Caterwauling

So imagine my surprise when, after my not-so-stellar interview at the place that assumed I make 250, they emailed.

It took me a day to get brave enough to open it.

I wasn’t surprised that it was a rejection. But, it wasn’t really a rejection. It was more like, “Loved talking with you. We want to keep the door open for when a more-senior position opens in the future.”

!

I wrote back what I hope was a beautiful thank-you. I’d read a funny story that had reminded me of the recruiter, and I shared it. I also said I was aware I didn’t shine as much as I could, but I really appreciated that she gave me every opportunity to try. I said of course, I would be thrilled to hear from them again someday.

They wrote back again (!) to say FWIW, don’t change a single thing about you. That they got the kind of conversation with me that they aren’t getting “amid the sea of ordinary.” And, don’t be surprised when they DO call.

This happened on the same day the company owner gave me a project he should have given my replacement. But I’m just the better choice all-around, was the reason.

So, lots of compliments yesterday. From people I respect very highly.

Nice way to end a week. Happy weekend!

In the “Mexico” region of Epcot, there is a wonderful display about the Day of the Dead.

I saw this painted on a wall, and my breath caught in my throat …

It was one of those rare moments in life when you say, yes — that is the truth. There is more time than life.

I think of that as I have to coax myself into going to work. I say my gratitudes and one of them certainly is relief that they believe in me and that they pay me.

But the thing is, even though I am not exactly in possession of extra money, I have a profundity of my own. I am pretty sure they need me more than I need them right now.

It’s a powerful feeling. And one they can slap outta me right-quick with a pink slip.

This six-years-too-late empowerment helps me to be bold, for a change. To put my foot down at staying past a certain hour. To yell at the Booger Wooger Bugle Boy they named editorial director when he yells at ME for writing back to customers who have questions when I am the goddamned retention director and — oh hey — I have been corresponding with customers for 20 years buddy FUCK YOU FOR GETTING HANDED THE TITLE I EARNED MOTHERFUCKER.

*ahem*

Ain’t nobody got time for all this.

I spent my 30s-now-40s taking care of mom and not my social life.

I spent my 20s-then-30s-now-40s taking care of everyone else — and truth be told, I didn’t take THAT great a care of mom because I worked too hard for the almighty paycheck.

And I am under no illusion that my 40s-turned-god-willing-into-something-more isn’t going to be spent chasing more money and my tail when it comes to happiness and balance and whatnot.

You know, I was kind of excited about this new venture we’re doing. We cut out most of the overhead (dead salary weight, make no mistake) and kept the underpaid people who are the hardest workers.

For the most part, anyway — there’s still Booger-Eater and a few others who can eat more than what their snoot produces, as far as the rest of us are concerned.

And as I return to juggling 17 jobs because no one else is there to do them … and Boogie-Woogie refuses to take on the jobs I’m supposed to part with … I think, wow.

I mean, I gave up my life for LVP. AND FOR WHAT? Promises of riches and company ownership and other perks that, after five years, never came? That fucker never worked past 4 p.m. And the time leading up to 4 p.m. was filled with braggadocios stories about his arrests and $100 steaks he’s eaten and thousand-dollar wines and trips on his BFF’s yacht. Never a productive minute of supervision or coaching or a supportive word for any of us. And no bonuses/ownership/CREDIT as far as the eye could see.

*ahem*

I have not lived, is the point of all this. Sure, I’ve had fun. Tried to give us a good little life. But the only thing crueler than anyone I’ve ever worked for is time itself.

There’s always more than enough work to go around. And for all our complaining that “there isn’t enough time,” well, there really is. The collective we just fuck up royally when it comes to using it.

I can’t get time back. And maybe I can’t get my life back, per se, when I never really HAD one.

But, well. You know. I’m thinking it’s high time to add some life to all that time.

And this all *waves hands* ain’t the way to do it.

I should instead be posting one of my many photos of the Impeachment March to Mar-a-Lago. Because, tRump is still a piece of shit and the country is worse off than even I thought, one year ago today when I last marched.

But, alas, I have more hope now than I did then. For various reasons. And I sort of need this reminder that yeah, maybe all the cool kids go to the women’s marches. But there’s good stuff out in the rest of the world, too.

I just have to find it.

I should have worked this weekend. But last week would have looked better not only on fire, but that turd should also have been ablaze in tRumpy’s gold-plated bidet and tweeted all around the world.

THAT would have more accurately resembled the alternating frozen-and-flaming hellscape that refers to more than just our psychotic weather.

We got a bonus, of sorts. I never in my life looked at a gift before and thought, wow, my morale was higher BEFORE I got it. But it was still better than hearing LVP’s name (a whole week without it!), so thanks for that.

A colleague wrote to say the place will fall apart if they don’t keep me forever. I guess I forgot to deliver the news that I CAN stay as long as I want.

That’s the rub. They gave away my title — that I worked HARD to get — and gave it to a stinky nose-picker. One whose grand talent is barking seven paragraphs of orders at random roundups of people he decides to nominate via email.

