Caterwauling

So the guy who worked on my broken toof last week is probably one of those people who would gas you and molest you in the dentist chair.

It isn’t the dentist himself. Rather a guy who always jokes with me and hugs me and kisses me on the cheek and in general needs to check himself and remember his baby mama in Miami.

In any event, I was sitting here staring at my empty performance review and trying to wonder WTF I achieved in the last year. I’d say it was 80 pounds of poop in a 50- to 80-hour-a-week bag. But I cannot find a single corn kernel in that poop to write about.

I mean, I kept body count below 1.

I didn’t throw things at anyone.

I didn’t call anybody names.

I assessed very real threats to the business and did something about them.

I networked my little butt off and was able to call in some very big favors when we needed intel and no one else had a way in.

I volunteered to be in the dunk tank and not only am I in it, there are leeches in it and people throw pies at me when I’m up in the air on the seat before they hurl cannonballs at the lever that will send me into the water.

I mean, how do you write that in such a way that HR will happily check off “meets expectations” and move on with their lives for another year?

That moment when you send the new girl’s photo to all your friends who told you to stay away from him in the first place. And the subsequent series of “Bless Her Hearts” because you and your friends have lots of thoughts — and most of them are about the man who unknowingly put you into each other’s realities.

I always have to quote “Birdee” in “Hope Floats” at times like this.

“You deserve each other. You were lucky to have me.”