Caterwauling

1. Pumped: This week The Smoking Gun brings us this fabulous case of a small-town judge apparently lacking in certain areas under the robe. But he is working on that, literally, and often during such unimportant occurrences as murder trials, in front of witnesses. What is the worst instance you’ve ever witnessed of someone doing something other than his/her job while supposedly working? Note: the writers of the Friday Five believe surfing the Internet does not constitute inappropriate workplace activity.

Nothing THAT bad! But I was looking at my performance appraisal from last year, and my boss had noted how she wanted to see me interact with my colleagues more. Jesus Christ, if that means being cornered by her secretary, who takes a half hour to tell a five-minute story, then that’s as inappropriate a way to spend time at work as I can think of. And then there’s this woman, Popcorn Bandit, who naps in her office between raiding our candy jars. And yet people like ME are viewed as bad for the company!

2. Go cat go! It seems some lucky crack dealer escaped charges when stray cats distracted a drug sniffing dog. What most commonly distracts you from doing your job? And what is your favorite Stray Cats song? (Again, the writers of the Friday Five are imposing the ban on bloggers born after 1980 from answering Part 2 of this question).

Let me just say that I am not a huge fan of rockabilly music. But I did like “Sexy and 17” (if, in fact, I am remembering correctly that the Stray Cats performed it, so there’s that answer). I vaguely remember bopping around to it in a jazz dance class I took with my cousin.

But what distracts me from my job? Real life. I don’t really surf the Internet unless it’s to catch a couple of blogs that show up in Sanskrit when I’m at home (due to unresolved font issues) and to read Slate and Yahoo! News, but I classify that as work, even when I’m reading about how Britney Spears and J-Lo’s competition to become the next Liz Taylor with all their damn marriages.

But seriously, I love catching up with my staff/friends about what they did over the weekend, what’s going on in their lives, etc. And we all vent and brainstorm and vent and smoke and vent and smoke some more and run out for food and bitch and smoke some more. Yeah, that’s a typical day. Then we run out for cigarettes and caffeine. 🙂

3. Colorful language from white Republicans: A criticism over the current administration’s ties to Halliburton ended with Vice President Cheney doling out sage advice to Democratic Senator Leahy: “Fuck yourself.” Technically, there is no rule preventing the veep from cussing on the senate floor. If you could publicly give someone the f-bomb, who would it be? Have you ever surrendered to such an outburst? How did the receiver react?

I don’t think ANYBODY would be or has ever been surprised to hear me drop the f-bomb. In fact, if I’m not cursing up a storm, someone would stage an intervention and ask what the fuck is wrong with me!

4. Score one for the feminist movement: First Lady Laura Bush and Theresa Heinz Kerry are competing in a cook-off for the ever-modern and edgy Family Circle magazine. Bush’s oatmeal chocolate chunk cookies are up against Kerry’s pumpkin spice cookies in the contest. Who do you think will win? Which of the two is most likely to cheat by tainting the other’s cookie dough with ex-lax and damaging the judge’s gastrointestinal tracts? And who reads Family Circle?

My money’s on Theresa — she does, after all, have that Heinz blood in her. Although, I did work at the Heinz factory circa 1998, and let me tell you, nothing smells worse than hot, brewing ketchup, mustard and relish at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday. Sheesh. It reeked faintly of boiling turds and hot sauce. I don’t know what the fuck they put in their products, but they sure come out tasting great, so Theresa’s pumpkin spice cookies may eat a hole in your stomach, but they’ll taste the best going down.

Family Circle is still around?

5. Canadian Trash: Toronto politicians are exploring ways to rid their beautiful city of “tonnes” of garbage, including “sending it to the sun on a rocket ship.” What item would you blast to the sun via rocket ship, so you never have to endure it on our green planet again?

Animal, mineral or vegetable? If we’re allowed to ship trashy humans up there, then give me a few days to finalize my list. 😉

I am sick of diet pills, especially those fucking Trim Spa ads with Anna Nicole Smith. How can she say she owes her weight loss to those crappy $17-a-box pills? How is she posing naked now? That bitch should have a New York City subway map of stretch marks from dropping that much tonnage — “I owe it all to Trim Spa, baby. … and about 60 grand in plastic surgery and another million in airbrushing.” Ship that bitch up into outerspace with her goddamned diet pills, please!!!

On iTunes: Janice Ian, “At Seventeen”

Inspired by my neighbor Sue who just came back from a two-week tour of Rome, Venice and Assisi, I spent last evening with Shan and Alex, ordering gourmet Italian pasta dinners (with garlic knots — which are the best part of the meal!) from Valentino’s and settling down to watch “Under the Tuscan Sun.”

The movie was fantastic, if not slightly unrealistic. But the much–needed escapism on the part of the viewer and on the part of Diane Lane’s “Frances” (or “Francesca,” as she came to be known by her hot Italian lover) provided so many meaningful lessons, not the least of which is that sometimes you have to stop searching for ladybugs and fall asleep in the grass for awhile; you may awaken covered by those ladybugs and the beauty and bounty that you expected them to bring.

