Profanity Approaching...

My boss needs to eat a box of dicks and die.

If I knew for certain that another job was waiting; if I knew for certain that I could live on my own for long enough to get another job; if the benefits weren't so good and all those other things that people say when they're eating their own guts out but can't summon the courage to just make the fucking leap...if all those things weren't true, I would absolutely, with no question, have quit this job in a firestorm of cursing and accusations today.

I do not remember ever having been so angry--at least, not within the scope of my severely-compromised memory.

The details are too long to relate; short version is: When I tell you I am upset and want to discuss something, and you e-mail me back a message that is, in essence, "You have no right to be upset, because you did this unrelated thing, that unrelated thing, and a third similarly-unrelated thing wrong, and so instead of listening to YOU, instead -I- will be snotty and juvenile and utterly unprofessional, list a group of things YOU need to do, and finish it with the completely compassion-free snide 'Correct??'" ...if that is your response to "I am upset about the way you handled X situation and would like to discuss it on Monday," then you need to eat an entire LARGE bag of dicks and die. And that is exactly what my boss did.

(No, he didn't eat the dicks. I mean, I don't know what his personal life is like--although you can DAMN FINE BET that he doesn't pull bullshit like the above with his WIFE, unless she's a similar flavor of goddamn idiot...anyway, I was going somewhere with this, I think. Oh yeah...eat, die, needs to.)

I had to write FOUR SEPARATE responses to his e-mail before I could calm myself enough to come up with one that was even in the same ZIP CODE as "appropriate and professional". Writing is the one skill I truly believe I have, and I know for a fact that I share a great talent of my father's: the murderously polite letter. My dad, when people pissed him off, would write them letters which would shred the skin off their bodies and leave them saying "thank you" for the shredding. I mean, he was GOOD. I'm not QUITE as good as him--I let emotion get in my way sometimes--but I'm pretty good at it. But today--again, it took four tries before I managed not to cuss him out six ways to Sunday.

Put it this way: this is what I started with. (Anything in brackets should be taken as an improvised flight of verbiage, and not what I sent to him.)

(Reply to Douchebag:)

You know, perhaps this exchange doesn’t show either of us at our best moments. Let me start this over:
I apologize if the tone of that last message seemed brusque; as I wrote that message, I was a)trying to complete the work I had promised, and b) upset because even though I had assured you in no uncertain terms that I would get the work done by the end of the day, you felt it was necessary to add assignments for xxxxxxx to both tickets while we were on the phone discussing it. I felt that you were completely dismissing my assurance that xxxxxxxxxxx would be complete before I left for the day, which they were (with the exception of two details that couldn’t be completed without xxxxxxxxxxxxx.)

And this was the end:

(Incidentally: whatever your intention might have been as you wrote it, the tone of your reply below conveys many things, but “concern” is not among them. As I said, my prior message may have been open to interpretation, so I’ll just assume you were responding to the frustrated and angry tone, for which I again apologize. As for the tickets you mentioned, we can discuss those further on Monday.)

And honestly, I wish I cared more about what he might do to me. I am serious. If they fire me, at least I can get unemployment--and believe me, Human Resources will get an earful. I was so tempted to just leave the whole thing where it stood and just call HR and set up an appointment--God knows I wouldn't be the first, not by a long shot!--but I decided to at least make an attempt to act like a grownup. The rest of the letter was very polite and professional; I used all "I" statements, didn't accuse him of being the troglodytic, male-chauvinist, underevolved ass-munch which I wholeheartedly consider him to be; and managed to finish the letter with "Thank you for taking the time to read this," instead of "If I leave this job before I see you crouching ignominiously over a rain-soaked cardboard box spilling your pitiful worldly possessions onto the concrete as you take the long, shame-faced walk from your office to your car for the last time, I will consider my time on this earth as having been completely wasted, for my ultimate moment of happiness will have eluded me for eternity. Incidentally, kindly go fuck yourself with a chainsaw." In short, I was as polite and as professional as I could be while wishing great personal misfortune and possible bodily harm on a fellow human being--but again: Douche. Bag. Seriously.

