Funniest outcome I could have imagined:
I came in this morning and Alex--remember, bratty, uninvolved-except-for-laughing Alex--said "Oh Gladys? Good morning. Also?" (flips me the bird, with a smile.)
Me: "What? What happened?"
A: "Well, this morning, The Crazy stopped by Joe's office... and told Joe 'I want ALEX to build my machine.'"
Me: "Ooh. Nice vote of confidence, that." (I'll admit to being a little worried there.)
A: (shrugs)
Later, I stopped The Crazy in the hall to ask her about an unrelated issue, and jokingly said something to the effect of "Well, since you snatched your build away from me and broke my heart, I have plenty of time to do this other stuff..." She laughed--have I mentioned that I have ABSOLUTELY no problems with this woman, other than that she promoted Joe?--and said "Well, because he gets here earlier in the morning, so he can work on it when I get here..."
She must have seen the "Huh?" written all over my face, because she elaborated: "I don't want to give out my password, so he has to work on the machine when I'm free so I can type it in whenever he needs me to." (Which is often--building a machine is full of "restart", "log off", "connect to server" and the rest.) Alex starts at 7:30; I don't start til 10, when she's usually curled up in a series of meetings and can't be bothered. So--not so much a vote of no-confidence, more a schedule thing.
The funniest part of it, of course: Erwin lost all chance of having me offer to help him in the future (and he now has the same number of builds, minus one--shame I can't give you a hand there, Erwin ol' pal!) and Joe pretty much squandered his remaining credibility with me--for NOTHING. For the chance to play a stupid playground prank, which didn't even have its intended effect of making ME do the work. (It would have been better if she'd handed it back to ERWIN, of course, but I can live with this outcome too.)
I repeat: Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
My Boss Is A Complete Asshole.
To all of you who found this blog by searching for variants of "my boss is an asshole"...Hi there! Welcome! I didn't realize there were so many of us out there, but fully 15% of my incoming traffic is from this search term, so....we're clearly not alone. So...good to have you here. Stick around and read some more, why don't you? It sure beats working.... --GJC, 17 Oct 2008
I am beginning to wonder if I am a maladjusted worker, or if I just find myself working in jobs with asshole bosses, or if there are just no other KIND of bosses. But today, once again, I have incontrovertible evidence that My Boss Is An Asshole.
The plot: As I've mentioned, there are four of us; myself, "Max", "Alex", and "Erwin". Max and Alex are the senior techs, Erwin and I are the junior techs. The distinction is minimal, really; Max and Alex get the "challenging" users and the long-term/complex projects, while Erwin and I get the normal calls and everyday projects. Erwin, for reasons no one has explained, has been given the lion's share of the task of building new systems; though all of us do builds, Erwin gets the most of them. I don't think that's terribly fair (though there's some consensus that it's because Erwin can't really do crap-else EXCEPT menial, repetitive tasks. I can't speak to that, personally, but I CAN speak to the fact that he's a whiny, petty little nit who has been known to bring meetings to a complete standstill by digging in his heels and stating that he opposes some minor policy change. Also, he's generally a jerk.) and will occasionally offer, when I hear him complain about how many builds he's got to do, to take one of them off his hands. (He has never done the same for me.)
Today, he spent the morning bitching every time a new ticket came across his desk, and so, after lunch, I said "Hey, Erwin, if you want to tell Joe (our boss) to give me one of your tickets, go ahead."
About half an hour later, I still hadn't gotten any new tickets, so I went into Joe's office. He got Erwin on the phone, and put him on speaker. Erwin read him the number of the ticket he wanted to give me--strange, since no one's usually that formal about tickets--we usually refer to them by the user name. I asked Joe, "Who's the ticket for?" and he just brushed it off: "Oh, just a user." My stupid self clearly wasn't thinking like an Asshole, because I just accepted it and went back to my desk.
A couple minutes later, I pulled up the ticket and discovered who it was for:
The ticket was to build a new computer...for The Crazy. Our big boss.
We had all known there was soon going to be a ticket for this build, and it had been made really, really clear that no one wanted to be the one to get it. First of all, she's THE BOSS, and nobody wants to be put in a position where any mistake will instantly be under her nose. Further, she's very particular, and then too, she has a list of annoying, complex software to install, archives to move, and general high-maintenanceness. It was the Hot Potato of builds, and not ONLY had Erwin handed it off to me, Joe had LET him--had AIDED AND ABETTED him, actually.
Now, it's my belief that if someone offers to help you with something, you--just as a common courtesy--don't give them the worst task you've got. If someone offers to help with your yardwork, you don't tell them "Hey, yeah, you can help--the septic tank hasn't been cleaned out for eight years now..." You give them something easy, or at least something average-to-middling. That's just basic human courtesy.
Well, apparently that doesn't fly, where I work. While the guys, including Erwin, laughed at my reaction, I said "oh HELL no," and darted back to Joe's office. "You let Erwin give me The CRAZY'S computer??" I yelped.
Joe? LAUGHED. (Keep in mind: this man is supposedly a manager.) "Hehehehehe...yeah." Said in the typical schoolyard-bully bullshit "sucker!" tone I remember from when I was, oh, TWELVE.
"Come ON, Joe. That's not right," I said.
He switched to the "affronted innocence" mode. "What? What are you so mad about? God, you're so whiny--you sound like Frack." (Frack--the guy at the other building who does nothing but complain.)
At that point, I just decided to shut up and deal. "You know what? That's fine. Where is the computer?"
"WHAAAAAAT??? Why are you getting mad at MEEEE? I didn't do anything....Erwin was the one who told me to give you the ticket!"
"That's right. But you--being the boss--could have vetoed it and told him 'Nah, give her another build instead'." (Which I thought was an eminently reasonable response, especially since he was acting like a bratty schoolkid, not a manager.)
"God. What EVER." (turns to student worker, also in the office) "Do you hear her whining??" (back to me) "Do you want me to give the ticket to Max?" (Notice--COM.PLETE.LY not dealing with the real issue; red herrings, allegedly-"humorous" comments. He has a habit of deflecting criticism this way. Not from The Crazy, of course--with her, he just grovels--but with the rest of us.)
"No. Just tell me, where is the computer, so I can just get started?"
Conversation goes back and forth, while he a)takes out the keys to the storeroom, which is where the computer is, but makes no effort to get out of his desk and actually LET ME INTO THE ROOM, which is his JOB. For FIFTEEN MINUTES I stand in his damn office listening to him bantering with student workers, help desk people, colleagues, whatever, and meanwhile I want to fucking STRANGLE this man, and everything I say is met with variations on the theme of "I don't know WHY you're so ANGRY."
So finally, he got off his ass and let me into the storeroom; I got the computer and went back to my desk and just got back to work. Later on I made a comment to Alex, who's the acknowledged brat of the department, and he laughed--but I know WHY he laughed. It's the old pie-in-the-face construct: it's funny, as long as it's not happening to YOU. I would have giggled too. Same with Max; walking home, though he admitted it was funny, he also agreed that it was a shitty thing for Erwin to do in the first place, let alone for Joe to go along with it.
So basically, the lesson for today, boys and girls: When someone makes a good-faith offer of help, the best thing to do is to take complete and total advantage of their good will. After all, if they weren't suckers, they never would have offered to help, would they???
