Caterwauling

There were a million things I wanted to blog about, but alas, work had to come first. Damn career, getting in the way of what’s important! 😉

Had the utmost pleasure of meeting Rocket Jones last night. I almost didn’t make it, after being partially asleep while I was driving to meet him and missing every convenient turn and getting stuck in Old Town rush-hour traffic. But the five-minute-turned-half-hour odyssey was incredibly worth it. It’s nice to know the person behind the brilliant prose on the website! The good news is that he will be in my neck of the woods a few more times till the springtime, and that means more intelligent (and crazy) conversations are in short order. 🙂

I went to bed early with a migraine last night and stayed home for the better part of the day doing editing. It’s amazing what a RELIEF it is when most of the work is turned around — I had full intentions on spending the night editing, but I arrived at my senses when I realized that nobody ELSE loses sleep over whether the paper is produced on time. I find myself waiting for submissions and letting our volunteer writers turn in their stuff at their earliest convenience … not mine. That’s the problem with working in a highly charged political environment — ya can’t piss off the help ya ain’t payin’ for. I’m still waiting for my least-favorite column to arrive (from the Queen of the Underworld, of course), but Angie did get me her stories and they were just about the only pleasurable reading I had this month, save for a good OpEd and Reader View that arrived earlier in the menstrual cycle that is my job.

The Queen of the Underworld is the asshole who wants to create and head an unnecessary advisory council whose sole purpose is to tell me how to do my job and through which hoops I need to jump at her command. *sigh* I told my boss that perhaps we need to concentrate on firing the old volunteers and bring in some fresh blood and that maybe if Queen wasn’t so busy dicking around with my sanity, she might write her fucking column in a timely manner. I mean, Angie’s stuff is sometimes late because she’s trying hard to track down coherent people to interview; the other people are writing first-person drivel that consists of nothing more than their over-inflated opinions of what they wish the world could be like. You’d THINK that they could write their 1,200 words of complete and utter nonsense that within a 30-day period! I mean, gah, it’s not like they are lacking in opinions — they delight in forcing their bullshit down the throats of the unimpressed masses!

No wonder my temple throbs uncontrollably during editorial deadline week. I usually budget two days to edit all the last-minute submissions and then work overnight once or twice to get the stuff to the designer on the day he’s expecting it. I swear, people have come to rely upon the two of us to perform miracles. (Angie nailed it: he is my Midol in the menstrual cycle of magazine production!)

And I was hell-bent on getting a proof by tomorrow (seeing as though SOME employees get to celebrate a long holiday weekend — I never get to enjoy holidays or stay home on furlough days because they always seem to fall smack during production hell). And my designer, lovely man though he is, was intent on accommodating my crazy request. But at some point yesterday evening, I finally e-mailed him and said that I had come to my senses and that the Inner Bitch needs to channel her energies on the right people and not make him jump through hoops so I don’t get yelled at for only giving the proofers one workday to do their thing. He was grateful, and it made me come to some serious conclusions about how the volunteers need a whip cracked over them, whether or not my superiors may agree. In any event, there is something about my staff that makes me want to be a better mentor, a better person, a better champion for our sanity. Me, I kill myself to do things, oftentimes the hard way. And I would never expect people to give up their free time the way I do.

I have to bitch about INS CVS Pharmacy, or, rather, my experience there tonight. I was loading up on Advil Migraine and Tylenol PM (a sure sign you just shouldn’t fuck with me while I’m standing in line, right?), and some dumb bitch standing behind me was practically attached to me. At least she didn’t have a shopping cart, but every 30 seconds, she bumped into me. And the line hadn’t moved! I hope she doesn’t drive as horribly as she stands in line!

So anyway, I’m finally getting waited on, and when I grab my bag and turn to leave (the exit was literally three feet to my right), I ran smack into the girl. Not content to be firmly wedged up my ass, she also attached herself to my side. Um, it’s hard for me to LEAVE so you can get waited on when you’re BLOCKING MY FUCKING WAY TO EXIT THE DAMN BUILDING!

Tonight, I treated myself to doing laundry, watching Phoebe’s wedding on “Friends” and waiting for “ER” to start. The world is almost well again. For me, anyway. 😉

I’m fairly disturbed by Dr. Atkins’ death report. I love that diet, and to hear that he was obese when he died is frightening. Granted, the diet is impossible to stick to in the long-term, but in the space of overnight, the poster child for the diet’s success has now become its warning label.

