Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Life(?) is imitating art(s) again! And as we know, that’s usually not a good thing.
You know Office Space? (of course you do) You know The Bobs? (of course you do) We have a Bobs situation going on at my office space.
It’s painful.
Since February we’ve been told the likelihood of layoffs is high. Since March we’ve been told “we’ll know more sometime in August.” We’re all holding our breath. Some people have jumped ship. But probably not enough to prevent layoffs.
And what do “we” do when “we” are not making enough money to keep employees on staff? “We” bring in consultants and pay them to tell us what the employees have known for years. If someone bothered to read the suggestions in the employee suggestion box we might not be in this situation.
But alas, the key to the suggestion box is lost. Metaphorically and literally lost. The person originally tasked with reading the suggestions in the suggestion box has long since quit and no one can recall where they left the key. I’m guessing someone in our company inherited a desk with a key in the drawer and has no idea what lock it fits.
Which, in a way, is kind of interesting. It renders our suggestion box useless to employees but it transforms it into a time capsule. It’ll be fun and funny to read those suggestions 25 years from now. Let’s just hope they weren’t faxes. Yes. I’m guessing some of those suggestions date back to image fading thermo fax paper that came on a roll and curled up on the edges.*
What with the lost suggestion box key and everything, we have to rely on outside consultants to give us suggestions on how to run our business. And, true to Bobs form, we are being called into spartan conference rooms for one-on-one “chats” with our version of the Bobs.
That’s problematic enough.
But.
Making it worse is that these guys, our the Bobs, are hanging around like they’re employees. They’re “getting to know us.” Hanging out in the break room, sitting in on meetings, sending email, signing the get well cards. I heard a rumor than one of them showed up at a baby shower for one of the gals in accounting.
In short, they walk among us. The ridiculous aspect of this, is, obviously, that we all know who our the Bobs are. We know why they're here. They are not our friends or coworkers. They are conspicuously not us.
We all know they’re acting all friendly and jocular but their motives are ulterior. And they’re making bucks off us. Of course they’re going to pimp our ideas. They might spin them a little differently, but of course they’re just going to regurgitate what we tell them and call it their evaluation. And off they go, into the sunset, onto the next company, the next management consulting gig, the next baby shower bash in a finance department.
Predictable, right? Of course.
But there’s a slight spin on it.
I, uh, I, um, well, I actually like a couple of our Bobs. One in particular impresses me. And not just for his consultant skills.
And I fear this is by design.
I’m cynical enough to think having good looking, younger, hipper consultants is a ruse to get people like me more willing to open up to the consultant. Because, yes, it’s true, if our the Bobs looked and acted like the Bobs, Bobs Classic if you will, I and a few other people would chew them up and spit them out faster than you can say case of the Mondays.
A few of our the Bobs are scarily not management consultant-esque. They are, shockingly, not the Bobs-like. Which is suspect. It could be a ruse to lull us into a false sense of security. The snake tempting Eve with an apple.
"Apples are good for you," the snake reasons.
"I know. I'm tempted, I want to trust you. You're not like other talking scary creatures I've encountered. But you are a scary talking snake and we're not supposed to go in there," Eve counters, staunchly clamming up and not giving in to the snake's rationalization of apples' nutrient value.
"Suit yourself," shrugging, which is an indication that something's not quite right about this guy, snakes don't have shoulders, they shouldn't be able to shrug, "I'm just trying to help you out here. I'm on your side, Eve, I want you to succeed and even prosper. I looked at your work on that last project and read the reports. I thought you were a straight shooter with management written all over you. But if you're not interested in helping me help you then I'll go see what Adam's up to. No biggie."
"Adam from IT? Seriously? You're kidding, right? 'I've kissed so much ass they call me Rim Job' Adam?"
(Chuckles knowingly) "Yeah, he is quite the yes man, isn't he? But, if you're not interested in cooperating what choice do we have?"
We're in a situation. A bind. A "you're not going to beat them, they're not completely awful, so, join them" situation. They're not awful. But. I don't trust them.
That doesn’t change the fact that, even knowing their "not like the other Bobs" approach is part of the ruse, I like a couple of our Bobs.
One in particular has garnered my attention.
And that’s problematic.
A few facts.
He’s intelligent. He’s funny. He’s aware. He’s even keeled. He doesn’t drink coffee. He likes the Pixies. He’s tall. He’s young. But not young enough to sport a stupid Pete Wentz haircut without looking like an idiot. And unfortunately he sports a stupid Pete Wentz haircut.
Actually. That’s fortunate. At times that stupid Pete Wentz haircut is all that comes between me and inappropriate feelings about this particular Bob. When my mind wanders past the stupid Pete Wentz haircut (grant you, that’s difficult to do) I find my mind wandering to places other than work and consultants.
Oh yes. I have a crush.
I know. I know!! It’s been ages.
And it’s wrong on many, many levels. Which of course makes it all the more tantalizing. And I’m 99.999999% certain there isn’t an iota of reciprocated crush. Which of course makes me feel pathetic and stupid. So I need to sort this out and expunge my crush in order to strengthen my armor.
Let’s dissect my Bob of choice so I can get past my crushing on him and get back to worrying about losing my job.
He’s intelligent. Okay. He’s smart. Around my office that’s a rarity so naturally anyone who enters the workplace with a brain behind their degree is going to capture my imagination. And my respect. But. He’s not that smart. He doesn’t know who Douglas Adams is and when I suggested the Guide, he saw the size of the book and panicked. Even though it says, “Don’t Panic” on the cover. “It’s the most brilliant piece of literature of the 20th century, penned by a prophet who foretold the future of HR departments and middle managers,” I said to him when he noticed a copy of it in my office. (Yes. Of course I keep a copy handy. Church Lady gets to have her bibles in her office and take prayer breaks. She prays at her altar, I pray at mine.) And no, no, familiarity of the Guide is not my barometer for intelligence. But. When someone is unfamiliar with the Guide and panics when they see the cover clearly stating, “Don’t Panic” I get bemused. So. The point of this is that he shows signs of intelligence but he’s not brilliance unrivaled. He’s intelligent for a paid management research consultant. He’s intelligent contextually. Okay. So. Good. We’ve knocked his IQ down enough points to make him undesirable.
He’s funny. He has a Flight of the Conchordsesque way of sarcasm. Innocent, unaffected, but, very effective. A lot of people in my office don’t get that he’s being sarcastic, or how funny his delivery is. It redeems his stupid Pete Wentz haircut. In fact, the stupid Pete Wentz haircut might even be an ill-conceived attempt at humor. Hmmmm. I got nuthin’ on disputing his funniness. He’s funny. That’s desirable. I’m going to have to wait and hope he becomes unfunny. Maybe if he starts doing Gallagher routines in the break room.
He’s aware. Within two days of his arrival he started making aside comments about my boss. Funny aside comments. Not just pointing out the obvious. Not that my boss isn’t an easy read. But. Still. No one else makes asides about her. He finds no use for management motivational training seminars held at airport hotels. For this fact alone, this and nothing more, I could make a lifetime commitment to him. He also got Spanglish’s number fast, and I don’t mean her personal mobile number. I mean he not only saw through her routine, he slated her on it on his first day in the office. We all know her antics. We all know she’s getting away with murder, but no one is willing to risk looking like a racist bigot by calling her bluff. This Bob did. On his first day here, no less. That, too, is desirable. No way to get around that one, either.
He’s even keeled. When he makes aside jabs or slates someone he’s “nice” about it. He delivers it in a way that comes across as the voice of caring reason. He seems sincere - not affected or disingenuous - real. We’ve had a few issues, a couple meltdowns in this process. He hasn’t crumbled. He hasn’t showed anger, defensiveness or fear. Then again, he might be on medication. And what does he care? He doesn’t work here. He’ll be gone in a few weeks. So why should he be angry, defensive or afraid? Pffft. Even keeled. Whatever. So not a turn on.
He doesn’t drink coffee. I like that in a man. We could also probably attribute the even keeled thing to a lack of caffeine. Maybe he’s not even keeled. Maybe he’s just tired. Still. He doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t stink up the place with a half full mug of lukewarm mud sloshing around.
He likes the Pixies. Automatic kinship. Automatic points in his favor. Everything else about him could be horrible and he’d still get automatic cred for liking the Pixies. The only thing to dispute here is that he likes some of the covers. While I don’t “mind” the covers, I don’t think the Pixies shine their brightest when they do a cover. And lately it’s starting to feel a little like Rod Stewart’s album of easy listening classics. I realize it’s going to start being stupid for them to sing Velouria on stage, but I’m not ready for them covering Burt Bacharach. Worse, the Bob thought Head On is an original Pixies composition. He wasn’t aware that it’s a cover of a Jesus and Mary Chain hit. He isn’t even remotely aware of the Jesus and Mary Chain. And yes, yes, I know, that makes me a music snob (and old) but it irritated me when he started rattling off his favorite Pixies songs and the list was comprised of a lot of covers. Cha ching. Less desirable. Keep him talking about the Pixies and this crush will be flushed out my system in no time.
He’s tall. And I’ve been in that tall man fantasy land lately. No, he didn’t spark the tall guy exclusivity in my fantasies. I developed that lusting proclivity before his 6’4” frame entered our office. The timing of my tall man fantasy exclusivity is unfortunate. Because he’s tall. No getting around that one, either.
He’s young. This is the passion killer. He is young. And I mean young. Trillian needs to get her groove back, of that there is no doubt. But. This is not the best way to restore my groove. Cougar jailbait aside, the conventional and societal rule of thumb for age appropriateness is that if it would have been biologically possible to push him out of your birth canal he’s too young to enter it from the other direction. I was a late bloomer. I get a few bonus years. Yay me. But. This guy is on the cusp. I need to find out when his birthday is because it’s possible I could have birthed him but not conceived him. But even so, if we’re splitting a few menstrual cycle hairs the kid is too young.
Stupid Pete Wentz haircut. Yes. He’s young. But he ain’t that young. Pete Wentz isn’t young enough to sport a Pete Wentz haircut. If you’re not skipping 7th hour science class to get Mountain Dew Slurpees and go to the skate park you’re too old for a Pete Wentz haircut. And guyliner for that matter. I fear my crush might wear guyliner when he’s off duty. I thought I saw a slight trace of it one morning. He said he was having trouble with his contacts. But I suspect something more sinister at play. Something black and smudgy. And while I don’t give a toss what he does in his personal life, if I’m going to have a crush on him he cannot have a stupid Pete Wentz haircut and wear guyliner. It’s bad enough on 13 year old boys. But on post graduate school professional men? Poof! Attraction vanishes.
So yes, on the plus side, that stupid Pete Wentz hair cut is keeping my modesty and professionalism in tact. When I see a tall choppy headed shadow darkening my door my heart goes pitter, but not pat. When he makes a quick, almost imperceptible jab at my boss my heart only skips half a beat because the accompanying sarcastic roll of his eyes is half covered by the emo swath of hair slicked over his forehead.
When I think about what’s to come, the day of reckoning when our the Bobs deliver their research findings and suggestions, I think of The News being delivered by a guy with a Pete Wentz hair cut. Management research findings lose some credibility when delivered by a guy with a Pete Wentz haircut, don’t you think? I fear that like the Office Space Bobs, our Bobs will call me into the spartan conference room and tell me I’m laid off or that they deem me worthy. Either way, that kind of news delivered from a guy with a Pete Wentz haircut puts a comedic spin on the whole thing. Even more so than the Bobs from Office Space. They look like the kind of guys who deliver that kind of news. It’s all just as you imagine it, the way it should be. But a Bob with a Pete Wentz haircut makes the whole thing off kilter.