I will not. EVER. offer to help Erwin again, for any reason, under any circumstances. If he were on fire, I would not even bother to muster enough spit to put it out. And as for my "manager", Joe--there is a phrase of which I hope he is aware: it's called "killing the golden goose". His total lack of good sense, regarding when to be a good-buddy-boy and when to be a fucking MANAGER, has accomplished exactly that. No longer do I feel subject to any mandate to "keep him out of trouble" as he has so often said. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact; anything I can do to subtly draw attention to his managerial incompetency and total inappropriateness, I will do. Not in a way to make myself look vindictive, mind you, or to depreciate in any way the quality of my work--quite the opposite, in fact. Joe and Erwin want to bitch and whine and play junior-high playground games? They can do that. I'm here to do a JOB, and to do it well--and I've found that sometimes, just doing your work damn well draws attention to those who don't. Not always--but sometimes. Regardless, from this point on, I am only looking out for those who look out for ME.
I am beginning to wonder if I am a maladjusted worker, or if I just find myself working in jobs with asshole bosses, or if there are just no other KIND of bosses. But today, once again, I have incontrovertible evidence that My Boss Is An Asshole.
The plot: As I've mentioned, there are four of us; myself, "Max", "Alex", and "Erwin". Max and Alex are the senior techs, Erwin and I are the junior techs. The distinction is minimal, really; Max and Alex get the "challenging" users and the long-term/complex projects, while Erwin and I get the normal calls and everyday projects. Erwin, for reasons no one has explained, has been given the lion's share of the task of building new systems; though all of us do builds, Erwin gets the most of them. I don't think that's terribly fair (though there's some consensus that it's because Erwin can't really do crap-else EXCEPT menial, repetitive tasks. I can't speak to that, personally, but I CAN speak to the fact that he's a whiny, petty little nit who has been known to bring meetings to a complete standstill by digging in his heels and stating that he opposes some minor policy change. Also, he's generally a jerk.) and will occasionally offer, when I hear him complain about how many builds he's got to do, to take one of them off his hands. (He has never done the same for me.)
Today, he spent the morning bitching every time a new ticket came across his desk, and so, after lunch, I said "Hey, Erwin, if you want to tell Joe (our boss) to give me one of your tickets, go ahead."
About half an hour later, I still hadn't gotten any new tickets, so I went into Joe's office. He got Erwin on the phone, and put him on speaker. Erwin read him the number of the ticket he wanted to give me--strange, since no one's usually that formal about tickets--we usually refer to them by the user name. I asked Joe, "Who's the ticket for?" and he just brushed it off: "Oh, just a user." My stupid self clearly wasn't thinking like an Asshole, because I just accepted it and went back to my desk.
A couple minutes later, I pulled up the ticket and discovered who it was for:
The ticket was to build a new computer...for The Crazy. Our big boss.
We had all known there was soon going to be a ticket for this build, and it had been made really, really clear that no one wanted to be the one to get it. First of all, she's THE BOSS, and nobody wants to be put in a position where any mistake will instantly be under her nose. Further, she's very particular, and then too, she has a list of annoying, complex software to install, archives to move, and general high-maintenanceness. It was the Hot Potato of builds, and not ONLY had Erwin handed it off to me, Joe had LET him--had AIDED AND ABETTED him, actually.
Now, it's my belief that if someone offers to help you with something, you--just as a common courtesy--don't give them the worst task you've got. If someone offers to help with your yardwork, you don't tell them "Hey, yeah, you can help--the septic tank hasn't been cleaned out for eight years now..." You give them something easy, or at least something average-to-middling. That's just basic human courtesy.
Well, apparently that doesn't fly, where I work. While the guys, including Erwin, laughed at my reaction, I said "oh HELL no," and darted back to Joe's office. "You let Erwin give me The CRAZY'S computer??" I yelped.
Joe? LAUGHED. (Keep in mind: this man is supposedly a manager.) "Hehehehehe...yeah." Said in the typical schoolyard-bully bullshit "sucker!" tone I remember from when I was, oh, TWELVE.
"Come ON, Joe. That's not right," I said.
He switched to the "affronted innocence" mode. "What? What are you so mad about? God, you're so whiny--you sound like Frack." (Frack--the guy at the other building who does nothing but complain.)
At that point, I just decided to shut up and deal. "You know what? That's fine. Where is the computer?"
"WHAAAAAAT??? Why are you getting mad at MEEEE? I didn't do anything....Erwin was the one who told me to give you the ticket!"
"That's right. But you--being the boss--could have vetoed it and told him 'Nah, give her another build instead'." (Which I thought was an eminently reasonable response, especially since he was acting like a bratty schoolkid, not a manager.)
"God. What EVER." (turns to student worker, also in the office) "Do you hear her whining??" (back to me) "Do you want me to give the ticket to Max?" (Notice--COM.PLETE.LY not dealing with the real issue; red herrings, allegedly-"humorous" comments. He has a habit of deflecting criticism this way. Not from The Crazy, of course--with her, he just grovels--but with the rest of us.)
"No. Just tell me, where is the computer, so I can just get started?"
Conversation goes back and forth, while he a)takes out the keys to the storeroom, which is where the computer is, but makes no effort to get out of his desk and actually LET ME INTO THE ROOM, which is his JOB. For FIFTEEN MINUTES I stand in his damn office listening to him bantering with student workers, help desk people, colleagues, whatever, and meanwhile I want to fucking STRANGLE this man, and everything I say is met with variations on the theme of "I don't know WHY you're so ANGRY."
So finally, he got off his ass and let me into the storeroom; I got the computer and went back to my desk and just got back to work. Later on I made a comment to Alex, who's the acknowledged brat of the department, and he laughed--but I know WHY he laughed. It's the old pie-in-the-face construct: it's funny, as long as it's not happening to YOU. I would have giggled too. Same with Max; walking home, though he admitted it was funny, he also agreed that it was a shitty thing for Erwin to do in the first place, let alone for Joe to go along with it.
So basically, the lesson for today, boys and girls: When someone makes a good-faith offer of help, the best thing to do is to take complete and total advantage of their good will. After all, if they weren't suckers, they never would have offered to help, would they???
I will not. EVER. offer to help Erwin again, for any reason, under any circumstances. If he were on fire, I would not even bother to muster enough spit to put it out. And as for my "manager", Joe--there is a phrase of which I hope he is aware: it's called "killing the golden goose". His total lack of good sense, regarding when to be a good-buddy-boy and when to be a fucking MANAGER, has accomplished exactly that. No longer do I feel subject to any mandate to "keep him out of trouble" as he has so often said. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact; anything I can do to subtly draw attention to his managerial incompetency and total inappropriateness, I will do. Not in a way to make myself look vindictive, mind you, or to depreciate in any way the quality of my work--quite the opposite, in fact. Joe and Erwin want to bitch and whine and play junior-high playground games? They can do that. I'm here to do a JOB, and to do it well--and I've found that sometimes, just doing your work damn well draws attention to those who don't. Not always--but sometimes. Regardless, from this point on, I am only looking out for those who look out for ME.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Huh,
Of all the things that I wouldn't have thought would help my state of mind nearly as much as it did: Tim called tonight. Didn't want anything, really; just to say hi, to keep in touch, to chat. He and Squeaky are still together, still living with her dad; they actually seem to be really good for each other. I told him how surprised I was; how in the beginning I thought one or both of them was completely insane to be together; and how honestly glad I am to have been wrong about that.
I knew my opinion of them would improve once I was living on my own; now that we're not piled on top of each other like overgrown puppies in a too-small basket, we can get along and not constantly be snapping at each other. It's nice to be in a situation where we can be friends again. I hate to admit it, but I kinda missed Tim. (Squeaky, not so much, but I still consider her a friend; not necessarily a friend I'd like to spend a lot of time with, but someone who, if she was in trouble, I'd be glad to help....as long as it didn't involve, you know, actually LIVING with her for any length of time.)
