I woke up about 10 this morning and came downstairs to find that the litterbox was decidedly aromatic and in need of immediate attention. Around 11, I got dressed and went out to the truck, where I had a bag of cat litter from my last shopping trip.
As I walked toward the car I saw a small black-and-white kitten sitting in the gutter. I expected it to run away, but it just looked at me as I approached, and as I got closer I could see it was in bad shape. It was crouched there, paws wet and muddy, drooling weakly and panting.
My first concern was to get it out of the gutter. The junkies who stop on our block pull up to the curb, get their dope, and drive away; the kitten was lying right in the middle of the traffic pattern, and to make it worse, she was nearly invisible among the leaves and trash. I picked her up by the scruff, placed her on the grass, and ran back to the house. I looked up the nearest vet, called to make sure he was open, and grabbed the car keys and the cat-carrier.
When I got outside, the kitten had moved back to the gutter. When I picked her up to push her into the carrier, she spread her feet and fought me, weakly, but I could feel how thin she was, how dehydrated. I drove her to the vet's office.
The vet's office was a storefront, none-too-impressive, certainly not somewhere I'd take my cats. But at this point, I was most interested in getting this kitty to someone who could help; I didn't think she'd make the ride up to Skokie, to my vet. The vet wasn't optimistic; at first he suggested putting her to sleep, but then offered to give her fluids and warm her up a little. He said he gives her about a 50-50 chance of survival. She perked up a teeny bit once she was under a warm lamp; enough to squirm and cry a little. I scratched her behind the ears and told her it was up to her now, that I'd done everything I could do. (Which included parting with $120 I don't have, but I couldn't very well leave the poor thing to get run over in the street.) If she lives, I guess I've got another cat. She looks to be about Snick's age, maybe; as starved as she is, she could be a little older.
When I left the vet, I went to the store, to Target, spent more money I didn't have on everything I was completely out of--but at least I have food. I didn't realize how much cheaper it is to live without LJ! He called the other night, by the way, and was very mildly sympathetic when I told him about losing my job--of course, his first question was "What did you DO?" I'll admit, I played it up, too--I told him I wasn't sure if I was going to keep the house, that it would be best if when he came back to town, he took all his stuff with him when he left. He seemed just fine with that--maybe he's as tired of me as I am of him, who knows?
Anyway, I came home with the truck loaded with stuff--groceries, toilet paper, etc--and rather than make ten trips in and out of the house with Badcat making a run for it each time, I decided to haul everything to the front porch and then go from there. On the third trip, I noticed that I had observers--the next-door cat and kitten. This is the same pair I've asked my neighbors to keep inside--a gorgeous little baby Siamese and a tabby-striped gray and white mama cat. Mama is friendly; Junior is scared of everything. They were standing next to the porch, watching.
On the fourth trip, they were on the porch, sniffing the bags. I went next-door and asked if Phoebe was around. One of the girls said no, she was shopping. I said "Well, I have a couple of your family members sniffing my groceries." The girl told me Phoebe had put the cats out because they kept scratching the furniture, and she didn't want them anymore. I told her if she saw Phoebe, to have her stop by so I could talk to her.
By the time I got back to the porch, Junior was working on getting one of my pork chops out of the plastic wrap, but wouldn't let me pet him. I got the last of the bags out of the truck, ducked into the house, and penned up BadCat and Snick--Bad in the bathroom, Snick in the Cat Room. Neither of them were pleased. I opened the front door to get the groceries, and to my surprise, Junior followed me right in. (He REALLY wanted that pork chop.)
He wandered the house for a few minutes, then started inhaling a can of Fancy Feast I'd put down for him. But he still wouldn't let me touch him. He'd eat, I'd get one step away, my hand would be an inch from his head, and he'd duck away til I left. I finally grabbed his dish and put it on the porch, and as I expected, he followed it right out the door.
I wanted to keep him SO BADLY. This is seriously one of the most beautiful kittens I've ever seen. But he's been outside so much that I don't know what diseases he's got--at the very least, I'd imagine he's got fleas and worms--and I don't want my boys getting sick by association. If I DID keep him, he'd have to go straight to the vet before anything else. And if my poor little curb-kitten lives, that would be FOUR kitties. That's perilously close to Crazy-Cat-Lady Land.
Then there's Mama Cat; not only is she also in exile, apparently, she's also pregnant again. I couldn't believe it when I felt her ribs and realized how chunky she was. I CAN'T keep her, nor can I keep a herd of kittens. So I made a decision: if I see them tomorrow, I'm going to do what I can to trap them, and the two of them will come to the Humane Society with me. I'll make the decision about Junior when I get there; Mama, though, can't stay. She's a pretty little thing; they'll spay her and put her up for adoption, and kittens are generally adopted quickly.
Can you see here that I'm desperately trying to convince myself that I'd be doing the right thing by taking them to the shelter? I'm not sure it's working. It's not fair that people do this to animals; if I ever leave this neighborhood, it will be because I can't handle the cultural attitude towards animals, particularly cats. Cats are disposable around here, and it just breaks my heart. My neighbors laugh at me for trying to save them all--it's the typical bleeding-heart white-girl attitude toward animals--but I can't help it. These cats didn't ask to be born here. Neither, I guess, did the humans--but I'd save them too, if I could. Humans are just infinitely more expensive to save than cats; and unlike humans, the cats you save generally don't betray you. And cats, again unlike humans, can't always save themselves.
So I am unexpectedly bummed, although for a good reason. We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, send some good thoughts toward these kitties, especially my little girl-cat at the vet.
On the up-side, I did get a call about a job today; I need to call the woman back again tomorrow, but it sounds promising. I'm excited. It would be REALLY great if I could get something right away, then have the severance pay to slap into the bank. That would be ideal. Not sure it's going to happen, but it would be nice!
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Unemployment, Day 3: There But For The Grace of God
Though obviously the job-search is at the forefront of my mind today, it's sharing space, and if I'm going to be honest, it's shuffling toward the back of the line. (Although logging on to the Illinois Department of Employment site and being asked to list my skills and experience was a bit of a lift, I'll admit--according to their list, I have 182 marketable skills. And those 182 skills? Fit a grand total of SEVEN job openings, four of which pay less than ten bucks an hour. :::sigh:::)
Today it is eleven years since JP died. There are a lot of things about that simple statement that are almost as important as the fact itself. First and foremost, it was a year ago today that I had my relapse.
I can't even adequately describe, or even explain to myself, how far from that moment I am right now. I look back one year and it's like looking into some dark cave--not even a tunnel, because there's no light coming out the other end of it. It just goes back and back and looking back, I can't even see clearly where it ends. And it's not til now, when I'm standing in the light, that I even realize how bad it was.
I don't know what to attribute it to--counseling, Prozac, the passage of time--but I can't imagine what would have happened if I'd lost my job a year ago, whether I would have been able to stand it as calmly as I've stood this. I don't know what would have happened, and I'm glad I'm not there to find out!
I've had several reminders in the past few days of just how lucky I am, even when things are at their worst.
To begin with: A couple of days ago, while idly surfing the net in the middle of the night, I found myself at the Illinois Department of Corrections website. And I put in the names of some of my past and present comrades who might, somehow, have found their way into a bad situation. And lo and behold, I got a hit: for Lou, my old roomie with JP. He's listed as an escapee from Stateville, which I'm not sure I believe, but whatever. I Googled him, looking for a story about this supposed escape, and found nothing--but I DID find a link to an Ohio grand jury press release, named with ten or twelve others as being part of a credit-card fraud scheme. It gave his current address as "incarcerated, XXX County Jail", so I Googled that and there he was. I remember him as this young, classically good-looking guy, with blond hair and wiry muscles...now he looks old, worn-out. He'd never done heroin til he did it with JP and me, and his life was never the same afterward. I don't know why I could clean up and he couldn't; I don't know why I've had better luck and he's had worse. I know I feel a little bit of guilt for being part of his involvement with heroin, just as I know JP felt guilty for involving me, those long dopesick nights.
Then today I went to the clinic for the week's methadone, and I ran into this girl I've seen there in the past. We grew up in the same neighborhood, apparently, though she's a few years younger than I am. You couldn't tell it to look at her, though--she looks much, much older. She goes to the clinic to get methadone so she won't get sick if she can't scrape up the cash for a fix. I used to do the same, many years ago; the methadone kept me together enough to work long enough to get paid, so I could get more heroin. I've given her a ride, occasionally, back up towards where I live, where the drug spots are. Every time I see her she looks worse and worse; today was no exception. She had these big sores all over her face, all over her hands; on the ride back towards my neighborhood, she said the doctor told her she has MERSA, which is a potentially fatal form of staph bacteria. As a junkie I was far beyond lucky; I never had an infection, never had an abcess, despite shooting EVERYTHING into my veins.
On my right forearm, there's a small white scar. When addicts are really broke, too broke to get a real fix, they sometimes do cotton-shots--combining all our little bits of cotton through which we'd filtered the heroin as we drew it into the needle. We'd save them from several weeks of shots, and soak them and press all the heroin residue out of the cotton and then shoot it. I don't know what went wrong exactly, but this shot was full of little threads, and the only reason it didn't kill me or at least make me very, very sick was that I couldn't get a vein and so I did what's known as a skin-pop, where you just shoot the liquid into a little bubble under your skin. For weeks after, I could pull tiny tufts of cotton out of my arm. It probably should have been a lot worse than it was.
That's what I thought of when I looked at this girl. If she doesn't take her antibiotics, there's a fair chance this could kill her; even if she does take them, it could kill her. The "MER" in "MERSA" stands for MEthicillin Resistant--in other words, nothing to screw with. We came from the same background, we did the same things, and then at a crucial point I made one decision and she made another, and the results of that decision can potentially be life or death. It's chilling.
Eleven years. Eleven years is a very long time, but today just this ONE year just passed seems almost as long. Curiously I'm not seeing this joblessness as a step backwards; it's a sort of....pleasant annoyance, if you know what I mean. Like when you're wearing jeans and something's poking you in the stomach, and you realize that what's poking you is a wad of money in your front pocket. It's annoying, sure, but comfortable in its own way. It's so NICE not to dread the sunrise!
I did things differently today than I've done for the other years since JP died. I didn't go to the cemetery; I haven't sat around all day being maudlin and remembering. I haven't cried (though there are still a few hours left in the day!) I went to the clinic, ate donuts, cleaned the hell out of my house. Don't get me wrong: I miss him, no less than I ever have. But that sadness is only one piece of my life, and with most of the other pieces going well, I can't dwell on just that. There is much more I need to think about, right now.
I think, in part, I've learned to accept this truth: had JP lived, I would not be who and where I am--and on the path we were travelling, there's a strong likelihood that the difference would have been negative, not positive. That's not my favorite thing to think about--I've never wanted to be the beneficiary of anyone's sacrifice--but the fact remains: I'm still here. I wouldn't have chosen to make it this way, but this is how it is. The question is, what do I make of it from here?
Today it is eleven years since JP died. There are a lot of things about that simple statement that are almost as important as the fact itself. First and foremost, it was a year ago today that I had my relapse.
I can't even adequately describe, or even explain to myself, how far from that moment I am right now. I look back one year and it's like looking into some dark cave--not even a tunnel, because there's no light coming out the other end of it. It just goes back and back and looking back, I can't even see clearly where it ends. And it's not til now, when I'm standing in the light, that I even realize how bad it was.