And that is what will keep my mind off getting my groove back with my Bob of choice.
* Sadly, we actually still have one of those fax machines. In use. It makes those loud noises and everything. It used to annoy me. It used to embody all that I found wrong with my company. But now I kind of like it. Maybe because I’m getting older and outdated, too, I have a kinship with it. But mainly I like it now because it’s stubborn. It won’t break. And until it does there’s no reason to buy a new one. Yes, you can still order that irritating paper. (We have two cases of it in the stock room, just in case…) It doesn’t get used very often. (When was the last time you sent or received a fax?) So, it’s kind of like Milton (Office Space) Technically it’s fired, but it keeps coming into work. I made it a name plate: Milton. We keep a red Swingline stapler by it. On birthdays us wacky folks in the creative department send it a drawing of a piece of cake.
I'm working on a couple of major serious projects with a couple major serious clients. I'm once again repairing damage done by my boss. (no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose, no I in team, greater good, higher purpose) Part of the damage control is customer service. Good customer service. My boss has a way of trivializing everything into condescending categories. Everything. Everything's "little" and everything falls into one of these four groups: "cute" or "fun" or "silly" or "boring." "Cute little," "fun little," "silly little," or "boring little." I hate fun used as an adjective to describe objects. Parties are fun. Concerts are fun. Shoe shopping is fun. Party hats, however, are not fun. Nor are lighters. Or shoes. "Fun little party hats." "Fun little lighters." "Fun little shoes." On rally day she remarked that there were "all these cute little immigrants on the street with fun little flags." Kill me. Please. Kill me. It's the only humane thing to do. I'm suffering and deserve to be put out of my misery.
Yes. My name is Trillian and I work in Hell.
As you can imagine this way of trivializing everything, (and yes, really, I do mean literally everything, yesterday she noted that my "cute little swelling" had gone down. Now will you kill me? Still don't believe me about her bogus credentials?) this way of trivializing doesn't always set well with the more intelligent and prestigious clients. In fact some of them find it as insulting and offensive as I do. Consequently I am called in to use concepts and a vocabulary beyond my boss' four little groups. I'm a shot at redemption but there's only one bullet in the gun and if I miss on my first shot I don't get another chance. And yes, sure, the obvious blame lies in my boss' original trivial condescension. But we're not about blame, are we? We're about solutions.
I'm an okay problem solver. I don't always hit upon the best solution, but it's usually appropriately creative or at the very least solid and respectable. So, you know, really, I don't mind the actual work. It's the damage control aspect that gets to me. I have to solve several problems at once, an all encompassing solution which solves the original problem while also smoothing over the problems caused by my boss' lack of gravitas.
Which means I have to be ultra professional and respectful.
Again, fine, not a problem. I'm generally not unprofessional or disrespectful.
I worked really late finishing a project for a client who was, shall we say, not amused or impressed by my boss' fun little vernacular. I had made arrangements to drop off the project at their office after hours because time was critical and I wanted them to have it first thing in the morning. Things had been going pretty smoothly to this point. Things seemed to be on a more even keel. I came up with a couple of ideas they really liked, so, things were turning around to a better direction.
And then I got stuck in their elevator.
You heard me.
Stuck in the elevator of their office building.
Alone. After hours. With a security guard on duty who was new on the job. He wasn't sure what to do, he said, over the elevator intercom, so maybe I should call 9-1-1. Yep. Problem solving, and customer service, I am starting to realize, doesn't come naturally to a lot of people. Apparently he couldn’t be bothered with my silly little predicament.
Getting stuck in elevators in Chicago happens. (and other skyscraper laden cities) A fact of life in tall buildings. It's not pleasant, but, it usually doesn't last long. It's usually just something minor. People don't go around plummeting to their deaths in elevator mishaps every day. This was hardly 9-1-1 worthy. I was more annoyed than concerned. And I had no mobile signal to call 9-1-1 anyway.
"I don't have a signal on my mobile. I'm in an elevator. In an interior bank of elevators. Stuck. In an elevator. Kind of impossible for me to call 9-1-1. Maybe you could call for me," I suggested over the elevator intercom, "or maybe ask the maintenance guy if he knows anything about the elevators."
I'd seen an older guy working on a light fixture in the lobby – the kind of older guy who looked like he’s been working in the building so long he’s got the wiring schematics and HVAC vent routes memorized like scripture. And he had a tattoo on his arm, an old tattoo back from the days when only certain types of men got tattoos. Not one of those new fangled wussy boy tats of oriental philosophy symbols or poseur boy barbed wire and dragons. Nope, his was the real deal: An almost naked woman with a US flag draped around her and, you guessed it: Semper Fi written above her. The real deal. My guess is back when he got that tattoo he flexed his lower arm and muscles rippled to wave the, um, “flag.” My observation in life is that guys “like that” are often the type of men who are really good at fixing things or at least coming up with solutions which may not be conventional but get the job done. I was pinning my hopes of rescue on him so yes, I was piling stereotypical qualities on him. Even though there was no trace of muscle on him now and the almost naked woman was sagging with age. But hey, our flag was still there, not gallantly streaming, but still there.
I thought, “Okay, the elevator’s stuck, no big deal, they’ll have me moving in a minute.”
So I just stood there in silence, waiting, expectantly. Musing about how the tattoo guy feels about La Vida National Anthem Loco. Figuring him to be of Viet Nam vet age or possibly Korea. Wondering if he saw any combat. Wondering if he has an inept moron for a boss, too. Wondering if, when he rescued me (now assuming he would be my rescuer) I should compliment him on his tattoo or if he would think coming from me that I was being condescending. Not that I would say, “What a fun little tattoo,” but, you know. I’m not a guy like him or even a guy and not of his generation, so any remark from me about his tattoo might sound sarcastic to his ears. I certainly didn’t want to offend him.
But first he needed to rescue me. And then I needed to drop off the project. And then I really needed to go home and try to get some sleep. So whether or not I should compliment him on his tattoo was nothing more than bored musing while stuck in an elevator. Which I decided is the name of the band I will form when I actually learn how to play guitar and am given a voice which can sing in tune and decide to do the coffee house girl rock folk singer thing. Hey. It could happen. It probably won’t, but it could. At least I’m prepared. At the very least it would make a good title for a book of bad poetry.
Oh Mr. Aging Marine,
My country, tis of thee I sing.
Who is that woman on your arm?
Why can’t I hear the emergency alarm?
Do you value your right to bear arms?
Rescue me from my solitary cell.
Move me, remove me, from this Hell.
Semper Fi. Wi Fi. Hi Fi. High Five!
Rock on, bring ‘em back alive.
I salute you, not persecute you,
When I say I like your tattoo.
I’ve been re-reading a lot of Kerouac lately. Can you tell? Does it show?
Anyway. Stuck. Stuck like gum in the tread of a shoe. Captive. Waiting. Wating for what? Waiting for the elevator to move, the short term solution to my current problem, or something bigger? Bigger. Like an epiphany. Other people have epiphanies in moments like these. Life changing epiphanies. It occurred to me I needed to be having an epiphany. The elevator would be moving soon and I needed an epiphany now! I’d wasted precious epiphany having time musing about the tattoo on the maintenance guy’s arm. I was piecing together his story when I should have been searching my soul.
That last paragraph is the metaphoric story of my life, by the way, and will undoubtedly be used as the pull quote on the side bar of my life.
That last sentence is the closest I came to an epiphany in the stuck elevator. Also a good band name or poetry book title. Epiphany in a Stuck Elevator. Yes. I like that. Shame I didn’t actually have an epiphany other than realizing I needed to stop worrying or caring about other people and have an epiphany. Which I suppose is a sort of micro-epiphany. It’s a start, maybe. But then, by definition epiphanies don’t have a progression, there’s not an arc or timeline. They’re jolts. They start and end all at once. You don’t really “start” to have an epiphany. They just kind of hit you, jolt you all at once, Blam! “I just had an epiphany!” It’s never, “Hmmmm, you know what, I think I’m coming down with an epiphany. Or the flu. Too soon to tell which right now, but I’ll be taking the next few days off work just in case I’m contagious or need to completely alter the course of my life.”
Right. Stuck in the elevator. Still. Stuck. Stuck like gum in the tread of a shoe. I pressed the alarm again. It was now almost twenty minutes since I first became stuck. No voice responded to the alarm. Hoping the elevator intercom might still be on I called out, “Hallloooo? Hello? Anyone? Someone? It’s me, the woman in the stuck elevator? I called down for help? Remember me? Hello?”
No response and now the alarm was buzzing.
Stuck in an elevator, a small 10’ x 10’ chamber of isolation and the loud buzz of an alarm. Could be worse, I thought. Really. It could be worse. It could be Zydeco.
Still. I realize they were probably scrambling to fix the problem and very aware than a woman was stuck in one of their elevators, but you know, as a common courtesy you might think they’d check in on me, say hello, try to pacify me with a “help is on the way” or something.
But no.
So I sat down. On the floor. In a skirt. Who cares, right? Not like anyone’s going to see me.
The buzzing was getting really annoying so I pulled out the Pod and turned the volume low so I could hear the intercom when someone bothered to talk to me from Down Below.
I clicked on my “Stuck in an Elevator Trying to Drown Out the Buzz of the Alarm” playlist, heretofore known as my “Bang Your Head” playlist.
And that it is how it came to happen that three firemen, the maintenance guy with the old tattoo, the doorman and my client found me sitting on the floor of the elevator in skirt with legs spread singing and enthusiastically air guitaring AC/DC’s Money Talks.
May God have mercy on her soul.
Apparently the elevator wasn’t stuck at all. The door on the client’s floor was simply locked. So when I pushed that floor’s button, the elevator whisked me there but the door wouldn’t open because it was in secure mode. As a security feature, the elevator goes into “locked” mode until someone on the outside presses the up or down button to summon it. Meaning, the doorman in the lobby would have merely had to push the lobby elevator button and the elevator would have returned me to the lobby. Or, if someone on the floor where I was locked happened to push the up or down button, the door would open. That’s what one of the firemen told me. The nice one who winked at me and said he always thought Razors Edge was better than Back in Black.
Apparently they didn’t figure out any of this until after the rescue party unlocked another elevator, rode to the floor where the main elevator board said I was stuck, met up with my client who decided to work late and wait for me to show up with the projects (and who had no idea I was there or stuck until the firemen showed up in the hall outside the office, thought they heard a buzzing down the hall but didn’t investigate), pushed the up button and discovered me impersonating Brian Johnson and Angus Young on the floor of the elevator. In a skirt. With my legs splayed all over the place.
Silly little Trill.
I had my epiphany. And that epiphany was: I’m an idiot. You were right. I’m an idiot.
You know, there’s just nowhere to go but down after that. Figuratively and literally. There’s not one possible solution to the problem which doesn’t involve turning in your resignation, selling everything you own and moving to Newfoundland.
“Heh heh. Hi guys. Heh, wow, right here on the floor all along. Imagine that. Huh. Har har. Thanks for the rescue. Hi client, um, here’s your project. We can take a minute to go over it if you’d like…”
Which we did, and I think they were pretty happy with it and maybe, possibly, they’ll take the unique circumstances of the situation into consideration before passing judgment and dismissing me with the same impression and accusations of unprofessionalism they voiced over my boss. Maybe they’ll forget it or at least never speak of it. Or maybe they’ll laugh about it or spread the story all over town. On the one hand I don’t really care, you know, for my sake. I don’t personally care that I was air guitaring and singing AC DC on the floor of a stuck elevator (in a skirt, don’t forget that) and got “caught.” Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Glass houses and all that, right? But. There I was running damage control to an already shaky reputation my boss earned and trying to be all professional and full of decorum and respect and everything and, well, yeah. You get the picture.
