cheap crap you buy on a daily basis because you think you HAVE to have it.  That brand name coffee you just dropped $5 bucks for?  No, you don’t need that.  And the $10 lunch you buy every day?  No, you don’t need that either.  So, again, why do I have to redistribute my meager wealth because you are making very poor financial decisions? 

 

Yet I get judged by the same people who want something from me.  My co-worker wants information from me.  Wants me to fix her computer.  Wants me to agree with her on everything.  Wants me to give her answers, easy answers, to her problems.  And then judges me when I don’t do any of what she wants.  Because I’m married that somehow translates to “easy street” in her book because there are two incomes.  Yet, she owns a house, a brand new car (which cost more than either of my two cars), and everything else that goes with life and still is not happy.  I pointed out to her once that a homeless person would kill for her life and she got mad at me.  I’m not making light of homeless people, but the old adage of complaining about painful shoes to an amputee comes to mind.  She is wealthy beyond measure to someone who sleeps in shelters and calls nowhere home.  Yet, she doesn’t see it that way.  She’s the victim, she’s the one oppressed, she’s the one who life is kicking and ignoring.  Because she doesn’t have money beyond count, she is the one “owed” something by big business, oil companies, computer gurus, and me.  If you can’t even convince a person they have wealth whether or not they see it, there is no hope for this country.  We will de-volve into whiny victims begging for cash while driving our expensive cars and complaining that the couch and curtains do not match.

 

The pointy end goes IN the knee

Last Monday, I got an anti-inflammatory medication injected directly into my evil, right knee.  This makes me all manner of wiggly, and even though in the grand scheme of medical tests and procedures it is a cake walk, it stills feels disgusting and is painful.  At least to me.  My doctor was nice enough to inject the needle into one of my old arthroscopic surgery scars from 1984 and he also numbed the skin up with some magical freezing spray that I've seen in the pharmacy a millions times before but have never really paid attention to it.  Now I know what it does.  The shot took around 2 to 3 mins, but it felt like 20.  At one point I must have been holding my breath because he told me to take a breath but I didn't.  I'm one of those people that tenses up and holds their breath whenever something painful is happening.  I also know that this is not a good thing to do and you run the risk of passing out when you do this.  I mention all this because by today, Friday, I'm virtual pain-free in my knee and I'm doing things that several weeks ago would have brought me to tears and close to blacking out. 

This small episode of medical drama in my life reminds me that there are so many unpleasant things we need to go through in order to get what we want in life.  It was one of my worse weeks with my coworker this week and amongst many, other topics discussed, was the subject of what we control in our lives.  A constant, running theme with this coworker is her continual need to see herself as a victim and the subject of fate with no control on her part.  And, I, of course, pretty much feel that we are in control of our lives, for the most part.  Obviously, there are things that happen to us that we don't have control over, but for the most part we can control how we handle the events of our lives.  Case in point:  Coworker hates her job.  So, I tell her to find a new one and she tells me that it won't happen, she can't find a different job, that she shouldn't have to work, and blah, blah, blah.  So, she sits at a job she hates and complains about it all the time.  She does nothing to change her situation except continually and loudly tell me that she is retiring.  (yeah, in a year)  Personally, I can't wait for her to leave.  There are many, many, examples with this person of things she doesn't like but won't change.  Almost all of them are in her power to change them. 

I waited a week and a half before I built enough courage up to get that shot in my knee.  But, as the doctor told me "come back when you've had enough of that knee" I realized he was right and that I was being silly.  You need to get through the awful before the good.  There's also no promise that the medication will last, but for now it feels pretty good. 

My coworker will not change.  She is unwilling to go through what she needs to in order to make herself happy.  Which also leads me to believe that she doesn't want to be happy.  I find this thought disturbing, but I'm really beginning to believe it.  Not only does she not want to be happy, but she wants everyone else to be unhappy too.  And that they should be happy being unhappy.  If that even makes sense. 