I don't know what to attribute it to--counseling, Prozac, the passage of time--but I can't imagine what would have happened if I'd lost my job a year ago, whether I would have been able to stand it as calmly as I've stood this. I don't know what would have happened, and I'm glad I'm not there to find out!
I've had several reminders in the past few days of just how lucky I am, even when things are at their worst.
To begin with: A couple of days ago, while idly surfing the net in the middle of the night, I found myself at the Illinois Department of Corrections website. And I put in the names of some of my past and present comrades who might, somehow, have found their way into a bad situation. And lo and behold, I got a hit: for Lou, my old roomie with JP. He's listed as an escapee from Stateville, which I'm not sure I believe, but whatever. I Googled him, looking for a story about this supposed escape, and found nothing--but I DID find a link to an Ohio grand jury press release, named with ten or twelve others as being part of a credit-card fraud scheme. It gave his current address as "incarcerated, XXX County Jail", so I Googled that and there he was. I remember him as this young, classically good-looking guy, with blond hair and wiry muscles...now he looks old, worn-out. He'd never done heroin til he did it with JP and me, and his life was never the same afterward. I don't know why I could clean up and he couldn't; I don't know why I've had better luck and he's had worse. I know I feel a little bit of guilt for being part of his involvement with heroin, just as I know JP felt guilty for involving me, those long dopesick nights.
Then today I went to the clinic for the week's methadone, and I ran into this girl I've seen there in the past. We grew up in the same neighborhood, apparently, though she's a few years younger than I am. You couldn't tell it to look at her, though--she looks much, much older. She goes to the clinic to get methadone so she won't get sick if she can't scrape up the cash for a fix. I used to do the same, many years ago; the methadone kept me together enough to work long enough to get paid, so I could get more heroin. I've given her a ride, occasionally, back up towards where I live, where the drug spots are. Every time I see her she looks worse and worse; today was no exception. She had these big sores all over her face, all over her hands; on the ride back towards my neighborhood, she said the doctor told her she has MERSA, which is a potentially fatal form of staph bacteria. As a junkie I was far beyond lucky; I never had an infection, never had an abcess, despite shooting EVERYTHING into my veins.
On my right forearm, there's a small white scar. When addicts are really broke, too broke to get a real fix, they sometimes do cotton-shots--combining all our little bits of cotton through which we'd filtered the heroin as we drew it into the needle. We'd save them from several weeks of shots, and soak them and press all the heroin residue out of the cotton and then shoot it. I don't know what went wrong exactly, but this shot was full of little threads, and the only reason it didn't kill me or at least make me very, very sick was that I couldn't get a vein and so I did what's known as a skin-pop, where you just shoot the liquid into a little bubble under your skin. For weeks after, I could pull tiny tufts of cotton out of my arm. It probably should have been a lot worse than it was.
That's what I thought of when I looked at this girl. If she doesn't take her antibiotics, there's a fair chance this could kill her; even if she does take them, it could kill her. The "MER" in "MERSA" stands for MEthicillin Resistant--in other words, nothing to screw with. We came from the same background, we did the same things, and then at a crucial point I made one decision and she made another, and the results of that decision can potentially be life or death. It's chilling.
Eleven years. Eleven years is a very long time, but today just this ONE year just passed seems almost as long. Curiously I'm not seeing this joblessness as a step backwards; it's a sort of....pleasant annoyance, if you know what I mean. Like when you're wearing jeans and something's poking you in the stomach, and you realize that what's poking you is a wad of money in your front pocket. It's annoying, sure, but comfortable in its own way. It's so NICE not to dread the sunrise!
I did things differently today than I've done for the other years since JP died. I didn't go to the cemetery; I haven't sat around all day being maudlin and remembering. I haven't cried (though there are still a few hours left in the day!) I went to the clinic, ate donuts, cleaned the hell out of my house. Don't get me wrong: I miss him, no less than I ever have. But that sadness is only one piece of my life, and with most of the other pieces going well, I can't dwell on just that. There is much more I need to think about, right now.
I think, in part, I've learned to accept this truth: had JP lived, I would not be who and where I am--and on the path we were travelling, there's a strong likelihood that the difference would have been negative, not positive. That's not my favorite thing to think about--I've never wanted to be the beneficiary of anyone's sacrifice--but the fact remains: I'm still here. I wouldn't have chosen to make it this way, but this is how it is. The question is, what do I make of it from here?
Friday, October 27, 2006
Unemployment, Day 1: The Things That Happen While I'm Gone
Day One of my unemployment has been fairly quiet. I slept in, got up at 9, and went to the clinic to get the weekend's methadone. Normally I make my payment on Fridays, but I thought maybe today might be a good day to put that off. I went to the store to cash in the contents of my change jar at the CoinStar machine, then decided "hey, if you can't treat yourself when you're jobless, what's the point of treating yourself at all?" And I drove to Krispy Kreme.
If any of you have never experienced a hot, freshly-glazed Krispy Kreme donut, stop reading now. Stand up, turn off the computer, and find your car keys, and remedy this situation immediately. If you have never had one, you are missing one of the great sensory experiences of human existence. There are people who don't like Krispy Kremes, and I guess that's their prerogative, but if you've never tasted one, then you can have no comprehension of why I would drive several miles on a cold, rainy morning to spend money I technically don't have.
However, I wasn't aware til this morning that the Krispy Kreme people are trying to kill me.
I rolled up to the speaker and asked for half a dozen glazed. And through the speaker a crackly voice informed me: "Half a dozen would be $5.87, but a dozen would only be $6.24...did you want to get a dozen??"
"Well, when you put it THAT way..." I said. When I got to the window I said "You know, that's not right--You get 35 more cents, but I get thirty-five MILLION more calories!" The girl smiled. "It does come out cheaper, though," she said. "Yeah, everywhere except my waistline!!!"
My dozen donuts and I came home, and I ate two of them, standing over the sink to catch the sugar-shrapnel that invariably comes with the territory. I believe I made happy-noises, as well, or possibly did the Happy Wiggle Dance. I am not proud.
The rest of the morning and early- to mid-afternoon was spent, predictably, job-hunting. I've got about 30 resumes/applications out there already, between last night and today, all with well-crafted cover-letters, references, all the requisite bits and pieces asked for by each employer. (And yes, Spins--I also put three or four agencies in there, too.) A few of the jobs I applied for are a little below where I'd like to be as far as salary, but then again, so is $0, which is now my current salary. I'll cross THAT bridge when I get there.
It was while I was applying for jobs that I began to realize that life does not stop in my house when I walk out the door in the morning.
All day, I watched BadCat and Snick--chasing each other, washing each other, napping...crawling into the trash-can...eating random items off the floor (and in one case, responding poorly to my finger wedged into his mouth and my shouted command of "Drop it, NOW!" Snick is like an infant when it comes to floor-particles: if it's there and he sees it, into his mouth it goes.) I also got to watch him stalk, kill, and eat a millipede--my reaction to that was "I'll think twice before YOU lick my nose again, buster!"...watched him nest in an empty wastebasket (he left before I could get the camera, alas)...and experienced for the first time a phenomenon I had only heard in legend.
I've heard the phrase "strange as a cat fart", and I've had a couple cats who occasionally emitted odd aromas--though they were always silent, and they always looked so innocent afterward that I was torn between blaming them and blaming the roomie, the trash, or the litterbox. But until today, I had never HEARD a cat fart. This afternoon, after a nap, I came downstairs to check my mail, followed by my nap-buddy, Snick. He jumped up on the couch to pounce on BadCat, and as he did so, he let one rip. I mean, this was an actual, honest-to-god FART, not some quiet little kitten-sized "poot!" --a loud, quacking, carpet-frog of a fart. I think he startled himself, but he recovered quickly enough to bite BadCat in the ear before he took off running. I didn't know WHY he took off, but I soon learned; I was nearly knocked-over by a wave of funk before I could reach the can of Oust. No WAY was I gonna blame anyone else for THAT one. Besides, he looked so proud of himself afterwards that there was no way to pin it on anyone but him.
I wonder what else these two have been doing while I've been at work...somehow, I suspect some wild parties may have been thrown in my absence.
Incidentally, to all of you: thanks for the encouragement. I appreciate the offers of networking, the moral support, and the exhortations to WRITE!!!...which I would gladly do if I had six months of severance, but six weeks is a little skinny to produce anything consequential, even with the aid of Krispy Kremes and Pepsi. The hardest part of being fired is over, anyway; I told Mom last night. She went into that "oh my god" reaction that just barely conceals the question "Why did you give them a reason to fire you?" and I stopped her dead in her tracks. "Mom," I said. "I am NOT going to feel bad about this. I am not going to beat up on myself for something I had no control over. I tried to stop it, I tried to work around it, but it happened anyway and I'm NOT going to blame myself." Particularly not in light of the info she gave me the other night, about my dad having EXACTLY the same thing happen to him--how the hell is anyone going to say that it was willful behavior on my part? Seriously now. She didn't seem too ready to accept that interpretation of events--I'm sure she still thinks it was my fault, and to a certain extent I wonder whether, if I'd been an outstanding employee, would they have found a way around this problem? But then again, I'm talking about a company where the owner's whole family is on the payroll, including one son-in-law who is considered a "product line manager" despite the fact that since we moved to the new building back in early June, he has come to the office ONCE--and spent that day tying up Information Tech resources so that he could work on his grad-school project. Somehow THAT passes for productive behavior, whereas I got caught losing consciousness for periods of less than 30 seconds, totalling maybe 15 minutes out of a full 8-hour day, and I get fired. Hey, whatever, you know?? THIS is why I hate corporate America! But of course, if I say that to Mom, I'm being impractical, a radical. Well, yeah....and???
I haven't told LJ yet; he hasn't called in nearly three weeks, so I'm not going to bust down the phone lines to get a hold of him. Again: hey, whatever, you know? Somehow now I feel less-bad about kicking him to the curb. If I was feeling REALLY mean, I'd pack up all his stuff for him and deliver it to his mom's--but then again, I don't feel like doing that much work on his behalf, either. When he does call, I fully expect a non-sympathetic reaction, probably one which touches on how MY loss of employment will affect HIM. (If he does say something like that, protocol be damned--I'll dump him over the phone right then and there.)
Since it's only my first day of unemployment, and a Friday to boot, I'm not going to get discouraged by the lack of phone calls flooding in; instead, I'm going to crawl under my blankies, watch "Meerkat Manor", and hope that Monday brings better news. Oh--and defend the donuts from Snick. He loves pastries.
If any of you have never experienced a hot, freshly-glazed Krispy Kreme donut, stop reading now. Stand up, turn off the computer, and find your car keys, and remedy this situation immediately. If you have never had one, you are missing one of the great sensory experiences of human existence. There are people who don't like Krispy Kremes, and I guess that's their prerogative, but if you've never tasted one, then you can have no comprehension of why I would drive several miles on a cold, rainy morning to spend money I technically don't have.
However, I wasn't aware til this morning that the Krispy Kreme people are trying to kill me.
I rolled up to the speaker and asked for half a dozen glazed. And through the speaker a crackly voice informed me: "Half a dozen would be $5.87, but a dozen would only be $6.24...did you want to get a dozen??"
"Well, when you put it THAT way..." I said. When I got to the window I said "You know, that's not right--You get 35 more cents, but I get thirty-five MILLION more calories!" The girl smiled. "It does come out cheaper, though," she said. "Yeah, everywhere except my waistline!!!"