Tim said he might stop by on Monday, which is fine with me; fine if he does, fine if he doesn't. But hearing from him, talking to him for an hour about nothing of great consequence...it felt good.
In other news, my oldest friend Debbi (of Debbi and Cowgirl fame, of Girls' Nights Out (now sadly abandoned, for lack of transportation and horribly conflicting job schedules), bought a house. Today was her moving-in day, and THIS is when not having a vehicle becomes a real annoyance; I would have GLADLY helped her pack and move and all the rest, but the whole transportation issue (she's moving from one completely-inaccessible area of a highly-underserved-by-public-transit south suburb, to a nearly-as-bad-but-there's-at-least-a-Metra-station-down-the-street area of another underserved south suburb) makes the whole plan fraught with difficulty. I wanted to go out there last Sunday to help her pack, but neither the necessary buses nor the required trains--the only way to get from here to there--run on Sundays. At least where she's moving TO, everything runs on Sundays--albeit on a monstrous, every-two-hours schedule. I could reserve an iGo car, but that's a little bit of a strain on the already-strained budget this month. It really sucks not to be able to see your friends because of transportation. The plus to all this, though, is that by the time I get a chance to see her and her new place, I'll have had the chance to finish her housewarming gift; I'm going to quilt her a set of placemats, and also have some drawings framed. (To explain the drawings would require an entire blog post all its own, but I will attempt to summarize: About twelve years ago, during the winter after JP's death, when Debbi and Cowgirl pretty much kept my spirits up as much as possible, Debbi got tonsillitis. There was a brief period when the doctors were talking about having them removed, and during this time, the three of us created a whole storyline about Debbi's tonsils and what they would do once they were "out". This culminated in a series of three cartoons, which could have been a much longer series, in which the tonsils packed their bags, left a note, and escaped through Debbi's mouth while she slept. Somewhere in the series, they were also chased behind the refrigerator by a gerbil, which...okay, look. Haven't I TOLD you people I have a strange, vivid, and intensely bizarre imagination? I think I've mentioned it. Anyway, The Adventures of Debbi's Tonsils turned up in a box of memorabilia which I was sorting through a week or so ago, and when I mentioned it to Debbi on the phone, her reaction was such that I knew I was going to need to get them framed and give them to her as a housewarming present.)
I'm a little jealous, I'll admit. But only a tiny, tiny bit; mostly, I'm just really happy for Debbi. She deserves a cute little place of her own; she's spent the last ten years in a third-floor walkup apartment in a building full of noisy families and neglectful landlords, and from what she says, the house is adorable. I can't wait to see it.
All this stuff, and my reactions to it, make me think I know what's happening, or at least SOME of what's happening, to make me so depressed; plain and simply, I'm lonely. That's hard for me to admit; I'm a fan of solitude, and usually very good at being my own company, but I think I've pushed it a little too far this time. Part of it is that I have a very hard time making friends--bluntly, I don't have the slightest idea how to do it--and part of it is that I am carrying so much guilt about friendships from the past. I think of all the people who I've lost touch with, and it really brings me down. Walking to work today, I told myself: I've got to let go of some of that guilt. Yes, I made mistakes; there were people I should have called or written to; people to whom I should have been a better friend. There are people who I lost because I was a drug addict; and people I lost because I was depressed and self-absorbed; and people I lost because I was with one man or another, to the exclusion of all else. There are some people I've lost and I don't even know why. All that is very hard to live with, especially for someone who can't seem to forgive her own mistakes; to think that I'm alone largely because of the many things I've done wrong...well, that's a heavy weight to carry. But it's true; in many of the friendships I've lost, I've been the responsible party. And now I seem to have lost the ability to make friends, to let anybody get close enough to decide whether or not they like me. I keep people at arm's length, because I assume nobody would want to be any closer than arms-length to me to begin with. I'm sure it comes off all wrong, but I'm not sure how to be any different; not completely sure I want to be different, really. It's a hell of a quandary.
So the only thing I'm sure I can do is try to keep the friends I have, try not to piss off anyone else who cares enough to still be around, and hope that maybe I'll figure all this stuff out, sooner instead of later....and try not to miss the people who I drove away. That, more than anything, is the part that sucks.
I knew my opinion of them would improve once I was living on my own; now that we're not piled on top of each other like overgrown puppies in a too-small basket, we can get along and not constantly be snapping at each other. It's nice to be in a situation where we can be friends again. I hate to admit it, but I kinda missed Tim. (Squeaky, not so much, but I still consider her a friend; not necessarily a friend I'd like to spend a lot of time with, but someone who, if she was in trouble, I'd be glad to help....as long as it didn't involve, you know, actually LIVING with her for any length of time.)
Tim said he might stop by on Monday, which is fine with me; fine if he does, fine if he doesn't. But hearing from him, talking to him for an hour about nothing of great consequence...it felt good.
In other news, my oldest friend Debbi (of Debbi and Cowgirl fame, of Girls' Nights Out (now sadly abandoned, for lack of transportation and horribly conflicting job schedules), bought a house. Today was her moving-in day, and THIS is when not having a vehicle becomes a real annoyance; I would have GLADLY helped her pack and move and all the rest, but the whole transportation issue (she's moving from one completely-inaccessible area of a highly-underserved-by-public-transit south suburb, to a nearly-as-bad-but-there's-at-least-a-Metra-station-down-the-street area of another underserved south suburb) makes the whole plan fraught with difficulty. I wanted to go out there last Sunday to help her pack, but neither the necessary buses nor the required trains--the only way to get from here to there--run on Sundays. At least where she's moving TO, everything runs on Sundays--albeit on a monstrous, every-two-hours schedule. I could reserve an iGo car, but that's a little bit of a strain on the already-strained budget this month. It really sucks not to be able to see your friends because of transportation. The plus to all this, though, is that by the time I get a chance to see her and her new place, I'll have had the chance to finish her housewarming gift; I'm going to quilt her a set of placemats, and also have some drawings framed. (To explain the drawings would require an entire blog post all its own, but I will attempt to summarize: About twelve years ago, during the winter after JP's death, when Debbi and Cowgirl pretty much kept my spirits up as much as possible, Debbi got tonsillitis. There was a brief period when the doctors were talking about having them removed, and during this time, the three of us created a whole storyline about Debbi's tonsils and what they would do once they were "out". This culminated in a series of three cartoons, which could have been a much longer series, in which the tonsils packed their bags, left a note, and escaped through Debbi's mouth while she slept. Somewhere in the series, they were also chased behind the refrigerator by a gerbil, which...okay, look. Haven't I TOLD you people I have a strange, vivid, and intensely bizarre imagination? I think I've mentioned it. Anyway, The Adventures of Debbi's Tonsils turned up in a box of memorabilia which I was sorting through a week or so ago, and when I mentioned it to Debbi on the phone, her reaction was such that I knew I was going to need to get them framed and give them to her as a housewarming present.)
I'm a little jealous, I'll admit. But only a tiny, tiny bit; mostly, I'm just really happy for Debbi. She deserves a cute little place of her own; she's spent the last ten years in a third-floor walkup apartment in a building full of noisy families and neglectful landlords, and from what she says, the house is adorable. I can't wait to see it.