In all fairness, though, I do believe that he gained significant weight while he was in a coma (although 75 pounds is a little hard for me to swallow). When I was in the hospital on IV fluids for four days last September, I gained 15 pounds (which I did lose. And gain back. And lose. And gain back at Christmas. And lose again — so far it’s gone for good). So if he were in the hospital for two months and he bloated at the same rate I did, 75 pounds doesn’t seem all that bad in comparison.

One reason the Atkins plan has been so attractive to so many is that it claims to give you good heart health while seeing fast weight-loss results, which is what keeps people sticking to the diet — it’s really hard to get discouraged when your clothes start to fall off of you. I never could figure out how your cholestorol starts to drop on this animal fat-friendly program, but let’s face it, at age 29, I’d rather look better than worry about what my innards are doing. 🙂

In any event, I’ll bet the South Beach Diet crew will start overhyping their products — this is their best marketing opportunity yet. And I keep meaning to start that diet anyway. I did, however, cut out sweets in late January as well as start drinking a lot of water, and I’ve lost 12 pounds doing just that. My idea of dieting used to be that I had to eat all the sweets in the house so that the cupboards would be empty when I was ready to start a diet. But you know that doesn’t work — when there’s not a morsel of food in the house, that’s when you get an overwhelming urge to drive through Popeye’s for some fried chicken goodness. 🙂 So I gave away the sweets or pitched them, and that, my friends, seems to have made all the difference.

OK, as an IKEA armchair critic, I am having a hell of a hard time figuring out who gets my vote tonight. Typically, the judges mix strong performers with mediocre ones during these initial audience-vote nights, but I have seen three out of six (so far) who are worthy of my vote.

I agree thus far with the judges that the male performers have given fairly vanilla performances. I know someone’s not going to make it if I find myself singing along with them (i.e., Erksine with “Open Arms” and Marque with a really good but not-star-quality “Wind Beneath My Wings”). But when I get chills (i.e., with Jennifer Hudson, Katie Webber and Diana DeGarmo), I know I want them to advance to the next round. I could listen to Ashley and like her, but in this pool of talent, she kind of falls toward the middle of the crop.

*commercial break*

Hmm, that Matt guy is kind of hot. Doability factor: 10. Song: 10 (one of my favorites: Marc Cohn’s “Walking in Memphis). Talent: 8 — he (or maybe it’s the Karaoke music) makes it sound like a showtune, and this is a soulful song. But his voice is okay — I think it could be stronger. Next.

Fantasia sounds like a nitwit in interviews, but we’ll see how she does, because the voice is incredible, even if I don’t enjoy watching her.

Hmm. I think I’m voting for Jennifer. Who are YOU rooting for?

I try not to be a bitch about this, but my company REALLY needs to hire cleaning crews that comprehend simple instructions like “DO NOT DISTURB,” which I have EMBLAZONED across my office door handle.

I just watched the cleaning lady start sticking her key into my door (under the fucking sign), so I told her nicely to go away because I’m smoking working. It’s bad enough I have to be here late, but to not be smoking is just wrong. I need to learn simple commands in Spanish like “go the fuck away or I will kill you.” Anyone out there who can help me translate?

In today’s hoe mail bag:

Dear Alumna:

… Point Park College is now officially Point Park University. … You may be wondering how to acquire a new diploma that reflects Point Park’s new name. In October, you will receive information about purchasing a new diploma at the price of $30.”

Um, no I wasn’t wondering, and no, I am not spending $30 for another friggin’ diploma to collect dust in my bookcase with the other one. And am I the only one who finds it funny that their new acronym is PPU?

Update

Of course, that wasn’t as bad as the other piece of mail I got from my alma mater today — an application to study with the Radio City Rockettes. Hah! I should apply. Watch me fall on my ass and snap those little twiggy dancers in half. 🙂 I know the Rockettes dance in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade … I always figured, if I were ever in the parade, I could just be the Garfield float.

When the fuck will Tittygate NOT be in the fucking headlines?

J.T., you’re a pussy. Quit apologizing. I don’t care if you knew it was going to happen or not. You’re just lucky you have talent and don’t need to pull stupid stunts to make up for a lack of musical integrity. Miss Jackson should have retired after her “Janet” album. I’m tired of that freakish family being in the news for all the dumb shit they do (and claim not to do).

Erica brings us her galloping, er, something, so I shall give you MY favorite animated friends:

Cripes, is there ANYTHING on TV on Sundays? I have like eight million channels, and I can’t find a fucking thing to even have on in the background as white noise.

I find myself today with no outside errands to run. Woo hoo! Finally, a day to myself to clean do not a goddamned thing.

