Caterwauling

When I interview people, I look for basic courtesies. The ability to tell a good story. The feeling that this person has the capability of having my back and not plunging a knife through it. The hope that tough situations will be made more bearable by their presence and assistance.

The last few times I hired, that’s what I hired. I think it worked out for the best, for the most part. One ended up having zero talent beyond being a nice person. Another had mad talent but fell off the grid and proved to be a bit on the unreliable side. And the third is still with me, keeping me sane for the most part.

I had the chance to interview someone recently. I absolutely wanted nothing to do with this person going into it. No manners. No grace. No access to a shower that morning, apparently. Just, all-around bleah.

The interview was OK. Showered, check. I didn’t see effort as far as dress or other preparation. And someone needs to put a shock collar on that one to notify them when they say something that makes me go, “Did they just say that?” And I’m not even a formal type of person. Because, let’s count the stupid things I say in a day. Hmmm. …

Anyway, I got to wondering whether I would do better managing someone who has no redeeming social qualities. 

I mean, the people who are nice and reasonable AND talented are the best. But I don’t know about the people I’ve been encountering lately. You either get smarts or experience or talent or grace or personality. You don’t get them all.

I think this one could eventually learn to be anything other than a social Asperger’s case. I did not hold back in telling them (nicely) what they were doing that would piss off any reasonable interviewer type. 

This one has a level of delusion about reality in general and their own abilities in particular that concerned even me.

On the other hand, I wonder if the secret to really being an effective mentor is to not particularly care for the person. 

Like, you can care about them but not for them. 

I shared my wisdom as articulately as I could. I really didn’t care as much how it was received. Whereas with others, I said what had to be said but I was also concerned that their sensitivity would mean they didn’t take it for what it was worth (and use it).
I look at a friend who was let go recently. He was kind of everyone’s buddy rather than their boss. So they brought in someone who is more boss-like and less “someone who does the same kind of work and understands the type of people who are doing that work.”

Of course, I also see the wrong people sucking up to the new person and making things difficult for the rest of the team that actually is valuable.

I don’t know. I want to believe in being stronger together. But you really are an island in the end. And I want dragons in my moat from now on so people don’t get too close and, ultimately, drag me down with them.

There’s always the hope you can bring them up to your level. I will always have that hope. And that’s what made me invest SO MUCH in so many. But in the end, the cheese stands alone — at least at review time. And harmony does not necessarily equal profitability. And the hole in the cheese’s heart grows a little bigger because of it.

I don’t know if Stinky Cheese will become part of the charcuterie platter. But I do have a feeling that if anybody can beat them into submission, or at least destroy their dreams and/or delusions, it’ll be me.

If I owned a share of Apple for every time I started off a post with “I’ve finally figured out what my problem is,” well, I would have as many as I do now. (Four because that shit is expensive. Thanks to Warren Buffett for bringing me back to breakeven.)

Unfortunately, I had an urgent project arrive after I typed that first graf. And I totally forget my grand revelation. 

But I bet it had something to do with transitioning to civilian life. Reading the newspaper. Taking lunches. Going to Starbucks. Putting the key in the ignition during daylight hours — morning and evening. 

I’m caught between feeling like a slacker being like everyone else … and HATING being like everyone else. 

Which I’m not. I know that. I’ll never be like everyone else. But it still feels icky to feel like I might get grouped with the riff-raff. 

I get it though. I do hide. Never have I had a review that praises my communication skills. And I am a Mercury child too — the communicator!

It just always bites me when I communicate. I get comfortable and don’t filter. I get criticized for whatever comes out. So I go the opposite route and say nothing. Or blow my bangs and roll my eyes. 

Growing up, whoever had the best insult won the fight. So I got really good at identifying weakness and coming up with that one quip that would destroy someone. That’s power. 

Granted, my fork-dropping comments are usually funny or at least meant to be. But sometimes I can stab with that fork and you never know when that will happen. So, silence is good. 