All this stuff, and my reactions to it, make me think I know what's happening, or at least SOME of what's happening, to make me so depressed; plain and simply, I'm lonely. That's hard for me to admit; I'm a fan of solitude, and usually very good at being my own company, but I think I've pushed it a little too far this time. Part of it is that I have a very hard time making friends--bluntly, I don't have the slightest idea how to do it--and part of it is that I am carrying so much guilt about friendships from the past. I think of all the people who I've lost touch with, and it really brings me down. Walking to work today, I told myself: I've got to let go of some of that guilt. Yes, I made mistakes; there were people I should have called or written to; people to whom I should have been a better friend. There are people who I lost because I was a drug addict; and people I lost because I was depressed and self-absorbed; and people I lost because I was with one man or another, to the exclusion of all else. There are some people I've lost and I don't even know why. All that is very hard to live with, especially for someone who can't seem to forgive her own mistakes; to think that I'm alone largely because of the many things I've done wrong...well, that's a heavy weight to carry. But it's true; in many of the friendships I've lost, I've been the responsible party. And now I seem to have lost the ability to make friends, to let anybody get close enough to decide whether or not they like me. I keep people at arm's length, because I assume nobody would want to be any closer than arms-length to me to begin with. I'm sure it comes off all wrong, but I'm not sure how to be any different; not completely sure I want to be different, really. It's a hell of a quandary.
So the only thing I'm sure I can do is try to keep the friends I have, try not to piss off anyone else who cares enough to still be around, and hope that maybe I'll figure all this stuff out, sooner instead of later....and try not to miss the people who I drove away. That, more than anything, is the part that sucks.
Yow. (Or, Sondheim May Be Dangerous to Your Health)
Okay, so after last week's doc appointment, it was decided that yeah, might be a good time to go back on the anti-d's. Unfortunately, Dr J can't prescribe, and so my primary doc--my gyno--will have to take care of that. I called her office Monday, and was told "wellll...she actually has to see you first." Pleh--she's in Evanston. But...okay, fine; it's actually been not quite two years since I've had my girlybits examined...(in ANY context, but that's a sob-story for another day)...and so I made the appointment for the first available date, which is early March. I wasn't thrilled, but I figured I could hang on til then.
Well, last night I made a fairly serious error, it seems.
Back in about 2004, I fell in love with the movie "Camp". There were a lot of reasons for this; mostly I was vulnerable to one of those let's-put-on-a-show kinds of movies, and whatever, whatever, blah blah blah. I think I saw that movie on cable about twenty times. My favoritemost section, hands down, was when Fritzi sabotages the blonde girl and usurps her role in the play, just in time for the big showstopping number, "Ladies Who Lunch". It's from the Stephen Sondheim play, "Company", about which I knew literally nothing at all. In fact, I didn't really know crap about Sondheim, other than that he was famous for musicals, etc. But I loved, loved, loved that performance in "Camp".
Anyway, the other night as I was flipping channels, I noticed that "Great Performances" was showing "Company" at some hideous hour of the night. Obviously, being a work day, I wasn't going to stay up til 4:30 AM, but I DVR'ed it. And last night--already, mind you, feeling low--I watched it.
So: "Company". It's about a guy turning 35 and all his married friends, and their relationships and HIS relationships and his friends' efforts to hook him up with various women, and the problems with his friends' marriages and all that stuff that would normally send me scrambling to change channels faster than the speed of light...
...which I totally, TOTALLY should have done. The last thing I needed last night was one of those deals where the characters spend half the time singing the praises of autonomy and independence and freedom, all with this "oh, but we're so wrong" subtext, ending with what's basically a celebration of marriage as the ultimate good, the greatest way to live. And the main character, throughout, is basically portrayed as this lonely guy, who looks at his friends' lives and wonders what's wrong with him; why is he still alone, why can't he get emotionally close to any of these three women he's dating, etc. And of course, the women all think it's great to be married and the guys all wish they were free, except they sort of don't, and...
It sucked. The point I am making: it sucked. Mostly it sucked because it made me cry, a LOT, and for an extended period of time, and in that unpleasant way that doesn't just finish up and you're done; the kind where you THINK you're done and you wash your face and blow your nose and then all of a sudden you're crying AGAIN and you're not even sure about what. And even my favorite song sucked, because contrary to how they portrayed it in "Camp", it's not so much a triumphant anthem as it is a pathetic confession, a realization by one of the characters of how lame and empty her life really is, how lonely she is despite her own good fortune and good man, and how she's just been projecting her self-contempt and her anger at her own emptiness onto other people's lives...
...Nah, doesn't sound like any bloggers I know, either.
So Mr. Sondheim and I have come to a permanent parting of the ways, and incidentally he can cram his NewYorkism sideways up his tookus as well; I will not be going out of my way to encounter his works in the future, though it does nothing to dim my love for "Camp". And frankly, for the first time in my life I am looking forward to a gynecologist appointment, because whenever those antidepressants take effect will be not a moment too soon.
Sondheim. Who needs it.
Well, last night I made a fairly serious error, it seems.
Back in about 2004, I fell in love with the movie "Camp". There were a lot of reasons for this; mostly I was vulnerable to one of those let's-put-on-a-show kinds of movies, and whatever, whatever, blah blah blah. I think I saw that movie on cable about twenty times. My favoritemost section, hands down, was when Fritzi sabotages the blonde girl and usurps her role in the play, just in time for the big showstopping number, "Ladies Who Lunch". It's from the Stephen Sondheim play, "Company", about which I knew literally nothing at all. In fact, I didn't really know crap about Sondheim, other than that he was famous for musicals, etc. But I loved, loved, loved that performance in "Camp".
Anyway, the other night as I was flipping channels, I noticed that "Great Performances" was showing "Company" at some hideous hour of the night. Obviously, being a work day, I wasn't going to stay up til 4:30 AM, but I DVR'ed it. And last night--already, mind you, feeling low--I watched it.
So: "Company". It's about a guy turning 35 and all his married friends, and their relationships and HIS relationships and his friends' efforts to hook him up with various women, and the problems with his friends' marriages and all that stuff that would normally send me scrambling to change channels faster than the speed of light...
...which I totally, TOTALLY should have done. The last thing I needed last night was one of those deals where the characters spend half the time singing the praises of autonomy and independence and freedom, all with this "oh, but we're so wrong" subtext, ending with what's basically a celebration of marriage as the ultimate good, the greatest way to live. And the main character, throughout, is basically portrayed as this lonely guy, who looks at his friends' lives and wonders what's wrong with him; why is he still alone, why can't he get emotionally close to any of these three women he's dating, etc. And of course, the women all think it's great to be married and the guys all wish they were free, except they sort of don't, and...
It sucked. The point I am making: it sucked. Mostly it sucked because it made me cry, a LOT, and for an extended period of time, and in that unpleasant way that doesn't just finish up and you're done; the kind where you THINK you're done and you wash your face and blow your nose and then all of a sudden you're crying AGAIN and you're not even sure about what. And even my favorite song sucked, because contrary to how they portrayed it in "Camp", it's not so much a triumphant anthem as it is a pathetic confession, a realization by one of the characters of how lame and empty her life really is, how lonely she is despite her own good fortune and good man, and how she's just been projecting her self-contempt and her anger at her own emptiness onto other people's lives...
...Nah, doesn't sound like any bloggers I know, either.
So Mr. Sondheim and I have come to a permanent parting of the ways, and incidentally he can cram his NewYorkism sideways up his tookus as well; I will not be going out of my way to encounter his works in the future, though it does nothing to dim my love for "Camp". And frankly, for the first time in my life I am looking forward to a gynecologist appointment, because whenever those antidepressants take effect will be not a moment too soon.
Sondheim. Who needs it.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
A Very Bloggy Day, Apparently
I've noticed that my blogging is either feast or famine--I can go for ten days with nothing to say, and then all of a sudden I've got a million ideas. But I couldn't let this one go by. This is just the...I mean....Who DOES something like....??