Silly little Trillian.
I had a job and some money coming in,
Trying to get ahead, but couldn't win.
Days were a struggle and nights were lonely,
But I toiled away hoping and thinking, "if only..."
Then one night stuck in elevation,
I pulled the plug on my own reputation.
"Come on, come on, love me for the money,"
If it weren't so ironic it would be funny.
Offended a client and work it did stop,
That's why I'm singing bad poetry in a coffee shop.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
In case it’s not being enforced, I mean celebrated in your workplace, here’s a reminder: Today is Administrative Professionals’ Day.
It used to be Secretaries’ Day.
But that was back in the unPC dark ages when the now degrading term secretary was a commonly used job title and description.
Now we’re all enlightened and we know ambiguous, vague nondescript, open for interpretation job titles and descriptions are better for everyone.
By definition of the word administrative anyone who actually does something, anything, executes or manages anything at all, is an administrator. There are varying degrees of professionalism so I suppose there are arguments to be made for who qualifies as an Administrative Professional. I’m thinking if you go to work on a regular basis and actually do something for the business you qualify as an Administrative Professional.
But.
When I present this argument to anyone in my office I’m met with almost hostile responses. When I press for qualifications of administrative professionals, I get a vague list of job responsibilities which include basic office chores. Secretarial functions.
I don’t consider myself to be a throwback to old school office ranking. I understand why in many cases the term secretary is degrading and completely inappropriate to the actual work done by the person in that role. I realize administrative professional is a really good catch all term for a lot of people who essentially manage the office and business, making sure things get done, paying attention to details, making things run smoothly and often actually doing their boss’ jobs. I understand this.
But.
When Administrative Professionals’ Day roles around, boy, you better make darned sure you’re very clear on who’s who in your office.
The day is here and I’m still confused.
Smelly Coffee Woman makes copies, types, files and answers phones. She also compiles data and maintains a database. Administrative Professional or middle manager worker bee?
Spanglish flirts with the copier repair guy and sometimes answers phones. Administrative Professional or slacker wasting space and money and time in the office?
My new administrator doesn’t type, make copies or file, but she does answer the phone sometimes and helps sort out financial processes, consults with vendors and keeps track of job schedules. Administrative Professional or middle management process manager?
And yet, all of these people are to be feted on Administrative Professionals’ Day. I’m not saying they don’t deserve praise and recognition for the work they do. Of course they deserve recognition. (okay, maybe not Spanglish)
But, um, doesn’t everyone deserve recognition for their daily efforts in the office?
We’ve got Boss’ Day and Administrative Professionals’ Day.
We’re all supposed to fit into one of those categories, I guess.
But.
Because of the vague open for interpretation vernacular this is not the case in most offices.
Most offices have one “real” boss, one or two “Administrative Professionals” and a lot of other people.
All us other people get stuck doling out donations for presents, flowers, cards, lunches, theatre tickets...for the boss and for the Administrative Professionals on the designated days. We give them rewards, recognition for, um, well, doing their jobs. The things they’re paid to do.
Yes. I’m Scroogelike about this. I do believe a job well done is its own best reward. Well. That and a paycheck commensurate with the skills required and quality of the job well done. If you’re not going to reward and/or recognize everyone on special days for, um, doing their job, then don’t do it at all. Yes, I understand it's a "nice" thing to do, but, there's a very, very thin line between positive reinforcement and bribery. And most cultural and political climates in offices I know tip the scale heavily to the bribery side of the line.
No one gives up the cash for the rest of us. Those of us who are not The Boss and are not considered Administrative Professionals. Us, the lost souls of the office. Toiling away in a state of limbo between The Boss and Administrative Professional. We're in: Office Status Purgatory. Working hard and paying dues until we get promoted or demoted.
That's why there is no Creative Services Managers’ Day.
There is no Art Directors’ Day.
There is no Marketing Analysts’ Day.
There is no Web and New Media Reviewers’ Day.
There is no Financial Services, Payroll Managers’ Day. (Speaking of bribery, why don't payroll professionals have their own day of recognition? Aren't these the people in the office we should all be bribing, I mean recognizing and thanking?)
There is no Human Resources Training Developers’ Day.
We're in Office Status Purgatory. Maybe doomed to toil there forever or maybe not. But shelling out for the Administrative Professional gifts, cards, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets is a must if we don't want to stay floating in limbo for eternity.
We work hard, too, often quietly doing work that no one else wants to or can do. We often make the rest of the department or company look good. We make our copies and do our own typing and answer our phones and somehow manage our jobs and our lives all in 24 hours a day.
And yet we don’t have special days on the calendar. We don’t get presents and flowers and lunch and theatre tickets. (seriously, why are we coughing up cash for three people AND THEIR DATES to see Wicked at a price of $175/ticket? Why? Why? Why?) We get nothing. Heck in my case I barely get acknowledgement for the work I produce. But then again, I don’t think I’m unique. Most people in that "not the boss but not the administrative professional” ranking don’t get a lot of recognition or praise for our professional efforts. We come to work, do our jobs, and, you know, that’s pretty much the sum total of our existence in the office. Which is fine, I’m okay with that. Life. Work. Whatever.
But. Why should a select few people be anointed and feted while the rest of us cough up the cash for the presents and festivities? And don’t you dare sit there thinking it’s because we earn more money. Let me tell you a thing or two about Spanglish. She earns a very handsome salary for someone who can’t be bothered to speak English or Spanish in an office.
And yet we’re giving her flowers and lunch and theatre tickets to her and the boyfriend of her choice.(Yeah, it was the theatre tickets which really pushed me over the edge this year.)
Not participating is not an option.
Period.
Office politics.
Expectations.
All of that stuff.
I have to play nice and play by the unwritten rules. Because I have to work with these people. It’s a social obligation of the office.
I’m not big on tit for tat, keeping score is not my style.
I don’t want a special recognition day or presents or lunch or flowers. (though a theatre ticket would be nice, and I only need one)
But why doesn’t this madness end? Stop the insanity. Take away the recognition days and take away the expectation. I’m obviously not an official Administrative Professional, but, I am a person. And I find individual, personal, sincere recognition for a specific job or continuing good job performance is much more meaningful than “here’s your card, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets, happy Administrative Professionals’ Day, take off the rest of the afternoon.” It’s the whole, “If I have to ask you to give me flowers they don’t really mean anything” syndrome.
The problem is that everyone has to agree to stop it. Because even cynical old me doesn’t want some administrative professionals left out of the festival of delights while others enjoy gifts, cards, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets. That’s not fair or just or ethical. So until we all, globally, stop the insanity, it will continue.
This is how Valentine’s Day got so out of control.
So. Here we are. Again. administrative Professionals’ Day.
I had to fork over a lot of money for gifts, flowers, lunch and theatre tickets so I’m broke.
If you had to do the same, here’s my gift to you: Thanks for taking part in a greeting card company induced scam to bilk millions of people out of money solely to keep up appearances in the office and “do the right thing.” You’ll get nothing in return except administrative professional coworkers who will, um, lessee, oh yeah, do their job. The thing they get paid to do. No one’s giving you gifts or flowers or theatre tickets or even a card for doing your job, but I’m saying, “Happy employed person day. Great job, thanks, why don’t you take off a few minutes early today.”
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
I’ve had bad days. I’ve had good days. I’ve had in-between days. Life, you know? Ups, downs, middles.
But yesterday will go down as one of the weirdest days in my life thus far.
My boss loudly and publicly took credit for some of my ideas and then after basking in the “glory” and enjoy the pats on the back for “her” clever ideas, she very quietly, clandestinely, emailed me telling me to get to work on the projects. Instead of adding the work to my to-do list or replying to her email, I got up, walked to her office, kept the door open, made sure her boss was in the office next door and and said, “You took credit for these ideas, so you must think they’re good. Thanks, by the way, remember me and my bank account at review time. But since you were so eager to present them as your ideas, and as you know I’m really busy with a lot of other projects, how about if you do the work on these projects? How about flexing some of those skills you learned in your extensive collegiate career and previous jobs?
This was a major jab at the fact that I know she lied on her resumé and did not attend the college from which she claims to have earned an MBA, nor did she work in the positions she claims to have worked at the agency where she worked prior to getting this job. Yes. I know, people “fudge” on this stuff all the time. But. That doesn’t make it right, and it certainly doesn't excuse the fact that she’s completely incompetent and incapable of doing the job she was hired to do. She knows I know she lied about her credentials - because I innocently (yes, back then it was innocent chit chat) asked her about the people she would have worked with at her alleged previous job, and she didn’t know any of them. Since I do know some of them I bothered to ask them about her, and well, yeah. A huge, huge cat was let out of a bag. Ditto when I asked her about some of the classes she would have taken in pursuit of her alleged MBA. Her lack of knowledge and skill was already obvious, but when I asked her pointed questions about her classes she shirked it off with “that was so long ago, the program is all different now.” Maybe so, but I’m guessing even 20 years ago a major and highly acclaimed university was teaching marketing students basics about demographics. So. She knows I know. I don’t make a big deal about it, I don’t ridicule and mock her in the oh so many ways I could - she gives me so many opportunities on a daily basis - I just quietly do my job, avoid her as much as possible and live on the hope that at some point she’ll fall into the grave she’s dug for herself. Give her enough rope and all that.
Right. So. For some reason yesterday she pushed me over the edge. I am very busy. Extremely busy. And yes. I do have some serious personal stuff going on in my life. So, you know, I assume it’s me being sensitive and stressed beyond reason. Because I generally assume it’s me. No one else has a problem with her, so it must be me. Then again...she did publicly and loudly take credit and accept plaudits for my ideas. Again. For the bazillionth time. Was it the last straw? No. Not really. There wasn’t an award or national acclaim or money involved this time so, you know, kind of a minor incident compared to what she’s stolen from me in the past. I was calm. I was “rational.” I was nonconfrontational.
(Well. I mean. I suppose by definition of the fact that I confronted her with the truth about the ideas and subsequent work I was confrontational, but I wasn’t threatening. Passive aggressive, I think would be the appropriate term. Maybe a bit smug. The “we both know I know and if you’re smart you’ll roll with my suggestion so this doesn’t escalate into something really ugly” strongly implied. And no one, not one person in my department or even in my company, would refute the fact that I am extremely busy for the next month so she can’t make any protests against me about that.)
But she was nonetheless less than eager to take on the work. “Ha ha, that’s your job Trillian. You’re the expert on this. I can’t do that. I wouldn’t even know where to start!” Yes. She openly admitted that. Loudly.
“Maybe you’ll have to hire out the work because I can’t possibly manage this and keep on deadline with my other projects. Whatever the case, you took credit for the ideas, so you can go ahead and follow up with their completion,” I said and walked away.
Next thing I knew my boss’ boss was calling me into her office for a “chat.”
About my attitude. I’m insubordinate. There’s no I in team.
Yes.
Really.
The “there’s no I in team” platitude was used on me.