I take two lessons from this. One, that “girl’s night out” has become “girl’s night in,” and while it’s different, it’s not so in a bad way. Sure, we loved our days past of barhopping, getting drunk and meeting lots of men who were fascinated by the fact that we were so engrossed in our outrageous conversations that we failed to notice them lining up for a chance to talk to us. But we still have those great talks; we just have to move them inside the comfort of her condo so that Alex can crawl and play and try to talk and keep up with us while we are trying to keep up with her as she scoots around and tries to chew our cell phones if we’re not quick enough to hide them. And while this isn’t the life either of us expected, it’s fulfilling in its own right. Watching the wonder in that baby’s eyes at simply a cat walking by or the big smile she gets when she pulls herself into a standing position, well, it really makes the pressures and injustices of the world fall by the wayside.

The other lesson, albeit a cheesy one, is that we always find ourselves at a crossroads, and do we really want to remember those moments years down the road as the time we decided to stand idly by and let life happen or do we decide to make something different, maybe even something crazy and unexpected, occur?

We spent the afternoon renting storage units because, alas, she’s really leaving town. I went “shopping” in her apartment, picking out furniture that she doesn’t feel like paying to move across the country when she goes next month. She has already given her notice at work, and my boss has been overheard stating that she knows I’m out the door right behind her. And the fucked-up part is how McManagement is well aware (and has admitted that much) that they know I’m miserable and wishing to sprint. But what I know they don’t understand is that I love my job and my team so much that I stay for those reasons. And I’ve never been shy in saying how I would like to see things improved and how I would be so happy if they listened to my ideas and allowed me to help implement them. I don’t want to be a marked woman — I don’t want them to write me off like this; I want to be given a chance to not only do my job to the best of my ability, but also to expand, to branch out, to try new things and be given a chance to succeed at them. I have so much hope for that company, and I want to see it be the success that it once was. I want to be around to see that. And it pains me that they say, “Oh well,” when they decide that I’m not sticking around for the long-term. It’s that very behavior that drives out people like Shan and me. And it sucks. I may not love most of my superiors, but I love my work, and that should count for something. The CFO paid me the highest compliments the other day to Shan, and it thrills me that he sees my value, my contributions, my potential. But is he the only one? Why do employers automatically view the vocal minority as simply rebels? I was hired in the best interest of my job. Therefore, if I have a management title, shouldn’t I be a contributing member of the management team? Why do they just seem to think that I’ll get bored with talking and asking and dreaming until I finally find another outlet for it somewhere else?

Some shit has gone down at work this month, and I have a funny feeling that, even though I played the role in my opinion flawlessly, somehow this will be held against me. Apparently I am too honest. And since when is that a bad thing? I am thinking of renaming Demure!TM as Cleopatra; she is (and I am certain a few others are) in denial about the future of the company if we keep going in the status quo. You can’t bandage a wound when it needs stitches; you can’t close your eyes and plug your ears when the million-dollar idea is literally floating around in the lower ranks. I’m convinced that my conversations are being eavesdropped on, and while sure, I’m not Miss Politically Correct, but I am Miss Bitch Because I Care. And apparently my name came up for some more responsibilities, but rumor has it that Cleopatra put the kibosh on that one.

I haven’t gotten my performance appraisal yet. What kills me most is how nobody outside of my immediate department has any clue how far I have come technologically. I mean, my skills have quadrupled; my problem-solving abilities have sharpened so much that when I do need a hand with something, it’s because it’s something I would have never known on my own. And I don’t just whine and beg for help; I truly try to figure things out on my own before realizing that I could waste a hell of a lot of time being stubborn and not asking for help when clearly there’s an easier way. I assume the review will come Tuesday, immediately following a big pow-wow that can go either way at this point on topics I’d rather not discuss here. I hate feeling like I’m being banished to the principal’s office, where children are to be seen and not heard. And maybe I’m wrong in feeling that way (and for admitting to it to the powers-that-be), but I’m getting old. I know, 30 isn’t old, but I can understand why people who have been in power for longer than I’ve been alive can be skeptical of “kids” like me who have a million ideas and opinions. But one thing I learned from my mom is that sometimes the child does know best; sometimes it takes someone who is far removed from the processes and the problems to see the answer, plain as day. And I would be perfectly embarrassed if I were the one holding the million-dollar solution and felt too afraid to share it.

I hate to get all “Stuart Smalley,” but I am good enough and doggone it, people like me. Scot gave me a reality check recently — if I think I’ve done OK, then I’ve only done OK. If I think I did great, then I did great. Simple as that. If I don’t see myself as valuable, nobody else will either. And if I see myself as valuable and others don’t, then that’s their oversight.

But that’s everywhere I’ve been. I’ve always written it off as my age — that you’re supposed to blend in and wear long skirts and not be funky and eye-catching and vocal if you want to be taken seriously. I see people every day who pass themselves off as submissive, responsible adults, and they fare the best in the working world. And if I did that, I might achieve the same level of comfort, theoretically. But I would never be able to look in the mirror and believe that I was true to myself.

I guess I struggle because I’ve been a dismal failure in relationships; work is all I really have. I mean, people always meet you and ask, “What do you do?” or “Who are you?” And one’s job title or profession always comes out of his or her mouth when posed such a question. And my answer has always been, “I’m a writer” or “I’m a budding entrepreneur” or “I’m a problem-solver.” I’ve held positions in many companies in many different roles; to say I am just one thing is to discount everything else of which I am (or could be) capable. I am a GODDESS!!!

On iTunes: Eric Carmen, “All By Myself”