Life’s been rather good lately. I realized it this morning when I was reading my e-mail and Maddie jumped up on my lap and stayed there for a good half hour (till Kadi started yanking on her tail). Either the clouds are going to open up (again) and Mother Nature’s gonna start ragging ice all over us, or I might just be on one of my ever-elusive upswings. Please, please let it be the latter.

I got to talking with my favorite colleagues about the jobs I’ve had and the things I’ve accomplished in my 29 years. They really made me realize that I haven’t done half-bad for someone my age. I always have stories to tell and insights to share, and I like that. One thing I am severely lacking in my job is a mentor, but it made me feel kind of good that I have the capacity to offer mentorship and guidance to others who may someday want to be like me when they grow up. Either that, or they know my mistakes and can learn to avoid them. 😉

I’ve said this before and lived to regret it, but I feel like something good is coming my way. Now, I don’t know what it is, but I do know what I am hoping for. And I am very much of the attitude that I don’t always get what I want, but I sometimes get what I need. I feel like some grand life lesson is going to present itself to me, and I look forward to another opportunity to learn something.

Work-related, I’ve been struggling with something. I like what I do. I love my staff. I am not overly fond of the management above me. My salary (Shawn pointed out, quite accurately) is very low for the skills and experience that I bring to any similar position. Here’s the problem: I know I won’t be at my job forever (thank the higher powers for that one!), but I am having a hard time discerning how long I should spend at the Veggie Patch. Every job has its pitfalls and praises. At my last job, the CEO was insufferable and so was my staff. Now, the CEO is OK, my manager is, well, lacking in the usefulness department, and my staff is a dream. In an ideal world, I could take Angie and Scot with me to my next employment endeavor. And let me be queen for a day for a millisecond: if I opened my own business, there will always be a place for both of them. I do not discount the fact that my job would be downright insufferable without competent, enthusiastic and, let’s face it, brilliant people who contribute to the department’s — and my — success.

What I want to know is who decided a workweek should be 37.5 or 40 hours. Sometimes I put in a HELL of a lot more, but other times, I struggle to fill my time. There are always projects, of course, to occupy my slow times, but one reason I really enjoy my job is that it’s intermittently frantic, tempered by mind-numbing so that I can clean my office and get through all the piles of accumulated paperwork and phone calls and bug Finance to pay my vendors. Assuming we would be required to work, say 120 hours a month, why can’t I choose WHICH 120 hours to work, instead of sitting there from 9 to 5 every day and THEN working till midnight or 2 a.m. when we go into crunch time? Why can’t I, on days that I know I’m going to be working late (i.e., when I’m waiting for writers to submit their shit to me so I can edit it), come in when I know the work will be waiting for me instead of waiting for the work and THEN starting my workday?

Unfortunately, my workplace (and many others before it) have a certain decorum that states that you need to show up on time and leave on time and just BE THERE during the working hours. But in the world of cell phones, e-mail and other instant communications, I live five minutes away from work, should a crisis arise. How can we change a culture of “sit around and look pretty when you’re supposed to” instead of “give us your best, and if your best happens to occur at 8 p.m., then that’s when you need to give it to us”? One major reason I get along with my staff is that I allow them to work when it suits them best, and I encourage them to contact me (even if it’s at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night, and believe me, it has happened and I don’t mind it one bit) when they need me.

We have calling-off policies that tell us to contact our supervisors when the weather sucks and we’re going to be late or just stay at home. This is supposed to be deducted from our vacation time. I don’t deal with that shit. I ask my staff to stay the fuck home till they can make it in safely (a courtesy call is encouraged, and I always get one). I tell them that they’re more useful to me alive and well instead of mangled in a ditch off the Beltway. I am fortunate that my supervisor really doesn’t care how late I come in, because I always leave long after she does, and frankly, that’s one of the (few) benefits of working for her. You know what this gives me? An environment in which my staff are willing to go beyond the call of duty to help me when I need them. Trust goes a long way, and if your people are afraid of consequences from inconsequential actions, then that breeds a hostile work environment. I can safely say that my staff and I work so harmoniously because we work on a human level. Titles mean absolutely nothing (except for when the shit hits the fan — then I have the title that gets the bullshit, and they appreciate that, because I believe in what we do and will fight to the death for it. And sometimes, it has come down to exactly that) and abilities and willingness to learn/change means everything.