Me. The one who works long days and weekends for the greater good of the projects and clients. Me the one who brings in good treats for everyone. Me the one who always, always volunteers to take on extra work when someone has a family or social obligation and can’t work late. Me the one who makes sure other peoples’ efforts and ideas are credited and publicly noted for their brilliance. Me who bothers to ask the quiet ones in the office about their weekends or their children or their pets or hobbies or whatever I’ve bothered to get to know about them. Me the one who knows my boss lied on her resumé and about her credentials and yet says nothing and tries to pretend to respect her. Me the one who regularly goes above and beyond my job description for clients. Me the one who deals with “difficult” clients so other people in the department can be spared the stress. Me the one who (in real life) keeps her complaints to herself, doesn’t gossip and tries to find the positive aspects of even the worst projects. Me who keeps my personal life and problems to myself and tries not to let it interfere with work. There’s no I in team.
Swut.
What do you say when presented with a Successories platitude from your senior manager? I mean, what can you say? And still keep your job, that is.
“Okay, sorry. I’ll work on my attitude. I’m under a lot of pressure with these projects right now. I try to keep it in check, but I must be having a bad day. Sorry.”
An hour later I got an email from my boss. She signed my entire unit up for a three day seminar in marketing.
I’m not kidding.
Okay. First of all, four of us in my unit have degrees and several years experience in marketing. Two others (my boss included) have alleged degrees in marketing. Second of all, we’re super busy, like insane busy. Three days out of the office is, well, not appropriate for any one of us let alone the entire staff. Thirdly, the seminar is a beginning marketing seminar - I’m all for new ideas, but this is basic, fundamental, marketing 101 stuff. Marketing for people who are not in the marketing business. I mean, we’re the ones who could be leading the seminar, not taking it. Fourthy, it’s expensive. Really expensive. Instead of spending the money on a useless seminar, why not give us tuition reimbursement for a credible class in something actually useful?
If I were a conspiracy theorist I would say, “My boss is running scared and realizes she’s finally going to have to put up or shut up in terms of her alleged credentials.” But I’m not a conspiracy theorist. And that would also imply my boss is smart and ambitious enough to actually do something about her lack of experience.
Right. So. Boss. Senior manager. Really bizarre behavior, even for them.
So I took a much needed lunch break. My cruiser bike, my get around town bike, had an issue. A broken pedal. Which I suspected was more than a broken pedal. So at lunch I took it into my friendly neighborhood bike shop to see if they could help me either fix or replace the pedal.
Okay. My cruiser bike is not slick or expensive or whatever. I know this. But with the theft rate of bikes in Chicago (I’ve had two stolen) it doesn’t exactly pay to have a good bike sitting unattended all day while you’re at work. Even with mega locks. And I ride a couple of miles to work on city streets, not the actual Tour de France.
So there’s my justification and defense of my cheap cruiser bike. I am well aware that it’s a cheap cruiser bike. I’m well aware there are better bikes. And I even know why they’re better. I actually do know a thing or two about bikes. And I knew the pedal threads were suspect and that I would probably need to replace the whole crankshaft. Yes. I even know what a crankshaft is and why it would need replacing.
So I walked into the bike shop with the pedal and my bike and said, “Hi, I have a little problem here, har har.”
The über cool girl with a lot of tattoos and multicolored hair and really neato sneakers at the service desk (it’s a small shop but efficient - they have a service area) said, “Uh oh. That doesn’t look good. I bet your threads are stripped.”
“Yeah, I suspect that, too. What do you think? Can this bike be saved?” I asked.
“ha ha. Any bike can be saved but always at a price. Depends on what it’s worth to you. Hey Mick, can you take a quick look at this?” she called to the repair area.
Mick, an older guy who looks like the sort of guy who’s worked a lot of odd jobs in his life but has a keen ability with mechanical things, but not exactly a guy who looks like he spends a lot of time actually riding a bike, came out with a heavy sigh and said, without looking at the crankshaft or the pedal, “Have to replace the whole thing. It’ll take a couple of weeks for the parts. It’ll be about 50 bucks. The bike’s not worth that.”
Okay, dude. Let’s talk attitude for a minute here, shall we? Me: Paying customer. You: Middle aged bike shop repair dude.
I just spent an hour with my senior manager talking at me about my attitude and you have the nerve to blow attitude and offend a customer? A customer, a girl, with a problem with her bike? Okay, sure, I’m not exactly the damsel in distress type, but still. A girl with a problem with her bike willing to pay money to have it fixed. I realize working on my cheap cruiser is not exactly the pinnacle of thrills in the fast paced world of bike repair shops, but, c’mon.
Bike shop guys, record store clerks, waiters, art gallery receptionists...where the swut do these people, service people get off with their attitude? You work in a swutting service industry for minimum (or subminimum) wage. I realize income does not equate knowledge or skill. I too, am grossly underpaid, but, how about a little perspective on the situation and a little humility? Why would anyone pay money, sometimes a lot of money, to give patronage to a store/restaurant where they are treated badly by the employees?
Yet, we do it. We want to buy records, or bikes, or go out to eat or to galleries. So we endure often really, really bad attitude and denigration by employees at these places. Employees with a snobbery level unsurpassed for people who earn so little money. (Again, I realize money isn’t and shouldn’t be an indicator of grace or intelligence or manners, I’m just saying, for people who earn so little money in the service, SERVICE industry, they sure do have big ideas about their importance.)
The über cool girl also obviously felt repair guy was rude and said, “Mick, she’s in a bind, can you just throw it on the rack and help her limp home with it?”
“Naw. Not worth it. I’m busy anyway, and it’ll just fall out in a mile,” Mick said and went back into the repair room.
“Sorry,” the girl said.
“S’okay. I figured as much. Bike’s not really worth the repair anyway. Just thought I’d ask.” (why was I apologizing and downgrading my own bike? I have no idea - I had no reason to apologize for myself or my bike. And yet Mick invoked this humility in me. I wasted his precious time.)
Über cool girl then pulled out a catalog and flipped through some pages. “Hang on a minute, I think we can order a new crankshaft and hook you up with a cheap set of pedals, I mean, it won’t take that long except for the wait for the part to be ordered.” She ran the numbers. The estimate was $40 and two week’s wait for the part. “It’ll cost you less than having to buy another bike. Roll your bike back here if you want and we’ll have another guy work on it.”
Which was cool, you know, cool. Fine. Redemption for the friendly neighborhood bike shop.
But Mick, who is the kind of guy who always has to be right or noisy or obnoxious, said to the über cool girl, pointedly, on purpose loud enough for me to hear, “Don’t store that piece of junk where customers can see it.”
Thanks for the insult, Mick. Nice doing business with you.
Got back to work. Weirdness continued.
Smelly Coffee Woman. Ye gads. Smelly Coffee Woman. Well. She’s got problems. Issues. Medication. Smelly flavored coffee. She came into my office, I guess just to say hi. I can’t really call what came next a conversation. It was more random words thrown into the air. “Ooooh, I like bananas.” (there was no conversation about bananas, there were no bananas in my office, no photos of bananas, no monkeys, nothing to elicit a remark about bananas.)
“Really. Huh. High in potassium,” I said.
“Oooooh, this book looks interesting! Look at all those pretty colors! What’s Quark?!” she said as she gazed at my book shelf and reached for a copy of a Quark user’s guide.
“Um, layout program,” I responded, shortly, hoping she’d get the hint I was busy and that she’d take her smelly flavored coffee and leave my office.
“Oooooh, I’m so glad they fixed that clock across the street,” she said, floating, yes, floating to my window.
“Um. Yeah. That’s cool,” again, short, concise, get the swut out of my office tone implied.
“My skirt is ready for Spring! Flowers! I love flowers!” she said.
Okay. I was seriously getting concerned for her health. She can be sort of flaky but even for her this random dispensing of weirdness was weird.
“Yeah, it’s finally Spring. I tulips are poking up, daffodils are out, you’re wearing your flowery skirt, yep, Spring is in the air!” I said trying to keep the attitude light.
“I’m having pizza for dinner,” she responded.
Yes. It was like talking to a four year old. Random thoughts flying all over the place - short statements about, well, not much of anything.
“Huh. Pizza. Yum yum. I think I saw some coupons for Gino’s in the breakroom,” I offered, hoping maybe she’d chase up the coupons and leave my office.
“I was five minutes late this morning,” she responded.
“Well, you know, I don’t think that’s a big deal. I bet no one even noticed,” I assured her.
“OOOOooooooh! Pez! Pink Panther Pez! I could never get the candy loaded in Pez!” she said, eyeing and then grabbing a Pink Panther Pez which has been on my desk for at least two years, a Pez she has undoubtedly seen on every trip into my office with her smelly coffee, and yet acted as if a) she’d never seen it and b) that she was examining a Pez dispenser for the first time in her life, like a baby discovering its hand.
Then, in a baby voice, held the Pink Panther Pez to my ear and said, “I wuv Twiwwian, she’s my bestest friend in the worwd.”
Okay. Not that I don’t goof around and do stupid stuff, because I do. But. This was beyond weird and not exactly in keeping with her usual personality, and certainly not in the context of our normal dialogs.
“har har, um, look, Smelly Coffee Woman, I am smack in the middle of a couple of big projects, so, um, maybe we could talk later?”
“Right, okay chief,” and off she went, singing.
Okaayyyyyy.
So, should I do something about what is obviously bizarre behavior, possibly and quite probably a medication reaction? If so, what? Call her supervisor or someone in HR and say, “Smelly Coffee Woman’s floating around my office and talking baby talk?” I mean, if there’s a problem (and obviously there is) I want to help her, but, on the other hand...describing her behavior to someone else, and explaining why it might be indicative of a problem, a mental or medication problem, is not exactly easy. And telling her she’s acting weird didn’t seem appropriate, and besides, whatever’s giving her that high on life buzz is obviously making her feel really good. For all I know she’s drunk or stoned, in which case I don’t want to get her in trouble. And I don’t want to kill her buzz. If she’s found a way to cope with our office, I mean, good for her. Maybe she had the “no I in team” lecture, too, and adjusted her attitude accordingly.
I seriously pondered what, if anything, I should do about “her” for the rest of the afternoon. I checked in on her before I left the office and she was cutting out flowers from colored copier paper. She seemed, you know, happy. I told her to be careful going home and to enjoy her pizza. She just stood there in the copy room singing and said, “Okeeeeee dokeeeeee Twiwwian!”
Yeah. Gimme some of that. I want to be comfortably numb, too.
Right. So. I left work at a regular person time because my bike was now in the shop and I was meeting a guy for drinks at this place by my compartment. I wanted to get home, change and get there in time so I took the bus.
I rarely take the bus. Because whenever I take the bus something happens. You meet the most interesting people on the bus.
It was starting to rain, it was rush hour, so the bus was packed. I shuffled to the back and stood, holding the overhead hand rail. There was a woman to my right and a guy to my left. I had the Pod engaged. I was in that bus rider zoned out zone. Aware but tuned out.
And then I felt someone touching my wrist. Okay. Not touching, more like caressing. Lingering. Not like, “oops, the bus is really crowded and my hand brushed against yours,” but like, well, lingering, purposely caressing my wrist.
I yanked my hand away and pulled out the Pod ear bud in one swift motion. And looked at who was caressing me. It was the guy next to me. A regular looking guy. I didn’t say anything, but gave him a “what the swut?” look.
The bus jerked to a stop and I reached for the railing again.
