Caterwauling

Mom said it’s reward a dumbass day. Silly momma. That’s every day.

They say God has a bigger plan for your life than you do. 

Well who knew that this was bigger than I had in mind for myself?

 Camel on I-95 …

Whack-job neighbors must have gone away for the weekend. It was gloriously quiet till Sunday night.

I was hoping they got evicted or maybe the loudmouth bitch left the whiny asshole. But I hear their tiny terrors destroying the place. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before the shitshow makes another splash.

It occurs to me how I do a whole lot of tolerating in this life. Maybe you can relate …

Speaking of tolerating things to the point of being mildly comfortable with them, I saw this note in my inbox from Ramit Sethi.

Again, see if you can relate …

If you’ve gotten good at something, this is a pivotal moment. If you’ve lost 50lbs, your friends will say, “You should be happy! Stop losing weight! You’ll get too skinny!”

If you’re running a business, people around you will say exactly the same thing. “Why are you killing yourself? That’s more than enough. You should just take a vacation!”

Guys, my fucking goal in life is not to take a vacation.** It’s to make an impact.

That’s why after a lot of thinking, I narrowed my choices down:

* Stay where I was, satisfied with the level I’d hit
* Make the decision to grow

I made the decision to keep growing. That single decision has been one of the best, most difficult decisions I’ve ever made.

So … stop tolerating AND start growing again.

Funny, I lost way more than 50 pounds at one point. And after enough stupid, pointless commentaries that “you look FINE now” — as if I didn’t before — I did give it up.

But now this life has grown as constrictive as my clothes since I started eating again.

Hmm.

I don’t know what to do. But it’s definitely time to do something else. Because I can’t name one thing I haven’t outgrown …

** It’s totally my goal in life to take a fucking vacation. You know. For a change.

Got to work before 6 a.m.

Normally I’d stay up working Sunday night. A new writer turns things in around 5 p.m. but I was able to hire a new editor who turns around the content edit at 4 a.m. So, it makes sense for me to just be up at the crack o’ me to do my own overhaul.

Anyway the morning has barely begun and while I’ve achieved a lot, I’m also exhausted and not functioning. And that means reading.

Was just catching up on last week’s JOLTS report and the Small Business Optimism survey. The latter says that finding “qualified candidates” is the third-biggest problem for small businesses right now.

No freaking kidding.

I smell a support-group idea.

Or a song — “People who need qualified people are the unhappiest people in the world …”

My best person is out this week. Wish me luck.

Oh, fuck luck. Send psychotropics.

 And not much has changed. Yet everything is different. 

We’ve been talking at work apt about happiness and meaning. 

Which may be a little ironic given the deeply stressful situations my poor boss and I are in. 

Anyway the conclusion we’ve come to is that the pursue of happiness causes stress. But the pursuit of meaning could result in happiness. 

I had a flash today. My mind was devoid finally of thinking about the dead weight I have to drag around all week. 

And I realized the meaning of my life comes from spending time with my mom. 

Don’t get me wrong. She makes me crazy and I wish she lived her own life  and didn’t need to be the center of mine. 

But she’s funny and bright and pleasant and helpful. 

You know, weight yes but not dead weight. 

Anyway. Not the meaning I was looking for. But meaning nonetheless. 

And maybe that’s more than many other people find in their lifetimes. 

I found myself worried about the future of business today.

I was thinking about two millennials I know. One is brilliant and one is … not.

The brilliant one works for himself, more or less. And the other is somehow maybe going to learn how to run a business if A) he can retain any of it and B) he could keep a job for any other reason than an employer being worried he’ll sue.

Now, I worked for myself for a while. I was OK at it. But I hated it. I wanted to be part of a bigger cause. I also wanted someone else to worry about keeping the lights on.

One thing over the past 20 years I’ve had a love-hate relationship with is being a supervisor. Of the last eight people I helped to bring on board at various places, seven have been amazing.

But I let eight destroy my well-being. Enough to make me want to give it all up and return to freelancing so I never have to supervise a soul again.

I think that’s what most of my friends have done. They work alone. The collaborate only at gunpoint or, at least, when they’re lonely.

But that’s the the thing. They aren’t forced to show people how to wipe and feed themselves. They call their peers. People they respect. People who make them smarter.

They don’t have to work with those who refuse to learn. Who just want to collect a paycheck and be left alone. Who think that just because they showed up at the race (probably late), they deserve a corner office and a parade.

I was taught that you had to grow the next generation. But for most of us, making sure people wiped their poopy butts takes more time than doing something real or creative that makes the company money … and puts us in line for a promotion or bonus or both.

This is why I worry about business. I think those of us with aptitude and good experience and a lot of creativity and heart and good ideas will wake up one day and go NOPE.

In other words, nope — it’s time to do this on my terms. And my terms don’t involve carrying dead weight.

I think there’s a lot to be said about the freelance economy. Multiple income streams are a glorious thing. I sweat having only one paycheck.

Of course I worked with some real assclowns and tap-danced for paychecks that way, too.

But that’s the thing, too. People who have no business running businesses are … well … running businesses. How the hell do you learn from people who couldn’t find both ass cheeks with Siri and a flashlight?

So, yeah. Business. I haven’t had the opportunity to work with a Jack Welch or Elon Musk or Richard Branson. And most people won’t. But people like Eight wouldn’t appreciate greatness if they fell over it, either.

And if it’s the “me”s of the world that have to simultaneously learn and teach, we’re all doomed. I think I’ve done an OK job of learning … and I think I’ve helped to produce enough success stories to justify my existence.

But let me tell you. If my financial plan — i.e., marrying a rich husband — works out the way I want it to, goodbye cruel business world.

When Mr. Prince Charming with the big bank account comes along, I’m going freelance.

And I’m only talking to my esteemed colleagues and friends. Moreover, I am not going to go near anyone I don’t respect or who has no plans on respecting me.

Perhaps then I can be the next great business leader. I just worry that it might be the only way.

Generally speaking, if you tell someone eight times in two days to not do something … and then they do it AGAIN … isn’t that reason enough to pull off their ears and stuff them up their butt?

After a day dealing with Convoluted and Combative (same person), I came home to the neighbors pounding on my door and staring at it hatefully when I didn’t open it. 

I complained again. What do they plan to do to me if I would open that door?

They are young. Honestly they look to be 19 years old. Like everyone else here. What do they have to be so angry about?

The HOA called their unit owner to complain. I know it’s a “four strikes, you’re out” policy. I think this is my third time getting them in trouble with their landlord. 

I hope they can calm down. I hope Convoluted becomes less Combative. But I feel like I have a better chance of evicting the neighbors than the other. 

If I wanted to retain great employees, I’d book their calendar with trainings and trips for as long as the eye could see.

You know, in case anybody wanted to do that for me. 🙂

As for others, I’d be likelier to book them a one-way ticket to anywhere.

And I might or might not have a few ideas on that, too.

I used to make up nicknames for people.

Now I do entire songs about them.

At my old apartment, I used to adapt Christmas carols “in the key of Dump.” I had dozens of ’em. People knew me because I was always the asshole singing through the hallways.

I sing when I drive, too. When I’m white-knuckling it amid the blue-hairs and wack jobs who got their license out of Cracker Jack boxes.

So now when I sit and sing, it’s my grandest hope that people don’t understand the words.

Or maybe my grandest hope is that they do.

Because, if someone making up lyrics about you doesn’t “learn ya,” I really don’t know what would.