I quit.

After six months of having no life, I quit. 

We returned from Europe on a Sunday.  I was scheduled to work the following Thursday. 

By Wednesday, my stomach was in knots.  I couldn't sleep.  When I did sleep, I had nightmares of the seven machines I ran coming after me.  It was like a really bad horror movie.  I'd hear a noise upstairs.  With nothing to protect myself except a non-working flashlight (picture a slightly heavier, slightly balder Tippi Hedren in The Birds), I'd climb the stairs to find one of the machines glaring at me.  I'd turn and run back downstairs, only to find another machine grinning menacingly as it approached me.  I'd run outside, through the woods, and fall down.  (Of course.)  Rolling onto my back, I'd see all seven machines romping through the trees to feed on me.  I would see my supervisor hiding behind a tree,

«They're gonna git you, Yip!  Not me, I'm a supervisor!  They're after YOU!!  Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!»

C shift is no longer part of my slowly-getting-back-to-normal life.  It was interesting while it lasted, in a sick sort of way.  I met some very nice people, paid off a few bills, financed the trip to Germany/Austria and realized how lucky - if poor - I am to be able to set my own hours at my own company.

I suppose I'll miss the paycheck, small though it was.  I will NOT miss getting out of bed at 3:45 a.m., working 12 hours on my feet constantly, and listening to straight boys talk about their sexual prowess with women.  Then, after getting home, fix dinner, tomorrow's lunch and falling into bed no later than 8:00. 

On days when I wasn't there, I was doing pretty much the same thing at the print shop.  But it's MY print shop!   If I want to sit down, I sit.  If I want a cup of coffee, I drink it.  If I want to write inane missives like this one, I write.

Two full-time jobs is one too many.  Besides that, and more importantly, my father is now home from the assisted living place, and not doing very well.  I get to spend some time with the old boy, make sure he's taking his drugs and generally enjoy NOT being at a hell-hole job.  Even though tending to some of his needs is like a full-time job sometimes.

I got a very nice phone call from my lead man yesterday.  He's been doing his job, and the job I had, because they haven't hired and trained my replacement yet.

«Damn, Yip.  I miss you!  I've been working my ass off!

You won't consider coming back?» 

He was just being nice.  He knows of my father's health, and knows I can't do two jobs and take care of my dad.  But it was nice of him to say, anyway.  Looking back, it's understandable, too.  I mean, I actually DID my job.  A lot of people just leave in the middle of their shift.  No warning, no notice, nothing.  They just get fed up and leave.  Some just decide to not come to work any more.  Some of them never even complete the training sessions.  They're smarter than I am, I suppose.  They realize pretty quickly what a crappy place to work it is.

So halle-freakin'-lujah!  I'm now getting back to life as I knew it pre-C shift!  The wolf is at the door, but my sanity is intact. 

At least as intact as it ever was.

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