Caterwauling

I think one of my boys got the hint. Rather, he’s always gotten it, but it seems he’s finally taken it.

I often act like an ass — or myself, depending on who’s telling the story — during the “getting to know you” phase. And I know that it takes just one wrong thing out of your mouth … “wrong” by someone else’s definition than yours … and they immediately blacklist you.

You go over it in your head. What did I say, how could I have said it better, or can I rewind time and have someone chloroform me so no one hears that.

More often, you agonize over conversations seven squillion ways to Sunday, and you still don’t know what you did to repel someone. It could be that your hair fell in your eyes and they thought of an ex. Or you chew your food like his mom does. Or it’s a full moon with Mercury in retrograde.

These are the things that can eat us alive, if we let them.

Anyway, if this one guy ever asks what repelled me … and I have a long list where he’s concerned, but let me tell you a big one.

I drive tiny, shitty Matchbox cars. Just because I floor it, doesn’t mean I’ll go anywhere. Merging in traffic is a nightmare, from the lack of power in the car to not being able to see because I sit so low.

And I hate hate HATE people in big monster trucks who feel the need to ride my ass. And down here, I notice people like to do that on purpose. A lot. Like, you can move out of the way and they will follow you … and be deathly close.

I have many a panic attack in the car because of these assholes. God is familiar with my, “Please don’t let him hurt me” mantra, followed by the deep breathing and crystal-rubbing.

So this one joker tells me, I assume not knowing what I drive, that he’s got a big truck and, for kicks, he enjoys following tiny little sports cars and intimidating them.

He was serious.

Can we say dealbreaker?

I mean, leave my anxiety out of it for a while. What kind of asshole derives joy from terrorizing others at high speeds?

Not any kind of bully I want in my life. That’s for sure.

Anyway, I think I may be rid of this one finally. I can tell he doesn’t know what he did wrong but he does know I can’t even fake it long enough to get through a hi-how-are-you exchange.

Now to get rid of the marrieds who GOD I HOPE stay that way, and I’ll be free I tell you FREE.

My broadcasting system failed me again tonight. And no I didn’t hit any wrong buttons. But hitting the RIGHT buttons repeatedly yielded zero results, and I had to go in a back way.

The very way I learned completely by accident on Friday. Which worked like a charm tonight as my desperate Plan B.

Go figure.

As I was struggling to launch the thing the traditional way, everyone said goodbye and frolicked out. “Hope you figure out how to fix it!”

I fixed it, all right.

And when I fixed it, my colleague was having broadcasting problems of his own.

Now I could have said, “Oh hey, good luck!” like everyone else did.

But that’s not me. Captain and ship and all that jazz.

I hung around and offered help. He tried what he knew. Then he said, OK, since you stayed and might have an idea.

I found the problem quickly.

In any event, even though I’m at about a 47 on the 1-to-10 anxiety scale, I was really glad that A) I didn’t need anybody to help me, and B) I could help someone else in an area that’s inadvertently become an expertise.

It’s an hour of my life I won’t get back, but it sure beat what else I had planned for that hour-ish. Jobs are all about people — that’s what you leave behind, and that’s what you take with you. So, if I measure by that, I’ll call it a good day.

“Got enough guilt to start
my own religion.”

— Tori Amos, “Crucify”

From the “shut up, things could be worse” files, remember I said I ached for the man who accidentally killed my classmate’s teenage daughter as she walked across the street?

A friend from back home landed in the hospital. Her nurse said the guy had recently come in — with a massive heart attack.

She didn’t disclose anything — no name, current condition or whether he pulled through — but damn. This is killing him.

If that doesn’t put life’s little annoyances into perspective, nothing does. I am such a careful driver, and I have super-shitty cars so I am EXTRA nervous at all times, that being his shoes would be the last you see of me. I promise you that.

The nurse, as it happens, knows my classmate. Said she’s quiet, a good mom, hard-working. That she really counted on her older daughter to help with the younger kids.

That saddened me more — the girl was probably racing home to meet their schoolbus. She wasn’t goofing off with friends or going to go smoke behind the building like I used to do at that age. 🙂

And that’s the thanks we get for being good. The second our luck runs out, well, that’s it.