The news story which is currently rendering me completely speechless:
Is here. A brief summary, because links expire and I know people hate clicking: Some guy in Texas died of alcohol poisoning; his wife was charged with murder because it was suspected that she gave him an ENEMA with SHERRY, and the absorbed alcohol was what did him in. Testimony in the case included the following:
My reactions, after "eeeeewwww..."
1. I didn't know you could DO that, much less that it could kill you.
2. Who on earth DISCOVERED that possibility? I mean, I've heard the old joke about "who was the first person to look at a raw oyster and think 'mmm! I'm gonna try that!'" but THIS is...wow.
3. Who would make a HABIT of this? Again--I'm not the one to talk about habits, but there's a substantial difference between...(Okay, thinking about the main reaction to those to whom I've told my story, when they've found out about the bit with the needles, maybe not a SUBSTANTIAL difference. But a difference, nonetheless. I simply cannot fathom the concept of being "addicted" to enemas. That, to me, is something happening in the WRONG direction. That door is marked EXIT; it is not an entrance.)
4. I'm sure I mentioned this already, but: eeeeewwwww.
The news story which is currently rendering me completely speechless:
Is here. A brief summary, because links expire and I know people hate clicking: Some guy in Texas died of alcohol poisoning; his wife was charged with murder because it was suspected that she gave him an ENEMA with SHERRY, and the absorbed alcohol was what did him in. Testimony in the case included the following:
In a 2005 interview, Warner said her husband often drank alcohol, but that he had been addicted to enemas since he was a child. She said he often used alcohol in that manner to get drunk.--from the above article
My reactions, after "eeeeewwww..."
1. I didn't know you could DO that, much less that it could kill you.
2. Who on earth DISCOVERED that possibility? I mean, I've heard the old joke about "who was the first person to look at a raw oyster and think 'mmm! I'm gonna try that!'" but THIS is...wow.
3. Who would make a HABIT of this? Again--I'm not the one to talk about habits, but there's a substantial difference between...(Okay, thinking about the main reaction to those to whom I've told my story, when they've found out about the bit with the needles, maybe not a SUBSTANTIAL difference. But a difference, nonetheless. I simply cannot fathom the concept of being "addicted" to enemas. That, to me, is something happening in the WRONG direction. That door is marked EXIT; it is not an entrance.)
4. I'm sure I mentioned this already, but: eeeeewwwww.
Yeah, That's Kinda What I Thought
I hadn't been in my doc's office five minutes today when she suggested that I go back onto anti-depressants immediately. "I haven't seen you like this in a long time," she said. "And since nothing happened to precipitate it, it sounds like this is just the depression talking--something biochemical, which can be fixed."
I'm not thrilled about it, of course--the side-effects are Not My Favorite Things--but I'd take the weird dreams and the muscle twitches any day, over feeling like this. I was in the grocery store today, and the background music started playing a Gin Blossoms song with significance to me from long ago--normally I could have handled it, but I pretty much had to stand there for three-and-a-half minutes staring as hard as I could at the orange juice, just to keep it together. I'm usually waaay more resilient than that.
It was a beautiful day today--sunny and "warm" ("warm" by Chicago standards--a whole balmy 40 degrees!) so after I dropped off the I-Go car, I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped to get myself a sandwich. I'm trying to like this neighborhood--there's certainly nothing to object to about it, other than the appalling lack of grocery stores--but I don't feel the level of attachment to it that I felt about West Garfield Park, or even Rogers Park, for that matter. I actually feel less-safe here than I felt in the 'hood; I was safe there because I was different, because any attempt to mess with me would have brought the wrong kind of attention, but here...here, I'm just another probable University student, or wealthy Hyde Park homeowner. Just another white person, not to put too fine a point on things, and it's been my experience that where people of widely-disparate socioeconomic status live in close proximity, it's much more likely for the tensions to erupt. In the 'hood I was "the white lady", true enough, but it was obvious from the way I was living that I wasn't wealthy by any means...although "poor" for me was "well above average" for most of the neighborhood. I always felt bad about that, especially since it wasn't because of anything I'd DONE differently--it was because of how I was born, who I was born to, and what my parents were able to do for me. If I'd had anything to do with it, maybe I would have felt better about it.
But back to the neighborhood...It's a beautiful place. Come spring, when I can explore more, I'll probably learn to love it. But right now, with ice and slush and doggie-poopsicles everywhere, gray old snow and construction and bare trees...I think you have to love a place already, to find beauty in it during the last few weeks of winter.
I had a bit of an epiphany last night. (I realize that any epiphany experienced in the midst of an episode of depression is....suspect, to say the least, but this one makes sense anyway.) Part of my unhappiness, even when I was much younger, has been the constant awareness that in the end, there's not going to be much left from my life when I die. The things that mean everything to me will not mean much to anyone else; even my closest friends will only understand bits and pieces of it. Somehow I've insulated my life so completely that there is literally no one who knows everything about me; I get the sense that that isn't the case for most people. I feel like most people have one or two friends who could, in case of emergency, know who to call and what all the names in their little phone-book meant--or even just basic stuff like how they spend their time, what an average day is like, what shows they'll stay home to watch. I don't have people like that in my life. A lot of it is because of distance; Firefly, who knew me the best when we were younger (and probably still does) lives far away, and I realized the other day it's now been five years since I've seen her last! And Debbi, who lives close by and who I've known longer than anyone, has a lot of friends; besides that, there was a gap of about five years where we didn't talk at all, from the end of college til I was about 25, thanks to some misunderstandings and miscommunications.
Most of all, though, I think it comes from the way I've lived my life. The last new friend I've made is Tim; he and LJ are the only people I've kept in contact with of all the people I've met since college. That's not entirely been my fault; there have been some people I've tried to keep up with, like the Brit, or Stella; they just haven't wanted to keep in touch with me, for whatever reason. But mostly, it's just been a case of not making any new friends, and I think I understand why, a little better.
I have been living my life not with the intent of enjoying myself, or accomplishing something great, or creating something--I have been living my life with the intent of staying out of trouble. I'm sure the roots of this are back in my childhood, but I can pin down the adult manifestation of this to the point at which I moved back home, after JP died and my addiction was first exposed. From that point on, my relationship with my mom has been a subtle but constant rebuke--I don't know how much of it is her doing and how much of it is mine--to everything I believed while I was with JP. (I realize also that the things I believed with him were obviously there inside me to begin with, or else he wouldn't have recognized them--they wouldn't have been there to BE recognized. But since our relationship was the thing that enabled me to really express them for the first time, that's the point of reference I use.) Since I moved home, since she took me back after all my opposition and rejection of her values, somehow the message has been sent and received: See? This is what happens when you try to stand out. This is what happens when you try to be "different". (Ignored: the fact that I wasn't "trying to be different"; I was being me, and making some poor decisions at the same time.) Ever since then I've been trying to keep out of "trouble"--"trouble" in this context meaning "any situation that results in drama, conflict, opposition, tumult, or anything other than perfect calm". Well, last night I realized: the more "trouble" I stay out of, the less I actually DO. In trying to avoid getting hurt, in trying to avoid drawing any attention to myself, in trying to avoid conflict and drama and inconvenience, the way I'm "supposed" to...in trying to do all those things, I'm basically doing exactly NOTHING. I have no conflict or emotional upheaval, true--I also have no happiness, no activity, no accomplishment-- no point to living, basically.
I don't know how I'm going to handle that knowledge, what I'm going to do about it. Right at the moment, I think I'm going to wait and see what the meds do, and try to force myself to do the things I "want" to do, but have no motivation toward (the main manifestation of this depression right now--I have a million things that I want to do, and no impetus to move in that direction). And I'm going to try to keep this new understanding in the front of my mind--that I have to stop trying to make up for being myself--something that wasn't wrong for me to do in the first place. I've largely been able to accept my own mistakes--I'd say "forgive" but I'm not sure I've done that, entirely--but I have this pervasive sense that my mom, at least, has forgiven them, maybe, but still hasn't accepted them. I have to stop living as though that's MY problem.
