Caterwauling

A recruiter started calling all my friends in the industry a few weeks ago.  They said they were hiring for (my position) at (my company).

My good friend called me in a panic. And I now call him my good friend because he was terrified I had gotten the boot and he wanted to make sure I was ok. 

I’m ok. It’s a newly created position not in my department. And my own official title is the same title I’ve had for 20 years that isn’t accurate given “other duties as assigned” IS my job. 

But it’s a sad commentary on my industry that so many of us who actually know what the fuck we are doing get exiled for no other reason than someone dislikes paying us what they decided to offer us. Not that it’s even anything to brag about, in most cases. But that’s another entry for never. 

I hate feeling so insecure. I mean it was good of my friend to think about me. And he probably would have found a way to throw me some work, if not hire me outright, in the junior position he has open. 

But thrilling as that sounds, it sucks to know that no matter how hard you work or how good you are at it, you’re disposable. Meanwhile the world’s dumbest and/or least productive never seem to be in jeopardy. 

Every company has two kinds of employees. The ones who do it all and the ones who watch them. And it kills my friends and me that being in the first category is something to worry about at all times. 

Bad hires at a lower salary cost more than great hires at a higher salary.

Trust me, I have the battle scars to prove it.

We are talking about hiring again. And there’s a likely path we’re going down that I want nothing to do with. Everyone’s being supportive and nice about the idea to the one who broached it, but we’re all IMing each other with, “Oh Christ.”

Good luck telling that person they need to stay till 7 p.m. (with the rest of us). Good luck getting the results you want on the first try. And good luck keeping this person busy when four of us are cross-trained in their domain.

Don’t get me wrong. Nice person. And does good work and actually has a good brain in there. And can do the work more-artfully than the four of us combined.

But as I was told a long time ago, we aren’t after perfection. We want it done right AND we want it done Wednesday but we’d really love it by Tuesday COB if you can stay late that’d be greaaatttt ….

Not a fit. Just not a fit.

Meanwhile there are needs we have that the rest of us can’t cover/fake/learn in a big fat hurry.

Here’s to hoping the one who can execute the solution, sees the problem with this so-called “solution.” Because it’s a lot harder to get rid of bad fits than it is to find the right ones. And the latter is downright fucking impossible lately.

I call the shitheads upstairs the Ubangis. As in, they bang-ee shit against the floors a good 14 hours a day, slam drawers and otherwise move shit around constantly.

This is in addition to their blasting of horrible music, their small kids falling and screaming, the couple screaming at each other and other general unpleasantness I hear through the very thin (and bare) floors.

I finally met the fuckers tonight. Although “met” isn’t the right word. It was more like I’d had enough of their shit and I ran upstairs with the intent of glaring at their door until they died from the death rays shooting out of my eyes.

The cops told me they were violent and to not approach them. The guy is a good 6-foot-5, so yeah he could definitely snap my fat widdle neck.

The kids are a barely walking toddler and another girl of about 5. I assumed they were boys because they BANG SHIT OFF THE FLOOR like it’s their job.

The older girl was running and hollering and bouncing off the walls of the hallway. The baby SCREAMED the whole way as they walked to the parking garage.

I went to another entrance to the garage. They park directly above me so I know the spots belong to their unit. They had music BLASTING out of their two cars. The older girl ran up and down the garage floor, bellowing and screaming.

The mother was there. Looking evil. Funny that she probably is the one who stomps around the loudest. I hear her following her husband from room to room, screaming at him.

They stopped yelling over the music to look at me. The husband almost smiled.

I contemplated being friendly so I could talk to them. And the “Fuck It, I Hope You DIE” wave washed over me. I glared at them all and walked away.

They treat this place like a ghetto. I bet the people who live adjacent to the garage didn’t care for their concert. But it only lasted maybe five minutes. By the time I got back to my unit, they started stomping and rolling shit around almost instantly.

You know how people joke that, if they see a spider, they will do the only reasonable thing … burn the house down.

That’s the same feeling they inspire in me.

How can they not know what pieces of shit they are? And just how much would they harm me if I let them know in no uncertain terms?

OMG KILL.

‘Tis the season to hear how great everyone’s vacations were.

Do me a big fat fucking favor and suck it, if you feel the need to share with me.

I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t care.

