June 01

Funky Chicken.

Work is winding down after a busy three months and I’m in a weird place all together. A funk. There’s just no other way to describe it.

Things are somewhat mundane, unchanging, and downright (Yes, I used a Harvard comma) rudimentary. My brain finds itself scrolling through Facebook, reading the Washington Post (thanks Amazon Prime), listening to new music (not country, please), binge watching Supergirl on Netflix, and figuring out when Twitter will explode with the president’s newly found stardom for inventing new words.

I’d like to look for a new job, but I don’t want to for a number of practical reasons. I know I need to. Nine years working for the same employers doesn’t bode well for future opportunities. So what do I do with myself? That’s the million dollar question right? I haven’t figured it out yet and I’m finding my lack of confidence in what’s next for me career-wise somewhat disconcerting.

I want to head home to Malaysia, but spending the money coupled with flying 30+ hours to Asia with two very young children is overwhelming. Some days I miss home for what it reminds me of, distance makes you think that all was good. It wasn’t. Still, it’s comfortable to look back at life 20-years ago with softer lenses.

I should work out more, because the additional 10 lbs I’ve gained (thanks breastfeeding) isn’t helping my wardrobe. First world problems. I know.

The kids are, well, kids. Navigating life like the angels, and sometimes terrors (or terrorists. If you have toddlers, you know what I mean), that they are. The baby really needs to figure out how to sleep through the night. It’s not that hard right?

Such is life in the fast lane. The pace that doesn’t seem to stop. Between less than 5-hours interrupted sleep these days, coupled with the madness of daily life, and lately, just exhaustion, it feels like a funk.

Then there’s politics. For goodness sake, can everyone please stop trying to kill each other over political leanings?

Sounds whiny when I read all of this back to myself.  I guess if it’s my occasionally-written-in-blog, I’ll whine. What’s that song again? It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to?

Funky chicken. That’s all I’ve got for now.