My dozen donuts and I came home, and I ate two of them, standing over the sink to catch the sugar-shrapnel that invariably comes with the territory. I believe I made happy-noises, as well, or possibly did the Happy Wiggle Dance. I am not proud.
The rest of the morning and early- to mid-afternoon was spent, predictably, job-hunting. I've got about 30 resumes/applications out there already, between last night and today, all with well-crafted cover-letters, references, all the requisite bits and pieces asked for by each employer. (And yes, Spins--I also put three or four agencies in there, too.) A few of the jobs I applied for are a little below where I'd like to be as far as salary, but then again, so is $0, which is now my current salary. I'll cross THAT bridge when I get there.
It was while I was applying for jobs that I began to realize that life does not stop in my house when I walk out the door in the morning.
All day, I watched BadCat and Snick--chasing each other, washing each other, napping...crawling into the trash-can...eating random items off the floor (and in one case, responding poorly to my finger wedged into his mouth and my shouted command of "Drop it, NOW!" Snick is like an infant when it comes to floor-particles: if it's there and he sees it, into his mouth it goes.) I also got to watch him stalk, kill, and eat a millipede--my reaction to that was "I'll think twice before YOU lick my nose again, buster!"...watched him nest in an empty wastebasket (he left before I could get the camera, alas)...and experienced for the first time a phenomenon I had only heard in legend.
I've heard the phrase "strange as a cat fart", and I've had a couple cats who occasionally emitted odd aromas--though they were always silent, and they always looked so innocent afterward that I was torn between blaming them and blaming the roomie, the trash, or the litterbox. But until today, I had never HEARD a cat fart. This afternoon, after a nap, I came downstairs to check my mail, followed by my nap-buddy, Snick. He jumped up on the couch to pounce on BadCat, and as he did so, he let one rip. I mean, this was an actual, honest-to-god FART, not some quiet little kitten-sized "poot!" --a loud, quacking, carpet-frog of a fart. I think he startled himself, but he recovered quickly enough to bite BadCat in the ear before he took off running. I didn't know WHY he took off, but I soon learned; I was nearly knocked-over by a wave of funk before I could reach the can of Oust. No WAY was I gonna blame anyone else for THAT one. Besides, he looked so proud of himself afterwards that there was no way to pin it on anyone but him.
I wonder what else these two have been doing while I've been at work...somehow, I suspect some wild parties may have been thrown in my absence.
Incidentally, to all of you: thanks for the encouragement. I appreciate the offers of networking, the moral support, and the exhortations to WRITE!!!...which I would gladly do if I had six months of severance, but six weeks is a little skinny to produce anything consequential, even with the aid of Krispy Kremes and Pepsi. The hardest part of being fired is over, anyway; I told Mom last night. She went into that "oh my god" reaction that just barely conceals the question "Why did you give them a reason to fire you?" and I stopped her dead in her tracks. "Mom," I said. "I am NOT going to feel bad about this. I am not going to beat up on myself for something I had no control over. I tried to stop it, I tried to work around it, but it happened anyway and I'm NOT going to blame myself." Particularly not in light of the info she gave me the other night, about my dad having EXACTLY the same thing happen to him--how the hell is anyone going to say that it was willful behavior on my part? Seriously now. She didn't seem too ready to accept that interpretation of events--I'm sure she still thinks it was my fault, and to a certain extent I wonder whether, if I'd been an outstanding employee, would they have found a way around this problem? But then again, I'm talking about a company where the owner's whole family is on the payroll, including one son-in-law who is considered a "product line manager" despite the fact that since we moved to the new building back in early June, he has come to the office ONCE--and spent that day tying up Information Tech resources so that he could work on his grad-school project. Somehow THAT passes for productive behavior, whereas I got caught losing consciousness for periods of less than 30 seconds, totalling maybe 15 minutes out of a full 8-hour day, and I get fired. Hey, whatever, you know?? THIS is why I hate corporate America! But of course, if I say that to Mom, I'm being impractical, a radical. Well, yeah....and???
I haven't told LJ yet; he hasn't called in nearly three weeks, so I'm not going to bust down the phone lines to get a hold of him. Again: hey, whatever, you know? Somehow now I feel less-bad about kicking him to the curb. If I was feeling REALLY mean, I'd pack up all his stuff for him and deliver it to his mom's--but then again, I don't feel like doing that much work on his behalf, either. When he does call, I fully expect a non-sympathetic reaction, probably one which touches on how MY loss of employment will affect HIM. (If he does say something like that, protocol be damned--I'll dump him over the phone right then and there.)
Since it's only my first day of unemployment, and a Friday to boot, I'm not going to get discouraged by the lack of phone calls flooding in; instead, I'm going to crawl under my blankies, watch "Meerkat Manor", and hope that Monday brings better news. Oh--and defend the donuts from Snick. He loves pastries.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
The Big One
I got fired today.
I knew I was getting sleepy this morning, but I thought I’d caught myself before anyone saw; I got up, walked around, waited for the No-Doz to kick in. And I was fine way before lunchtime, but apparently someone had said something already. I hope whoever it was—I have a suspicion, though it’s only a suspicion—can sleep with a clear conscience. If it’s who I think it is, her karma will take care of her for MANY transgressions other than this.
They’re giving me severance, which I’m sure they think is very generous, in exchange for signing a waiver that says I won’t sue. I don’t know yet that I’m going to sign it. I don’t know yet that I’m not going to sue. I notified them two days ago that I was seeking medical attention for this issue; the fact that they fired me anyway doesn’t seem quite right. Then again, I’m sure they covered their butts and checked everything out with their lawyers, to make sure they had an airtight case against me.
I would feel worse if I’d done anything wrong. I would feel worse if I hadn’t made all the changes I’ve made; if I hadn’t changed my diet, my dosages of medication, my sleep schedule. For weeks now I have slept through the weekends; in an effort to get as much sleep as possible I’ve stayed in bed for days. I tried coming in later when I felt that there might be a problem; I was chastised for that. I have done everything in my power to overcome this.
Of course, a couple of days ago my mom dropped a little bomb on me too. I was telling her about H.R.Chick’s assertion that there was “no accommodation for sleeping on the job”—as she so kindly phrased it—and my mom matter-of-factly informed me that my father had been fired more than once for EXACTLY THE SAME THING. Um, could that have maybe been useful information to have passed along before now??? Especially when you consider that I seem to have inherited more traits from my father than from my mother?
I’m terrified; I’m not going to lie. I don’t know how I’ll handle this during any future interviews, for starters, and then I’m worried that no one’s hiring, that no one will hire ME. I feel defective, diminished, less-than-normal.
But then in the darkest little corners of my heart I know: I never wanted this job. I was ambivalent when I took it in the first place, and though I tried to like it and tried to do well, I didn’t really TRY try, because I didn’t really care. One way or the other, whether this company failed or succeeded, I didn’t care. I TRIED to care. I felt bad for not caring, but I hated to get up in the morning, hated to go to work, couldn’t wait til the end of the day. I couldn’t see myself staying there forever. And I didn’t even have the comfort of HATING it, the way I did at the end of the last job. There wasn’t even anything worth hating about it. It was dull and boring and meaningless, and if the company failed tomorrow it wouldn’t be the slightest loss to the world; one more pointless, non-essential consumer product would disappear, and that would be the extent of the tragedy. I wasn’t making a difference; I was making it easier for some rich guys to get richer by selling something no one really NEEDS. The only benefit to me was the paycheck and what it brought. I felt no personal satisfaction from the work I was doing.
So yes: I feel horrible that I got fired. I feel terrified that I won’t be able to keep the house, that all sorts of awfulness could be coming down the road. But in a way I feel…relief. I won’t have to fight this battle anymore. I won’t have to try to like these people anymore, won’t have to try to motivate myself for a job I couldn’t care less about. In my dreams I imagine that this is a beginning; that somewhere out of nowhere an opportunity will come to do what I really want to do, what I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid and denied, denied, denied—because I was afraid, because I listened to everyone who told me writing was a hobby, not a way to make a living. In my dreams something happens and I don’t have to look for a job I hate, because I’m able to do what I love and actually make a life from it.
I’m pretty sure that’s only going to be a dream, but I’m going to indulge it for a day or two; indulge the dream and work on the resume, and start looking for something else. If I’m very lucky, the severance will be extra, instead of just survival money.
But as I’ve seen today, I’m apparently not a very lucky person.
I knew I was getting sleepy this morning, but I thought I’d caught myself before anyone saw; I got up, walked around, waited for the No-Doz to kick in. And I was fine way before lunchtime, but apparently someone had said something already. I hope whoever it was—I have a suspicion, though it’s only a suspicion—can sleep with a clear conscience. If it’s who I think it is, her karma will take care of her for MANY transgressions other than this.
They’re giving me severance, which I’m sure they think is very generous, in exchange for signing a waiver that says I won’t sue. I don’t know yet that I’m going to sign it. I don’t know yet that I’m not going to sue. I notified them two days ago that I was seeking medical attention for this issue; the fact that they fired me anyway doesn’t seem quite right. Then again, I’m sure they covered their butts and checked everything out with their lawyers, to make sure they had an airtight case against me.
I would feel worse if I’d done anything wrong. I would feel worse if I hadn’t made all the changes I’ve made; if I hadn’t changed my diet, my dosages of medication, my sleep schedule. For weeks now I have slept through the weekends; in an effort to get as much sleep as possible I’ve stayed in bed for days. I tried coming in later when I felt that there might be a problem; I was chastised for that. I have done everything in my power to overcome this.
Of course, a couple of days ago my mom dropped a little bomb on me too. I was telling her about H.R.Chick’s assertion that there was “no accommodation for sleeping on the job”—as she so kindly phrased it—and my mom matter-of-factly informed me that my father had been fired more than once for EXACTLY THE SAME THING. Um, could that have maybe been useful information to have passed along before now??? Especially when you consider that I seem to have inherited more traits from my father than from my mother?
I’m terrified; I’m not going to lie. I don’t know how I’ll handle this during any future interviews, for starters, and then I’m worried that no one’s hiring, that no one will hire ME. I feel defective, diminished, less-than-normal.
But then in the darkest little corners of my heart I know: I never wanted this job. I was ambivalent when I took it in the first place, and though I tried to like it and tried to do well, I didn’t really TRY try, because I didn’t really care. One way or the other, whether this company failed or succeeded, I didn’t care. I TRIED to care. I felt bad for not caring, but I hated to get up in the morning, hated to go to work, couldn’t wait til the end of the day. I couldn’t see myself staying there forever. And I didn’t even have the comfort of HATING it, the way I did at the end of the last job. There wasn’t even anything worth hating about it. It was dull and boring and meaningless, and if the company failed tomorrow it wouldn’t be the slightest loss to the world; one more pointless, non-essential consumer product would disappear, and that would be the extent of the tragedy. I wasn’t making a difference; I was making it easier for some rich guys to get richer by selling something no one really NEEDS. The only benefit to me was the paycheck and what it brought. I felt no personal satisfaction from the work I was doing.
So yes: I feel horrible that I got fired. I feel terrified that I won’t be able to keep the house, that all sorts of awfulness could be coming down the road. But in a way I feel…relief. I won’t have to fight this battle anymore. I won’t have to try to like these people anymore, won’t have to try to motivate myself for a job I couldn’t care less about. In my dreams I imagine that this is a beginning; that somewhere out of nowhere an opportunity will come to do what I really want to do, what I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid and denied, denied, denied—because I was afraid, because I listened to everyone who told me writing was a hobby, not a way to make a living. In my dreams something happens and I don’t have to look for a job I hate, because I’m able to do what I love and actually make a life from it.
