Come Saturday Morning

Sounds of Saturday:

1. Two telemarketing calls before 10 a.m. (one of them could be one of my credit card companies, heh, but damn, maybe I should have joined the do-not-call list)

2. Crickets and cicadas and ____ (flies? oh MY!)

3. Cars wooshing past

4. Lawn mower rumbling and moving. (I live 2 houses down from a lawn mower shop; in fact, I wrote a story about the business a few months ago, and thus have earned the eternal gratitude of Ben, the owner. He tells me he sold his 43rd lawn mower on Thursday [his goal was 40], thanks in no small part to the story I wrote.)

Am I not something! (Self, do NOT answer that!)

: )

I paid off a huge stack of bills last night. There is something oddly satisfying about that, and yet, I wonder if I will ever find a job that pays me what I am worth. Is anyone really paid what she or he is worth? Is it possible to put a monetary value on talent (market value, perhaps) and effort and importance and attitude? Does salary = worth, in any realm or galaxy?

I usually do not think so, except when I am way late on a bill and the company calls me before 10 a.m. on a Saturday. Then it all seems to matter, somehow.

Even then, why-oh-why do I have certain statements running through my head? (I would name the movie, but the No. 1 rule is that I cannot talk about it. Heh.)

You are not your job.
You are not how much you have in the bank.
You are not the contents of your wallet.
You are not your fucking khakis.

Long live Tyler Durden!