I had a full-blown migraine this week.  Rage, visual aura, headache, light and sound aversions, the whole kit and caboodle.  As I thank God for the miracle that is Maxalt, I realize that better living through chemistry really is my motto.  But, the next day, my coworker decides that she needs to fill every drawer in the room with plastic vials from a distance of about three feet.  Just open the box and let the vials pour out.  When I ask her to stop doing this, she gets a smirk on her face and informs me that I should just change my situation if I don't like what she is doing.  She thinks that she's turned the tables on my comments to her, so I decide right then and there that there will never be another kindness towards her from me.  She will get civility, but nothing else.  I change my situation all right, and to one she will regret.

And that is all I am going to say about her.  I've wasted too much of my energy on her, she has sucked too much of my life away for my liking and I'm not going to let her do that anymore.  I'm done with her.  She is not worth my time and that is my situation to change. 

Confessions of a car singer

I love to sing.  But not in public.  I don't think I'm a terrible singer, but I'm not good either.  As a result of that, I sing in the car.  Loudly, proudly, and constantly.  Unless, of course, the husband is with me.  I sing alone in the car.  Yes, I'm one of those crazy looking people who sing away regardless of other drivers staring and laughing at us.  Sometimes, if I'm lucky, the person in front of me in the left lane on the freeway will think I'm having an episode of road rage at them and will move over out of my way.  All they see is this crazy woman voicing something LOUDLY and assume it is anger directed at them.  Well, sometimes it is, but mostly it's me and some good singin' tunes. 

As I've mentioned ad nauseaum, I commute a sizable distance every day to work.  Now that I've transferred to UWM, I don't go to Sheboygan two to three times a week, so my singing time has been cut a bit.  Still, I manage to belt out tunes on the 45 minute drive one way to work.  What do I sing you ask?  Well, a mixed variety of classic rock, goofy tunes, show tunes, classical music, and opera.  I can hit soprano notes after some warm up, and there are days I'm good and can sing in tune and days I'm horrible and dogs are howling all the way to Milwaukee.  Then, there are just the good driving tunes that are fun.  Sometimes I think I'm performing and think about how different my life would be if I had chosen that path, and sometimes I sing just because it's easier to do that than to think about life at that moment. 

  I find that car singing is a great way to leave my work issues behind.  My job is pretty high on the aggravation factor, and some days it really proves it.  Today, was a perfect storm of first of the month (all financials are due), a half day because of school, work not being or getting done, crazy coworkers who didn't realize it is May 1st (or didn't care), and the current evil that is Ascension Health Project Symphony.  I'm not going to go into detail about Symphony because it has taken an hour at the Y, a slow drive home, a very hot shower, and pizza to put my anger away for the night.  But, needless to say, I was belting out tunes with Jackie (Evancho) all the way home.  I don't understand a word of Latin, but I can make the sounds pretty evenly.  She, however, has a perfect voice and I still marvel at her range and maturity.  She is one of the few people I've heard who I think has a real gift from God.  Anyway, I love singing with her because most of her pieces are slower and I can change pitch easier with her than with others.  Say, the Queen of the Night aria from Mozart's Magic Flute.  I can't quite hit those high notes, but I can get most of the piece.

There you have it.  I'm a car singin' maniac and I freely confess it.  I'm not sure what I'll do when I get one of those fancy cars that listens to you when you talk.  I wonder if I'll have to get ear plugs for the car?

 

Grant Writing Gone Bad

I am taking a grant writing class this semester, and with only four weeks left, I have to confess that I will be glad when the class is done.  But, I'm also sad that I didn't enjoy it more and that the thoughts I had of turning this into a second career are rapidly evaporating.  This was my back up plan and the course I am taking to finish off my degree.  What happens now?  I know grant writing is a small portion of professional writing, but what concerns me is something the teacher for this class wrote in a comment to me.  She said that I need to stop using my "voice" and just write in plain, every-day language.  That I had an awkward, stuffy, intellectual, and off-putting style that wasn't very good, at least for grant writing (I hope).  This teacher is someone I would handle very carefully.  She seems nice while she talks with you, but then turns vicious in her written comments and uses styles she has told us that are unprofessional.  She made a comment on my paper in all capital letters that wasn't really needed.  A normal comment would have sufficed.  And, it was for something that is a minor detail.  Not a big, in-your-face glaring error that would have had the funder so horrified that they would have black listed my name forever and burned the proposal in terror. 

