This morning, as Peanut screamed an ranted that on movie day we *do not* have breakfast before movies and we might as well put him in an orphanage if we were going to be so cruel as to make and eat french toast on a holiday morning of family togetherness because ksdfjberijdfvbkja!! (I didn’t understand the last part, either) I told Spouse that *none* of my previous bosses acted this way. The guy I thought misunderstood my role in the company? Never screamed and danced the jig of impotent anger. And he gives a lot to charity. The corporate drones who stacked atop each other to Fortune 100 cloud-top perches never raged in my face while I tried to pee. The woman who ran a great company and gave me more respect, autonomy, and credit than I deserved never tried to bite me while repeatedly shrieking my name. And the other bosses, at companies large and small, generally had flaws that were within the bounds of propriety, reason, and social acceptance. Even if I didn’t appreciate it at the time.
I think it might be time for a job outside the home. The things I do best—writing, editing, and researching—are ideally done, for me, independently from home. But my home ain’t what it used to be and there’s no way to expect that I can gather together my shredded dignity, sanity, and intelligence to freelance while this monster and his soon-to-be-omnipresent sibling live here.
No doubt that, in a tough economy, many firms are clamoring to hire women who are 7 months pregnant. Right?