Our driver’s health collapses under his guilt that he never deserved to have to endure. A light goes out in a good family. Thousands of people all over the country hug their kids a little tighter because they can.

And … well, we forget till the next little earthquake erupts and we do it all over again and OMG CRISIS over something stupid like hitting a wrong button.

If this is the worst it gets for me, though, it’s pretty fucking good, wouldn’t you agree?

Two sleepless nights in a row. And now I have to log into my work PC to finish stuff that should have been done last week. And, I’m sure, I’ll have plenty of e-mails asking what I did to (or why I didn’t) fix the fuckup.

(It’s because a meltdown was imminent. I e-mailed my boss a suggested solution, contacted Customer Service and then drank a whole bottle of wine. All in the same half-hour.)

My anxiety is still Through the Roof, to put it mildly.

When you have your past and your present at the same lunch table, as I saw Friday, you remember things.

I’m not saying any situation was ideal, and I can’t say one has been more-ideal than another. Both had their perks and frustrations.

I miss my old boss’ “No Meetings” rule. I mean, he took me all over the country to meet with experts and certainly we met with plenty of writers and such at home. But other than the occasional strategy or damage control session, we barely saw each other. And we lived four doors down from each other.

It’s … different now. Lots of meetings. I feel like I know Everything There is to Know about internal stuff. I would love to be in on more external discussions, like I used to be, but at some point in the day work actually has to get done.

Either way, the work-to-play ratio is unhealthy at best.

But I don’t want to imply it’s *just* a job driving me mad. Mom, cars, health, people — stuff I just can’t mention here that’s making me swoon at the thought of dealing with it by whatever deadline does or does not accompany it.

I think what bugs me most about the fuckup at work is not that I did it (and that it could have been avoided … and that the gal who logged in from home to help me and talk me off the ledge won’t get any credit), but that it could cost us money — money we worked SO HARD to make.

And even if the damage is minimal (which I expect it will be, realistically), it means the trust I have worked SO HARD to garner from a VERY difficult person may be in jeopardy.

The anticipated tongue-clack/told-you-so moment will make me have a Linda Blair moment, I can feel it.

The good news is, each day is a clean slate. And there will always be more fuckups to make. All told, I went about two and a half years without a moment like this, so I’d say maybe I’ll get some sleep SOMETIME this week once it’s blown over.

Lord, guide my steps (and muzzle my mouth) till I get to that point …

Had lunch with old bosses and new yesterday. It was the highlight of my week.

I worked late every night this week to prepare. And worked really late last night over a big fat hairy fuckup I made.

There’s one project I run that has taken 20 hours of my week. That would be fine if I only worked 40 hours, but this was another 80-hour week. And while I was just about to make the fuckup (honestly, I hit a button on a broadcast form I am accustomed to hitting — who knew I wasn’t supposed to hit it on this particular day?), I had my IM and inbox dinging with A) “Where is it? you need to get this done. Did we mention you need to get this done?” and B) “Yeah there’s all this other shit you didn’t manage to get done during these 80-hour weeks. Now we have to meet because of that.”

My colleague, when he heard about the fuckup, said hey, it’s 7 p.m. on a Friday night. Be kind to yourself. Shit happens.

I wasn’t even distracted. I don’t make plans on Friday nights. I know better. The only reason I was even “rushing” was because everyone was whining about going home or on vacation.

Meanwhile I’m sitting here with a stress-induced autoimmune disorder. But sure, everyone go happily along. I was up all night stressed out from this day/week.

Sitting there with my old teams and new, I couldn’t help but think if I could take the best qualities of both, I’d be in an ideal situation. God I would love to have all of us on the same team.

But it occurs to me that my biggest value to them all is the fact that I work constantly. Sure they like and worship me and all. As well they should, because they get everything I have to offer and then some. But if/when this disorder knocks me out and takes me down, what then?

It has been said that we work ourselves to death out of fear — the fear of not being liked/respected/promoted, the fear of not having nice things, the fear of not having a roof over our heads, the fear of failing (either ourselves or others).

I think that’s true. I have a momma to support. I fail her daily. Every time someone tosses me to the curb, it puts her into further jeopardy. So maybe I do try to make myself overly valuable, in hopes that when a big fat hairy fuckup day like yesterday happens, they’ll let it go.