If my e-mail doesn't de-escalate the situation--I know, the last bit quoted up there may not be the most de-escalationary thing I've ever written, but it's loads better than the first three drafts would have been, and the main body of the letter was much less poisonous--but if my e-mail doesn't de-escalate this, and if it ends up with Human Resources, I will go in there with all guns blazing, starting with his strange habit of listening to ideas only when they come from men, or rolling his eyes when my one female colleague says anything, and a few other little tidbits besides. He would not have DARED to reply to a man like he replied to me, and it galls me because I am the last person in the world who plays the gender card, ESPECIALLY at work. But I know where this guy grew up, because it's right near where I grew up, and I know the mindset that gets set into many of the males--and in him, it's right up at the surface. So that's where I'll take it first; second, I'll go into his flaws as a manager (not least of which is "You DON'T reply like that to an angry employee, no matter how much you want to.") He was on vacation a couple of weeks ago; it was amazing how much more smoothly things went in his absence. I'd noticed the same thing last year when he was gone, but it was definitely confirmed this year: The Crazy is not the source of most of the problems in our department. I mean, some decisions she makes contribute to the chaos, but for the most part, I think HE is the problem, not The Crazy.

I am now completely exhausted. I have been so angry and so worked-up all day, and now I'm just tired--and when I leave here at 9:30, I have to be back tomorrow at 8 AM. I am going to just pass out the minute my head hits the pillow, I think...and dream of chainsaws.

I Am Not Handling This World Very Well

...and for the first time in a long time, it's got nothing to do with my darling roommates. (My darling roommates are themselves a topic, but we have been down that road so thoroughly and so often that even I am weary of the discussion. I did, however, reiterate to Tim this afternoon that there was simply no way that a newborn was coming here, so he and Squeaky--separately or together--needed to have other arrangements made by that time. I don't know if he was listening, but that's not my problem.)

No, what is currently playing havoc with my already-compromised emotion-regulation mechanism is this story. The local news here in Chicago is talking of almost nothing else, but for those of you who live elsewhere: Out on the southern edge of Chicago, near where my mom lives, there are many cemeteries. One of them is Burr Oak, which is historic because for a very long time, it was the only place where African-Americans were allowed to be buried. Dinah Washington is buried there, and quite a few African-American sports legends of the 50's and 60's; most well-known, however, Emmett Till is buried there. For years there have been occasional remarks about the grounds looking shabby, but nothing concrete, nothing serious...

...until this week. Apparently, during the investigation of possible embezzlement, the Cook County Sheriff's Office discovered something far worse: empty graves, bodies stacked two in a grave, bodies in graves other than where they were supposed to be...and in the far back of the cemetery, in an area full of scrubby plants and tall grasses, they found a pile of broken concrete grave-liners, smashed caskets...and bones. Human remains, dug from their graves using heavy machinery, shoveled up with their casket, their grave-liner, and with no regard for names, or for the fact that they were once someone's mother, someone's father, someone's husband or wife, brother or sister, son or daughter. Thrown together in anonymous dumpsters, or left on the ground for the rain and the sun and anything else to act upon.

There are, at last count, at least 300 graves involved. A thousand people, family members of people once buried there, came to the gates today, searching for answers. Some brought notes, funeral programs, family Bibles full of dates and names and anything that might provide a clue, if one were needed, as to where their family member had been buried. Most of them came away with nothing. There were people who were looking for five, seven, ten, fifteen relatives, all of whom had been laid to rest in Burr Oak. Some family members admitted that they'd thought the place was shabby, but they had kept burying their family members there so that they could all be together in death.