I'm not thrilled about it, of course--the side-effects are Not My Favorite Things--but I'd take the weird dreams and the muscle twitches any day, over feeling like this. I was in the grocery store today, and the background music started playing a Gin Blossoms song with significance to me from long ago--normally I could have handled it, but I pretty much had to stand there for three-and-a-half minutes staring as hard as I could at the orange juice, just to keep it together. I'm usually waaay more resilient than that.
It was a beautiful day today--sunny and "warm" ("warm" by Chicago standards--a whole balmy 40 degrees!) so after I dropped off the I-Go car, I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped to get myself a sandwich. I'm trying to like this neighborhood--there's certainly nothing to object to about it, other than the appalling lack of grocery stores--but I don't feel the level of attachment to it that I felt about West Garfield Park, or even Rogers Park, for that matter. I actually feel less-safe here than I felt in the 'hood; I was safe there because I was different, because any attempt to mess with me would have brought the wrong kind of attention, but here...here, I'm just another probable University student, or wealthy Hyde Park homeowner. Just another white person, not to put too fine a point on things, and it's been my experience that where people of widely-disparate socioeconomic status live in close proximity, it's much more likely for the tensions to erupt. In the 'hood I was "the white lady", true enough, but it was obvious from the way I was living that I wasn't wealthy by any means...although "poor" for me was "well above average" for most of the neighborhood. I always felt bad about that, especially since it wasn't because of anything I'd DONE differently--it was because of how I was born, who I was born to, and what my parents were able to do for me. If I'd had anything to do with it, maybe I would have felt better about it.
But back to the neighborhood...It's a beautiful place. Come spring, when I can explore more, I'll probably learn to love it. But right now, with ice and slush and doggie-poopsicles everywhere, gray old snow and construction and bare trees...I think you have to love a place already, to find beauty in it during the last few weeks of winter.
I had a bit of an epiphany last night. (I realize that any epiphany experienced in the midst of an episode of depression is....suspect, to say the least, but this one makes sense anyway.) Part of my unhappiness, even when I was much younger, has been the constant awareness that in the end, there's not going to be much left from my life when I die. The things that mean everything to me will not mean much to anyone else; even my closest friends will only understand bits and pieces of it. Somehow I've insulated my life so completely that there is literally no one who knows everything about me; I get the sense that that isn't the case for most people. I feel like most people have one or two friends who could, in case of emergency, know who to call and what all the names in their little phone-book meant--or even just basic stuff like how they spend their time, what an average day is like, what shows they'll stay home to watch. I don't have people like that in my life. A lot of it is because of distance; Firefly, who knew me the best when we were younger (and probably still does) lives far away, and I realized the other day it's now been five years since I've seen her last! And Debbi, who lives close by and who I've known longer than anyone, has a lot of friends; besides that, there was a gap of about five years where we didn't talk at all, from the end of college til I was about 25, thanks to some misunderstandings and miscommunications.
Most of all, though, I think it comes from the way I've lived my life. The last new friend I've made is Tim; he and LJ are the only people I've kept in contact with of all the people I've met since college. That's not entirely been my fault; there have been some people I've tried to keep up with, like the Brit, or Stella; they just haven't wanted to keep in touch with me, for whatever reason. But mostly, it's just been a case of not making any new friends, and I think I understand why, a little better.
I have been living my life not with the intent of enjoying myself, or accomplishing something great, or creating something--I have been living my life with the intent of staying out of trouble. I'm sure the roots of this are back in my childhood, but I can pin down the adult manifestation of this to the point at which I moved back home, after JP died and my addiction was first exposed. From that point on, my relationship with my mom has been a subtle but constant rebuke--I don't know how much of it is her doing and how much of it is mine--to everything I believed while I was with JP. (I realize also that the things I believed with him were obviously there inside me to begin with, or else he wouldn't have recognized them--they wouldn't have been there to BE recognized. But since our relationship was the thing that enabled me to really express them for the first time, that's the point of reference I use.) Since I moved home, since she took me back after all my opposition and rejection of her values, somehow the message has been sent and received: See? This is what happens when you try to stand out. This is what happens when you try to be "different". (Ignored: the fact that I wasn't "trying to be different"; I was being me, and making some poor decisions at the same time.) Ever since then I've been trying to keep out of "trouble"--"trouble" in this context meaning "any situation that results in drama, conflict, opposition, tumult, or anything other than perfect calm". Well, last night I realized: the more "trouble" I stay out of, the less I actually DO. In trying to avoid getting hurt, in trying to avoid drawing any attention to myself, in trying to avoid conflict and drama and inconvenience, the way I'm "supposed" to...in trying to do all those things, I'm basically doing exactly NOTHING. I have no conflict or emotional upheaval, true--I also have no happiness, no activity, no accomplishment-- no point to living, basically.
I don't know how I'm going to handle that knowledge, what I'm going to do about it. Right at the moment, I think I'm going to wait and see what the meds do, and try to force myself to do the things I "want" to do, but have no motivation toward (the main manifestation of this depression right now--I have a million things that I want to do, and no impetus to move in that direction). And I'm going to try to keep this new understanding in the front of my mind--that I have to stop trying to make up for being myself--something that wasn't wrong for me to do in the first place. I've largely been able to accept my own mistakes--I'd say "forgive" but I'm not sure I've done that, entirely--but I have this pervasive sense that my mom, at least, has forgiven them, maybe, but still hasn't accepted them. I have to stop living as though that's MY problem.
Oh, Yeah...
NASCAR NASCAR NASCAR!!!
Daytona is in less than 24 hours...the start of the new season. This season is going to be especially significant, because I'm going to my first race in July (I won tickets, which I would have bragged about more extensively but I couldn't go into any details because it was done under my real name, dammit) and I'm really, REALLY excited!
Thanks to his migration to Hendrick Motorsports, I've reluctantly had to suspend my loathing of Dale Junior. I can't hate ANY of the Hendrick guys...it would be like hating puppy-dogs or rainbows. He'll never be Kasey, of course, but he's no longer my unfavoritemost driver. I'm thinking that's Robby Gordon, maybe, or Juan Pablo Montoya. (I'll change my opinion of JPM if and when he stops being such a loose cannon on the track. Robby G, on the other hand, will NEVER stop being a loose cannon, and thus my opinion of him will never change. There's a difference between being a loose cannon AND ALSO a good driver--the Busch brothers come to mind, Kyle particularly--and just being an asshole, which is where Robby comes in. JPM may be a good guy, but he was WAY too aggressive last year in ALL the wrong situations. If he changes that, I'll change my opinion; if not, into the asshole file he goes.)
I'm hoping this race tomorrow will be as exciting as last night's Truck Series race...that was an AWESOME finish, almost as good as last year's Cup finish. And a win for Kasey would be nice, too...
Daytona is in less than 24 hours...the start of the new season. This season is going to be especially significant, because I'm going to my first race in July (I won tickets, which I would have bragged about more extensively but I couldn't go into any details because it was done under my real name, dammit) and I'm really, REALLY excited!