I’m pretty sure that’s only going to be a dream, but I’m going to indulge it for a day or two; indulge the dream and work on the resume, and start looking for something else. If I’m very lucky, the severance will be extra, instead of just survival money.
But as I’ve seen today, I’m apparently not a very lucky person.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Dear Human Resources Professional
Dear (in)Human(e) Resources (air quotes) Professional:
Just for your edification, it's called the "Americans With Disabilities Act".
Not the "Americans With Disabilities That Don't Interrupt Their Workday" Act, or the "Americans With Disabilities, As Long As Nobody Can See Them And They Seem To Be Productive" Act. Or the "Americans Who Aren't Sleepy Because Of Their Disabilities" Act.
Last time I checked, the ADA was meant to protect the EMPLOYEE, not to assure the convenience of the employer. Maybe that's just my old-fashioned social-welfare radical left-winger interpretation of it, though. Maybe they actually wrote this act to morally absolve them from responsibility in case they needed to fire someone for a condition they have no control over.
Oh, and by the way? Not everyone comes from a two-income household. Not everyone can afford to take "a leave of absence" for medical reasons. Maybe YOU do; maybe YOU can. Maybe YOU have a happy little hubby who pays your way so that it's OKAY that you only work three days a week. Apparently so--I haven't seen you here on a Monday or a Friday in....oh, EVER. (Those five-day weekends must be nice, though they do nothing for your personality.) Not all of us can do that, and some of us sorta resent the suggestion. Particularly when I've just told you that I've made an appointment within the next two weeks to find out what's happening, it's not really reassuring to hear "Until you know what's happening, the same standards of workplace performance still apply." Translation: That Last and Final Warning still holds. Beg all you want; it won't help.
If I -do- take your ever-so-kind advice and take a leave of absence? You can bet your three-day-a-week-workin', suburban-livin' ASS that I'll be using that time to find a new job. Whereupon I will tell YOU to cram YOUR job--with all its needless stress, misinterpretations of employment law, and general lack of compassion--up that selfsame three-day-a-week-workin', suburban-livin' orifice.
In closing, I hope you never find yourself in this situation. Oh, wait--strike that. I hope you DO find yourself in this situation, so you can see exactly how it feels and maybe learn a little bit about empathy. Not that I think it will work, but...Anyway.
Sincerely,
Gladys
P.S. Bite me, biaaaatch.
Just for your edification, it's called the "Americans With Disabilities Act".
Not the "Americans With Disabilities That Don't Interrupt Their Workday" Act, or the "Americans With Disabilities, As Long As Nobody Can See Them And They Seem To Be Productive" Act. Or the "Americans Who Aren't Sleepy Because Of Their Disabilities" Act.
Last time I checked, the ADA was meant to protect the EMPLOYEE, not to assure the convenience of the employer. Maybe that's just my old-fashioned social-welfare radical left-winger interpretation of it, though. Maybe they actually wrote this act to morally absolve them from responsibility in case they needed to fire someone for a condition they have no control over.
Oh, and by the way? Not everyone comes from a two-income household. Not everyone can afford to take "a leave of absence" for medical reasons. Maybe YOU do; maybe YOU can. Maybe YOU have a happy little hubby who pays your way so that it's OKAY that you only work three days a week. Apparently so--I haven't seen you here on a Monday or a Friday in....oh, EVER. (Those five-day weekends must be nice, though they do nothing for your personality.) Not all of us can do that, and some of us sorta resent the suggestion. Particularly when I've just told you that I've made an appointment within the next two weeks to find out what's happening, it's not really reassuring to hear "Until you know what's happening, the same standards of workplace performance still apply." Translation: That Last and Final Warning still holds. Beg all you want; it won't help.
If I -do- take your ever-so-kind advice and take a leave of absence? You can bet your three-day-a-week-workin', suburban-livin' ASS that I'll be using that time to find a new job. Whereupon I will tell YOU to cram YOUR job--with all its needless stress, misinterpretations of employment law, and general lack of compassion--up that selfsame three-day-a-week-workin', suburban-livin' orifice.
In closing, I hope you never find yourself in this situation. Oh, wait--strike that. I hope you DO find yourself in this situation, so you can see exactly how it feels and maybe learn a little bit about empathy. Not that I think it will work, but...Anyway.
Sincerely,
Gladys
P.S. Bite me, biaaaatch.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Something You Should Know
Throughout this blog, for three-odd years now, I have occasionally bitched about my mother--her actions both in the past and in the present, her attitudes, her sometimes-complete incomprehension of the one person who's got 50 percent of her DNA. And sometimes I've been right to bitch; like any other extremely-close relationship we have moments when we drive each other batshit poop-flinging crazy, and I'm well aware that the road to Batshit Crazy goes in both directions and that the only difference between my mother and I is that I have a blog and she doesn't.
But I'm gonna say this, tonight: Given the opportunity, which is something I don't often give her, my mother can be the most freakin' AWESOME human being in the world.
If I appear to forget that, at any time in the future, I do wish someone would remind me.
But I'm gonna say this, tonight: Given the opportunity, which is something I don't often give her, my mother can be the most freakin' AWESOME human being in the world.
If I appear to forget that, at any time in the future, I do wish someone would remind me.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Peeve!
I have been stopped in my tracks by a peeve.
Now, I know I'm normally a reasonably-peevish person anyhow, so this isn't necessarily a shock to anyone, but it's rare that a peeve moves me so strongly that I feel I must stop what I'm doing--in this case, viewing the online versions of our city's two newspapers--to vent this peevishness.
Note to everybody who designs websites where current-event or human-interest stories are displayed:
The next person who publishes, on a newspaper online site, a story which consists SOLELY of video, without a corresponding print element, will be mercilessly beaten.
Bottom line, if you're going to put a story on a largely text-based site, even if you DO offer a video, you need to offer a text-based version of the same item!! Nobody says "I'm going to go WATCH the newspaper online." They READ the newspaper online, and in this morning's Sun-Times there are fully THREE major stories which are represented only through video elements--all three of which I wanted to read. Not "watch"--READ.
And yes, I understand about "new media" and the blending of text and visual elements, and all that hooey that professionals like to talk to justify their refusal to do something common-sensical. There are people who like video--give them their video, by all means, but do NOT deprive us text-heads of the ability to read a story, which is exactly what is accomplished by making it video-only. And stop sneaking in video links where text links are expected, as well. I don't care if there's a little video-camera icon next to it denoting "this is a video"; I am tired of clicking something and having it burst into sound and fury. (Don't even get me started on the auto-play imbedded video where the sound defaults to ON. NASCAR.com, I am looking directly at you. The next time I have to frantically claw for the MUTE button because I've forgotten about that little screen in the middle of your site and am therefore regaling my coworkers with that VROOOOM! VROOOOOOM! VVVEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrRRRRRR sound, I will become extremely angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.)
There. I'm done being peevish now, and so now I will go back to work. (I WOULD like to know, though, how it's only 1:30 in the afternoon and I've been at this desk FOREVER. That seems unfair, somehow.)
Now, I know I'm normally a reasonably-peevish person anyhow, so this isn't necessarily a shock to anyone, but it's rare that a peeve moves me so strongly that I feel I must stop what I'm doing--in this case, viewing the online versions of our city's two newspapers--to vent this peevishness.
Note to everybody who designs websites where current-event or human-interest stories are displayed:
The next person who publishes, on a newspaper online site, a story which consists SOLELY of video, without a corresponding print element, will be mercilessly beaten.
Bottom line, if you're going to put a story on a largely text-based site, even if you DO offer a video, you need to offer a text-based version of the same item!! Nobody says "I'm going to go WATCH the newspaper online." They READ the newspaper online, and in this morning's Sun-Times there are fully THREE major stories which are represented only through video elements--all three of which I wanted to read. Not "watch"--READ.
And yes, I understand about "new media" and the blending of text and visual elements, and all that hooey that professionals like to talk to justify their refusal to do something common-sensical. There are people who like video--give them their video, by all means, but do NOT deprive us text-heads of the ability to read a story, which is exactly what is accomplished by making it video-only. And stop sneaking in video links where text links are expected, as well. I don't care if there's a little video-camera icon next to it denoting "this is a video"; I am tired of clicking something and having it burst into sound and fury. (Don't even get me started on the auto-play imbedded video where the sound defaults to ON. NASCAR.com, I am looking directly at you. The next time I have to frantically claw for the MUTE button because I've forgotten about that little screen in the middle of your site and am therefore regaling my coworkers with that VROOOOM! VROOOOOOM! VVVEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrRRRRRR sound, I will become extremely angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.)
There. I'm done being peevish now, and so now I will go back to work. (I WOULD like to know, though, how it's only 1:30 in the afternoon and I've been at this desk FOREVER. That seems unfair, somehow.)
Monday, October 16, 2006
Too Much To Think
You knew if I sat still for five minutes with the TV on, I'd find something to rant about.
Tonight's starting point: the commercials for "Nuvaring", which offer a valuable (and fairly-unflattering) insight into our culture, if you ask me.
Scene: Perky "modern-woman" type bubbles rhymingly. "Back in the day, birth control seemed like the answer to our prayers... We thought, 'pregnancy protection? okay, no objection!' But now we're chained to the everyday. Worry about forgetting? Upsetting! Raise your voice for a new choice: Nuvaring. A flexible, comfortable vaginal ring. Every week? Every day? No way!" (That's a paraphrase, but it's close.)
I've seen this commercial half a dozen times in just the three hours I've been watching Discovery Health Channel, and every time I see it I'm just amazed at what it says. In the past, we were happy with this new thing we discovered. Now, we're no longer satisfied, so we've invented this NEW thing that does the same thing more conveniently.
Which is fine; it's how progress happens, I guess. But what slays me, every time I see this commercial and most of the other commercials for health-care products, is this: We are allowing convenience to dictate our choices in one of the most important areas of our lives: the care and maintenance of our bodies. Where is the long-term data regarding the potential effects of this type of birth control? My guess: there isn't any. This is a new product, and the way that health products are sped through the regulatory process and into the market these days, it seems like "shoot first, ask questions later...and keep those attorneys on retainer, just in case."
Those commercials for "Yazmin" are another thing that bugs me. Yazmin, which I believe is now being marketed as "Yaz" (which makes me wonder how Alison Moyet is feeling these days, but I digress)...anyway, "Yaz" promises "fewer periods"--four a year, to be exact. Basically it's like the regular regimen of the traditional pills, except you only get the week of "blue pills" every third month. And it may be perfectly healthy; there may be nothing wrong with it. But though it certainly sounds good--who wouldn't want fewer periods, given the choice?--it just seems to me like they're opening a Pandora's box. Since we already know we can't trust the pharmaceutical companies, with their profit motive, to safeguard our health...and we already know the government's safeguards have been grossly inefficient even on the few occasions when their judgement hasn't already been swayed by lobbyists, PACs, and under-the-table money...and since most of us aren't ourselves experts on womens' health, reproductive endocrinology, or any of the other biological processes involved in menstruation...what are we using to make our decision as far as the safety and efficacy of these "improved" birth-control options? In short, who is both able and willing to give us an honest evaluation of the possible long-term effects of having only four periods per year as opposed to the normal twelve? Who can we trust? The companies don't have to be responsible because even if they're sued, it's barely a dent in their profits; the government doesn't have to be responsible because they're the government, both parties are pretty much the same, and what other choice do we have? The doctors have to be responsible, but even the specialists couldn't possibly keep up with every new development, nor is there enough time in the world for each doctor, or even each group of doctors, to do their own independent research sufficient to counter every piece of profit-driven misinformation they're given.