Tonight, Tom Dart, the Cook County Sheriff, closed the cemetery and declared the entire grounds a crime scene. As family members had walked the lanes and plots, some of them had stumbled across more bones; and later in the day a second dumping ground was discovered, bigger than the first. In an interview, Dart said that the cemetery's "Baby Land" area, once devoted to the graves of infants, was completely gone. Mothers had searched without success for the gravesites of their babies.

In a final indignity, on Friday morning, investigators entered a dilapidated shed on the cemetery premises and discovered the original coffin of Emmett Till. It had been stowed there and allowed to deteriorate after Till's 2005 disinterment and re-burial; one of the perpetrators of this crime had allegedly been collecting money for a proposed Emmett Till Memorial--money which she then pocketed. The casket, according to surviving members of the Till family, was to have been a part of the memorial; when the sheriff's staff opened it Friday morning, they found a family of possums living inside.

Four people have been arrested: Carolyn Towns, the former manager (fired in March for suspected financial irregularities); Keith Nicks, a foreman; Terrence Nicks, who operated a dump truck; and Maurice Dailey, who drove a back-hoe. Each was charged with dismembering a human body, a Class X felony; if convicted, they could receive as much as 30 years in prison. They are all being held in Cook County Jail in protective custody, for fear that other inmates would harm them. Towns, who was apparently the ring-leader, is being held in the psych unit of the jail after an evaluation showed "cause for concern" regarding her psychological well-being.

I know why this story just horrifies me so completely; the whole issue of what happens after death is a common turning-point for my thoughts. My realistic side understands that the body is just a shell, that after death there is nothing there but material matter; my hopeless-romantic magical thinking side, when I ponder the thought of the afterlife, always visualizes the afterlife as an eventual reunion with the people who went before us, as we remember them--including their physical selves. And my skeptical side refuses to invest that kind of hope in any daydream outcome, because the real me, down at my core, can't stand the thought that even after death I will never see JP again. (Of course it all comes back to him; you were expecting differently?)

But there's more to it, as well. One of my colleagues realized today, after talking with some family members, that he's got about seven or eight relatives interred in that cemetery--and that most of them are in exactly the sort of situation that was targeted: older graves, graves which weren't visited as often, where no one would be as likely to find out what had happened. Between that story and the tearful women on the news, clutching sepia-toned pictures of mothers, husbands, grandmothers...

There are just some things my brain cannot accept, cannot process. There is an enormity to the story that is unfolding: first it was 30 graves, then 100, then on Friday it was 300. Tonight, as they announced the closing, the sheriff admitted that there are 5000 graves which need to be examined. Five thousand restless dead, five thousand heart-sore families...And it could be any one of us--that's the other thing. Every family has its dead; every family has buried at least one or two members; even if the rest of the family believes in cremation, there will always be one or two dissenters. Every one of us will lose a loved one; most of us will see that loved one's casket lowered into the earth. Any one of us could be one of those weeping, picture-clutching family members.

In fact, any of us could be a victim here as well. After all, we all will die; who's to say that any of us would be lucky enough to escape a fate like this? Who's to guarantee that no matter what any of us do--no matter what kind of plans we make for our eventual resting place--who's to guarantee that we might not be found one day in a wooded back-lot, in a pile of cement, and shattered metal, and the mixed remains of our fellow travellers? It makes me reconsider what my last wishes might be, I'll tell you that.

My wishes for the people who did this, on the other hand, require no further consideration; I would like them consigned to a separate section of Hell all their own, away from the decent damned, so that even if I end up in Hades when I die, I won't in any way be forced to associate with their kind. Their Hell will need "protective custody", just as much as their earthly prison does.

A Response To Eatmisery

Background info: I came across this comment tonight, from one of my longest-time readers, Eatmisery. She's a blogger I respect, and a fellow Chicagoan as well, and I take her words seriously because, for the most part, she's generally on the mark with what she says. In this case, though I understand her thinking, I felt I had to reply in such a way that I could, hopefully, show how "this time is different". Which makes even me think: bleargh.