Thanks to his migration to Hendrick Motorsports, I've reluctantly had to suspend my loathing of Dale Junior. I can't hate ANY of the Hendrick guys...it would be like hating puppy-dogs or rainbows. He'll never be Kasey, of course, but he's no longer my unfavoritemost driver. I'm thinking that's Robby Gordon, maybe, or Juan Pablo Montoya. (I'll change my opinion of JPM if and when he stops being such a loose cannon on the track. Robby G, on the other hand, will NEVER stop being a loose cannon, and thus my opinion of him will never change. There's a difference between being a loose cannon AND ALSO a good driver--the Busch brothers come to mind, Kyle particularly--and just being an asshole, which is where Robby comes in. JPM may be a good guy, but he was WAY too aggressive last year in ALL the wrong situations. If he changes that, I'll change my opinion; if not, into the asshole file he goes.)
I'm hoping this race tomorrow will be as exciting as last night's Truck Series race...that was an AWESOME finish, almost as good as last year's Cup finish. And a win for Kasey would be nice, too...
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Open Letter
Dear Mr. Winter:
Recently our attention has been brought to several of your more disturbing habits. Your repeated bouts of precipitation, for example, coupled with your recent pattern of alternating conditions between sub-zero cold with dangerous wind chills, and sunny, seasonally-inappropriate temperatures, have left your fellow Chicagoans with potholes, wet feet, salt-stained clothing, rusting vehicles, and evil tempers. Although we are aware that, technically, you have thirty-seven days remaining on your contract, please recall that the contract in question was never signed by any official representative of the city, and is thus rendered null and void.
Mr. Winter, your services are no longer required.
Sincerely,
Gladys J. Cortez,
member, city of Chicago.
Recently our attention has been brought to several of your more disturbing habits. Your repeated bouts of precipitation, for example, coupled with your recent pattern of alternating conditions between sub-zero cold with dangerous wind chills, and sunny, seasonally-inappropriate temperatures, have left your fellow Chicagoans with potholes, wet feet, salt-stained clothing, rusting vehicles, and evil tempers. Although we are aware that, technically, you have thirty-seven days remaining on your contract, please recall that the contract in question was never signed by any official representative of the city, and is thus rendered null and void.
Mr. Winter, your services are no longer required.
Sincerely,
Gladys J. Cortez,
member, city of Chicago.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
NoRillyI'mFine.
It's been a Very Interesting Few Days.
First, there was an unexpected 12-hour shift at work last Saturday, which was so hideously awful that I couldn't even blog about it. I ended up on the phone with The Crazy (big boss lady, who actually is not hard to deal with for ME at all, but who hearsay assures me is still utterly Crazy) for nearly two hours, after ALL THREE printers spent the whole day throwing fatal errors every time anyone tried to print any PDF files. The problem turned out to be bad printer drivers (which could have been discovered at any point within the LAST THREE MONTHS that I've been bitching about these errors, but oh well...) and it wasn't resolved til The Guy Who Was The Awesomest Boss I've Ever Had But They Demoted Him drove to work at 8 PM on a Saturday to spend four hours troubleshooting the problem. The man deserves more cookies than the universe has room for; the best I could come up with was an e-mail thanking him for his unrelenting awesomeness.
That was Saturday. On Sunday, I was the recipient of a guilt trip from Mom because (having worked a full week, then 12 hours on Saturday) I was too tired to come over and help her hang her new drapes. I don't like ladders on my best of days, and it was not my best of days. I offered to come over the next day (Monday) or the following Sunday or Monday, but she had plans for all those days. Finally, after one too many sighs of resignation and "I just wish we could have gotten it done, is all," I e-mailed my boss and asked for a day off. So Thursday, instead of going to work, I hung drapes. It was a bit of a hassle, but no more than such things are normally; you know--old hardware frozen in place; wrong-sized screwdrivers; previously-drilled holes just an eighth of an inch too far to use again; climbing off the ladder eighteen-dozen times to change the drill bit; things like that. In the end, though, I have to admit that the drapes looked REALLY excellent.
I've come to a conclusion, though: I would find it much easier to enjoy spending time with my mother if she could just notice and accept when I JUST DON'T FEEL LIKE TALKING, instead of trying to force the issue. She has a hard time with silence, I think, whereas I am fundamentally not a very talkative person, at least not to people I speak to every day; there's just not that much to talk about, really. And just at the moment, my life is dull. Unless the listener understands Wikipedia (Mom: "Is that what they call a 'blog'?"), I can't really talk too much about what I've been doing lately, because other than work, that IS most of what I've been doing lately. Nothing of interest has been happening, so I'd prefer to just be silent, rather than squeezing conversational blood from the turnip of my current activities. Unfortunately, that's just what we did, all day. When we have nothing to talk about, she either tells me all about church, which, in terms of the interest it generates in the listener, is akin to me talking to her about Wikipedia; or she gives me unrequested advice. (My favorite is the "I'd really like to see you get off methadone" conversation, which a)has been had before, ad infinitum and ad nauseam; b)has been disagreed-with most vehemently by both myself and my doctor; c)is based on fallacies which I have discussed and disproven with her many, many times already.) Also, she insisted on driving me home, which I appreciated, but here's the thing: I am prone to motion sickness. I am especially prone to motion sickness when I am a passenger in a car being driven by someone who stops suddenly and makes abrupt moves. It happened the other night in a cab, and it happened Thursday on the way home from Mom's. It almost never progresses to the point of puking, but it's HUGELY uncomfortable. I have explained this to Mom, though I have not attached it to her driving in any way. And even THIS would not be a problem, if, while I am focusing every bit of attention on the effort to keep my stomach contents in place, she did not insist on asking me questions. Trivial questions--but nonetheless, questions requiring answers. When I am car-sick, anything more than a monosyllable is a strain; I've tried to explain this, but she really, REALLY has a problem with silence, and apparently it overrides any and all other considerations. It took me nearly an hour, once I got home, to get back to normal.
Then there's the little matter of the weather here in Chicago. Now, as Firefly rightly reminds me, for this one I have no one to blame but myself; I'm the one who insists on living in such a wacky climate, and so I do sort of lose the right to complain about it. And truly, I'm not usually anti-winter. I love new snow, and I don't mind MODERATELY cold weather--but all we've had for a week now is 35-degree weather and rain, leaving slush and pools of icy water, alternating with single-digit temps and 30-below wind chills. The roads are full of potholes, so when it's warm and rainy, all the curbs and crosswalks are ponds too big to leap; and on the cold mornings when I walk to work, the slush and water on the sidewalks have frozen over, leaving long patches of ice. The visible ice I can avoid, but more than a few times I've come close to butt-planting after stepping on what LOOKED like solid ground. The slush is a different challenge; my old sneakers finally gave up the ghost and lost the glue holding the sole to the upper, so all week they leaked like a sieve. Slightly less-expected, my formerly-waterproof boots sprung a leak as well, so for the last week, no matter which shoes I've worn I've been doomed to walking around with damp socks all day. Finally I broke down, and on my way to work downtown on Friday, I stopped at Payless and bought myself a pair of $16 gym shoes. I figure they'll get me through til sandal season.
Also, just to complete the day's bitchery: my teeth hurt. Badly.
As bleak as this all sounds, I am not unhappy. I actually would prefer being unhappy, I think, because unhappiness implies that there's something that can be done about it. Mostly I think I'm just crabby; the equation for "crabby" goes something like this:
(Cold weather) + (too many Mom conversations) + (slush/snow/toothache/annoyances) + (lack of anything fun to do) = CRABBY.