And so, faced with the choice of what to put into our bodies, and with few trustworthy and well-informed sources of solid, factual data, we make our choice based on the bubbly rhymes of an ad agency spokes-model, who tells us that convenience is the most important factor. That seems wrong to me, somehow.
I think I'm a little more focussed on questions of health and what motivates our decision-making at the moment. One of my dearest friends is about to do something which scares the hell out of me--Debbi, who I've known since I was five and she was four and we lived down the street from each other, goes into the hospital next week for gastric-bypass surgery, and I'm really scared for her.
Debbi is a big girl. I'm substantially overweight for my height--I could probably stand to lose between 80 and 100 pounds--and Debbi has got 50 to 75 pounds on me, easy. She's had health problems--joint pain, bone spurs, apnea--but like me, she's so far escaped most of the worst demons of obesity. Still, she's not happy with herself as she is, and she's never been able to find a diet and exercise program that works for her. She also has PCOS, like me, which can make it much harder to drop the weight. Mostly, though, she has the same problem I have: she likes food, and doesn't like to exercise. I've known her for long enough to understand her relationship to food; when we were young, Debbi ate largely as a rebellion against her mother, who spent all of Debbi's childhood harping on her weight and comparing her unfavorably to little sis Mary, who was a skinny-Minnie like their mother. Though I didn't have a skinny little sister, I could certainly empathize with the maternal weight-obsession, and so Debbi and I became partners in gluttony--sneaking off to McDonalds for burgers and fries, then to 7-11 or Reilly's for mountains of sweets and candies. We'd hide out in my room, play board games, listen to the radio, and munch on all our forbidden loot. There was some rebellion in my candy-feasts too, but mostly I just had the same horrendous sweet-tooth that follows me to this day.
Still, we both stayed pretty thin through grade school. There's a picture of us, taken the summer I was eleven; when I look at it now I get so angry at everyone who ever told either of us we were fat. We were two cute, normal little girls. I see Debbi with her pageboy bob and her 1981 big-frame glasses, and myself with pigtails, a new cast on my arm, and a "there goes the summer" expression, and I want to go back in time and hug both of us, and tell our little selves, "They're wrong about you. You are both amazing, both beautiful, and both perfectly all right exactly the way you are." There's another picture, taken during my senior year of high school, and still we were normal-looking, still we were pretty. And underneath those normal, pretty exteriors, both of us were convinced we were ugly, gross, obese. We weren't. We never talked about it, either. There was a lot we never talked about; everything we knew about each other til adulthood, it seems sometimes, was unspoken.
We drifted apart shortly after I left for college. There was a party, and a guy, and I needed validation and took too literally Debbi's declaration that she "didn't care" who this guy went after. It made a big split in our group of friends, and then there was real life, jobs and live-in boyfriends and misunderstandings. She sent me a card when I got married the first time.
The next time I saw her was at JP's funeral. She was living at home again, and so once again we were down the block from each other, and I honestly think she and Cowgirl saved my life that fall and winter. I was newly-clean, newly-bereaved, and my old life had been completely torn away from me. Debbi and Cowgirl stepped into that empty space; we went out to dinner, and did crafts in my mother's kitchen, and watched movies in Debbi's parents' room--the same bedroom in which years before we'd sneaked peeks at the Playgirl magazines her mom kept hidden in the bottom of the bureau. And we laughed, Debbi and Cowgirl and I; they kept me laughing, and I don't think I could even begin to tell them how absolutely vital the two of them were, through those last months of 1995 and the first months of 1996.
But in the years since I'd last seen her, she'd packed on at least a hundred pounds. I noticed, but I didn't NOTICE; I'd done the same thing, after all, and the only reason I was skinny again that fall was my ten months on the Heroin Diet. Once I started eating again, the weight started to come back.
We kept in touch sporadically once I moved to North Carolina, and then when I moved back to Chicago. Debbi generally knew when I was getting high again, because she wouldn't hear from me til it was over. She knew a little bit about CR, but he was just as bad as the heroin; when he was around, no one else heard from me either. I think it was my way of performing damage control, but I lost a lot of people during that time. It was during the CR years that I gained back all the weight I'd ever lost and more. Food was a comfort during that time, the one reliable thing that couldn't be taken away or tainted by CR's sick manipulations.
Once CR was gone, once I had the house, once my life was back on track again, Debbi mentioned that she and Cowgirl and a few others had established a Girls' Night Out; once a month, they'd meet at a Mexican restaurant in the suburbs, drink margaritas, and eat delicious food. I gladly became a part of it, and the three of us have carried it on even when the rest of the group crumbled. Through all this crap with LJ, they've once again been a thread connecting me to my real self--the self that laughs, the self that can be silly or serious, the self that's been here all along, no matter what.
All along--for years, now--Debbi has been trying to get approved for gastric-bypass surgery. The insurance company put her through a bunch of red tape; she had to have tried X number of diets without success, and Y number of alternative options, and so on. I think all the red tape lulled me into a sense of complacency, thinking it was never going to happen and so there was nothing to worry about. Debbi has had millions of plans that have never come to fruition; I thought this would be no different.
She started on her liquid diet today, and she goes into the hospital in about 10 days, I guess. She'll be staying with her parents for a couple of weeks after the operation, and the doctors have given her a litany of things she can't eat for two weeks, six weeks, six months, two years. I asked her if she was going to have the reversible surgery--the one with the Lap-Band--but she said no, she's going for the permanent one. I'm skeptical, and deep down I wonder if this isn't really just a last-ditch, throwing-up-the-hands gesture: I can't do diets, I can't do exercise, so just staple my stomach so I don't have to worry about it. I'm afraid the convenience, the magic-bullet-ness of it that you see on all the plastic-surgery shows, has seduced her into thinking that after surgery, everything will be exactly the same--except she'll be skinny.
I'm scared for her. I'm scared that something will go wrong, first of all; I'd be scared of that no matter what surgery she was having. But I think I'm even more scared of what will happen later. I know Debbi well; I've been her friend through many, many diets. I know her mental-health issues, as well, and I know that they're not well-controlled. I know that despite knowing better, despite being in health-care herself, she's not always been medically compliant as far as taking her meds, or regulating anything about her food intake, or...anything. And I'm terrified that even after the surgery, that's not going to change.
I hope I'm wrong. I really, really, REALLY hope I'm wrong. I hope she knows everything about this procedure, backwards and forwards; I hope she's planned for every contingency, knows how she's going to handle every temptation. I hope she'll have a perfectly uneventful operation, and that she'll have a quick recovery, and that she'll be perfectly compliant with all the new rules, all the new orders that the doctors are going to impose on her eating. I hope she realizes that this operation isn't magic, and that she's ultimately responsible for what happens next. And if I'm wrong, I'll be glad to admit it; and whether I'm wrong or right, I'll be there for her if she needs me. It's the least I can do.
I hope I'm wrong. But I know Debbi--I've known her for thirty-one years--and I'm scared for her.
Tonight's starting point: the commercials for "Nuvaring", which offer a valuable (and fairly-unflattering) insight into our culture, if you ask me.
Scene: Perky "modern-woman" type bubbles rhymingly. "Back in the day, birth control seemed like the answer to our prayers... We thought, 'pregnancy protection? okay, no objection!' But now we're chained to the everyday. Worry about forgetting? Upsetting! Raise your voice for a new choice: Nuvaring. A flexible, comfortable vaginal ring. Every week? Every day? No way!" (That's a paraphrase, but it's close.)
I've seen this commercial half a dozen times in just the three hours I've been watching Discovery Health Channel, and every time I see it I'm just amazed at what it says. In the past, we were happy with this new thing we discovered. Now, we're no longer satisfied, so we've invented this NEW thing that does the same thing more conveniently.
Which is fine; it's how progress happens, I guess. But what slays me, every time I see this commercial and most of the other commercials for health-care products, is this: We are allowing convenience to dictate our choices in one of the most important areas of our lives: the care and maintenance of our bodies. Where is the long-term data regarding the potential effects of this type of birth control? My guess: there isn't any. This is a new product, and the way that health products are sped through the regulatory process and into the market these days, it seems like "shoot first, ask questions later...and keep those attorneys on retainer, just in case."
Those commercials for "Yazmin" are another thing that bugs me. Yazmin, which I believe is now being marketed as "Yaz" (which makes me wonder how Alison Moyet is feeling these days, but I digress)...anyway, "Yaz" promises "fewer periods"--four a year, to be exact. Basically it's like the regular regimen of the traditional pills, except you only get the week of "blue pills" every third month. And it may be perfectly healthy; there may be nothing wrong with it. But though it certainly sounds good--who wouldn't want fewer periods, given the choice?--it just seems to me like they're opening a Pandora's box. Since we already know we can't trust the pharmaceutical companies, with their profit motive, to safeguard our health...and we already know the government's safeguards have been grossly inefficient even on the few occasions when their judgement hasn't already been swayed by lobbyists, PACs, and under-the-table money...and since most of us aren't ourselves experts on womens' health, reproductive endocrinology, or any of the other biological processes involved in menstruation...what are we using to make our decision as far as the safety and efficacy of these "improved" birth-control options? In short, who is both able and willing to give us an honest evaluation of the possible long-term effects of having only four periods per year as opposed to the normal twelve? Who can we trust? The companies don't have to be responsible because even if they're sued, it's barely a dent in their profits; the government doesn't have to be responsible because they're the government, both parties are pretty much the same, and what other choice do we have? The doctors have to be responsible, but even the specialists couldn't possibly keep up with every new development, nor is there enough time in the world for each doctor, or even each group of doctors, to do their own independent research sufficient to counter every piece of profit-driven misinformation they're given.
And so, faced with the choice of what to put into our bodies, and with few trustworthy and well-informed sources of solid, factual data, we make our choice based on the bubbly rhymes of an ad agency spokes-model, who tells us that convenience is the most important factor. That seems wrong to me, somehow.
I think I'm a little more focussed on questions of health and what motivates our decision-making at the moment. One of my dearest friends is about to do something which scares the hell out of me--Debbi, who I've known since I was five and she was four and we lived down the street from each other, goes into the hospital next week for gastric-bypass surgery, and I'm really scared for her.
Debbi is a big girl. I'm substantially overweight for my height--I could probably stand to lose between 80 and 100 pounds--and Debbi has got 50 to 75 pounds on me, easy. She's had health problems--joint pain, bone spurs, apnea--but like me, she's so far escaped most of the worst demons of obesity. Still, she's not happy with herself as she is, and she's never been able to find a diet and exercise program that works for her. She also has PCOS, like me, which can make it much harder to drop the weight. Mostly, though, she has the same problem I have: she likes food, and doesn't like to exercise. I've known her for long enough to understand her relationship to food; when we were young, Debbi ate largely as a rebellion against her mother, who spent all of Debbi's childhood harping on her weight and comparing her unfavorably to little sis Mary, who was a skinny-Minnie like their mother. Though I didn't have a skinny little sister, I could certainly empathize with the maternal weight-obsession, and so Debbi and I became partners in gluttony--sneaking off to McDonalds for burgers and fries, then to 7-11 or Reilly's for mountains of sweets and candies. We'd hide out in my room, play board games, listen to the radio, and munch on all our forbidden loot. There was some rebellion in my candy-feasts too, but mostly I just had the same horrendous sweet-tooth that follows me to this day.