Her comment is below; my reply follows afterward.

eatmisery said...

I'm betting that you're the one who actually leaves when the lease is up, not them. They'll just latch onto you wherever you go and you'll let them because you're so kind. The only way to get rid of them is to break off contact completely, which includes changing your cell phone number and moving. As long as they can reach you, they've got you right where they want you...every single time.

This is very sad. I feel for you, Gladys. You're the only one who can make the changes you need happen.

Miz...I can completely understand why you would expect that to be the outcome (I leave, they stay in the apt.) but in this case, I'm going to have to say I don't think that's likely. See, in the past, when I've thought about what to do about this situation--at whatever stage the situation was in--I was always worrying about two things at once: one, my own best interests; and two, everyone else's welfare/needs/opinion of me. And that, of course, is where they've got me in the past--as I'm trying to be nice to everyone and take care of everyone, one person gets left out of the equation.

In making THIS decision, however, my process was dominated largely by hard, cold realities: my goals for myself, the ways in which staying in this apartment benefits me, and the ways in which moving to a bigger place with them would actually move me farther AWAY from my goals. When I look at my goals, I don't mind standing still; it's moving backwards that I won't accept, not anymore.

In making this decision, I assumed three options; there are probably more, but I really haven't got any patience with dithering at this late date. So the options I considered were:

a)I stay in my current apartment, while Tim and Squeaky leave;
b)I stay in my current apartment; Tim and Squeaky also stay, and the baby joins us;
c)The three of us move to a larger apartment in preparation for the baby.

I have chosen Option A. Option B is a non-starter on several levels; foremost among them is, as I have explained to Tim, that there is no possible way that another human being, no matter how small, can be added to the population of this apartment without severing the final thread in the fabric of civility here, a fabric which is already paper-thin and strained most exceedingly. Especially in light of recent developments, this apartment is already a ticking time-bomb--when Squeaky figures out that not only did Tim mean what he said about continuing their relationship only in a platonic state, and only for the benefit of the baby--when she discovers that not only did he mean it, but that he has already begun to behave as though it were an accomplished fact--well, put it this way: I fully expect that the police will need to be involved. Squeaky is absolutely certain at the core of her being that not only is Tim secretly thrilled about the baby, but that beneath the surface, he is avidly preparing for their life together, complete with Disney-princess ending and a future devoid of strife. Some of this may be excused by her gravid state, perhaps, but most of it, I believe, is just the magical thinking of a very lonely child who really never grew up. When Squeaky is forced to face reality, there will be no peace for anyone unfortunate enough to be living with her at that time. And even if that day never comes, the fact remains: There is absolutely no room in this apartment for all the accoutrements that go with a baby. It's not a question of making room; the hard truth is, there is no room to be made. Therefore, even if I wanted them and the baby to stay, Option B would not be a possibility.

This leaves Option A and Option C. I will tell you that for the last few weeks of winter and the greater part of spring, Option C was actually my preferred option--to the point that we had discussed it among the three of us, had defined possible locations and price ranges, and had scouted out some preliminary rental advertisements. In considering the plans, I had thought long and hard about what I wanted. I wanted, first and foremost, to get out of Hyde Park. I wanted to move to the North Side, around Logan Square or Humboldt Park--somewhere with coffee shops and grocery stores and bars, someplace more dynamic than here. I also wanted more space; given my choice, I wanted a second bedroom where I could keep all my art supplies, where I could work on complex projects without feline assistance. I was even willing, since I was to be the main beneficiary of the increase in space, to take a greater share of the financial responsibility; I told Tim and Squeaky that instead of each of us paying 1/3, I would consider them as a unit, and split the rent 50-50.

And then I thought about it for a while longer.