Writing is something that I've come to enjoy, and when I come across a teacher like this, it shatters the fragile confidence that I have and really makes me wonder why I'm choosing this as a major and something I would like to use as a second career.  I've already given up on becoming a Librarian, and now I'm considering giving up on writing.  What's left?  I could switch tracks in my major, but that will take me longer to finish.  I'm ready to be done with school now and the thought of taking more semesters seems to daunting to me.  I really think that it would be easier if sometimes in life we had an owner's manual that would tell us what we want to do. 

I needed to write a blog because I've hit a point in the grant narrative where I can't come up with anything to say.  Writer's block, I guess.  This style of writing is so different from essay writing that I've not been able to come up with something good and put it down on paper.  I understand now what folks are talking about when they say they hate writing papers and can never figure out what to say.  My other problem with this teacher is that she doesn't teach so I'm not exactly sure what she wants in this narrative.  She tosses out some information but doesn't teach.  We have an outdated textbook, a cutsey hint book from her, and what information she deems fit to put on D2L.  She doesn't explain very well, doesn't show examples that are good, and doesn't give good answers to questions.  At one point in the semester, she told us that she puts up "models" not samples and admitted that they are not necessarily GOOD models.  It was up to us to figure out which were good and which were bad.  She never EXPLAINED that until she was yelling at us about putting tax id numbers on the assignment because all of her models had those listed on them.  She talked to us like we were idiots for following the examples SHE listed on the learning site.  I could go on for so many more examples of her behavior, but I won't.  It's boring and makes me irritated.  I expect from teachers solid and consistent work that helps me achieve the goals of the class.  Not bipolar manic expressions of craziness that make me doubt every single word I put down.  I am paying way too much money for her to be like this.  I am continually amazed at how in school we put up with behavior and shoddy services that in real life we'd never allow to happen.

This just makes me appreciate the good teachers even more.  And, I guess that's what I have to keep reminding myself of.  I've had more good teachers than bad, but the bad ones have been really bad.  And again, paying tuition makes this even more irritating. 

I like my Eng Lit teacher.  He makes a dry subject interesting and has his stuff together.  There's none of the crap in his class that is going on with my grant writing class.  Unfortunately, I don't think I'll have him again as almost all of the classes I need are major related.  And, this is my last required Lit class.  I am taking another Lit class this summer, but he's not teaching it.  I also need 6 credits of upper L&S credits after the summer semester, so I need to find something that is going to be fun and interesting.  But, I won't take those until the last semester.

Well, I don't seem to have writer's block for this blog.  I guess it is just for her class.  I'm at the point where I just want to submit whatever crap I have down because I know that she will trash this draft.  I'm getting to the point of not caring which is not good at all.  I need to find my motivation and realize that my best will not be good enough for her no matter what.  She is incapable of judging fairly and I really think that although she may be a good grant writer, she really shouldn't be a teacher.  She doesn't have the ability to explain very well and that is crucial to teaching.  Combined with her condescending attitude towards her students and smug, self-centered attitude about her skills makes her a shining example of what happens when someone thinks they can teach just by presence instead of by words. 

And so it begins....

As I entered the YMCA this week, it occurred to me that there is a lot of energy being expended that if it could be harnessed and some how channeled into a force of good, we'd be an unstoppable nation. 

