This morning, I see a squirrel has squirreled its way into a squirrel-proof bird feeder across the street.
Bad news be damned, I'm taking that squirrel as my model for 2021.
I bought a bottle of bubbly (prosecco, the champagne of the era) to welcome in 2021 tonight.
My goals for the coming year are not only to strain spaghetti through a tennis racket like Jack Lemmon in The Apartment but, like him, to turn in my key to my boss.
"The old payola won't work any more. Good bye, Mr. Sheldrake."
I started the thrift store job with buckets of enthusiasm––I used to write up pages of ideas for improvements or fun changes at the store. They mostly sank in quicksand, and now I'm not only disheartened by the store's management, I'm a bit bored.
Sorting and displaying donated books is good work.
Though I've unpacked to every Cool Old Book a hundred copies of The Literary Peelings of the Fisherman's Daughter; The 7 Effective Tips to Get Your Cheese While Losing Weight; and I'll Die Below: The Hunt for a Lawyer on a Red Submarine, I wouldn't be looking for another job if I could also work on writing a volunteer handbook (we don't have one);
investigate grants for a barcode pricing system (we write prices on stickers by hand, and the cashier enters taps them in); maybe exploring social media more...
Those ideas of mine have all been somehow subtly discouraged and while I could push ahead with them anyway, now I don't want to––
especially not since Big Boss turned store management over to Ass't Man.
I can do something else. Not sure what, but something.
I can raid bird feeders!