Like, I really really want to crack a joke about someone a friend is dating. They may take it in good fun. If it comes out that way, that is. At this point I have to keep my distance. And it’s a shame because I can crack myself up about it. But, you know. Am lady. 

I still don’t recall what was wrong with me. But I do realize I’m growing. Maybe not by others’ standards but I am more aware –more wary. More reserved. Less concerned with dumb shit. 

But I’m also not where I want to be. Whatever or wherever it is. But why do I feel like it isn’t where I am … 

And is it even necessary if others who need to aspire to where I already am, never will?

You can take the Whore of White Oak out of White Oak, but she will always be a whore for sure …

I figure I got my first job at 16. So it’s been a quarter-century of fun and games. 

I had that moment yesterday of thinking, wow. I was born to be in charge, and I never made it past a certain point. And that saddens me. 

Now I’m not upset in a Bernie Sanders voter kind of way. I don’t expect anyone to hand anything to me and I won’t cause a riot and insult the winning team because life isn’t fair. 

But when I go to think about what my goals are, I can’t start without figuring out how to un-burn (or Bern) out. 

What’s the lube that will get me unstuck, and where will I go flying if I actually gain momentum?

I loved school when grades would set me apart from the rest. I love work when I excel and set myself apart from the rest. 

I mean, I’m stunted when it comes to normal life stuff.  When did the universe decide I had to be unremarkable across the board, and why did I slowly but surely stop fighting it?

I need a life lobotomy. 

I don’t remember my dreams very often. But I’m having a hard time shaking last night’s.

In it, everyone was telling me I was being let go. But then I went to my bosses (oddly, the current one and the previous one), and they said they had no idea what I was talking about.

Meanwhile everyone was asking a million questions about what I do, when I do it and of course how I make all that magic happen.

It was disconcerting, to say the least. I mean, yes I’d love to get some extended time off. And I admit, I have a few problems I would love for someone else to have to solve. But all I could think about is how will I support Mom?

I used to be so happy that my anxiety-sparked acid reflux calms itself down at night. Not last night, unfortunately. I’m going to have to start sleeping with Tums under my tongue if this shit keeps up.

When things get bad for my friends, I always tell them, “Every day is a good day.”

Even if some are better than others, there’s good to be found in each.

Yesterday was a dogpile. I ain’t gonna lie. Work was very busy yet non-productive. (The whole retrograde cycle has felt like that.) Ran into a lot of resistance with some folks on the payroll and off.

Had a really stressful experience at the grocery store and then a worse one trying to order dinner from the place next door.

Then I got into it with Islamic Caitlyn Jenner upstairs. I truly, truly hope his tiny terrorist ass gets to meet his 72 virgins sooner rather than later.

I’ve also been battling the scale. I was on such a roll. I knew not to talk about my progress. I knew the magic number I hit a week ago is the number of ultimate resistance for me.

Now I’m up FOUR POUNDS from it. DA FUQ??!!

I’ve never walked more. I’ve never eaten so damn many vegetables in my life. Sure, I’ve snuck in some chocolate-chip cookie cake from Publix (because Oh Mah Gah it’s so good). And wine. And Halo Tops birthday cake ice cream. Because, it’s my birthday month and therefore a long celebration.

So yeah. Four pounds. Fuq me running.

So where is the good? Well. It wasn’t an event so much as a revelation.

Everyone in my family died young and sick. They either lost their ability to walk or had an aneurysm in their brain or a spinal problem or who knows what. Every day faded into the next.

I watch the same happening with my mom. She cared for those people till they were gone. Now the torch is passed to me to watch helplessly and not be as active or happy as I want to be.

These scars run deep, by the way.

Anyway. I did something unusual. I took a moment to thank my body for working. For being a lot smaller than it has been. For being healthy and functioning. For all my limbs working and my brain firing and my skin trying to tighten up without pounds of fat to hold it up.

I mean, that’s pretty awesome.