And much as I try to transition work to this guy, he only ends up making it harder for me to finish the job.

And we’re launching new projects that fall into my-now-his domain. Everyone is just assigning them to me, knowing they will get done and get done RIGHT.

I mean, I love having me some work that I, in fact, LOVE working on. But I don’t know how to get this guy motivated and frankly I am READY for a new challenge.

I am not going to let this Eric Trump looking character keep me from my destiny. Whatever that destiny looks like.

And I am BEYOND ready to find out.

I got a call for an interview the other day. To a company I’d applied to back in November when I was originally put out on the street.

Although I am gratefully rehired, I took the call out of curiosity. Loved the interviewer. Loved the company. Love the location, the product, you name it.

Too bad I came off as a total idiot.

Accepting the call while at work was my first mistake. Hard to be in your mental happy place when it’s not necessarily your physical happy place. But I tried.

Then, she said look. You’re a director. This is mid-level. It “only” pays (she named a figure just below my current range).

“As a director,” she said, “you are probably making, like, what? About $250,000?”

When I hung up, I burst straight into tears. Their mid-level is what I’ve aspired my whole life to achieve. The director level should really be 250? Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck you, LVP, for saying I was “expensive.” When YOU were making exactly that.

The job was a good fit but not a great one. I have all the editorial experience and then some that they could ever dream of. The marketing, I’m rusty at. Rusty, not brain-dead.

Although it probably didn’t help that, post-250, I might have let a lot of things come tumbling out of my mouth that I shouldn’t have.

Yeah. Totes awks.

In any event, I haven’t sent a thank-you. I have the letter written in my mind. She already said she loved my cover letter. I know exactly how to follow up.

But I’m not ready to let go of that spark of hope that I had for one brief, shining moment that maybe just maybe there’s a fun change just ahead of me. Especially if my sneaking suspicions are true that LVP might come back. Forget fun — I’ll just be wishing for bearable, if that prediction comes true.

Two-fifty. Damn. I will never get over that.

Man, folks be crawling out the woodwork here.

I had the most satisfying de-friending of my life. (Not even a tRump voter this time!) And not five fucking minutes later, another authority figure from my past sent me a friend request.

I mean, I de-friended THAT person at least twice. And I keep rejecting her overtures.

Both of them can have each other. They will use and abuse you and tell you you’re worthless and then not pay you not even what you’re worth, but what you agreed to settle for.

It’s like the universe cannot stand a void and seeks to fill it.

Well, that cavern is remaining wide open. And I am moving a third person to my post-Trump list for stalking me on behalf of the first one. Eff dat shit.

The post-Trump list is probation. It’s also a springboard into the “dead to me” files. That second bitch is pretty bad if I won’t even upgrade her ass on THAT one.

As for the LVP I started typing about today, they behaved exactly as deplorably as I predicted. I’m super-glad I stood up for myself and refused to be the enabler this time.

Hope the third person either wises up or bleeds them dry. Either way, really, is fine by me. I am the real winner in the scenario if I never have to hear someone’s name again for as long as I live unless it’s associated with “karma being as big a bitch as you are.”

“Gritting your teeth, you hold onto me
It’s never enough, I’m never complete
Tell me to prove, expect me to lose
I push it away, I’m trying to move
Hoping for more, and wishing for less
When I didn’t care was when I did best
I’m desperate to run, I’m desperate to leave
If I lose it all, at least I’ll be free.”

— Broods, “Free”

When my bosses came to me with really, the worst idea ever, I said, “Over my dead body will I (insert what I was asked to do).”

For the girl who did everything asked of her, and then some, for the past six years (40 years, but who’s counting?), they were stunned.

I didn’t elaborate. But come on over to my desk (and everybody does because I’m hilarious), and I will HAPPILY fill you in.

We all had a good old time today when I did what I needed to do for a long time. Not what was asked of me. But what I should have done to prevent that even being an option in the first place.

I told the bosses about it. Like I’d said, over my dead body. Now that is no longer an option because there are literally no choices in the matter left. The one said, “OK” and we talked about that nitwit Trump’s nitwit “shithole” comment instead.

I mean, really, it’s their problem. It always was. I’m sorry I can’t help. And I’m grateful that I don’t have to explain why #timesup on this particular “thing.”

“I have lived my life so perfectly
Kept to all my lines so carefully
I’d lose everything so I can sing
Hallelujah, I’m free
I’m free, I’m free
I’m free, I’m free, I’m free
Hallelujah, I’m free.”

I asked my friend if I could be fired for this. She said who knows. But wouldn’t it be worth it to never, ever have to even think about it ever again?

It’s a good day to be me.

Instead of bitching about the lying sack of shit who bugged my office and still thinks I’ll jump upon request and that I am keeping folks from worshiping him after he treated THEM like garbage, too …

I’ll type about something that made me cry in a GOOD way today.

