Diary of an Instru-mental-case, part 2

10/22/03
I witnessed "soup time"today. English lessons begin early for this fourth generation of future writers over a bowl of alphabet soup, the leftovers of which are stored in the fridge still in the open can and covered only by a thin film of congealed broth.

The youngest grandchild is very articulate, but more interested in eating the slimy lettered noodles than learning pretentious words that start with the letter of the day. The letter today was O. The word of the day– obstreperous. I would rather potty train kids that age than try to expand their vocabulary before they can pronounce all the phonemes in the English language.

11/12/03
The Old Guy has been making me work late for no apparent reason. I have no problem putting in extra time if necessary, but enlarging photographs for another magazine doesn’t count. Another time I had to read the first chapter of "The Birth of the Republic" by Edmund P. Morgan before I could leave, but mostly I just have to sit and listen to stories about how stupid the French are or how a former president took a crap in some rose garden.

I put in my full eight hours and sometimes more– how dare he make me feel guilty for not staying late or coming in early? I have other interests, such as music. By the time I get home and fix dinner, I am so mentally drained that it’s hard to make myself practice, and when I get home late, it’s even harder.

11/18/03
The Old Guy canned the article I was working on and gave me a short piece by a member of the Old Man’s Club instead. The Club is filled with cantankerous loyalists who think very highly of themselves and continue to regard each other as the only distinguished leaders in the field long after their glory days have passed. I suspect that this author is, sadly, in the final stages of alcoholism– he spelled "flexibility" with two semicolons and a fraction!

I looked through musty back issues to find three articles the author had published in the 1960s and 70s, which were nearly identical to the mess he sent in this time. I was able to piece together enough coherent ideas to create a fourth edition, but the Old Guy insisted I call to clarify some "vagueries", which proved useless. All I learned was that the author was Irish and he thought I was "terrific".

We later compiled a list of his made-up words (which was nearly as long as the one I made during the President’s most recent State of the Union address) and tried to use each in a sentence– it was mildly entertaining.

11/27/03
I came in early yesterday because I was leaving town for the holiday, despite the memo that denounced both Thanksgiving and Christmas for falling near the end of the production cycle. The Old Guy gave me an article to re-edit right before I left because I had the nerve to take Friday off and spend the weekend with my family. Had I gotten the article back earlier in the afternoon, I could have easily finished it before I was scheduled to leave, but my protests fell on deaf ears.

By the time I finished, nearly everyone else was gone. My eyes brimmed with tears as I sat in city traffic for nearly two hours; I had no cash for dinner. I was so tired and hungry by the time I finally got home that I wanted to quit. I just don’t understand how someone can be so heartless and cruel.