The guy said, “I’m sorry. I was just standing here staring at your wrist and it just looked so beautiful I had to touch it. I’m sorry. I don’t usually touch people on the bus. It’s just, your wrist, I dunno, it, well, look at it,” he said, motioning to my wrist. The woman sitting in the seat below us and the woman standing to my right both craned around to get a look at this guy and then at my wrist. They gave him “you weird freak” looks and clutched their purses tightly. I looked a the woman next to me. Someone behind us exited the bus. We both made a dash for the empty spot.
Okay. It’s not every day I get compliments about body parts, or compliments in general.
So. You know. I guess I should be “happy” there’s a guy on the planet who finds my wrist attractive, caress inducing attractive, no less.
But.
Um.
Okay look, as much as I really want a man in my life, and as much as it would be nice to have a man in my life who finds at least one thing about me attractive, a guy who just goes ahead and reaches out and caresses complete strangers on buses is probably not the guy for me. Call me a snob, call me paranoid, but let’s just say I did (freakishly) hook up with this guy. Every time he got on a bus I’d be wondering if he was caressing other women's’ wrists. I don’t need that complication in my life. And besides, who said anything about him being interested in anything more than caressing my wrist on a crowded bus?
Right.
So.
I got home, changed and went on a date.
With a guy who seemed you know, okay. Ish. Sort of. You know. For me.
We had a drink and conversation was going okay. Not sparks and chemistry and all that stuff, but no awkward pauses and hey, he showed up and stuck around. Those constitute big improvements in my love life. Combined with the earlier stranger on the bus caressing my wrist I think we can say ol’ Trill is back in the game.
But then conversation turned to restaurants in the area. I mentioned a particular restaurant I like. He then told me, in way too vivid detail, what biological function happened after the last time he ate there. Including gestures indicating size. “...I mean, it was like THIS long and like this big around, like giving birth!”
Yes.
He was discussing what you’re thinking he was discussing. On a first date.
Okay. I’m no prude. Really. I’m not uptight. I’ve taken care of young children. And an infirm mother. And a cat. These things are facts of life. You know, “everyone poops.” Which is why unless you’ve got a health problem and are talking to a doctor, there is no need to discuss it. At least not on a first date. When you’re contemplating going to dinner. Kinda lost my appetite. I’m guessing this guy was “just not that into me” because I’m thinking no man over the age of 12 who wants to have sex with a woman will break into a conversation about poop. His poop. Yeah. Real class act.
I thought, you know, maybe he’s just really comfortable with me. Maybe he thought it was funny. Maybe he thought I might be able to offer insight into his experience. Maybe he thought I’d share one of my experiences. Who knows? Are you a guy? Have you ever discussed your bowel movements with a woman on a first date?
I’ve met a lot of men. Dated a lot of men. I’m no Spring chicken. I’ve been around a few blocks. And yet, this guy managed to give me something no man has ever given me on a first date: Intimate details about his intestines and bowels.
I was speechless. Really. I just sat there trying to not look shocked (I’m no prude, it wasn’t the graphic subject matter, per se, but the fact that he was talking about it on a date that “shocked” me and I didn’t want him to be confused at the source of my surprise.) I sat there wondering what to say. I didn’t want to encourage more of this conversation, but then, how do you segue into another topic when a person is recounting a bathroom tale with such enthusiasm? “Huh. Wow. Huh.” was pretty much what ended up coming out of my mouth. Which he must have taken as encouragement because then, then he went on to tell me about other dumps he’s had after eating at various other restaurants.
Yes.
This is apparently his version of Zagat’s. This is apparently how he rates restaurants.
Call me picky. Go ahead. Really. Call me too picky. But I don’t want to date G.G. Allin and there is no way I can reasonably consider this man as a viable dating option. Right? The guy is fascinated with his poop. Or, well, at least he was during our date. That’s not good, right?
The guy gave me one of those sort of weak hug/not hug things at the end of the date. (arms around me but not quite touching me, which was totally fine with me. There was nothing to indicate he was, um, “unclean” but, well, you know. The visual of his gestures indicating size and, um, diameter, was firmly planted in my retina and, well, yeah. I’m a visual person and thinking about those hands making those gestures and then touching me, well, okay, maybe I am an uptight prude, but, well, ewwwww)
Fortunately I was in my ‘hood so I walked home. Got there and guess who had already left a message? Poopyhead. Shitz Ewww. Him.
Yes. He’s interested in me. By golly, we’ve got a hot one, here! Why am I not surprised by this? It was the weirdest day in a long time that’s why. It stands to reason I’d meet a guy who discusses his personal, well, that on a first date and that he’d be into me.
The icing on the cake of this great day? Furry Creature “missed” his box and there on the floor was a reminder of that great guy I’d just met.
Which pretty much sealed the deal as a weird day.
Here’s my question, though: So there’s this guy who likes me. But he appears to be fascinated with, well, poop. Other than that he seems, you know, okay. Ish. Sort of. For me. Did I mention he likes me? Right. So. Should I see him again? Give him another chance? I’ve never been in this situation. I see it as an indication of his lack of maturity, but maybe it was nerves or an offbeat sense of humor or, well, I don’t know, should I cut him slack?
If you want to make a good impression on a woman, you know, if you really like her and want to see her again and maybe even have sex with her, do not discuss bodily functions on your first date. Oh sure, she might seem cool and laid back and you might feel really comfortable around her and you might think, "hey, she might as well get to know the real me right up front" but if the real you is fascinated with feces, you might want to reconsider sharing that with her. She might not be uptight but it will make her think about what you might say in front of her friends or parents who might be uptight or at least old school in the taboo topic area. And, well, it's not exactly a turn-on for women. She's going to assume the belch and fart jokes are going to come next. And. Well. Even if this is your true nature, and even if she's cool with it, let her make the first move in this area. If she makes a joke or remark about, well, that then you've got your all clear for discussing that topic. Congratulations, you've met your match. If she doesn't bring it up or even remotely allude to it, and you really like this girl, control yourself man, control yourself. Save it for the night out with the guys. This is one area where an air of mystery is a very, very good thing.
Monday, March 27, 2006
UPDATE: Mother
The nursing home sucked. Big time. But it was short lived. My mother developed another health issue which required emergency transport back to intensive care. More emergency procedures. More required surgeries. More morphine. More doctors. More specialists. More tests. More confusion. More anxiety. More helplessness. More fear. More paranoia. More stress. More tears. More wondering how much more she's going to be made to suffer and fearing the answer will come with either more suffering or an abrupt end. But hey, at least she's not in a nursing home.
That's all I have to say about that without going through an entire box of tissues and banging my head against a wall and cursing life, the Universe, God and anyone else I can think of for putting my mother through this.
UPDATE: Lower paying job.
I was very tempted to take that job. But. I couldn't find a less expensive place to live, a way out of my current lease or anyone to sublet my compartment. And I couldn't see any of that happening in the next weeks. And after going over my budget, again, I reached the conclusion: There's nothing left to cut. I won't get into the realizations I discovered when I looked for ways to cut expenses. But let's just say I'm already living on the edge of reality with my finances. I haven't owned a car for years, I rarely spend the money to take public transportation (the bus is a luxury for when I'm feeling flush and it's raining and my asthma's acting up), I have medical expenses, I pay a lot of income taxes, I have next to no social life, there is at least one week in every month that I fast one or two days so I can feed my cat, yet I have permabloat because I'm living on pasta and beans (store brand), when the tea gift basket I received as a gift runs out I'll be drinking nothing but water. I rely on friends' cast offs for clothes, books, movies and magazines.
I know, I know, I dug myself into this hole. I'm not blaming anyone but me - it's all my fault I broke my ankle and got in a car accident and cracked a tooth and had pneumonia which made my asthma worse and racked up thousands of dollars in medical and dental expenses. It's my fault I moved to a compartment I can barely afford even though according to the Chicago Tribune I'm actually paying the low end of the rent scale in the city.
So. Trying to live on $666.666666 less per month: Not feasible. And really kind of stupid to consider. Oh sure, the whole idealistic thing. Peace of mind. Happier mental state. Change is good. All true. But. Change for the worse is not good. I've become so accustomed to making do and doing without that I didn't realize just how meager my needs have become. Oh sure, a pair of shoes on sale now and then, a drink after work once a month or so...but as I took a good look around the compartment I realized: Everything I have is old. Most everything I own is more than five years old, much of it a lot older than that. If it's less than five years old it's either cheap, a gift or a castoff from a friend or relative. No big deal, my needs are small. But. Where in that equation is there room to cut $666.666666 per month from my budget? I pay rent and bills. Whatever little bit is left after that is used to feed the cat and transport myself to visit my sick mother. How's that for sounding pathetic when put in writing? But, there you have it: My life. So no. I didn't take that job. And for the most part I don't regret the decision. I regret that the job didn't pay more, but I don't regret my decision to not take it. Though it does make me shut myself up when I feel angry/resentful/fed up with my boss and job because, you know, hey, I had a way out, another opportunity, and I didn't take it. I chose to stay.
I have a lot more to say about that but I won't because it makes my head hurt.
UPDATE: Blind date guy.
Called to apologize for not taking me to dinner when he said he would. Note that he didn't apologize for being a rude, inconsiderate jerk. Note that he didn't offer to take me out again. But he did apologize for not doing what he said he would. This is called: Trying to assuage his guilt. He now feels absolved of guilt because, hey, he apologized. And then went into a lengthy and very detailed explanation of why it's really all my fault. Yeah, but, he's the one who kept calling and emailing and said he really like you, Trill. How is that your fault?
He explained that to me. "Women like me" need to wake up and realize men don't want us. "Women like me" should get married when we're very young because youth is all we have going for us. "Women like me" need to find satisfaction and fulfillment in their careers and volunteer work. Because "women like me" will never be what men want. Why would a man over 30 date me when there are much prettier younger girls who are just as smart or smarter than me who want to date older, mature men, "like him?" And he went on to point out that even though I'm nice and funny and intelligent (awww, gee, thanks), I'm not good looking or wealthy, (here he made his point by pointing out that I rent a tiny apartment and don't even own a car) "You're in marketing and design, Trill, c'mon, you should know better than anyone that you're not exactly marketable. You're not the product men want." He surmised that if I were dumber or more mean that would help, too, because there are men who have needs to take care of dumb girls or like the abuse from mean girls. But I'm not either of those things. His advice, well intentioned, of course, "friend to friend," is that I find a job I really like and throw myself into that, concentrate on making money because that's all "women like me" can hope for in life - make their own way and find satisfaction from that.
"Women like me" are too nice and too intelligent to date stupid guys or jerks, but we're not pretty or wealthy enough to date men of equal mental caliber. "Guys love to work with 'women like you' but they don't want to date or marry you. You're business associates, that's how they see you. Confident in work, nice people, good source of ideas and creativity, but not datable." He told me that's my niche in life: Work.
Husband, children...nope. Not my niche unless I find some "low class jerk who's too stupid to be intimidated" by the fact I'm smarter than him. But, he cautioned me, I'll be miserable and bored with a guy like that so really, that's not my niche. Better to focus on work. No disappointments for me. And that's his point. "Women like me" need to deal with our reality that we're not young and pretty and that men do not want us. Once we accept that and forget about it and "stop whining about no decent men out there" everyone will be a lot happier.
"There are lots of decent men out here," he said, "we just aren't interested in 'women like you.' You never hear pretty, young intelligent women saying there are no decent men. They always have plenty of decent men to date and marry. That leaves the men who are jerks and losers out there looking, and that's who 'women like you' meet. Then you assume there are no decent men. But in reality you just can't compete with better women." He then told me I owed him an apology because he had his hopes up, he really liked me, invested a lot of time and emotion with me leading up to our first date and I disappointed him.