“When I was a child, it was up to me to feed our family because my father couldn’t work. I had a job at a motorcycle repair shop. Everyone would sit at home and wait for me to make money. Once we almost ran out of food. We didn’t have a single rupee and there was nothing to eat. I could handle it, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my baby sister going to sleep hungry. I sat at my shop all day, praying for a customer. But nobody came. Then just as night was falling, a man drove up with a puncture in his tire. The price of the repair was three rupees. But when I was finished, the man handed me twenty rupees and drove away. I was able to buy two kilograms of rice. My entire life turned around that day. My shop became very busy. We were never hungry again. Even today I think about that man. I never saw his face. He changed not just my life, but the lives of my entire family. I wonder who he was. Sometimes I think it was God himself.” (Mumbai, India)

A post shared by Humans of New York (@humansofny) on Jan 10, 2018 at 10:51am PSTMy favorite comment is that “We all get to meet God at some point. We just don’t know it.” For the story writer, it was the customer whose generosity changed his fortune.

I think we all get to meet Satan at some point. (See “bugged office.” Also see, “that’s why everyone but me was allowed to work from home so he could whack off to the sound of my silence.”)

But I do think God is one of us. Just a slob like one of us. Just a stranger on the bus. Hey that might make for a great song!

This one hit me hard because that’s me — I take care of the family.

I always knew I’d be the one to do that. I knew I had to get a good education and a good job because the buck would stop here sooner rather than later.

That’s why I get so enraged about certain stuff. I’ll be fine. You don’t get to damage me beyond the shorter term. But anything that messes with my personal economy and my FAMILY, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

But I say all of this to say I think I saw God yesterday. Details forthcoming. But I am looking very forward to being able to say that life has some good surprises in store, and not just for those who don’t deserve them.

Dude.

Seriously.

Holla’ing at MY friend, to bitch about ME and claim that I somehow am singlehandedly keeping you from relaunching the business you flashed your hairy butt crack at …

And somehow claiming it’s ALL MY FAULT …

Seriously.

Dude.

Not that any of us believe it will work this time. You burned everyone who made it work. No one likes you.

But I love that you give me all this power.

Especially when I spent years giving mine up to you.

You are the REASON for the #metoo movement.

I have zero desire to hear of you whining that I somehow am hurting you. No need to suddenly give me credit for the first time. But hey, thanks.

First of all, I LOVE me some Lisa Vanderpump — the one on “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” and “Vanderpump Rules.”

I am NOT the slightest bit enamored with MY “Lisa VanderPump” — LVP. To say the least. The very least.

Not overly certain how someone who has maybe worked five full days in their career …

Who is brilliant at bullshitting their way into massive salaries, big titles, bigger bonuses and falsely selling their superiors on their so-called indispensability …

Who never saw fit to promote me despite calling me by a higher title …

Who wrote horrible reviews for me that painted me as aspiring to mediocrity on a good day …

Who publicly embarrassed me on group calls that said person couldn’t even spell correctly on the meeting reminders they put on our calendars …

(Oh and no one else got that treatment — one other person got private reamings and the rest got left alone. And for both of us, 99% of those reamings were for not working on projects said absentee person never TOLD us about) …

Who didn’t even say thank you for the $60 birthday cake or the $50 birthday booze and didn’t even acknowledge me with a happy birthday that year …

And who — among other ridiculous things — got everyone ELSE fired after attracting a million-dollar lawsuit against the company and its owner …

Is now entitled to the charred remains of the dream this person sold to us in a (successful) effort to get us all to work around the clock to make that person “famous.”

And the fact that this person is back to BARKING UP OUR ASSES to jump to serve said person is like a battered wife being told she has to give her abuser the dog, too.

I have been working on a reply in my mind. But I am enjoying the silence an awful lot. I know LVP is motherfucking me in their mind.

I mean, it’s not like LVP could speak to me with a modicum of respect or the awe I deserved for being one of the wizards behind the curtain that made the puppet dance.

That hurt me in a big way. The not having my name on anything. I hear my name was never credited for anything either. So I had to work very hard to show folks I am capable and was working my ass off all along.

They see that now. And they don’t know the depth of my rage. But they know that for me to refuse to comply with a command from LVP, I have reasons.

They all finally figured out that everything was smoke and mirrors. And my guess is this no-strings-attached “gift” my friend and I are to provide to LVP is less an OB tampon and more like a compact cooter plug. One where the string is hidden inside the smaller pouch.

(Compact cooter plug. I may have to save that for a future nickname …)

In any event, I know LVP comes here looking for answers. And I’ll put it right here …

I jumped for you on every occasion. I lost out on nights and weekends and time with my mom and friends. I was kind to you at all times and listened to your stupid stories about your arrests and all the money you spent on things I’d never be able to afford because you said I was too “expensive” so I clearly was never going to get a raise. I stopped talking to my editors who actually loved me, just so you could stop needling me and egging me on, claiming “you knew” I was talking to them when I wasn’t. You’re a liar and a miserable person.

Oh and thanks for those casual bullshit comments made to (I guess former) future potential employers. But funny about people who repeat things back to me — they have a LOT more to say than what they heard.

Sorry karma’s teeth are sharp. I really do want you to be happy. I just wish this had all made you nicer instead of making me harder.