Still, we both stayed pretty thin through grade school. There's a picture of us, taken the summer I was eleven; when I look at it now I get so angry at everyone who ever told either of us we were fat. We were two cute, normal little girls. I see Debbi with her pageboy bob and her 1981 big-frame glasses, and myself with pigtails, a new cast on my arm, and a "there goes the summer" expression, and I want to go back in time and hug both of us, and tell our little selves, "They're wrong about you. You are both amazing, both beautiful, and both perfectly all right exactly the way you are." There's another picture, taken during my senior year of high school, and still we were normal-looking, still we were pretty. And underneath those normal, pretty exteriors, both of us were convinced we were ugly, gross, obese. We weren't. We never talked about it, either. There was a lot we never talked about; everything we knew about each other til adulthood, it seems sometimes, was unspoken.
We drifted apart shortly after I left for college. There was a party, and a guy, and I needed validation and took too literally Debbi's declaration that she "didn't care" who this guy went after. It made a big split in our group of friends, and then there was real life, jobs and live-in boyfriends and misunderstandings. She sent me a card when I got married the first time.
The next time I saw her was at JP's funeral. She was living at home again, and so once again we were down the block from each other, and I honestly think she and Cowgirl saved my life that fall and winter. I was newly-clean, newly-bereaved, and my old life had been completely torn away from me. Debbi and Cowgirl stepped into that empty space; we went out to dinner, and did crafts in my mother's kitchen, and watched movies in Debbi's parents' room--the same bedroom in which years before we'd sneaked peeks at the Playgirl magazines her mom kept hidden in the bottom of the bureau. And we laughed, Debbi and Cowgirl and I; they kept me laughing, and I don't think I could even begin to tell them how absolutely vital the two of them were, through those last months of 1995 and the first months of 1996.
But in the years since I'd last seen her, she'd packed on at least a hundred pounds. I noticed, but I didn't NOTICE; I'd done the same thing, after all, and the only reason I was skinny again that fall was my ten months on the Heroin Diet. Once I started eating again, the weight started to come back.
We kept in touch sporadically once I moved to North Carolina, and then when I moved back to Chicago. Debbi generally knew when I was getting high again, because she wouldn't hear from me til it was over. She knew a little bit about CR, but he was just as bad as the heroin; when he was around, no one else heard from me either. I think it was my way of performing damage control, but I lost a lot of people during that time. It was during the CR years that I gained back all the weight I'd ever lost and more. Food was a comfort during that time, the one reliable thing that couldn't be taken away or tainted by CR's sick manipulations.
Once CR was gone, once I had the house, once my life was back on track again, Debbi mentioned that she and Cowgirl and a few others had established a Girls' Night Out; once a month, they'd meet at a Mexican restaurant in the suburbs, drink margaritas, and eat delicious food. I gladly became a part of it, and the three of us have carried it on even when the rest of the group crumbled. Through all this crap with LJ, they've once again been a thread connecting me to my real self--the self that laughs, the self that can be silly or serious, the self that's been here all along, no matter what.
All along--for years, now--Debbi has been trying to get approved for gastric-bypass surgery. The insurance company put her through a bunch of red tape; she had to have tried X number of diets without success, and Y number of alternative options, and so on. I think all the red tape lulled me into a sense of complacency, thinking it was never going to happen and so there was nothing to worry about. Debbi has had millions of plans that have never come to fruition; I thought this would be no different.
She started on her liquid diet today, and she goes into the hospital in about 10 days, I guess. She'll be staying with her parents for a couple of weeks after the operation, and the doctors have given her a litany of things she can't eat for two weeks, six weeks, six months, two years. I asked her if she was going to have the reversible surgery--the one with the Lap-Band--but she said no, she's going for the permanent one. I'm skeptical, and deep down I wonder if this isn't really just a last-ditch, throwing-up-the-hands gesture: I can't do diets, I can't do exercise, so just staple my stomach so I don't have to worry about it. I'm afraid the convenience, the magic-bullet-ness of it that you see on all the plastic-surgery shows, has seduced her into thinking that after surgery, everything will be exactly the same--except she'll be skinny.
I'm scared for her. I'm scared that something will go wrong, first of all; I'd be scared of that no matter what surgery she was having. But I think I'm even more scared of what will happen later. I know Debbi well; I've been her friend through many, many diets. I know her mental-health issues, as well, and I know that they're not well-controlled. I know that despite knowing better, despite being in health-care herself, she's not always been medically compliant as far as taking her meds, or regulating anything about her food intake, or...anything. And I'm terrified that even after the surgery, that's not going to change.
I hope I'm wrong. I really, really, REALLY hope I'm wrong. I hope she knows everything about this procedure, backwards and forwards; I hope she's planned for every contingency, knows how she's going to handle every temptation. I hope she'll have a perfectly uneventful operation, and that she'll have a quick recovery, and that she'll be perfectly compliant with all the new rules, all the new orders that the doctors are going to impose on her eating. I hope she realizes that this operation isn't magic, and that she's ultimately responsible for what happens next. And if I'm wrong, I'll be glad to admit it; and whether I'm wrong or right, I'll be there for her if she needs me. It's the least I can do.
I hope I'm wrong. But I know Debbi--I've known her for thirty-one years--and I'm scared for her.
Monday Night
It's 7:30 on a Monday night. Outside it's raining, cold, gray. It's October in Chicago, in other words; it's chilly in the house, but I'm perfectly comfortable. I've taken my shower, put on my warm pajamas and fluffy slippers, and fixed some leftovers for dinner. I put away yesterday's dishes, washed today's, fed and watered the kitties, and I'm currently switching between blogging, watching "Medical Incredible", and patiently explaining to Snickers that no matter what he personally believes, I do not find his habit of climbing the lamps to be even slightly endearing. He's a handful, is my Snick.
I know a lot of people would find this boring. In a couple of hours I'll go up to bed, pull the quilts and afghans up under my chin, adjust the cat so I can have at least a small piece of the mattress, and go to sleep, alone. I know a lot of people would find that lonely. So do I, when I think about it; not so much in the context of the present, but in the context of the past. If I look at NOW, if I think about today and tomorrow and everything but yesterday, it doesn't seem lonely at all. It seems...peaceful, self-contained. Suddenly my life is exactly the right size for me, not stretched all out of shape trying to accommodate someone else's habits and quirks. I feel a little bit old, set in my ways like this, but at the same time I think I'm okay with that. -I- know what I'm like on the inside; if there's nobody who wants to share that life, that's their loss, I guess. And if no one ever does...well, then, that's just how it is.
I probably don't sound as happy as I am. But honestly? I'm very peaceful. I don't know what the future holds, and I'm not shutting out any possibilities...but if things were to go on like this forever, I think I'd be okay with that.
I know a lot of people would find this boring. In a couple of hours I'll go up to bed, pull the quilts and afghans up under my chin, adjust the cat so I can have at least a small piece of the mattress, and go to sleep, alone. I know a lot of people would find that lonely. So do I, when I think about it; not so much in the context of the present, but in the context of the past. If I look at NOW, if I think about today and tomorrow and everything but yesterday, it doesn't seem lonely at all. It seems...peaceful, self-contained. Suddenly my life is exactly the right size for me, not stretched all out of shape trying to accommodate someone else's habits and quirks. I feel a little bit old, set in my ways like this, but at the same time I think I'm okay with that. -I- know what I'm like on the inside; if there's nobody who wants to share that life, that's their loss, I guess. And if no one ever does...well, then, that's just how it is.
I probably don't sound as happy as I am. But honestly? I'm very peaceful. I don't know what the future holds, and I'm not shutting out any possibilities...but if things were to go on like this forever, I think I'd be okay with that.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Goodbye Zephyr
Okay, now, see, THIS makes me sad.
My first boyfriend introduced me to Zephyr, and I can remember consuming many sundaes with him, his sister, and his sister's boyfriend. I lived not far from there for a year, when I was with CR on-and-off, and when my mom would offer to take me to dinner we would often end up there. And I know Firefly will be devastated when she reads this--gargantuan sundaes at Zephyr were always a highlight of her trips to Chicago.
I hate that things change. There's a Washington Mutual in the space where the all-night taco place used to be, a block or so from the place where I lived with JP; the building where we lived, or at least our portion of it, has also been torn down. It was bad enough when I drove past a year or so after he died and found that they'd put a cinderblock yuppie building in the lot next to our old bedroom window; that room always had the best morning sun, even if it only overlooked a scrubby vacant lot strewn with broken bottles and trash. When I drove by a couple of years ago and the whole apartment was gone...Yeah. You can imagine.
And yes, I understand: things change, and part of being a functional adult is learning to cope with change. I do fairly well with it--most of the time. It's when something I value is lost that I can't quite accept it. (I already live in fear of the day that something happens to Snickers. It's very scary to love something, you know? Even if "something" bites your toes and wakes you out of a sound sleep. Mister Snick and I will be having an extended conversation this evening, with the topic being "Kitty-Mom needs her sleep, and no one wakes YOU up by chomping on YOUR extremities, now do they??" I realize that it's futile to reason with a housecat, but that's never stopped me in the past.)
I don't think I'm terribly depressed today; I think this moody sort of icky feeling is largely due to the weather, overwork, and lack of sleep. (Tim--remember Tim? the guy with the cats?) called me at an impolitely late hour of the night and wants me to take the surviving beast-creature back again. Which: NO. I've been looking for a thesaurus with different options for "HELL no" but so far, no luck. I'm not getting back into THAT situation again. And of course he couldn't just say, "Hey, G, I'm in a little mess and I need somebody to watch Cassidy--any chance you can help?" Instead I get the whole story of his latest woes--the guy he was staying with skipped out on three months of unpaid rent, leaving Tim to get the five-day eviction notice, even though he's not on the lease and so on, so forth, etc. There is nowhere for him to go (though he's used to that) and no one else, he says, who can take the cat. Already I feel pressured to do this--even though I don't want to, even though it's not my responsibility.
Curiously enough, though, Tim may be the solution to another of my problems. I am now so far beyond "broke" that the skyline of Broke appears foggy in the distance, and though the situation is improving, it's improving s-l-o-w-l-y, and in a manner highly susceptible to setbacks. LJ, though he has been gone for a month now (yeah, really!) is still capable of costing money from a distance; I've now spent an entire paycheck on various automotive-related issues--which, by informal agreement when we bought the damn Tahoe, were to be HIS responsibility. Gas, insurance, sticker renewal, new tires, an oil change, and at least three months' worth of payments...This is not something I can keep doing indefinitely. Either LJ has to contribute, or he has to go. And if he goes, I'm thinking I may offer Tim a roommate-ship here at the Catastrophe. He has a job; he's straightened up his act considerably; I've lived with him before--before CR and I got back together, Tim and I shared a studio apartment for a year, and we got along very well--he's a good roomie, neat about common areas, keeps to himself, and doesn't do rude and inconsiderate shit. And if he can pay a modest amount of rent and a share of the utilities, I'd be more than willing to give him the spare bedroom. (He's also good at heavy lifting, has some carpentry experience, and would make a good helper for home-improvement projects.) It's a thought, anyhow; god alone knows I could use the money, and Tim would be a better roommate by FAR than LJ.