Yes, my friends, the impossible has happened.  I started an exercise program this week.  I decided that if I spent hard earned cash on a membership, I might actually go.  I have a very complex relationship with the thought of exercising and weight loss, but basically I can see the writing on the wall with obamacare.  I can either pay an insurance company scads of cash for pitiful, measly insurance or I can pay the Y and try to get some benefit out of it.  Either way, I'm paying money that I don't want to fork over because I'm fat.  And, because we have a country that really isn't all that free anymore and there are too many people who have decided that my extra poundage is more of a problem than deadbeats who want handouts instead of working for a living.  Never mind I'm one of the tax paying middle class that is getting squeezed in that area too.  But, enough of my soap box issues. 

I have started out on a treadmill that knows my heart rate, calories burned, and has settings from a stroll in the park to death mountain footrace.  As I walk the pounds away, I keep imagining what my grandmother would make of this.  She, of the generation where you did hard farm labor which kept the pounds off, would have been stymied that I'm paying money for the privilege of working my ass off (hopefully, literally) instead of pulling weeds in the garden, mucking out the barn, or cutting hay.  But I don't live on a farm and as this country steadily loses the family farm we have put on poundage galore.  When we were laborers, we didn't need gym memberships but as we "progress" as a country and evolve, so does our waist line.  However, I have always been big-boned.  I have a fluffy, sturdy frame from hardy farmer stock.  But, there is no denying that when I got a desk job, the pounds came along with it. 

As I pound along the belt of the treadmill with my fellow fitness buffs, I feel like the kid struggling to keep up with the older siblings.  Today was the perfect mixture of "in-shape" people who not only knew what they were doing, but looked good while doing it.  And, mostly younger than me too, but there were a fair amount of oldsters on the outer ring (looking in at the beautiful people) using some contraption that looked like it had heavy bars of iron on the end of a rope.  I'm sure I will find out what those are in due time as my "trainer" promises to show me in two weeks.  For now, I have to master the treadmill and the recumbent bike.  The death bike from hell, more likely.  I got on this contraption after a half hour on the treadmill and thought I would be ok.  Yeah.  Well, it has a mind of its own too, and decided that I wasn't working hard enough so it kept increasing the resistance so that I could hardly push the pedals.  Then, because apparently I'm unable to realize I've stopped pedaling, it beeps at you and tells you to pedal.  Well, stupid bike, if you would stop increasing the resistance maybe I could keep pedaling????  Just sayin'...  Actually, I'm sure I probably hit the wrong button, but honestly, does it really have to keep beeping at me and announcing to the whole gym that I'm incapable of understanding the buttons?  Or that I'm incapable of pedaling?  Bad enough I'm in a baggy tee shirt and sweats and not the tight, form fitting fitness wear that promises to do all sorts of bodily functions for you, but does the bike have to draw attention to me too?  I very fit gentleman came over to help me with it, and had that "oh, look, she's trying to exercise, how adorable" look on his face.  I didn't know whether to smack him or thank him.  For the record, I thanked him.

As I watched the number go higher for calories burned, I kept thinking of how pitiful a number that is for the amount of work it takes.  Why again, can I consume in a mouthful what just took me an hour of hard walking to get rid of?  How does that motivate a person to work that hard only to understand that with the eating of supper the expenditure is erased?  Yes, I know.  Rabbit food and water.  Maybe I will feel differently when I've lose some weight.  But in the mean time, I will keep searching for that "exercise high" that is supposed to carry me through the work out.  And, it doesn't help that the tv I'm watching plays pizza commercials.  How rude!

Spring break musings

I had the thought the other day of what if everyone in the world got every wish they wanted?  I'm sure that thought has been done as a story somewhere, but for me it was something that made me pause for a few minutes to think about.  And what happens when wishes collide?  Say, for example, I wished that I could make beautiful chain maille jewelry with gold and silver but someone else wished to have all the gold and silver in the world in their house?  Would the force that grants the wishes, grant both?  And what would happen if it did or didn't?  Then it occurred to me that people being people, there would be wishes of death, or hurt, or other terrible things to one another.  So, I guess it is a good thing that our every wish doesn't come true.  That launched me into a train of thought of why we are so evil to one another but I came up with no answers to that. 