I think I'm going to talk to my doctor about going back on antidepressants. I'm trying very, very hard, but I just can't get enthusiastic about anything. I have a list of volunteer opportunities I want to try; I have a writing project I want to start working on; I have boxes and boxes of craft supplies and lots of ideas. I have a really wonderful apartment which needs decorating, and I have the desire to do a lot of things...but I have no motivation whatsoever. I mean, ZERO. My initiative is absolutely absent. It's not even that I'm tired; I've used that word for so long to describe this feeling, but it's just shorthand, really--it's not "tired" I'm feeling, it's "de-motivated", "hopeless", "depressed". I can count my blessings til I'm blue in the face, and I'm very thankful for all the good things in my life, but behind that thankfulness, there's a big blank space. I'm not UNhappy; in fact, I'd say that I'm closer to "happy" than I am to "unhappy" (although all the things above make me cranky, they'd make ANYONE cranky, I think). But I am empty inside, dulled. Some of it is loneliness--but again, though I want to be around people theoretically, my motivation to do anything about it--to call Cowgirl and Debbi and plan a girls' night, or anything like that--is pretty much missing. It's like someone pressed my "off" switch, and I can't find the "on". To me, this is really the clearest evidence I've had that something biochemical must be going on here; I WANT to do stuff, I recognize the REASONS I have to be happy--but I can't actually make it happen. It's a strange, strange feeling, and I'd very much like it to go away.
First, there was an unexpected 12-hour shift at work last Saturday, which was so hideously awful that I couldn't even blog about it. I ended up on the phone with The Crazy (big boss lady, who actually is not hard to deal with for ME at all, but who hearsay assures me is still utterly Crazy) for nearly two hours, after ALL THREE printers spent the whole day throwing fatal errors every time anyone tried to print any PDF files. The problem turned out to be bad printer drivers (which could have been discovered at any point within the LAST THREE MONTHS that I've been bitching about these errors, but oh well...) and it wasn't resolved til The Guy Who Was The Awesomest Boss I've Ever Had But They Demoted Him drove to work at 8 PM on a Saturday to spend four hours troubleshooting the problem. The man deserves more cookies than the universe has room for; the best I could come up with was an e-mail thanking him for his unrelenting awesomeness.
That was Saturday. On Sunday, I was the recipient of a guilt trip from Mom because (having worked a full week, then 12 hours on Saturday) I was too tired to come over and help her hang her new drapes. I don't like ladders on my best of days, and it was not my best of days. I offered to come over the next day (Monday) or the following Sunday or Monday, but she had plans for all those days. Finally, after one too many sighs of resignation and "I just wish we could have gotten it done, is all," I e-mailed my boss and asked for a day off. So Thursday, instead of going to work, I hung drapes. It was a bit of a hassle, but no more than such things are normally; you know--old hardware frozen in place; wrong-sized screwdrivers; previously-drilled holes just an eighth of an inch too far to use again; climbing off the ladder eighteen-dozen times to change the drill bit; things like that. In the end, though, I have to admit that the drapes looked REALLY excellent.
I've come to a conclusion, though: I would find it much easier to enjoy spending time with my mother if she could just notice and accept when I JUST DON'T FEEL LIKE TALKING, instead of trying to force the issue. She has a hard time with silence, I think, whereas I am fundamentally not a very talkative person, at least not to people I speak to every day; there's just not that much to talk about, really. And just at the moment, my life is dull. Unless the listener understands Wikipedia (Mom: "Is that what they call a 'blog'?"), I can't really talk too much about what I've been doing lately, because other than work, that IS most of what I've been doing lately. Nothing of interest has been happening, so I'd prefer to just be silent, rather than squeezing conversational blood from the turnip of my current activities. Unfortunately, that's just what we did, all day. When we have nothing to talk about, she either tells me all about church, which, in terms of the interest it generates in the listener, is akin to me talking to her about Wikipedia; or she gives me unrequested advice. (My favorite is the "I'd really like to see you get off methadone" conversation, which a)has been had before, ad infinitum and ad nauseam; b)has been disagreed-with most vehemently by both myself and my doctor; c)is based on fallacies which I have discussed and disproven with her many, many times already.) Also, she insisted on driving me home, which I appreciated, but here's the thing: I am prone to motion sickness. I am especially prone to motion sickness when I am a passenger in a car being driven by someone who stops suddenly and makes abrupt moves. It happened the other night in a cab, and it happened Thursday on the way home from Mom's. It almost never progresses to the point of puking, but it's HUGELY uncomfortable. I have explained this to Mom, though I have not attached it to her driving in any way. And even THIS would not be a problem, if, while I am focusing every bit of attention on the effort to keep my stomach contents in place, she did not insist on asking me questions. Trivial questions--but nonetheless, questions requiring answers. When I am car-sick, anything more than a monosyllable is a strain; I've tried to explain this, but she really, REALLY has a problem with silence, and apparently it overrides any and all other considerations. It took me nearly an hour, once I got home, to get back to normal.
Then there's the little matter of the weather here in Chicago. Now, as Firefly rightly reminds me, for this one I have no one to blame but myself; I'm the one who insists on living in such a wacky climate, and so I do sort of lose the right to complain about it. And truly, I'm not usually anti-winter. I love new snow, and I don't mind MODERATELY cold weather--but all we've had for a week now is 35-degree weather and rain, leaving slush and pools of icy water, alternating with single-digit temps and 30-below wind chills. The roads are full of potholes, so when it's warm and rainy, all the curbs and crosswalks are ponds too big to leap; and on the cold mornings when I walk to work, the slush and water on the sidewalks have frozen over, leaving long patches of ice. The visible ice I can avoid, but more than a few times I've come close to butt-planting after stepping on what LOOKED like solid ground. The slush is a different challenge; my old sneakers finally gave up the ghost and lost the glue holding the sole to the upper, so all week they leaked like a sieve. Slightly less-expected, my formerly-waterproof boots sprung a leak as well, so for the last week, no matter which shoes I've worn I've been doomed to walking around with damp socks all day. Finally I broke down, and on my way to work downtown on Friday, I stopped at Payless and bought myself a pair of $16 gym shoes. I figure they'll get me through til sandal season.
Also, just to complete the day's bitchery: my teeth hurt. Badly.
As bleak as this all sounds, I am not unhappy. I actually would prefer being unhappy, I think, because unhappiness implies that there's something that can be done about it. Mostly I think I'm just crabby; the equation for "crabby" goes something like this:
(Cold weather) + (too many Mom conversations) + (slush/snow/toothache/annoyances) + (lack of anything fun to do) = CRABBY.
I think I'm going to talk to my doctor about going back on antidepressants. I'm trying very, very hard, but I just can't get enthusiastic about anything. I have a list of volunteer opportunities I want to try; I have a writing project I want to start working on; I have boxes and boxes of craft supplies and lots of ideas. I have a really wonderful apartment which needs decorating, and I have the desire to do a lot of things...but I have no motivation whatsoever. I mean, ZERO. My initiative is absolutely absent. It's not even that I'm tired; I've used that word for so long to describe this feeling, but it's just shorthand, really--it's not "tired" I'm feeling, it's "de-motivated", "hopeless", "depressed". I can count my blessings til I'm blue in the face, and I'm very thankful for all the good things in my life, but behind that thankfulness, there's a big blank space. I'm not UNhappy; in fact, I'd say that I'm closer to "happy" than I am to "unhappy" (although all the things above make me cranky, they'd make ANYONE cranky, I think). But I am empty inside, dulled. Some of it is loneliness--but again, though I want to be around people theoretically, my motivation to do anything about it--to call Cowgirl and Debbi and plan a girls' night, or anything like that--is pretty much missing. It's like someone pressed my "off" switch, and I can't find the "on". To me, this is really the clearest evidence I've had that something biochemical must be going on here; I WANT to do stuff, I recognize the REASONS I have to be happy--but I can't actually make it happen. It's a strange, strange feeling, and I'd very much like it to go away.
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