I just wish *I* could let it go. Maybe I’ll get some sleep tomorrow night.

It just kills me that for two hours of joy of seeing my old friends, I have to endure a world of pain afterward.

My good friend Lachlan pointed that out recently, that I deny myself the things I crave and deserve. It’s days like yesterday that perfectly illustrate why.

My fear is that, every time I can breathe or feel happy or even feel a little bit healthy, I should know disaster is on its way.

So if I’m never happy or well, nothing too bad will ever happen to take it away.

And we wonder why I’m falling apart …

Last night marked a week since my classmate’s 14-year-old daughter died after being hit by a truck in the crosswalk outside our old ninth-grade building where we met. (It’s a middle school now.)

No one is to blame. She jaywalked with some other kids. The driver wasn’t speeding. She didn’t see him and he saw her too late.

I ache for him, that he has to live with this for the rest of his life.

My classmate seems fine, in public anyway. Everything on Facebook is a Bible verse or frequent reminders that “God is ALWAYS good.”

I mean, I think she believes that. And all the other religious folks are crawling out to offer prayers. I believe in God but the first thing I did was ask for an explanation. And the second, third and 50th thing.

I know deaths are meant to put life into perspective for the rest of us. It took my brand-new friend Leanne dying five years ago to make me choose to accept a job offer in Florida. Because, she would have done it, I imagined.

How will I commemorate young Alyson in my own little way?

I don’t know yet. But I do know I’ve had five near-useless doctor’s appointments in the past month (two in the past week) with mystery diagnosis after diagnosis.

I feel fine. I just … look not-so-cute. We’ll leave it at that.

The only diagnosis I’ve gotten so far that I can do anything about is a Vitamin D deficiency. Which, my work contract doesn’t say anything about fitting sunlight into my day.

My new doc wants to ship me down to a Miami hospital for a day. Because, driving an hour from my office to nearby civilization for appointments doesn’t already interrupt my life enough. Let’s lose a whole day.

I anticipate my tribute to Alyson will be to wake up and realize that my body is literally attacking itself right now, and the way I’ve been living has probably been a big fat contributor to it. That at least I have the means to fix what’s wrong, even if I don’t necessarily have the time (in my schedule, anyway. Hopefully I have plenty of years to make the world a better place).

I think the takeaway is Alyson brought light and joy to everyone around her, and my existence is pretty forgettable as-is. There’s always younger, cheaper labor and younger, skinnier women and better, more-involved friends who can take my place everywhere.

How do I brighten the world every moment I’m in it when I’m in a dark place, literally and figuratively, for much of the day?

I guess you’re just going to have to tune in to find out!

I’m a reality TV junkie. I hate it and complain about it, but damn it if I’m not parking my butt at my TV with my laptop for all the Teen Housewives of Bachelorette County.

When the whole “Bachelor” Juan Pablo gay/pervert comments came out, I was already disgusted enough with the show (and my addiction to it) that I tuned out.

But last night I did tune back in to see who won.

And the winner … is the one who got away.

• I’m angry at him for being a selfish prick who’s full of excuses (No. 1: “I have a daughter.” Excuse No. 2: “See Excuse No. 1”).
• I hate that he says “It’s OK” when someone is trying to have a real discussion with him.
• I’m astounded that his family TOLD these googly-eyed girls that he’s a moody piece of shit who is going to shut you out and do his own thing. AND THEY ARE STILL GOOGLY-EYED.

We’ve all dated him. That pretty boy with issues we thought ONLY WE were strong enough to handle. I don’t think I ever believed I could change someone … but I know I figured that I could love someone despite their ridiculous walls that they put up.

Since, you know, I have a way of constructing my own with the most weather-resistant materials ever crafted.

What kills me is that both girls KNEW something was wrong. Their guts told them. Hell, in Clare’s case, he was a fucking DICK to her on two occasions, between the slut-shaming and the “I loved fucking you” comment in the helicopter when the cameras were off.

I have told you about a guy UF who continues to ask me out. I told you I just get a … feeling. Not a good one. He may be wonderful but I don’t need to take the time to find out he’s not.

