Caterwauling

Every day, it’s the same.

Fix insane amounts of other people’s fuckups.

Get cryptic email from owner.

Spend an hour interpreting it.

Field at least 20 interruptions from people who know better about things they should know better about.

Give email to at least two other people to get their interpretation. They interpret it completely differently from each other AND from me.

Spend another hour implementing owner’s request as I understand it.

Return to fixing others’ fuckups on other unrelated projects.

Spend at least 15 minutes apologizing to the owner for the part that I misunderstood … the part someone else fucked up in helping me implement it … and getting four more instructions that I’m certain will get fucked up despite my best intentions. Like military time. How do I get all the complicated shit right and yet fucking schedule something at 1500 hours when I knew in my head, heart and soul that he wanted it at 1600?!?!

Got screwed for the third time at a favorite restaurant today.

Three visits in a row now, I’ve not been able to eat at the same time as my friend or mom. Always have to send someone’s food back to be redone.

The thing is, the food is always great when it’s fixed. The managers are fantastic, and totally make up for the sucky server and/or cook. Two out of the three visits, I got my meal comped.

The thing is, it’s like any job. If the corporate equivalent of servers and cooks can’t get it right — and the manager ends up doing everything anyway — why do you need “help”?

I’m already at my wits’ end about so many things. Is it so much to expect that when I order grilled salmon, the fucking thing touches some fire at some point and isn’t oozing its innards all over my plate?

Maybe I’m just annoyed because it’s Sunday night and I have work to do that I would like to be done right. Without 75 questions that require more effort than tackling the project itself. Without “well I never did this before” from someone who’s been there exactly a year and a half LONGER than me and I KNOW my/our old boss didn’t do jack shit so SOMEONE had to do it.

And I have a sneaking suspicion I have to cancel next weekend’s plans. Unrelated but equally infuriating. Especially since I’ve spent money I guess I can’t afford anymore to make it happen because my landlord is putting me on the street AT CHRISTMAS.

Sia’s name came up this week.

Well not by name, per se. But I heard the name of the editor who boarded the flight out of Vancouver just moments before she collapsed. The guy who assumed she made the flight … who got a call from their publisher in the connecting city to ask where she was … who assured him that she HAD to have made the flight because she was RIGHT BEHIND HIM. Who inadvertently provided temporary relief that didn’t last long at all.

His name coming up rattled me to the core. I said editing him probably contributed to the sudden cardiac event that took her from us. And another person in the room confirmed that his raw copy was truly a sight to behold, as it somehow went live in his new gig and it was … let’s just say breathtaking.

An opportunity to work with this guy is on the table. I had to ask who his editor will be. Since, you know, I would like to survive this all somehow.

Anyway, I got to thinking about Sia. Whether we’d still even be friends. She had an opportunity to move back to Baltimore. An opportunity that they mercilessly botched and, from what I’m told, resulted in her having a lesser title and pay after they’d raised both.

If you know my industry, you don’t have any surprise left in you. A world of hurt for the good people affected, yes. But it’s been a long time since my jaw dropped about anything.

But after “Lisa VanderPump” left, I would have called her. Call her like I hadn’t been calling her because she worked for LVP’s BFF.

I didn’t want LVP to catch wind how very much I’d had it and wanted an escape route. So I didn’t tell *MY* BFF, who maybe could have helped me or at least talked me off the damn ledge when I needed it.

Just like she hid the bullshit demotion from me and I had to hear about it at her memorial.

How’s that for how fucked-up things were?

Now I can run for any hills I want. Of course, without her up in B’more, I really don’t have any incentive to make our collective dream come true of working together again. There’s no dream left to fulfill.

I’d say “funny how things turn out.” But I’m not laughing.

You’d think I’d be accustomed to missing my friend by now. Since I’ve been doing it for probably two years before she died anyway.

The Mohicans group lost another key member yesterday.

At least this one got to leave of his own accord.

AM
BH
CP
DP
GW
JB
JC
JW
MC
MS
NM
SB
SG

And that doesn’t count the other three members of my new team who got exiled. One who, IMHO, needed to go.

So basically we are an expert team with almost zero experts. Not that anyone else is doing any better.

But if maybe they had let my BFF shine, I might still have someone to eat lunch with.

A rumor went around that LVP (“Lisa VanderPump,” maybe?) wanted to come back. I would shoot on sight.

Speaking of dead weight, now they tell me that one dumbass I was happy to part ways with five years ago is coming back to my team, to revive a project that failed seven ways to Sunday.