And roommates is all LJ and I are, anymore; in a couple of weeks, it will be a year since the last time we had sex. (Yeah, I know, too much info. Sorry.) Not only that, but the last time I talked to him I actually caught him in...not a lie, exactly, but a deception. That's all right; I can honestly say I feel almost nothing for him anymore. If he's cheating on me...well, so what? He's not here, and I'm not sending him any money; he's not paying what he owes me, but that's pretty much par for the course. I'm not crushed at the thought of him screwing around with someone else, the way I was when CR started.
In fact, I'm unhappier at the prospect of him coming BACK. His permanent absence would be a relief, to be honest. The house is looking...not GOOD, yet, but better. I've got some motivation to keep it clean, at least, knowing that it's not going to get all messed up just as soon as I turn my back again. There's nobody's hair-clippings in the sink; nobody's hamburger grease all over the stove; nobody's seeds and stems all over the tables. The dishes stay washed once I wash them; nobody fills the trash cans with 40-oz bottles. And without going into too much unnecessary detail? The absence of pee is a joy. It's starting to feel like MY HOUSE, finally--and about time, too, since today is three years to the day since we moved in. I feel like my life is starting to turn around at last; if I could just get the money situation under control, I'd be content, at the very least. Happy, even. And the thought that contentment might be possible, let alone happiness, is a huge improvement over, say, a year ago--when even "not miserable" seemed out of reach.
So yeah....apparently, SOME change is good. (But I'm still going to miss the butterscotch sundaes at Zephyr.)
My first boyfriend introduced me to Zephyr, and I can remember consuming many sundaes with him, his sister, and his sister's boyfriend. I lived not far from there for a year, when I was with CR on-and-off, and when my mom would offer to take me to dinner we would often end up there. And I know Firefly will be devastated when she reads this--gargantuan sundaes at Zephyr were always a highlight of her trips to Chicago.
I hate that things change. There's a Washington Mutual in the space where the all-night taco place used to be, a block or so from the place where I lived with JP; the building where we lived, or at least our portion of it, has also been torn down. It was bad enough when I drove past a year or so after he died and found that they'd put a cinderblock yuppie building in the lot next to our old bedroom window; that room always had the best morning sun, even if it only overlooked a scrubby vacant lot strewn with broken bottles and trash. When I drove by a couple of years ago and the whole apartment was gone...Yeah. You can imagine.
And yes, I understand: things change, and part of being a functional adult is learning to cope with change. I do fairly well with it--most of the time. It's when something I value is lost that I can't quite accept it. (I already live in fear of the day that something happens to Snickers. It's very scary to love something, you know? Even if "something" bites your toes and wakes you out of a sound sleep. Mister Snick and I will be having an extended conversation this evening, with the topic being "Kitty-Mom needs her sleep, and no one wakes YOU up by chomping on YOUR extremities, now do they??" I realize that it's futile to reason with a housecat, but that's never stopped me in the past.)
I don't think I'm terribly depressed today; I think this moody sort of icky feeling is largely due to the weather, overwork, and lack of sleep. (Tim--remember Tim? the guy with the cats?) called me at an impolitely late hour of the night and wants me to take the surviving beast-creature back again. Which: NO. I've been looking for a thesaurus with different options for "HELL no" but so far, no luck. I'm not getting back into THAT situation again. And of course he couldn't just say, "Hey, G, I'm in a little mess and I need somebody to watch Cassidy--any chance you can help?" Instead I get the whole story of his latest woes--the guy he was staying with skipped out on three months of unpaid rent, leaving Tim to get the five-day eviction notice, even though he's not on the lease and so on, so forth, etc. There is nowhere for him to go (though he's used to that) and no one else, he says, who can take the cat. Already I feel pressured to do this--even though I don't want to, even though it's not my responsibility.
Curiously enough, though, Tim may be the solution to another of my problems. I am now so far beyond "broke" that the skyline of Broke appears foggy in the distance, and though the situation is improving, it's improving s-l-o-w-l-y, and in a manner highly susceptible to setbacks. LJ, though he has been gone for a month now (yeah, really!) is still capable of costing money from a distance; I've now spent an entire paycheck on various automotive-related issues--which, by informal agreement when we bought the damn Tahoe, were to be HIS responsibility. Gas, insurance, sticker renewal, new tires, an oil change, and at least three months' worth of payments...This is not something I can keep doing indefinitely. Either LJ has to contribute, or he has to go. And if he goes, I'm thinking I may offer Tim a roommate-ship here at the Catastrophe. He has a job; he's straightened up his act considerably; I've lived with him before--before CR and I got back together, Tim and I shared a studio apartment for a year, and we got along very well--he's a good roomie, neat about common areas, keeps to himself, and doesn't do rude and inconsiderate shit. And if he can pay a modest amount of rent and a share of the utilities, I'd be more than willing to give him the spare bedroom. (He's also good at heavy lifting, has some carpentry experience, and would make a good helper for home-improvement projects.) It's a thought, anyhow; god alone knows I could use the money, and Tim would be a better roommate by FAR than LJ.
And roommates is all LJ and I are, anymore; in a couple of weeks, it will be a year since the last time we had sex. (Yeah, I know, too much info. Sorry.) Not only that, but the last time I talked to him I actually caught him in...not a lie, exactly, but a deception. That's all right; I can honestly say I feel almost nothing for him anymore. If he's cheating on me...well, so what? He's not here, and I'm not sending him any money; he's not paying what he owes me, but that's pretty much par for the course. I'm not crushed at the thought of him screwing around with someone else, the way I was when CR started.
In fact, I'm unhappier at the prospect of him coming BACK. His permanent absence would be a relief, to be honest. The house is looking...not GOOD, yet, but better. I've got some motivation to keep it clean, at least, knowing that it's not going to get all messed up just as soon as I turn my back again. There's nobody's hair-clippings in the sink; nobody's hamburger grease all over the stove; nobody's seeds and stems all over the tables. The dishes stay washed once I wash them; nobody fills the trash cans with 40-oz bottles. And without going into too much unnecessary detail? The absence of pee is a joy. It's starting to feel like MY HOUSE, finally--and about time, too, since today is three years to the day since we moved in. I feel like my life is starting to turn around at last; if I could just get the money situation under control, I'd be content, at the very least. Happy, even. And the thought that contentment might be possible, let alone happiness, is a huge improvement over, say, a year ago--when even "not miserable" seemed out of reach.
So yeah....apparently, SOME change is good. (But I'm still going to miss the butterscotch sundaes at Zephyr.)
Thursday, October 5, 2006
Now THAT'S How Problems Get Solved!
I had my meeting with HRChick. It lasted all of three minutes.
Me: Hi...how are you?
HRC: Good. Have a seat.
Me: Thanks. (pulls out letter from case worker at clinic) I have a letter for you here...basically, all it's saying is that the problem is pretty much resolved and there aren't any accomodations needed.
HRC: Okay, well then...(folds letter without reading it and hands it back to me) If that's the case, then I really don't even need to read this; I'll just e-mail ImmediateBoss and UberBoss and tell them you're not requesting any accommodations, the problem is solved, and we can just move on.
Me: (in total disbelief) Okay then....thanks! (Gets up and leaves.)
And that was that. "Relieved" doesn't even begin to cover it. (I have managed not to bang my head against the wall repeatedly in my total consternation on one small point: I never ASKED for any accommodations! THEY were the ones talking about "accommodations". The only thing I asked for was a little patience and understanding. But whatever...all's well that ends well.)
This makes up rather nicely for this morning, when I pulled off the expressway for the final leg of my trip to work and heard: brrrrt brrrrt brrrrt flupflupflupflupflupflupflupflup. I don't think this rule has ever been codified, so we can call it Gladys's Rule: There is no possible thing that a car can do, involving the noise brrrrt brrrrt brrrrt flupflupflupflupflupflupflupflup, which is not overwhelmingly negative. I knew pretty much right away what the problem was, so I pulled into a convenient parking lot to look, and sure enough the rear driver's-side tire was completely flat. I muttered something profane, then grabbed my cell phone and called my co-worker, who from this day on shall be called Way2GoDumbAss, or W2GDA for short, owing to this little exploit of earlier this week. She came and picked me up right away, then drove me back to get the car when I found a place which I could limp along to. It's about 3 blocks from work, but it was about a mile and a half from where I'd pulled off, and the last quarter-mile was pretty dodgy--I kept leaning out the window to make sure the tire wasn't shredding off the rims, which is what it felt like--flupflupflupflupflup gave way to kachunk-kachunk-kabonk-kabonk-kachunk.... Neither W2GDA nor I thought we were going to make it the last 50 feet, but I did. And of course, the mechanic gave me the whole "you're supposed to get 2 tires at a time" thing, and LJ had asked me before he left to get the oil changed; so by the time everything was done, it was the end of the day. That was nearly $300 I hadn't planned on spending, but at least the back tires will now last probably longer than the truck itself. And the mechanic told me I'll need new fronts before winter, which means "like, now." :::sigh::: But I can't give them what I don't have, so it'll have to wait.
And tomorrow's Friday, and LJ is still out of town (bliss, I tell you, BLISS), and there's not one but TWO new episodes of Meerkat Manor tomorrow night, so I believe I shall indulge myself in some delicious carryout from Leona's, my comfy chair, and my favorite fleece slippers.
Thinking over the past few weeks, I'm going to have to say, it sure feels like life is getting better. THESE are the kind of stressors I can handle: flat tires, challenges at work, insane housecats. It's the ones that make me feel like a failure, or make me doubt myself or the validity of everything I believe in, or make me feel ugly and unlovable--THOSE are the stresses I can't handle. Without them? I'm as happy as a clam.
Which raises a whole slew of questions, actually--for example, how happy ARE clams, really? And why CLAMS? Are they any happier than any other mollusk? If the world is your oyster, does THAT make you as happy as a clam? What about scallops? Where do they fall on the happiness scale?
Clearly I need some hobbies.
Me: Hi...how are you?
HRC: Good. Have a seat.
Me: Thanks. (pulls out letter from case worker at clinic) I have a letter for you here...basically, all it's saying is that the problem is pretty much resolved and there aren't any accomodations needed.
HRC: Okay, well then...(folds letter without reading it and hands it back to me) If that's the case, then I really don't even need to read this; I'll just e-mail ImmediateBoss and UberBoss and tell them you're not requesting any accommodations, the problem is solved, and we can just move on.
Me: (in total disbelief) Okay then....thanks! (Gets up and leaves.)
And that was that. "Relieved" doesn't even begin to cover it. (I have managed not to bang my head against the wall repeatedly in my total consternation on one small point: I never ASKED for any accommodations! THEY were the ones talking about "accommodations". The only thing I asked for was a little patience and understanding. But whatever...all's well that ends well.)