It is spring break this week, and it's nice to be off of school for a little bit.  I love my English Lit class, but I'm not so thrilled with my grant writing class.  I'm not sure if it is the teacher or the material, but I'm finding it difficult to embrace the class.  We had to find a service learning site (I chose Lakeview Community Library) and work up a full proposal for them.  The teacher of the class is ok, but seems a little smug in her knowledge and standing.  I have no doubt she is very knowledgeable about her chosen field and has supported herself for the past 15 years doing grant writing.  But, she is the type of person who has too many irons in the fire and doesn't do any of them particularly well.  For instance, even though we are half way through the semester and have handed in several assignments, we have only gotten ONE grade back.  One.  She keeps moving deadlines and due dates because she can't get her critique copy back to her students in time for them to revise and hand in.  This is after she has lectured us numerous times about getting OUR work in on time because in grant writing, there is no late work.  On my organizational profile, she highlighted the word combination "there is" and in the comments told me to "get my thesaurus out".  That I was not creative in my wording.  Later, in the SAME document, highlighted a paragraph and told me, again in the comments, that my language was "too formal, stuffy, intellectual, and awkward" and that I should "use plain, every day language".  WTH?  Both of these comments in the same document.  Her major complaint was the word "facilitates".  As in the following sentence: "Lakeview Community Library facilitates the use of teen volunteers for the summer reading program".  So, now I'm so paranoid about my writing that I'm having a terrible time coming up with the writing for my assignments. 

The other thing that is a bit irritating is that she has a very smug and condescending demeanor towards her students.  I can live with that as long as she follows her own advice, but she doesn't.  After giving us a lecture for 15 mins about late work, moves a deadline to her convenience because she has four proposals she needs to write for her clients this week.  Let's see, I'm paying exactly $1,254.00 bucks in tuition and another $100 in books to take this class, which, ironically makes her MY employee, and we are put on a back burner with no real guidance or presentation of information regarding how to do our homework.  Which then comes back with conflicting comments about using to plain of language or to intellectual language.  If I had wanted to waste that much money on a crappy class where I'm going to get insulted and conflicting messages, I would have taken one that wouldn't really have any bearing on my major.

One the other side is my Eng Lit class.   When I declared my major, the Associate Chair said to me, "you have to take an old, dead guy class".  I laughed at the description, but he was right.  I had been dreading this class because I'm not entirely confident about my level of Shakespeare "love".  So, I took a survey class that has a potpourri of writers.  At the beginning of the semester, the teacher asked the class why we were in this particular class.  I said that I was a bit intimidated by a whole semester of Shakespeare and that this class would be better for me.  He looked at me and said the Shakespeare class was easier.  He also teaches the Shakespeare class, so he would know.  But, I stuck with it and we are now reading Shakey over the spring break.  Midsummer Nightmare on Elm Street or something like that.  Seriously, I can never remember the title of that play.  I need to get crackin' on finishing it too.  But, I think I'm doing well, and contrary to my grant writing class, the Eng Lit prof gets our graded stuff back to us the very next class.  It's nice to know where you stand in the semester versus the wait to the end of the semester and hope the teacher has taken her meds and grades like she is supposed to and not like a bipolar maniac tired of grading papers. 

I have finally fully recovered.  I realized the other day that I have so much more energy now and can do normal things without being sick.  I stopped coughing around mid-February, and the sinus infection has finally abated too.  Two months of sick and wasted time.  I still can't believe it took two courses of antibiotics and prednisone to get things under control.  But, I am so much better and thankful for it.

I will enjoy the rest of spring break even though the wind chill was below 0 at points today, and hwy 57 southbound was snow covered and slippery with the snow we got yesterday blowing around.  There was even a car in the ditch.  That is very un-spring like behavior if you ask me.  I have several feet of snow in my yard yet, so hopefully I won't have to cut the grass for many, many weeks yet.  I wish that it would stay neat and manicured all summer long.  That would be an ok wish, right?