I said I used to work with the best pros in the business, and you want me to put THAT piker to work?

And don’t get me started on how I heard we turned down a paying customer, whose name is on that crossed-out list. It’s too early to even “even” about that.

Hard to get out of bed today. Considering I’m a raging insomniac, that should tell you all you need to know about the state of my heart right now.

It occurs to me that I have 25% fewer projects than I did at my beloved (pre-May 1) job. I have staff now, where I had none before. And … I AM BUSIER THAN EVER.

So many more steps. So many more issues. So many more setbacks.

I don’t want my old life back so much as I want one that isn’t a permutation — or maybe the word I’m searching for here is MUTATION — of it.

One day I will make it to 9 a.m. without wanting to walk right back out.

That ain’t today.

My buddy helped me with something and made a rookie goof, all in the same project.

Considering I walked them step by step through the hard stuff (it helps me if someone else can do it in my absence), the goof was unforgivable.

I asked why they didn’t test the link before go-live.

The reply manifesto included that they were just consumed with my request. And lack of sleep. Etc.

I replied with “check all links before go-live.”

That wasn’t the hard part of the day. But didn’t help.

“Great leaders don’t blame the tools they are given. They work to sharpen them.”

I came across this quote this weekend. Good timing, after an unproductive talk with a stubborn employee and a big fat apology tour to everyone else about their (in)actions.

After reading it, I decided to be careful. Collective “we” have a longstanding reputation for running the talent out of town and keeping the rest. So I recommitted to sharpening this particular tool.

Then chaos ensued first thing yesterday. Defying my orders. Publishing something without me seeing it, as always requested. Not making my changes to the near-live version I did manage to get a peek at. Mistakes, misspellings, and a reference to an element that’s in another product and not the one at hand. OMG I was so mad, I had to shut my door to stave off the 22 visits of “well that’s what I was told to do by someone who was here 45 years ago” lies.

That was another fun part of my day. A call from a fellow goddess who said get my name out of this person’s mouth. Don’t believe a word being said. They are trying to start drama and I want no part of it.

We compared notes on the terrible thing that happened Friday, and she was like, “Goddess, I would never instruct anyone to do that. Further, it’s YOUR call. It’s not mine and it’s not THEIRS.”

So now I am at the point of offering this person up as a human sacrifice. I’m also documenting. And I’m also praying that maybe I can sharpen this tool enough so that I don’t have to go interviewing for a new one. Although I’m really not sure which tactic will take less time. Finding and securing a new job and house in a foreign country feels like it would be a cakewalk in comparison.

“Christ, what an embarrassment.”

That’s what Mom texted last night after I explained why I would be late. Because I had to apologize to one of my editors because my team’s utter inability to publish a four-sentence alert in less than an hour and a half. And the only reason it went out at all was because I had to pull rank and say get it together, for crying out loud. (I was informed it could go out Monday. Um, who has the fucking title and makes that kind of decision? Me. Get it the fuck out now, Sparky. Every goddamned thing cannot be a big-ass FIGHT.)

I give up. I really do. This one person is making a mockery of all of us. And I guarantee his job is safer than mine.

He has this grudge against this particular editor. An editor who TRIED TO GET ME FIRED four jobs ago when we worked at the same company before. Hell, even I don’t have a grudge against the man. He seems to forget, and I’m committed to doing the same.

Sure he’s not the most riveting writer. Or especially accurate with certain details. And it is difficult to turn his stuff around super-quickly sometimes. But Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, the man is VERY good at the thing we hired him for. Be good to him, OK?

Hell, I even offered to do this project because I happen to be fast and accurate. But nooo, his self-appointed keeper wouldn’t let anyone near it as usual. I even had to ask him, what is your obsession with this guy? I think I need to separate you.

My mood keeps alternating between furious and more-furious. It’s like when I had The Kid as my problem. This one is more useful, granted. But my department has been the one targeted for cuts all year. If by some grace of God I am not the next target and can help choose the target, well. I won’t pick anyone who helps me look good. That’s for sure.

A dear friend of mine from Washington, D.C., posted something on Facebook that moved me so much, I can’t get it out of my head.

Borrowing without permission, but as a tribute:

“The premise of a ‘five year plan’ is complete bullshit. If you’d have told me five years ago that I’d be at another high school back-to-school night for my kid, I would have argued with the impossibility of that statement. Life overrides even the best-planned plans and humbles me by continually redefining what is possible.”

I knew her when she was in her mid-20s and I was 30. Both of us working around the clock. Both of us trying to lose a few pounds. And both enjoying a good craft beer and deep conversations about the world.