See? All my fault. No, I didn't ask him to call me and email me. No, I didn't ask our mutual friend to set us up. No. I pretty much did nothing because I was a bit preoccupied with my mother on life support. But. Somehow I let him down, disappointed him because I'm not younger and prettier. (And no, I didn't lie about my age and he's the one who wanted to be set up with me after seeing me in a photo with our mutual friend.) But still, apparently, it's all my fault.
Oh yes. It was quite a phone call. He's a real pal. And a swell guy, too, what with the apology and everything.
And yes. I know he's right. I've heard it all before from other men. So no. I wasn't hurt. A little surprised he'd bother to tell me all this, but not hurt.
And that's all he had to say about that and I agree.
UPDATE: Mortality
I used to fantasize about ways to kill myself which would look like an accident. Now I spend my days thinking of new ways to make my suicide look like an accident at work. If it happens while I'm working my family gets a much larger settlement. So every day I fantasize about the possibilities of death at work. I've hit upon a few possibilities which seem like genius in their simplicity. I'm really looking forward to it. I focus on all the things my family will be able to do with the insurance settlement and that makes me really happy.
UPDATE: Everything happens for a reason
I met a guy through a friend who liked me but then didn't like me because I'm not young and pretty and his advice was that I find fulfillment in my career because that's all I'll ever have. I then get offered a lower paying job which makes me realize I have nothing. My mother's health takes a turn for the worse and I realize life is fleeting and fragile and pointless. I remember I have a nice life insurance policy which pays out in a hefty sum if I'm killed while working. I spend my days at a job I hate devising ways to kill myself at work so it looks like an accident so my family can have more from my death than I ever had in life. And there it is, full circle: Fulfillment from my job because I have nothing else.
I was offered a job. A job which I would actually like to do!
Oh how I wish I could leave it at that and walk off into the sunset content with my new job adventure.
This is me, Trillian. Remember me?
There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.
The job I would like to do, the one I was offered, pays $8,000 less per year than I’m currently earning. Oh. And. Would require me to sit in a very small cube.
But other than that it appears to be a perfect job for me.
So guess what I’m trying to do?
I’m trying to figure out a way to live on $8,000 less per year. Did you know $8,000/12 = 666.666666? Omen or opportunity? I’ll have to move, of course, but the good news there is that with the $666.666666/month pay cut there aren’t many apartments I’ll be able to afford, so making a choice in a new place won’t be difficult.
I’m also reading everything I can about interpersonal relationships in confined spaces. I’m focusing my research on POWs who were held hostage in small cells with other POWs. Apparently Hogan’s Heroes is not an accurate portrayal of POW conditions. I may have some issues working in a cube. I’m a private person. I don’t make a lot of personal calls at work, almost none, in fact, but other people, people who work in cubes, don’t have that same outlook. The people in the cubes in my office talk on their phones a lot. They talk about their plans for the weekend, their boyfriends, their mothers, what they’re going to have for lunch, what happened in the ladies room… And when they’re done talking on the phone they have conversations about their conversation over the cube walls. I know this because I generally keep my door open. And I can hear these conversations perfectly. I only close my door when these conversations go on for a prolonged period, are louder than normal or when I have to make a phone call (business or personal). Sometimes distractions are distracting. And a door is a good thing. There are no doors on cubes. Or windows. This could be a very difficult adjustment for me.
But then, living on $8,000 less/year is going to be a huge adjustment, too. So, you know, big life changes all at once. Out with old and in with the new. All that.
Still.
Is it worth it?
Forget the idealism of the plan: Doing something I like with people who seem better, or at least different, from the people I spend my days with now.
The reality is that I’d be taking a huge cut in salary, a salary which is already barely adequate to sustain life in the city. Would my new, even smaller, crappier apartment in a “bad” neighborhood fill me with resentment over the lower paying job? Idealism doesn’t keep you from being mugged, raped or shot. It doesn’t keep you warm at night and it certainly doesn’t feed the cat.
And what about the cube? It’s a cube in a cube farm of Dilbert proportions. Idealism doesn’t drown out the noise of a cube wall mate who talks to her friends and fights with her boyfriend on the phone all day. There are two layers of management in cubes above my position meaning I will need to advance through two promotion levels before I can have a door. Hey! That could be my motivation goal! Work hard, do a good job, spend long days and weekends in the office so I’ll be on the fast track for actual floor to ceiling walls and a door! A window?! Surely you jest. We’re talking interior office. A window is probably at least four or five promotion levels above my would-be job.
My would-be job in a cube with an $8,000 cut in salary.
But it’s an actual job offer. Someone wants to hire me. This might be the best I can hope to be offered. I’m kind of afraid to turn it down. Practicalities and sane logic be damned, I’ve been offered a job, another job, a job which is not my current suicide thought inducing job. It’s a ticket, albeit a cheap steerage class ticket, out of the current nightmare I call my job. This might be the next natural step in my downward spiral to living in progressively smaller apartments in progressively worse neighborhoods, then friend’s couches, then with any relative who will have me, then in a homeless shelter, then in a box. That’s how it works, right? Oh sure, most people go to college, get a job, embark on a career and have progressively better paying jobs and better apartments and then homes. Achievement. Work hard, be creative, be a good employee, show up at the office pot lucks with something other than two vending machine sized bags of Doritos and advance in salary and office size. But since I appear to be bucking every normal life trend, I might as well embrace the fact that I’m going backwards through life. Things are getting worse, not better.
I’ve been kind of fighting that concept, or at least trying to keep some small hope for a better job and more money. I’ve had difficulty accepting the fact that working hard, doing a good job, being a responsible person and employee aren’t going to pay off for me. Other people reap nice pay-offs and do a lot less than that. But I’m not them.
So, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t scoff off this lower paying personal space encroaching job offer. Maybe I need to stop swimming against the tide of my life and just accept the fact that I’m going to get swept up by the current and drown anyway, might as well let the current take me, give up and end the frustration. Accept it and let it happen.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Another one bites the dust.
Someone else quit their job in the office.
Someone else found a much better place to work at a much higher salary. Someone else found someone who wanted to hire them and give them more money. Someone else is moving forward in their life.
And here I am with my life stuck in the past.
This isn’t even worth mentioning it happens so often in my office now.
But here’s why I’m mentioning it.
And potential “proof” the Universe is mocking me. Just in case you're playing along at home and want to keep score.
So, this person at work quit. Okay. Whatever. Yay for you. Congrats. Have a nice life.
There will be ramifications which will directly impact me. Every time someone quits the vacant position is “restructured.” Read: Higher level and difficult components farmed out to existing staff with the menial and mundane aspects left for a downgraded position so they can hire a lesser skilled, lesser paid person to fill the vacancy. Which isn’t actually a vacancy, it’s now an entirely new position. I was told late in the day that I will be handling one of the more dicey functions of the quitter’s job. Because apparently I’m “good with people and all that.” And all that. What the swut?! I’m “good with people and ‘all that?’”
But wait. That’s just everyday stupid talk from my boss. She’s perfected the art of talking in vagaries. The part I really loved most of all was her closing selling point to me about the new tasks being thrown my way.
This is in the running for the quote of the year from my boss: “People who don’t work here seem to like you.”
Uh. Yeah. Thanks, boss. Don’t forget that at review time!
I’d like to think she’s just so bad at speaking that she doesn’t realize what she’s saying. I’d like to think she didn’t mean it the way it sounds. I’d like to think this was not a loaded statement with a lot of lunchroom gossip behind it. I’d like to think all of that. I can probably convince myself that she’s so bad at speaking she doesn’t realize what she’s saying. But the rest of it? Not an easy sell.
I know it’s true. I try, I really, really try to be a good team player and get along in the office. I’m not rude or mean to people. (really, seriously, I’m not. I save the contempt, loathing, disdain and hatred for the blog. Sheesh.) In fact, I think I’m pretty darned nice to people in the office. Sometimes even friendly to people at work. Even people who aren’t nice to me. Of course being nice to people does not mean they will like you. I understand that.
And really, I don’t care if people at work like me or not. As long as we don’t have any “incidents” and work gets done and there’s no childish behavior, I’m fine with not being liked in the office. I’m too swutting busy to care about popularity in the coffee room. And that’s probably the problem. I don’t care about the inbreeding, I mean infighting and pettiness and socialization which seems to fuel everyone in the office except me.
The bigger reality is that I spend far more of my time dealing with people who don’t work for my company. Clients, vendors, sales reps, production people...the majority of my work related conversations and email happen with people who do not work for my company. I have a good rapport with all of them. Heck, I even honestly like most of them. And they “seem to like me.”
Right. So. My boss gives me her patented brand of backhanded compliment and informs me I’ll be responsible for more work which has absolutely nothing to do with my actual job. I make no remark about the backhanded compliment, completely ignore it, and in my best nonsnarky tone ask: “You know, boss, I don’t mind helping out. I think it’s fair to say I’ve pitched in above and beyond the call of duty and have done so with a pretty good attitude, all things considered. I rarely complain about my workload or the fact that I’m the one who picks up the slack for everyone who quits or is unable to do their job. I don’t mind, really, you know, in the big picture, but, at this rate I’m going to be doing every job in the department.
With no benefit for me. Like a pay increase. Or even time off work. As it stands I have difficulty taking time off work because I’m too busy doing my job and the jobs of several people who have quit or are not capable of doing their jobs. I really am fine helping out where I can, but at some point there has to be some benefit for me.”
I know. Way to assert yourself, Trillian! Don’t let yourself get used and abused! Stand up for yourself! Stop the insanity!
My boss was also nonplussed. She simply looked back at me and said, “You’re good with people outside the company. You seem to enjoy people outside the company. I don’t have time for this and you’re better at it anyway. This is more suited to your skills. Do you expect me to do all of this work? You’re the one who’s been here longer. And you know the pay increases are low again this year. You were at that meeting. You know there’s nothing I can do about your salary. If you want more money you’re going to have find a job somewhere else.”
I’m not kidding. She gave me the “if you don’t like it, leave” line. After effectively admitting she’s incompetent and needs me to cover for her and everyone else in the department.And what the swut is with the “enjoy” thing? I’m doing my swutting job! Of course I’m courteous and respectful and, you know, nice to clients and vendors. The overriding message I got from this conversation was: Trill, no one likes you here. I don’t have any legitimate reason to fire you, so I keep dumping more work on you and not giving you more money. And yet you won’t leave. Which is okay because I can’t do any of this work because I have no actual skills. If you don’t like it, leave. You should have fun out there with the people you enjoy outside the company. Go on, run along, go enjoy other people.”
I just got up and left, gave her my “Have a nice day” line and left. After all, I had new job responsibilities to handle.
Okay, right, so, just another day in the life. Living the dream and all that.
I got home, late, and what to my wondering eyes should appear in my mail box? A message from the Universe. A kick in the ass and then a kick in the face. That highly anticipated notice from a company where I had an interview a few weeks ago.
No big happy “ha! Take that, boss, I quit in my future.
More of a, “We regret to inform you we will not require your services for the role you applied for at our company. We will keep your information on file for six months. Should a position requiring your skills become available in that time we will contact you. Thank you for your interest in Swut You Co.”
I know this line by heart. I’ve heard every rejection schtick ever written or spoken. It’s not me/us, it’s you. You’re not good enough. You’ve got a nice personality/good skills but I’m/we’re just not attracted/interested in you that way. There’s someone better than you.You suck.
Jobs, men, life. In the realm of rejection it’s all the same.