This makes up rather nicely for this morning, when I pulled off the expressway for the final leg of my trip to work and heard: brrrrt brrrrt brrrrt flupflupflupflupflupflupflupflup. I don't think this rule has ever been codified, so we can call it Gladys's Rule: There is no possible thing that a car can do, involving the noise brrrrt brrrrt brrrrt flupflupflupflupflupflupflupflup, which is not overwhelmingly negative. I knew pretty much right away what the problem was, so I pulled into a convenient parking lot to look, and sure enough the rear driver's-side tire was completely flat. I muttered something profane, then grabbed my cell phone and called my co-worker, who from this day on shall be called Way2GoDumbAss, or W2GDA for short, owing to this little exploit of earlier this week. She came and picked me up right away, then drove me back to get the car when I found a place which I could limp along to. It's about 3 blocks from work, but it was about a mile and a half from where I'd pulled off, and the last quarter-mile was pretty dodgy--I kept leaning out the window to make sure the tire wasn't shredding off the rims, which is what it felt like--flupflupflupflupflup gave way to kachunk-kachunk-kabonk-kabonk-kachunk.... Neither W2GDA nor I thought we were going to make it the last 50 feet, but I did. And of course, the mechanic gave me the whole "you're supposed to get 2 tires at a time" thing, and LJ had asked me before he left to get the oil changed; so by the time everything was done, it was the end of the day. That was nearly $300 I hadn't planned on spending, but at least the back tires will now last probably longer than the truck itself. And the mechanic told me I'll need new fronts before winter, which means "like, now." :::sigh::: But I can't give them what I don't have, so it'll have to wait.
And tomorrow's Friday, and LJ is still out of town (bliss, I tell you, BLISS), and there's not one but TWO new episodes of Meerkat Manor tomorrow night, so I believe I shall indulge myself in some delicious carryout from Leona's, my comfy chair, and my favorite fleece slippers.
Thinking over the past few weeks, I'm going to have to say, it sure feels like life is getting better. THESE are the kind of stressors I can handle: flat tires, challenges at work, insane housecats. It's the ones that make me feel like a failure, or make me doubt myself or the validity of everything I believe in, or make me feel ugly and unlovable--THOSE are the stresses I can't handle. Without them? I'm as happy as a clam.
Which raises a whole slew of questions, actually--for example, how happy ARE clams, really? And why CLAMS? Are they any happier than any other mollusk? If the world is your oyster, does THAT make you as happy as a clam? What about scallops? Where do they fall on the happiness scale?
Clearly I need some hobbies.
The Jokes Just Write Themselves, Vol 4002
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA(snort)...what??? Huh? You were SERIOUS? Um...Yeah, okay...Oh boy, just look at the time. Gotta run!"
Wednesday, October 4, 2006
Paradoxically
I had my review at work today. It was the mandatory one-year review, albeit about three months late, but whatever, you know? People are busy, I understand that.
It was pretty much what I expected--less-than-adequate ratings in nearly everything, an improvement plan at the end with a 60-day time-frame...
It was absolutely one of the most positive experiences I've had at this job, and ten million times more palatable than my reviews at my LAST job.
And I put that completely at the feet of my manager, ImmediateBoss. I have many criticisms of him--he's hard to get a hold of, he's a little on the flaky side sometimes--but I will give him this compliment and shout it from the rooftops: Even when he was giving me a REALLY bad evaluation, he was absolutely 100% adamant that every single issue we discussed could be fixed and any problems I was having in this job could be overcome. And he's not a bullshit artist by any means--he's blunt to a fault, sometimes, absolutely NOT the office diplomat--so when he says something like that, I believe him. I left that meeting feeling motivated to do better and willing to wipe the slate clean and start over again. I was so impressed by how he handled the whole situation...I mean, he had to give me some seriously bad news at the end of the review (apparently our company has a formula for calculating raises that pretty much nixes them completely for anyone who gets a review as bad as mine) and he actually managed NOT to make that massively demotivating. Not only that, he told me some things I didn't know--about training opportunities that are available, things like Microsoft certification, which can improve not only my standing HERE, but my marketability everywhere else--and they'd pay for it!
It was just so nice to feel that a manager wants me to succeed, to hear someone in charge say, essentially, "Yeah, there are some problems--but I think they're fixable, and I'm willing to work with you to help you fix them." It wasn't like at the last place, where even the compliments felt backhanded, and I walked out of every conversation--let alone every review!--feeling like a total failure. In fact, I actually wrote ImmediateBoss sort of a thank-you note, telling him that I appreciated how he handled the whole situation. (It DOES suck that I don't get even a teeny raise, but ImmediateBoss handled that pretty well too; as he said, if I improve even up to just better-than-average, it will look good enough that he can put in for a fairly-whopping raise for me next year and probably get it. And really, that "year" is only nine months...)
It's very strange that I feel THIS good about my job after getting a BAD review. This job may be salvageable after all. (Of course, please don't quote me on that tomorrow--I meet with HRChick about my medical "accommodations". Hopefully she'll agree with me that since the problem has been largely resolved, we can move forward and stop talking about it....but somehow I'm not optimistic. We'll see.)
It was pretty much what I expected--less-than-adequate ratings in nearly everything, an improvement plan at the end with a 60-day time-frame...
It was absolutely one of the most positive experiences I've had at this job, and ten million times more palatable than my reviews at my LAST job.
And I put that completely at the feet of my manager, ImmediateBoss. I have many criticisms of him--he's hard to get a hold of, he's a little on the flaky side sometimes--but I will give him this compliment and shout it from the rooftops: Even when he was giving me a REALLY bad evaluation, he was absolutely 100% adamant that every single issue we discussed could be fixed and any problems I was having in this job could be overcome. And he's not a bullshit artist by any means--he's blunt to a fault, sometimes, absolutely NOT the office diplomat--so when he says something like that, I believe him. I left that meeting feeling motivated to do better and willing to wipe the slate clean and start over again. I was so impressed by how he handled the whole situation...I mean, he had to give me some seriously bad news at the end of the review (apparently our company has a formula for calculating raises that pretty much nixes them completely for anyone who gets a review as bad as mine) and he actually managed NOT to make that massively demotivating. Not only that, he told me some things I didn't know--about training opportunities that are available, things like Microsoft certification, which can improve not only my standing HERE, but my marketability everywhere else--and they'd pay for it!
It was just so nice to feel that a manager wants me to succeed, to hear someone in charge say, essentially, "Yeah, there are some problems--but I think they're fixable, and I'm willing to work with you to help you fix them." It wasn't like at the last place, where even the compliments felt backhanded, and I walked out of every conversation--let alone every review!--feeling like a total failure. In fact, I actually wrote ImmediateBoss sort of a thank-you note, telling him that I appreciated how he handled the whole situation. (It DOES suck that I don't get even a teeny raise, but ImmediateBoss handled that pretty well too; as he said, if I improve even up to just better-than-average, it will look good enough that he can put in for a fairly-whopping raise for me next year and probably get it. And really, that "year" is only nine months...)
It's very strange that I feel THIS good about my job after getting a BAD review. This job may be salvageable after all. (Of course, please don't quote me on that tomorrow--I meet with HRChick about my medical "accommodations". Hopefully she'll agree with me that since the problem has been largely resolved, we can move forward and stop talking about it....but somehow I'm not optimistic. We'll see.)
Monday, October 2, 2006
Insert "That Face" Here
You know That Face...the one where you take your hands and put them over your eyes and rub til you see white spots behind your lids, and then you pull your cheeks down with the flat of your palms til you're stretched out like the guy in "Scream". It's the one you make when you can't quite tell for sure who is the source of the latest cataclysmic fuckup, and you're pretty sure you bear some responsibility in there SOMEWHERE but you know it wasn't ALL you...this time.
So remember this brouhaha? How I defended myself for speaking out in a team meeting about the existence of a medical problem, and when asked to explain myself, cited an incident where someone changed my job title in the department software to "professional sleeper"? Which launched a huge investigation and blah, blah, blah...?
Today I found out who did it.
One of my buddies, trying to be funny. And the hell of it is, she was one of only two people I'd mentioned it to when it actually HAPPENED, and she didn't speak up and say "oh, yeah, that was me." And she had plenty of opportunity to do so--at least three weeks elapsed between when it happened and when I mentioned it to anyone else.
So when I told her last week about the conversation in HR, and how I'd been forced to bring up that incident to explain why I'd felt the need to pre-emptively mention the problem in a team meeting, she went directly to the boss and told him that she was the one who'd done it. And today, ImmediateBoss took the two of us into a meeting and she told me she was the one who'd done it, and she was incredibly sorry and she was just trying to be funny, and she'd felt horrendously guilty ever since I mentioned it in the first place.
I'm not mad at her--my immediate reaction was something along the lines of "Way to go, dumbass..."--but I'm having a very hard time not feeling guilty about it, too, and I know I have nothing at all to feel guilty about. I wasn't the one who did anything wrong....but then again, I didn't do much RIGHT, either.
I mean, I didn't tell either of my bosses when it happened, and then I DID mention it within earshot of H.R.Chick; had I known who'd done it, OBVIOUSLY I wouldn't have said anything to EITHER of them. It would have been just one of those things between co-workers, where the end result is a laughing "fuck you very much" and a possible retaliatory prank somewhere down the line. Instead, I'm sure it's in HER H.R. file now, and I'm pretty sure UberBoss has probably given her some degree of hell for it, and of course that wasn't what I would have wanted to happen, had I known who the perpetrator was. Or as I said to her, "I would have been way more pissed if it had been certain other people."
I also told her "No hard feelings," and that's actually the truth; I don't think she was being malicious, and this was before anyone knew it was medical--which actually speaks more FOR what I did in the staff meeting than AGAINST it.
So the only reaction I can manage here is That Face, along with a shaking of the head and a clear understanding that just about EVERYBODY blew it on this one, including me.
So remember this brouhaha? How I defended myself for speaking out in a team meeting about the existence of a medical problem, and when asked to explain myself, cited an incident where someone changed my job title in the department software to "professional sleeper"? Which launched a huge investigation and blah, blah, blah...?
Today I found out who did it.
One of my buddies, trying to be funny. And the hell of it is, she was one of only two people I'd mentioned it to when it actually HAPPENED, and she didn't speak up and say "oh, yeah, that was me." And she had plenty of opportunity to do so--at least three weeks elapsed between when it happened and when I mentioned it to anyone else.
So when I told her last week about the conversation in HR, and how I'd been forced to bring up that incident to explain why I'd felt the need to pre-emptively mention the problem in a team meeting, she went directly to the boss and told him that she was the one who'd done it. And today, ImmediateBoss took the two of us into a meeting and she told me she was the one who'd done it, and she was incredibly sorry and she was just trying to be funny, and she'd felt horrendously guilty ever since I mentioned it in the first place.
I'm not mad at her--my immediate reaction was something along the lines of "Way to go, dumbass..."--but I'm having a very hard time not feeling guilty about it, too, and I know I have nothing at all to feel guilty about. I wasn't the one who did anything wrong....but then again, I didn't do much RIGHT, either.
I mean, I didn't tell either of my bosses when it happened, and then I DID mention it within earshot of H.R.Chick; had I known who'd done it, OBVIOUSLY I wouldn't have said anything to EITHER of them. It would have been just one of those things between co-workers, where the end result is a laughing "fuck you very much" and a possible retaliatory prank somewhere down the line. Instead, I'm sure it's in HER H.R. file now, and I'm pretty sure UberBoss has probably given her some degree of hell for it, and of course that wasn't what I would have wanted to happen, had I known who the perpetrator was. Or as I said to her, "I would have been way more pissed if it had been certain other people."
I also told her "No hard feelings," and that's actually the truth; I don't think she was being malicious, and this was before anyone knew it was medical--which actually speaks more FOR what I did in the staff meeting than AGAINST it.
So the only reaction I can manage here is That Face, along with a shaking of the head and a clear understanding that just about EVERYBODY blew it on this one, including me.
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