I think it goes back to the weekend when I saw a girl at the beach who had clearly lost a ton of weight and was rocking a bikini. I thought she looked great and almost said so. But I wondered if she were self-conscious of the skin hanging all around, and thought better of it.

I don’t want that. Honestly I think most people look better fat. The “after” pictures I see on a lot of Weight Watchers profiles are downright gruesome.

I get to the point I’m at where I’m good, you know? All my clothes fit. I feel great. I have energy and I love all my cute little T-shirts just the way they are.

I’m feeling fabulous but not flabulous.

Anyway. I do want this weight area (sigh) to be the ceiling. I need for this to be my fat weight. Which means I need to get cracking on moving down, not staying put.

I’m stagnant in every other area of my life. My body, I can change, at the very least.

And I need to get better about telling my body how good it is to me. Perhaps it will keep responding in kind. After all, we are in this together, good or bad, for the long haul.

I owe it so much more than what I’ve done to it up until now. And with any luck, it will always be as forgiving as it has.

I have a friend who, when you ask how he’s doing, he says “Better than I deserve.”

When it comes to health, looking at my family and then looking at myself, I would have to say the very same thing.

Thanks, body. For everything.

I don’t know if it’s the planetary retrograde, but the phrase “a culture of ‘can’t be bothered'” is repeating in my brain like an endless feedback loop.

Part of it is because of some human “doorstop” I’ve been dealing with outside our bounds.

For the record, I just want to say that the people who coined that phrase were overselling this funky bunny.

Honestly. That one is a butt plug at best.

At least I could USE a doorstop.

Culture of can’t be bothered. I think I have my next book title.

This is one of my favorite lines from “Hope Floats.” Bernice tells Justin that they once had a skunk named after him. She obviously hates him.

I want to say that to this freaking pest I wish would just buzz the hell off. I called him Stinky Binky the other day.

Stinky Binky just informed me that X and Y are true. Well guess what, asshole. I was standing there when you received the information and I sure as hell didn’t take away any of that.

I’m going to be nice and meet with Pinhead 2.0 because it’s a favor to a friend. But there is no way in God’s green earth that I’m going to endorse your funky butt for anything.

Delusional twit. He’ll make a great Republican presidential contender someday.

I wouldn’t say I’m overwhelmed. But I am very, very whelmed this week.

Someone was saying that things had to be less-busy a few years ago. And I said no, they were 10 times busier.

Which surprised my friend, who thinks I just do an absolute shitload. Meet my new favorite person!

I admit I’m back to spinning plates again. And freebasing Tums. And racking up a hundred Starbucks points a week.

Unrelated I walked in with a gift card given to me with zero dollars on it. They know me very well there and said seriously, Goddess. Get new friends.

Also unrelated, have you seen the cute Starbucks/Disney tops on Etsy? I’m so buying one. Maybe for my birthday. Which is just around the corner. Eeek.

Where was I? Crap, I forgot.

Anyway I got to thinking about some good calls and decisions I’ve made recently. Which get me to sleep at night when I’m obsessing over everything else that isn’t getting done.

And then I get to thinking about possibly hiring again. Which, after the Kid, I’d rather light myself on fire and jump from the top of the Orlando Eye. And I am not quite yet qualified to offer an opinion on the person standing there waiting, hoping and praying for the (a?) job. But I have the same feeling I had pre-Kid … warm body is not necessarily better than nobody.

Then again, I wouldn’t BE SO BEHIND if, for a few bucks, I could be passing some bucks.

Anyway, back to Whelmed World. Whelmed World. Party Time. Excellent …

That’s what Mom calls my cat when she stinks up the place. (And I don’t think she knows what a stinky binky really is.)  

That’s also what I would call an employee who doesn’t smell like they bothered to wash their ass before invading my tiny space where the AC works four out of every seven days. 

Blessed are those who are always congested and don’t notice. 

I wonder how many people quit over being paired with Pigpens.