It’s a way of life for me. The irony of the timing just adds to the schadenfreudenism of the whole thing. It’s all part of the big joke the Universe plays with me and my life.
Paranoid?
Nah. Just my life. Whatever.
Still. Sometimes I wonder.
I’m not perfect, way, way, way far from it. But. I’m not a bad person. I’ve never hurt anyone. I am sensitive to other peoples’ feelings and needs. I work hard. I try to learn as much as I can. I play by the rules. I don’t want much from life and expect nothing. I’m you know, a good person.
And yet, still, this constant mockery and abuse from the Universe.
I don’t even swutting like irony. It’s an overrated and overused plot method. I get it, okay? I get it. I get irony! Enough already! It doesn’t need to be my middle name. Can we change my middle name to success, now? Please?
Angry? No. I’m not. Maybe it sounds that way. But I’m not. It’s just life. There’s no point in getting angry. What would it solve? Nothing as far as I can figure.
And this is where the true beauty of the no expectation/void of emotion state really shows itself.
I could be very upset about my boss’ words and attitude. Other people would be angry or hurt or maybe even scared. Other people would be upset about having more work dumped on them. Other people would be upset, angry, self pitying at not only another rejection letter but the timing of it. It would push them over the edge of reason.
Not me.
It’s not that I don’t care. I do. I care a lot. But I feel nothing because I have no expectations, good or bad. I see the irony. I’m really bored and sick of the irony that is my life. Yes. That’s fair to say. But. I’m not angry about it or hurt or resentful. I refused to expect it, because I refuse to have any expectations whatsoever. So I accept it. I have no choice. There it is. Done deal.
I need to keep my job because I need my measly paycheck to pay my rent and feed my cat. So I will continue to “enjoy people outside my company” and keep trying to find another job. Until then I have no choice but to accept my current employment situation and the people with whom I work.
See how enlightened that sounds? Yeah. I’m a swutting saint. Not. Just trying to cope with yet another very bad situation in a very bad life. So I suppose, sort of, it is a form of success. I found a way to deal with a really bad situation and life without killing myself. Success.
Monday, November 07, 2005
I took a day off work last week. And I didn’t do anything family, health or work related. I just up and took a vacation day. Just like that. A day off work.
It felt good. I forgot what a vacation day feels like. The past year, well, two years, really, have been entirely consumed with work, family and health related issues. Every day I’ve taken off has been consumed with traveling to my family, dealing with a family crisis or issue of some sort or as a personal day for my own health issues. Where’d I go on vacation last year? My mum’s hospital, my parents’ house, my sister’s house...or various doctors’ offices affiliated with my mother or my own health issues. Not exactly vacations. I stayed home a couple of days because I was really sick, smack down in bed sick. Definitely not a vacation.
I was off on my company’s holiday days, but the past few years I’ve trekked to my parents’ on any holiday to “look in” on them. Not vacations.
I took a day off when I moved. Definitely not a vacation.
I took a few days off when HWNMNBS made a reappearance. But since it ended so badly those days cannot be counted as vacation. Unless soul torturing is some new kind of extreme vacation thing. I can't recommend it. But if you're a person who has everything going for them and you feel a need to feel bad, maybe this would be just the sort of vacation you need.
So I took one measly day off work to do nothing but trudge around communing with nature in the North woods. It felt good.
But I’m worried.
Maybe it’s because I only took one day off work. Maybe I needed more time. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken a day off when a lot is going on at work. Maybe I need to really go somewhere far, far away from home.
I didn’t relax. I couldn’t relax. I didn’t call the office. If I’d had a mobile signal I would have considered it. I might not have actually done it, but I would have considered it. My hotel was wi-fi, though, so a day into my long weekend I checked my work email. I mean, I said I would if I could so I had to, right? I said I would. And it was just a quick check because I have a project on press. If I weren’t in the middle of a lot of work it would have been different. I think.
Or maybe I am uptight.
The problem I face is that with our reduced staff I’m always in the middle of a lot of work. I always have a project either going to press, on press or shipping. And stuff going on with clients. And events either in the marketing, planning or live stage. And meetings. Always meetings. And the hundreds of unforeseen, unplannable questions or problems which are thrown across my desk or phone every week because apparently no one else knows what to do or how to answer the question or handle the problem, even (and especially) the ones which have nothing to do with me or my actual job function.
This isn’t “oh poor me.” I realize this is becoming business as usual for most people. Most of us are asked to do a lot more, some with a pay increase, but most of us are just asked (read: expected) to “help out” during a personnel or budget cutback with no monetary or personal reward. Most of us are team players enough (read: worried about losing our jobs, even jobs we hate) to “help out” where we are asked. Even if it’s not even remotely related to our job function.
The “it’s not my job” answer simply does not hold up in most companies. I suppose some union jobs allow or even require a person to respond with “it’s not my job” with the implied ramification of “...and I really can’t do it because I’ll get a grievance filed against me.” But I think, based on a few conversations with some union tradespeople, that even some unions are realizing and subsequently encouraging their members to “go the extra mile” because, well, times are hard. Don’t like it? Go work at Wal-Mart.
Right. This is all about me. I took a day off work and didn’t really enjoy it.
I mean, I did enjoy it. I went hiking and saw wildlife and ate weird food (please don’t tell me what a cheese curd actually is or how it’s produced) and generally didn’t talk to anyone for a few days. Which felt good. And bad.
And that surprised me.
My family situation is difficult right now. I realize I’m in a unique life phase. My mother’s health is fragile and my father is, well, not really very good at handling emergencies regarding my mother.
I’m not saying they’re incapable of taking care of themselves. They generally take pretty good care of themselves considering my mother’s condition. Swut. I hate thinking about my mother in terms of a "condition." It’s so unfair and wrong. But. There it is. It’s not going away. And my father is in a form of denial about it. And consequently my mother relies on me to help her in an emergency. Yes. Me. Who lives five hours by car away from them. So this sort of weird role reversal has happened. I ring to check on them, a lot, to be sure everything’s okay. I spend a lot of weekends and all my holidays with them so I can help with doctor appointments and things around the house.
I don’t resent this. I’m not saying “oh poor me” or “oooh, look at what a good kid I am” or “no one else is doing it so I have to help them.” None of that. I do what I do because I want to do it. I wish I could do more for them.
But here’s the thing.
I have an increasingly stressful, demanding job which I hate. The little time off I have is really necessary to try to rest and “get away” from work for a few hours or a few days. But. My personal life is also increasingly stressful and demanding. When I "get away" from work, physically at least, I'm smack in the middle of a personal life which is, well, not so great to say the least.
One of the big issues is that it’s just me. There’s just me. I have no one to relax with and no one to help with my personal life demands.
My friend’s father is very ill. She’s doing a lot of spur of the moment traveling to help out at home, much like I do. We help each other however we can - mainly talk to each other, listen, moral support kind of stuff. She’s managing her situation a lot better than I’m managing mine. (at least it seems that way to me)
She and I have learned to live “on alert” for an emergency which is always eminent. We both got over that shock and stress early into our parental situations. That’s not even particularly stressful anymore, which is a whole other bag of issues I won’t get into. But for now we’re both “okay” living on the edge of an emergency, ready to spring into action at the ring of the phone. We’re both able to laugh at some of the weirdness our parents inflict upon themselves and us. (How is it possible a man can strip and rebuild a transmission on a car in an afternoon yet not be able to figure out how to use the washing machine?) We’re both accepting our parent’s physical afflictions and subsequent issues. We're dealing with the reality of our once strong, healthy and able parents now thrust into dependent and frequently uncomfortable daily lives as well (or better than) most kids do. Certainly better than our siblings. And we’re both able to make excuses for our siblings who are not “helping out” while venting to each other about their lack of concern and care for our parents.
But here’s the difference. She’s been under the same (and worse) stress over her father as I’ve been with my mother. And yet she’s not really feeling like it’s starting to take a toll on her. She, in fact, looks and feels great. I look and feel exhausted. Lately I wonder if it’s starting to take too much of a toll on me.
Is my friend just made of stronger, better stuff than I?
No. In fact my friend’s kind of a wuss.
It finally dawned on me what the big difference is between us. Well, I mean, it didn’t just dawn on me, but the ramifications of this difference are becoming obvious.
She’s married to a really great guy. He’s supportive and caring and always does The Right Thing. He keeps everything running smoothly at home while she’s off on a trip to her parents. And when she returns home he always has everything not only under control, but in great shape and has a “treat” lined up for her. Trips to the spa for a relaxation days. A horseback riding outing. A knitting class. All sorts of treats to help her relax and take her mind off things for a few hours. And in between all of this, he plans their vacations. Ski holidays. Tropical island vacations. All designed to help take her mind off things and “get away from it all.”’
Oh sure, I don’t need a man to book a spa day or go horseback riding or take a knitting class. I don’t need a man to go on vacation.
But. His help keeping things going at home would be helpful. His keeping normal life on track would be helpful. His income would be really helpful.
I don’t have time or money to give myself the treats and luxuries my friend’s husband gives her.
Jealous? You bet I am.
Lately she’s been harping on me to take a vacation. “Trill, you really need a real vacation. No work. No parents. No family. Nothing. You need to go far away from your life and relax. St. Croix did wonders for me, maybe you should think about going there. Even if it’s just a few days, Trill, just get away and unwind. You used to love to travel. Just get out there and get away and be you again. You've had nothing but sadness and stress for the past few years. Your mother will be fine for a week, Trill, just get away and relax.”
Good advice, right? Yes, of course it is. But. One small detail. Two, actually.
Money and time off work. I don’t have much of either.
So I spent the one vacation day I could spare hiking in a woods and staying at a Thrifty Miser Cheap Skate Inn for two nights. I didn’t have to pay extra for constant noise from the television in the room next door, and there was a pay phone by the ice machine. I packed my own food and spent almost no money on the “trip.”
Relaxing? Well. Sort of, I mean, nature’s nice and the fresh air was good for me. I saw some deer who had so far escaped hunting season alive and majestic. I saw a white squirrel. And some really cute rabbits. And a lady bug. That was all cool and relaxing.
But the few days I was gone I couldn’t completely forget about my real life. Work. My mother. Money.
There was an outlet mall on my way home. I thought, “Hey, I could stop and do a little shopping...” and then I came to my senses. I can’t afford to shop - not even at an outlet mall. I don’t need to shop - I go to work and go home because I can’t afford to go out - I don’t need anything except work stuff. I could spend the time wandering around, but that’s time I could spend doing laundry, cleaning the bathroom, or, decadently soaking up the last few hours of my long weekend, my vacation, at home with my cat.
See where I’m going with this? There’s no escape from real life when your real life is fraught with financial worries, family worries and work worries.
Uptight, much Trill? You’re thinking. Maybe. But. It’s just me running this life. I don’t have a partner or even a wing man to help me with the stuff of life. It’s me. That’s it. Time and money matters a lot because I don’t have much of either.
Stress has become such a part of my life that I don’t even notice it anymore. I scoff at stress. When yet another “crisis” hits at work and most of the other people are stressing over it, I am nonplussed. I frequently don’t know what all the fuss is about. I think, “Stress? What stress? This isn’t a crisis, this is just a normal situation...in fact, I might actually get out of here by 7:00 tonight and have an hour to find and purchase those birthday gifts and cards I need to send this week...and I might be able to squeeze in 45 minutes for lunch at the end of the week to go to the post office to mail them. Stress? What stress? This is a relaxed week! ”
Someone in my office recently went out on sick leave. Or more appropriately, a mental health leave. This person was apparently having “stress related fatigue and associated ailments” and is going on short term disability leave. This person wisely discovered their “stress related fatigue and associated ailments” before the end of the year and the discontinuation of our short term disability leave. They’re taking the rest of the year off to rest and recover from stress at work. The amount of days covered on their insurance is exactly the amount of days left in the year.