Can’t escape. Can’t afford to escape. Couldn’t do it even if you paid me $7,500 like that company I just read about that actually pays its employees cash to check the fuck out for a week or two.

Nope. I am going to do what I always do and be thankful I’m employed for another pay cycle.

And be even more grateful that I don’t live in Greece right now.

Busy but not psycho busy. Still doing the 10- to 14-hour days. No hope of a vacation or even a work trip.

A friend hasn’t had a raise in 10 years and I haven’t had a day off in four years. We are never sure which one to feel sorrier for.

In any case another friend said she’s so busy but good-busy. Not “finding projects for people” busy. Not “having to chase people for those projects and then chase someone else to figure out what they did wrong” busy.

And in my world, that’s just as good as a vacation. It has to be, anyway. Therefore, it is.

Mom moved in with me before she turned 50. She’s 57.

At this rate, do I have 9 years before I can move in with someone who will take care of me for the rest of my life?

You spend your whole career doing things others want done. You spend your weekends doing what others want (in my case, that’s a whole lotta nothing).

When do you get to live for you and why does doing so mean losing what you have? Why do the things that you do for others become your whole life, and why is it so hard to live for you?

And how do you — during those quiet moments when you’re alone and loving that aloneness — keep from dreaming about doing exactly that?

Would you miss any of it, if it were gone? Or would you finally become who you were meant to be — assuming you weren’t meant to be everyone else’s?

Me to Mom: I was talking to (powerful friend). I mentioned (so-and-so) might contact them for a job.

Mom: What did (powerful friend) say?

Me: That (so-and-so) isn’t smart enough to think of doing that. Also, that they wouldn’t get past the front door.

Mom: No one in their right mind would hire that person. (So-and-so) needs to move out of the state.

I got a call from the management office today to let me know they are replacing my door tomorrow. Because, for all the shit wrong with this place, giving me a white door is their top priority.

Fear washed over me when I saw the number light up on my phone. The upstairs assholes have been so bad lately that I haven’t slept in three nights.

For several moments, I was so tired, I honestly thought wow — for the few moments I did manage to fall asleep between screams and pounds and things breaking — did I sleepwalk up there and murder them?

I didn’t say anything about it. I said sure, bring the door because I really need one more impossible-to-clean thing. OK well I didn’t say THAT. But still. Nobody cares that I pay top dollar for a “luxury” apartment in which there is no luxuriating.

I guess I have to be grateful that I got rid of one problem (a very BIG problem) at work. So how silly of me to think other things could get resolved too and I actually fully enjoy my life.

“I float on the streets that are empty
take the path that the wind only knows
Tonight is the last time that I’ll ever be here.”

Marie Digby, “Beauty in Walking Away”

So, apparently unicorns do exist.

A married man I know is actually leaving his wife.

I know, pause for a moment. The urban legend comes true.

Holy shit.

Long ago I realized everyone just loves the chase. Even when they end the chase for someone else, they themselves don’t see the need to stop. If anything, the chase is even more-exciting because they know they have some dumb asshole at home, waiting for them and NOT chasing anyone themselves.

Or being chased.

I think that’s what stuns me. The people sitting at home who know they aren’t going to lose their man … and who will terrorize him into staying, if need be. Because they probably think they can’t/won’t get anyone else.

And I think that’s what sends these guys out. They know even if they get caught, they’ve checked into that Hotel California and can never leave.

So when I got the news that one of the boys filed for divorce so he could finally have his shot at happiness … I froze.

I mean, you accept that it “happened” for a friend of a friend of a friend whose sister knows someone’s cousin who left his life behind in pursuit of true love.

But when it DOES happen (holy shit. Wait, I said that already), what the actual fuck do you do?

I once told someone to leave for himself. Not for me. I don’t need that kind of guilt if it doesn’t work out.

This isn’t how fairy tales start out, after all.

But then someone actually DOES leave for himself. So he can pursue his true or at least his next love. And you wonder …

Why wasn’t I worth it?

I’m not hanging around long enough to find out.

“There’s an answer in the sound of a train
there is wisdom past the bridge on the bay
There’s a lifetime through the fog, in the rain
there’s a beauty in walking away.”

I have had this fear that someone who used to work at my company would forget that they had moved on. 

And that they would reappear one day, biz as usual. 

Today one of my friends logged in as that person. And Instant Messaged me. 

Let me tell you. My salad tasted good going down. Coming back up? Not so much.