Another

Sitting down in his favorite bar, dark, quiet, and only a few other patrons, the executioner ordered his usual.  He needed to get the smell out of his nose and clothes and the only way he had found to do that was by going to the dive where there was much smoking, hardly any talking, and years of human odors piled upon each other until the place took on a dank smell that would only ever be relieved by burning the place down.

Why did he continue moonlighting with this job?  Money, of course, there was good money in state-sanctioned murder, and he was just the person to relieve the state of it.  Well, he and two other men who never talked or acknowledged each other.  The sour, pungent smell of the bar was beginning to work its magic on him, and he noticed he could look at the other customers in the face again.  Bars always have distinctive smells to them depending on what they are used for.  The expensive, high-society ones didn’t have a bad smell to them; they were always pleasant, well-ventilated, and clean.  But you paid an arm and a leg for your watered-down drinks.  No, the cheap ones were the best at getting rid of other odors, supplanting them with their own mix of years of sweat, smoke, puke, and humans.      

“Another,” he ordered and the drink was served with the usual mix of apathy and curiosity.  The amber liquid seared his throat, fogged his sinus cavities with the vapor of cheap alcohol, and produced the requisite wincing that comes with trying to swallow something meant to be used as cleaning fluid.  The rotund bartender never asked him questions, but stood by in case he said anything other than a drink order.  He never did.  A quiet man by nature, it wasn’t in him on the best of days to chat.  He said what needed to be said and that was it.  Maybe that’s why his ex-wife…, well, what good was she anyway?

Impeccably dressed, he didn’t look the look of this bar.  It was the standard suit he wore to his second job, and he hated it.  It felt scratchy and cheap and he didn’t allow it to be in his closet.  He chafed at the collar and he reached up to loosen the tie and top button on his starched shirt.  The release of pressure was welcome, and he closed his eyes and smiled.  The suit was only kept in a box in the trunk of his car and it got cleaned before he needed to go to work, and he paid extra for the pressing.  It simply wouldn’t do to look shabby for the audience and the star. 

“Another,” and the drink magically appeared.  He wondered if the bartender could smell the smell on him, or if because he worked in a place that smelled of everything his olfactory senses were long since damaged beyond repair.  The executioner covertly sniffed the upper arm of his manicured suit coat.  He couldn’t be sure what he smelled; it was either the carbonized remains of the prisoner or dry cleaning fluid.  Did anyone around him know what he did for rent and alimony money?  He surreptitiously looked around and like he, everyone else had their heads down in their drinks, contemplating their own misery and haunted past deeds. 

After a while, the dimly-lit and hazy bar began to clear out and a few of the denizens shuffled toward the door.  It was getting late, but he had nothing to return to.  He had more family in this shack right now than he ever had when he was a member of polite society.  He had to get up later this morning to go to his respectable job, and he didn’t care at that particular moment.  That care would come in about four hours when that evil invention rang with the most annoying sound in the world.

Maybe he should quit this second job, but he dismissed the idea immediately because the money was so good.  The cheap alcohol was making him fuzzy headed and the bar began to be less hideous and the harsh edges began to soften.  It was warm, comforting, and he began to feel at ease.  Even the rank smell was beginning to lull him into contentment.  So what if he got rid of scum for a living?  They deserved it, didn’t they?  And, with the passage of time and alcohol, he couldn’t remember the prisoner’s name anymore.  He knew he had reached the point of the night where he could go home and sleep. 

“Another,” one more couldn’t hurt.  The warm liquid peeled the skin from his throat and he relished the feel of it.  No ice for him to cool the caustic nature of the invitingly amber liquid.  All he could smell now was cigarette and sweat and he knew, just knew, that the last remnants of what’s-his-name were gone from him.

This was a story I wrote for Eng 203 (creative writing).  I ran across it the other day while cleaning out files on my computer and thought I'd put it in my blog.  I've always wondered what the executioners do after an execution.