Coincidence? I think not. This person is working the system. Maybe they really are stressed and tired. Though I can’t imagine how a person who habitually shows up an hour late for work, takes a two hour lunch and leaves before 5 every day can be stressed and tired from work. But hey, I suppose looking at web pages checking for bad or out of date links can be a stressful job. So stressful and fatigue inducing that they need not only several weeks of bed rest but a vacation, too. Doctor’s orders.
This person is very popular at work. Everyone likes them. Everyone is concerned and worried about them. There are cards and a donation envelope we’re all supposed to sign and contribute to for their time off. Apparently the donation will go toward a gift card so they can go shopping for their vacation. Because they’re out on sick leave because of stress.
Maybe I am uptight and unthoughtful and callous. But. Huh? I mean, they’re out on sick leave. They’re being paid to stay home because they’re tired from all the “stress” from the job they barely do on a good day. And we're taking up a collection so they can go shopping for their vacation? They've gone off work leaving us here to cover for them, to do their "stressful" job while they take a vacation because of work related stress fatigue, and we're taking up a collection for them to go shopping? Am I not understanding something? Should we be just a little, oh, I don't know, resentful or angry that they've skipped off work for two months to sleep and go on vacation? (So long, suckers, strongly implied.)
It’s not that I don’t understand. Swut knows I understand being tired and stressed and stressed because I’m tired and tired because I’m stressed. A good night will give me five hours of fitful sleep. I really do understand. But leaving work for two months isn’t going to solve my problems. Unless the doctor can write a prescription to the airlines and hotels which will cover a vacation, and a prescription to pay my rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for retirement, time off work isn’t going to help me. But my coworker is taking doctor’s orders and staying away from work and going on a long vacation because of the stress at work.
They’ve worked out a way to get a lot of time off from work and a vacation at the same time. They have to go on vacation because it was prescribed to them. And it has to be done before the first of the year when our revised health plan takes effect. How convenient. How nice for them.
Jealous? No. I am not jealous. I do not aspire to work, beat or cheat “the system.”
I simply want a real vacation. And a husband.
I realized a few things on my day off from life.
a) There’s no day off from life if you are a responsible, caring person.
b) Vacations are nice, really nice, but unless you have someone with whom you can 1.) to share it, 2.) help cover the expenses, and 3.) help you prepare before and after the vacation, going on vacation is a form of stress all in its own.
c) It’s easier to not take a day off work than it is to take a day off work.
d) You will spend as much extra time in the office and making sure things are set at home prior to a day off as you will on your actual day off, thus negating actual vacation hours.
I used to love to travel. Well. In theory I still love to travel. Adventure. A whole big world to see. The lure of the open road. The curiosity of the unknown and comfort of the known former places of adventure. All that still seduces me. Now that I don’t love or want love, I spend most of my fantasy time thinking about my past travels and all the travels I’d like to make.
But with age and continued unmarried status comes harsh reality. I can’t afford to travel very often or very far. I’m luckier than a lot of people, I grew up with parents who liked to travel and traveled a lot. I’ve been fortunate enough to make a lot of travels and vacations in my adult life. Until the past few years, I would take off for parts far away and unknown at the drop of the hat or with great planning. Either way was fine and fun for me. When I had single friends sometimes we’d go together, and sometimes I’d just go off on my own. It didn’t bother me and in fact at times I preferred to be on my own. Set my own schedule, chart my own course and enjoy my vacation. HWNMNBS and I did a lot of traveling together. Heck, our entire relationship was based on the fact that we had to travel 6,000 miles just to be together. I was okay with that because I was an experienced and intrepid traveler.
Now, not so much.
Now I have a mother who is in a vulnerable health situation. I have a hugely decreased health care plan. I haven’t had a pay increase worth mentioning in six years. I had to move. All of these things eat into my personal operating time and budget. Any extra money I have will go to a) traveling to my parents and b) taking care of health expenses.
I just got a bill for my portion of some medical tests. My current health insurance pays 80% of the cost of these tests. 80%. That’s a lot, right? Well, yes, it is. But. The other 20%, my portion of the bill, is $515.67. Yes. $515.67 in out of pocket expenses for tests which indicated I needed further in-depth tests or were inconclusive. Yes. $515.67 out of my pocket for tests which told my doctor nothing other than that I needed more tests. Quite a nice little business they’ve got going there, eh? Too bad my doctor won’t just write a prescription for time off work and a vacation. But then the hospital and insurance company wouldn’t make any money off me. Someone should be getting rich from me. If I can’t reap financial rewards from my life it might as well be hospitals and insurance companies. Maybe that nice insurance company rep will get to have a nice vacation because of my CT scan.
Okay. Healthcare in America is what it is. And it’s not much. And it’s going to get worse. I understand and accept this.
But in my recent fantasy I allowed myself a little real time research.
Let’s say I had a spare $515.67 to spend on something other than shelter and cat food. How far could I go, what could I do with that money other than spend two afternoons enduring a series of health exams?
Travelocity has a last minute five day air and hotel package to three German cities for $524. Okay, sure there are taxes and my personal expenses, but still, for $524 I could get there and have a place to stay. Hmmm. Okay, how about something a little closer to home? San Francisco. $312 includes airfare and hotel for four days. Add another $50 and I’ve got a car. Totally do-able on my $515.67 (fantasy) budget. Or, let’s just say I felt like splashing out on a little luxury for my next trip to my parents. I could rent the Z4 of my dreams for $449.99 for a week. Okay. Plus tax and all the other rental care expense. Which could end up being another $449.99 in Chicago. Still. The base rental price of a Z4 for a week would be covered.
I was somewhat humbled to learn my $515.67 would not take me to New York City, Vienna or Madrid for more than a day. Or to London for more than two days. I was honestly pleased to learn that. Which is a whole other realm of the pathetic depths my life has fallen. I was actually pleased to learn I couldn’t go on certain types of vacations with the money I have to pay for out of pocket medical expenses not covered by my insurance.
The reality is, though, that I don’t have many vacation days to spare. I have to keep a few “just in case.” Just in case I have to rush to help my parents. Just in case I have to have more medical exams or go to the dentist. Just in case I get the flu. These are all real, viable instances which will undoubtedly happen and require a day or half day out of the office.
A luxury for me would be to take a day off and do all the things I normally do at night, or put off as long as possible because I can’t do it at night, or simply don’t do because I can’t do them during the week when I’m at work. Laundry. Clean the compartment. Go grocery shopping. Take the cat to the vet. Call a bunch of job recruiters. Sort out bills and re-evaluate my budget. Shop for presents. (Christmas is coming...that special time of year when stress and suicide are at their peak! Oh boy! I can't wait! And lucky me! I'm still single and get to enjoy another holiday season surrounded by happy couples and families!) See what I’m getting at here? It’s me, and me alone managing this life. I have a job which requires long hours. I don’t have a life partner. That leaves a lot of stuff undone.
My fortunate friend with her thoughtful husband doesn’t have to think about everything all the time. She has a husband she can count on to take care of the stuff of life when she has to rush away to care for her father. She has a husband she can count on to provide her with relaxing niceties and escapes when she returns home. Most of all, she has a shoulder to cry on and support to rely on 24/7/365.
That's the difference. That's why the stress of her father's illness is not taking a toll on her. That's why she's not looking and feeling tired.
But when she tells me I need a vacation and I try to explain this to her, she doesn’t really get it. She’s sympathetic, she knows I’m struggling. But. She, like all my other married friends, can’t remember what it’s like to be single. What it’s like to not have a constant, caring, thoughtful partner to rely on in good times and bad. Why should she remember? She’s normal. She found a husband and they’re going through life, the good and bad, sickness and health and all that, just like they vowed to do, and just like most other people do. Happily ever after. Why should she remember what it’s like to be single in a coupled up society? Why would she want to remember?
Right. So. Vacation. You know, my day off in the woods was, you know, nice.
And it occurred to me that even though I fantasize about vacations I can no longer afford to take, I’m not sure I’d really want to take them anymore. Maybe someday if I have money to take vacations I’ll feel differently. But now I don’t think I really want to travel on my own. It was great when I was younger, unattached, footloose, fancy free, all that. But there were times I thought, “It would be nice to share this with someone...” And about the time I started thinking that more frequently, I met HWNMNBS. And it was nice to share it with him. I had a lot of fun traveling with him. No surprise there, a trip to Target was fun with him. But now, "out here" on my own again, as much as the idea of traveling, the spirit of adventure is as strong as ever, so is the desire to share the adventure with someone significant.
Sure, I can tell you about that white squirrel and the majestic deer and the couple from Sweden who were totally lost on the hiking trail, and you might be interested or get a laugh out of it, but you weren’t there. It wasn’t a shared experience. It was, as ever, me and the weirdness that haunts my life, together again, always. And that makes me feel even more alone.
And more uptight and worried about my life. There’s nothing like a vacation on your own to make you realize how alone you really are. And the more I tried to take my mind off things, my life, the more I was consumed by thoughts about work and my life.
Uptight? Well, yes. But. Uptight because I need to be. And because I don’t have anyone to talk to back in the Thrifty Miser Cheap Skate Inn. Being alone with your thoughts is good, more people need to do more of it. But. When you live your life alone with your thoughts, you need a vacation from yourself. Otherwise you start having conversations with yourself. Stupid, uninspiring conversations. Conversations best left unhad.
“That squirrel was cute, eh?”
“Yeah, totally. I wonder if it was an albino or just white furred.”
“White furred?”
“Yeah. You know, just white furred instead of brown or gray furred.”
“Is furred a word?”
“Ummmm, huh. You know, I’m not sure. How else would you say it?”
“I don’t know. Naturally white?”
“Yes, but an albino squirrel would be naturally white, too.”
“True. Like blondes. Not all blondes are albinos, but most albinos are blonde.”
“Exactly. There has to be a way to distinguish between albino and just white fur. I’ll look it up when I get home.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“You are me, idiot.”
“Oh yeah. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
“Oh stop that. You know I hate that song.”
“Expert textpert choking smokers, Don't you think the joker laughs at you?”
“I said stop it.”
“Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna. Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Alan Poe.”
“I said stop it. I hate that stupid song. I mean seriously, how can anyone call the Beatles Gods with lyrics like ‘sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.’ Sure, I like the concept of ‘Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday’ but then they leave it hanging and dumb it up with ‘Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.’”
“Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess, Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.”
“Yes. Exactly. It’s not even poignant or ironic, it’s just a bunch of disjointed thought fragments. I can’t believe you’ve got me thinking about this again. I said stop it.”
“I am the eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob g'goo goo g'joob.”
“I said stop it! I’m telling mum.”
See? This is why it’s not good to travel alone for very long. Have you seen The Shining? Spend too much time alone with your thoughts and this is what happens. A non violent good girl’s version of Jack Torrence sits in her fleabite Cheapskate Inn room arguing with herself about the stupidity and significance of I am the Walrus.
Which is why in the end I convinced myself it’s just as well I can’t afford to take a vacation or have a doctor examine me for work related stress fatigue.
That vacation might end up at a very special place with a comfortable room. A really comfortable room. With padded walls.