I have told you about another guy Jupiter who, well, is Juan Pablo. Handsome, charming, determined to make me feel at ease and special … someone who may have put it out there that he’s looking for a wife and kids, just like his TV counterpart.

Maybe I let Jupiter get me relaxed enough to dream with him. Only to get tortured because suddenly I want all these things and he’s like, whoa, where did all that come from?

FROM YOU, ASSHOLE.

I don’t recall wanting babies. I don’t recall dreaming about wow-ing his parents or weddings or white-picket fences or Sundays at Grandma’s house when the babies are old and good enough to travel.

But I don’t put those things into the universe because what I WANT is a guy with a good job and an investment account and who wants to explore the world with me and who loves my mom and who doesn’t annoy me too much.

That I would think of babies and homes and meeting parents, trust me, someone would have to PUT THAT INTO MY HEAD, JUPITER.

Anyway, that’s what Juan Pablo did. He went on a TV show whose end goal is a proposal. He told the women he needed a mom for his daughter Camila. He said he wanted the whole fairy tale.

He didn’t want a fairy tale. He wanted a henhouse where he could park his cock. He says he’s honest … that’s honest.

He says he has a language barrier, so he can say stupid things and tell others they misunderstood him. Hell no he doesn’t.

He lives with his mother, probably so she can take care of his daughter so he can go chase tail. Be honest, Juan Pablo.

That’s the thing — all these guys pretend to be something they’re not. You may have heard me use the phrase “Flash, Dash and No Cash.” I assumed Juan Pablo might be somebody. I’m thinking he’s not.

He’s no prize yet these gorgeous, brilliant and effervescent women (OK, Clare, not Nikki) are competing for THIS DUD? For real?

This is too close to real life. “Pretty close to resistible, lover man,” as Whitney Houston said in “Waiting to Exhale.”

I often say I put up walls and don’t let love in. That’s to keep these kinds of creeps out.

God, how do we keep the faith that we will find a good man when we’re seemingly surrounded by everything but?

Juan Pablo is a brilliant reminder that — when we run for the hills and have that awful feeling of, “What if I just left someone great?” — we were right to run.

Praise all of us (men and women) who recognize that “the one who got away” … was us. Not them.

Next time the “Bachelor” promises an ending we’ve never seen before, someone please promise me that we’ll see Chris Harrison pushing him off a cliff …

Yesterday brought the birth of a beautiful baby daughter for one of my dear friends from D.C.

Yesterday also brought the sudden death of a beautiful barely-turned-teenage daughter of one of my classmates in Pittsburgh.

You can tell me all you want about balance in the universe. But I still, after staying up all night arguing with the universe, don’t quite grasp everything yet.

After all my soul-searching, this may sound strange, but maybe there’s a reason to envy both.

I’ve spent my whole life married to my job, putting up walls and boldly declaring that the things “everyone else” wants don’t matter a whit to me.

I figure by saying I don’t want a husband or a family, the universe will give me one. Since it always seems to, when I say I “can’t take one more thing,” pile a whole bunch onto my just-about-to-break plate.

So, I envy them that they have something to love … something to lose. Something worth dropping everything for, to nurture and protect as their own. Something to worry about and, yes, sadly, something to grieve.

I do fall in love an awful lot. The timing is never right, whether it’s mutually shared at different times, or else they want me when I want someone else (or vice-versa). Never once have I felt I “had” anything worth fighting for.

And nobody feels sorry for me when I grieve things that, let’s face it, just weren’t real to anybody but me.

Anyway, please send love to Angie on her new baby girl, and to Cindi on losing Alyson in a car accident almost a decade after they lost Alyson’s dad in the same manner. And if you could spare some love for someone who’s never known any, well, I would appreciate that, too.

“(Do I wanna know)
If this feeling flows both ways?
(Sad to see you go)
Was sort of hoping that you’d stay
(Baby we both know)
That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day.”

— Arctic Monkeys, “Do I Wanna Know”

As I was leaving for work an hour early Monday (new daily pre-market project. Shoot me), Mom said I looked better than usual. “Dewy,” she said.

I said, “They haven’t beaten the soul out of my being yet. Give it a day.”