I’m actually thinking about writing a book on leadership in the workplace. I have chronicled most of my jobs, whether on this blog, in my private journals or even on Post-it Notes throughout the years. And it astounds me how the fundamentals of constructing a working, loyal team simply eludes other people. A part of me feared that, once I got into upper management, I would forget how it felt to be on the lower end of the totem pole. But if anything, it has strengthened my desire to encourage people to top their own performances time and again and to not only crave, but also deserve, respect and recognition.

People go to work to make a living and to contribute to society in some way. They don’t work because they love it. Shawn and I were just saying that probably fewer than 5 percent of people probably go to work and do exactly what they love doing and are sad to see the workday end. Sure, a good majority of us find several redeeming qualities about our vocations, but is there a law that says we can’t love every aspect of it?

The president of our company (Pride Fag) was in the office recently, and he always makes a special point of visiting with me. At the time, I was hot from suggesting to my supervisor how we could increase readership of the magazine, and she shot it down with the equivalent of, “No, that’s too much work.” And I really thought it was a workable idea (and she couldn’t give me any real reason why my idea wouldn’t yield results), so I told PF about it. He loved it. Said it was good but gave me reasons why it would really float around in upper management. I was fine with that. Well, not fine, but I figure if the (empty) head of the company says it’s not presently feasible, I know to say, “Whatever,” and go back to my little corner, licking my wounds all the way.

The major problem with my meeting with PF is because he told me that I can count on him as my personal suggestion box — the caveat, of course, being that he won’t tell anyone the source of the ideas. Meaning: if they actually go for it, I get zero credit. Fuck that shit. I’ll keep my ideas to myself, in that respect, or just risk the ire of my superiors and do whatever I feel like doing, whenever I feel like doing it. I refuse to become somebody’s puppet or the wizard behind the curtain.

If time weren’t an issue (my timeframe has an expiration date), I would go ahead and implement the idea without permission. Remember, it’s always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, especially when you have a foolproof idea that, even if worse comes to worst, I’d have only spent $200 on the execution (and I have more than that in my budget). It just disgusts me that my staff and Shan and I are absolute idea generators, but we’d get more response talking to our asses or asking the Tooth Fairy to leave money under our pillows. I get the inkling that people don’t want us to succeed — maybe they don’t even want the company to succeed. But I’m tired of having to budget to the penny for enough paper and staff and equipment and pens. Our situation is that dire. And I’ve worked as a fund raiser for companies that were in even worse predicaments. It’s hard to implement change, but if the culture can’t shift to one that recognizes innovation (or, at least, attempts at it), then no real progress can or ever will be made.

So much for my day off. 😉

OK, so I’m not on a diet per se, but I am trying to eat healthier (and not have snacky goodness or desserts anywhere in my presence). But if I had a valentine who WANTED to send me something, I’d ask for one of these.

Too bad they don’t deliver to Pennsylvania — I would’ve bought my mom some of the chocolate-covered strawberries. (That way, of course, if you buy it for someone else and have some, the calories don’t count, right?)

I did buy the South Beach Diet book and low-carb companion guide. One of these days, when I actually get through the book without falling asleep, I may have to try it. Eventually. Someday. Maybe. 😉

OK, so Angie and I were chatting in my office about “American Idol” great William Hung, and the fire alarm went off.

Well, the alarm is really obnoxious, and it was interrupting our conversation, so Angie reached over and slammed my door closed (“She Bang! She Bang!” *rofl*). We kept on talking about reality TV and other pertinent subjects to our existence, and well, two fire trucks pulled up. At this point, the exclamation point alighted over our heads, and we realized that, hmm — there might be like a fire or something. So we whipped our stuff together and traipsed out into the freezing rain, where every last one of our colleagues were standing at the back of the parking lot.

We were howling with laughter and tried to find out what the scoop was (our building maintenance has been testing the system for the past week — we assumed we could sit tight and stay warm). Oh, but no — this was a REAL drill. One of the gals outside gave us holy hell for being assholes — she said we get fined for each employee who remains in the building. Well who the hell would’a thunk it? Luckily, we were not the last ones in the building — the convention and meetings department stayed cozy, too, till the building maintenance threw them out.

What the hell — it became an impromptu smoke break. Funny as shit, though — I was just telling Angie how stupid this place is because there are no evacuation policies. Every other place where I worked, certain people were designated as the “fire marshalls” for their area (and it was always me for my hallways). You know, people to take account of who’s missing and whether or not they had even shown up at work that day. We were having a good laugh over how no one would care or even know if we perished in a fire, and lo and behold, my prophecy fulfilled itself. You’d think Pussy Demure!TM could fit corralling her employees to safety in her light schedule, ’cause it was ALL of HER people who stayed inside!