First of all: My lease ends at the end of October--four months from now. Taking things by a general estimate, let's say rent would be $1500 for a three-bedroom apartment. Most leases involve a security deposit equal to one month's rent, along with payment for the first month due upon move-in. Therefore, on November first, we would currently need to come up with $3000, plus moving expenses. Moving expenses would be considerable, as my furnishings have long ago expanded beyond the "U-Haul and a couple of guy friends" status; when I moved in here from Casa De Gladys, the movers' bill was nearly $2000. Figuring that half the stuff got moved to Mom's, let's say a move from here would cost, say, $900. This means that I would have to come up with $900 (movers) plus $750 (my half of the security deposit) plus $750 (my half of the first month's rent). This means I would need to save $600/month over the next four months, which is largely outside the realm of MY possibility--to say nothing of the $375/month which THEY would have to save. Between the two of them, they don't even MAKE $375 a month! So realistically, I would end up paying the whole shebang--and there's no way in hell I could amass an extra four grand by Halloween. Then, too, assuming their joblessness continues (which I have no reason to doubt!)I would then end up paying more than twice my current rent, once utilities and the like are factored in. And I would want to do this WHY? For WHAT reason?

No, Miz, this isn't going to become a squishy, cuddly, world-saving expedition. I realize it HAS been so far, but until now, there hasn't been a concrete, calculable argument AGAINST it on which to hang my hat...well, now I've got one. So far, there was nothing anyone could physically POINT to and say "Do you see what you're LOSING by helping these two?"--or if there was, I could always say "But I can afford to give it, so I'm okay with it." Well, I am NOT okay with losing four grand before Thanksgiving, and I'm NOT okay with the prospect of losing an extra $600-ish per month afterwards because "our" apartment has become "my" financial albatross. So Option C is right out.

This leaves Option A: I stay here, they leave. Again: there is no way that three other people can stay here, even if--ESPECIALLY if--one is a newborn baby. If the baby can't stay, obviously Squeaky can't stay...besides which, I doubt she'll even WANT to, once Tim explains in detail what he's been up to lately. I'm sure the truth will come out, and as I said: I'm pretty sure the police will be involved whenever THAT happens. So there's a possibility that all three will have to go, regardless of ANYONE's wishes.

And while I wouldn't mind if Tim stayed, there are three factors which argue against his continued tenancy. One, which I've heard reflected to me more than once: letting him stay here ALSO allows him to continue his inertia. As long as he has a roof over his head, and can bum a beer and a cigarette from somewhere, he's perfectly content to sleep til noon, then stay up all night flirting with girls on Facebook...which is, I realize, doing him no favors. Secondly, as long as HE's here, there's always the possibility that Squeaky could pull the "you don't want your child and her mother to be HOMELESS, do you? Ask Gladys if we can stay...It'll just be for a couple of nights..." And we've ALL seen how well THAT has turned out in the past.

The third thing, I realize, could (amd probably will) be construed as a case of "out of the frying pan, into the sulfurous, reeking, magma-bubbling mouth of the active volcano" but I don't believe it will: as long as Tim is here, I need to keep CR at a reasonable distance. I'm tired of their feud, and I'm tired of getting a skunk-eye when the caller ID shows his number. I would like, perhaps, even to be able to have CR come over once in a while for a pizza, or to let him use the computer for job-hunting if he needs it, or whatever. (The jury is cautioned to withhold further commentary re: the nature of activities encompassed by "whatever".) In short, I would like my place back, AS mine, where I can do anything I choose to do without having to hasten to change my actions to compensate for someone else's long-ago fights.

Since this post is mercilessly long (AGAIN), I want to end by saying this: I don't mean to sound defensive or bitchy in any way (ESPECIALLY not to eatmisery; she's one of my favorite Chicago bloggers!) And I do understand everyone's concerns about me; I've put my foot down so many times re:Tim & Squeak in this blog, it's starting to get a dent in the floor. But in all seriousness, I have taken these concerns seriously, and I appreciate that you all care enough to speak your minds. Thank you for that; it's easier, sometimes, to see your flaws when other people can point out your positives too, and when they mention them in a concerned and compassionate way.