The Most Useless Person in the Room

I wanted to say 'in the World," but decided that may not be the case, but I definitely feel like the most useless on this floor.  I have nothing to do.  I had something to do, but was told, "You don't want to work on this."  Apparently they made something up in my absence last night and already sent it out.  "OK, well, I have nothing to do."  I was given another job.  And I finished it in about an hour.  Back to nothing to do.  The traffic coordinator is swamped, the production manager is up to her eyeballs in grand opening stuff.  Half of the art directors are plugging away at the new grilled chicken launch.  And I am blogging, because I have nothing to do.
Any other person would be floored.  Being paid to be on stand-by, just in case something needs to be written.  Just in case the traffic coordinator has time to sort through everything he is working on and find something else for me to do.  But not me, nope, I am not content to sit here idly waiting for an assignment.  I hate it.  Actually, when my tiny little task was ripped away from me, I cried a little.  Not like a true boo-hoo, but a few tears that I can't contain right now.  I long for something to take over my brain, be it something for a hotel, car dealership, amusement park, or restaurant.  But no, nothing can be found.  Leaving me to wrestle with my own thoughts.  Dammit.  I really don't want to think.  Because every time I think, I get sad, angry or frustrated with my life.  With the person living in my spare room.  My MIL.  The most frustrating part is, she is not a bad lady, she's a pretty good mother in law, I mean in the contest between myself and my husband, he definitely got shafted.  But its been so long.  My life is on hold, and at this point, indefinitely.  Who knows how long she will be here.  How long the chemo will take.  The doctor wants to stretch the remaining 23 sessions across the next year.  And we will talk about everything from there.  So another year added to the already 9 months.  And who knows how many more.  How long will my life be on hold?  How much longer will I have to watch my husband wait on her?  How long will my beautiful spare room be in shambles?  How long will I have to stare at her underwear that seems to strew itself across my house, while she ignores its presence and I refuse to touch it?  How many more dinners do I have to stare across my dining room table at her as she picks at the dinner I made, complaining about the temperature, texture, and taste?  How long?  

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