Yeah, I look like hell today. Right on schedule.

Today I didn’t have to do my Evil Commute, so that was good. I had lunch with a colleague and an associate from my old Maryland days, who is passing through town. I got some sun, ate good food, actually had a productive meeting for a change (exchanging ideas. Amazing) and snuck to the beach for the sunset.

So, win.

But I’ve been relatively bitter over a beloved colleague’s departure from the job. He gave notice last week and thankfully told me about it right away so I was prepared when everyone inevitably called me to ask questions (that I didn’t answer).

It broke my heart. It really did. We got close really fast. And he didn’t last long. He took a position I vacated, so I KNOW. I don’t even have to ask why he decided not to waste his time.

This business is interesting in that if you can manage your expectations by changing them completely, you’ll be fine. If you want to retain your integrity, forget it. Move on.

I wouldn’t say I sold my soul. But I rent it out relatively cheap, and I certainly am without it more than I’m with it.

He’s not like that. He knows who he is. And he’s got a really impressive resume to boot. His next job is a total upgrade.

It makes me wonder when I lost sight of what I wanted, or whether I’ve changed so much that I could never go back.

I think I am where I need to be. I just have to keep reminding myself that it’s not a life sentence, or at least not a death sentence, when it all gets to be too much.

So heartbreak aside that I’ve now lost my second good friend at work in as many years, I am not happy how he was treated on the way out.

Now I have to clarify we work for different sides of the same company. We have our own dysfunctions on my side, of course, but they are more-manageable.

I would hope my team wouldn’t exile me before my time is up. I sure hope his team paid him for the days they asked him NOT to continue coming in.

But it speaks volumes that I am very, very suspicious.

Seriously, nobody has any clue about our careers/connections/reputations. One bad word out of our mouths and it’s all over — and word spreads like wildfire in this little field. They’re damn lucky he’s staying quiet and I’m only talking in non-specifics on the blog.

It was my first day in a long time without cheerful little e-mails to pick me up throughout the day.

I don’t like this.

I find it amazing how this company has a way of bringing special people my way … and then driving them right out of my life.

But it occurred to me, on this day I finally lost patience and actually fought back when I felt slighted/attacked on another conference call today, they could toss me out at any moment too.

Reputation and connections and achievements and relationships and esteem aside, I could be on the curb with my friend. Thank God he had his escape plan activated.

And then when someone asked me about a project I’ve been avoiding for a year, I didn’t answer. Because it’s behind a project I’ve been avoiding for 11 months. Behind a project I just revived that is an absolute waste of my time.

All useless bullshit that doesn’t bring money in or keep it in the bank.

Shit that stresses me the fuck out because I get sick of people asking about it — I am not stressed because I’m missing an opportunity to grow or do right by the business. I’m stressed because it’s another way I’ve failed them that they can hold against me, if and when they so choose.

Look the real heartbreak here is losing my buddy. Who is off to another state to chase his next dream. Or the one he put on hold to pursue this adventure.

And through all of this, I’ve thought a lot about the job that tossed me to the curb, and all the bullshit that used to kill me suddenly went away.

It didn’t make or break the business that those things didn’t get done. Although maybe it would have sated the publisher-type beast if I’d just played along with her whims.

Because even though I focused on money-making and training my staff and basically just holding the walls up with my arms and legs as everything was closing in around us, it still wasn’t enough.

I don’t know why it surprises people that I have a brain in my head, and work hard and problem-solve, and PRIORITIZE … independent of all else. I don’t know how to become in charge.

I don’t know that I even want to be in charge. But I want to be acknowledged for, hey, you did all the right things and you’re right, this bullshit project — that is only going to result in MORE bullshit work for you, that keeps you from doing what you’re trained to do and, worse, will prevent you from having time to generate IDEAS — should be shelved.

I’m guessing I need one more good cry (and boy I’ve had a few this past week, starting with hearing about his resignation on this day last week, and his departure at close of business yesterday).

And maybe a velociraptor to eat every person and project that’s contributing to/causing my health problems.

I miss you, friend. But I meant when I said I hope they deserve you. Because, we didn’t. I just hope I’m not the only one who knows this to be true.