A couple years ago, we were a decade older and a thousand miles apart geographically. She’d unfairly lost a job or two and so had I. And she’d written another phrase that haunts me still:

“Things don’t always happen for a reason. Sometimes, they just happen.”

God I miss that girl sometimes. Thank the heavens for Faceypages and connections that predate social media.

In any event, who knew two years ago that this single-in-the-city girl would meet a great guy with a couple of kids? And that she’d transition into being a wife and mom and all that comes with it?

At 42, I still figured that I could/would have a kid. Preferably a daughter. I always wanted a son but that was mostly to ensure the father would stick around. But men don’t stick around for sons any more than daughters. And I like pink and all things girly and shopping for them. So, there you have it.

At 43 — wait, musical interlude …

“I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired.”

— Janis Ian, “At Seventeen”

Where was I? Oh yeah, at 43, I apologized to mom for not giving her a granddaughter. She would have been the best grandma. She deserves another little girl. Her efforts have been wonderful, yet wildly wasted, on a girl CAT.

All things pink.

It’s not really that I don’t feel like it will never happen. I just know I have a finite amount of energy and money and TIME GLORIOUS TIME.

The evidence of Hurricane Irma are still ever-present. I have some friends with PTSD from it. And (still!) seeing all the uprooted traffic signs and all the fall leaves on the ground WITH TREES STILL ATTACHED TO THEM makes them relive the sick, sad, helpless feeling every day.

You know, the same feeling normal people have had since the night of Nov. 8.

That’s MY fear. I really think Kim Jong-un of the West is gonna get us all kilt. You cannot convince me that the original North Korean nutcake doesn’t have a map of all the Orange Shitgibbon’s properties and isn’t going to use them for nuclear target practice. Oh and I happen to live within spitting distance of like four of them.

Not pictured: three golf clubs and a pair of buildings that bear his name even though he unloaded them.

So seeing Steph’s post gave me an odd sense of peace. I mean, if and only if I really wanted a kid, I could adopt. Foster. Get drunk and see how fertile these vintage eggs still are. Who cares about anyone leaving. I can do this myself.

Catgirl!

Or — I could do the thing I swore I’d never do — I could date a guy with kids. I do know a hot dad and it’s killing me to NOT open my mouth and see about giving it a whirl.

Anywho, maybe I need to just not underestimate the universe. I’ve been pretty lucky. Maybe I don’t have a finite amount of luck that’s set to run out after all.

Case in point: I’m like 90 pounds lighter than I was a decade ago. MIRACLES HAPPEN.

New official pic with the last of my Delray tan.

Maybe I’ll get whatever it is that I never thought I could have, if only I would let myself think about whatever that is.

Or maybe I always thought I could have it all. But the older I get, the less I feel that way.

There’s a person on my team who always uses age as an excuse. Made a mistake, it’s because they are “an old person.” Does something I asked them not to do (again), “Well I’m old and I don’t learn as fast as I used to.” Argues with me that something should be a certain way after they battled me just a week earlier that we should do it the other way, “I forgot. My memory isn’t what it was.”

My reply is curt and firm. “Don’t give me an excuse. Give me your best.”

I don’t want to be that way. Not just a walking lawsuit, but I give thanks to my body for doing what it can do physically.

I thank the heavens that I can afford vegetables and nutritious food to nourish that body with.

When I get overloaded with tasks at home and work, and worry that I can’t give 100% everywhere,

I exude gratitude that my brain works better than most and I’ll do what I can, where I can … when I can.

And damn, I’m happy to have what I have, while I have it.

And there’s always that part of me that thanks the universe for the good things coming my way that are beyond my control or wildest dreams.

It think that might be what Steph was talking about. That the universe has surprises in store for you that are beyond your mortal comprehension. Forget the bounds of reality — those are about to be redefined for you.

OK fine. I never thought I’d get married. I ran off all my roommates because I hate people being near me. Honestly I want dual master bedrooms when I do meet a mate. I need a Gemini so I know the sex will be great. I want to live on the Intracoastal and have access to a first-class ticket to anywhere, at any time. I want enough of a fortune to want to leave it to someone. Maybe an adopted niece or nephew. I’ve lived alone in the metaphorical sense my whole life. Don’t make me die alone too.

Your move, universe. Don’t let me die alone and/or soon because Russia installed the king of my idiot neighbors as our Pumpkinfuhrer. I know you’ve got a lot of goodness to give, and I am a willing and grateful recipient if you have some more to send my way.