Tim gets out Wednesday.
Meanwhile, Squeaky is driving me Bonkers Q. Batcrap, calling me every...single...solitary...time she talks to Tim on the phone, or thinks she should talk to Tim on the phone, or wonders if she ought to CALL Tim, or wondering if Tim is going to call HER...and that's saying nothing of what she's doing to poor Tim. Apparently she's calling him when she has nothing to say.
Now, calling when you have nothing to say is an excusable thing when you're 13. Or 16. By the time you're 20, you should know when it is or is not appropriate. "Calling your 34-year-old ex-lover at the psych unit" is definitely on the "not appropriate" side of the checklist. And, predictably, he's getting snappish with her. Then she has to call me, in case I talked to him and he said something about her. Every conversation has to be dissected and analyzed and picked-over...(I realized at one point that I was feeling guilty, and wanting to look up my high-school boyfriend to drop an apology for when I used to do this....when I was 17, 18 years old. I refrained; believe me, I owe him about ten thousand times more apologies than for THAT.)
The maddening thing is, though: Squeaky is clearly Not With the Program regarding the significance of all that's happened. Her worry for Tim is couched largely in terms of "but does he love me?" "does he know I love him?" "Is he mad at me?" The issue at hand--Tim's health and welfare--she comprehensively fails to understand; she claims in one breath to want to do what's best for him, but then in the next she's talking about how she wants him to come back and live with her and Old Bastard again. Apparently, she and Old Bastard had a discussion, entirely without Tim's input, regarding what conditions Tim would be required to agree to in order to be allowed to live there again. The conditions are fairly insulting, first of all, and then there's this other small problem: Tim doesn't WANT to live there. He never did--the only reason he lived there in the first place was that she moved all his belongings there and told him it would be a stable place that he wouldn't be kicked out of! But he hates it there; he's said this a hundred times at least.
The best thing for Tim, I think, would be to take up the offer his friend in Ohio made. His friend offered to give him a room and line him up with a job, no questions asked. The reason Tim gave for not going when it was offered was that he didn't want to just turn up on the guy's doorstep in the middle of the holidays; well, the holidays are over now, so that barrier is removed. I'm going to offer to buy him the bus ticket, in fact, when he comes by on Wednesday; the way I see it, getting him out of this stress factory would probably be $40 well spent. Between me, Squeaky, and Betty the Bartender, I'm reasonably sure that I'm the one who has Tim's welfare most in mind, and who has the fewest ulterior motives. I just want him to be healthy (i.e. not constantly drunk off his butt and using "stress" as the excuse); happy (i.e. not constantly submerged in so much stress that he can USE it as an excuse); and self-supporting (because I think THAT will do more for his mental health than ANYTHING. I remember the old, self-reliant Tim, when he had a job; sure, nothing was perfect--he still drank, still did the occasional stupid thing--but he was in his 20's at the time, so that makes sense. And he was HAPPIER--that I know. He took pride in paying his rent and bills on time. I really think being in the socioeconomic dumps has hit him a lot harder than many people realize; then again, there aren't many people in his life who knew him back then, or who have seen him in circumstances besides the ones he's in.)
I wish Squeaky would leave him alone, or at least act like a grownup.
I wish Squeaky would leave ME alone. I'm a solitary person; I don't deal well with three phone calls a night, all from the same person (to whom I didn't want to talk anyway) and all of which say the same thing, to wit: nothing.
I'm reasonably sure neither of those wishes will come true.
Maybe if I changed my number and moved to Borneo....?
And of course, the person I feel worst for is Tim. -I- can just not-answer the phone; he doesn't have that option. I'm not trying to save him, mind you; I'm long past the time when I thought I even COULD save him or anybody else. But I still feel bad that he has to go through it, and if I can give him an avenue out--well, then, so much the better.
Showing posts with label aggravated. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aggravated. Show all posts
Monday, January 5, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Resolution #1
My first resolution for 2009: No more drama.
It took me, granted, 27 hours of the new year to codify this one; actually, 26 hours and 48 minutes, which was how long after midnight on January 1 that Squeaky called me to tell me that Tim was "eating handfuls of pills"--Benadryls and Advils, before he started going through the OTHER roommate's pills (the 61-year-old guy, who I'm sure is on some heavy-duty stuff, and who will henceforth be known as Old Bastard). And when I told her to call 911, she claimed "I said I was going to, and he snapped at me and shit." Now, Tim, when drunk/whatever, is not always the nice guy he is when sober; he said the only time he ever hit a woman was during a drunken blackout several years ago, and so I wasn't in the mood to put Squeaky in that position. So I told her "Give me the address and I'LL call 911. I don't care HOW mad he gets at ME." (Which is true.) So she did, and I did, and I gave them the address and told them what she told me, and they said they were going to send somebody over there. Past that point, as I told Squeaky, I'm not terribly concerned. If he never speaks to me again...oh well. I would rather have a pissed-off ex-friend than a dead friend. And if he DOES speak to me again, he's going to get an earful; I've been down this road with him before, and I'm reasonably sure that it's a)alcohol-fueled; b)not an actual suicide attempt; c)calculated to get under SOMEONE's skin, probably Squeaky's. I know he's having a positively shitty time right now; he's still jobless, living in a place he hates with people he can't stand, and seeing no viable way out for quite some time. But what he's going to hear from me is: he's making it worse for himself, too. Squeaky and Old Bastard are NOT the only ones responsible for his misery; he's done a fair bit to further THAT himself. Not that I don't understand; but there's only so much I can do, and tonight he basically reached that limit.
This is NOT an auspicious beginning to the year.
It took me, granted, 27 hours of the new year to codify this one; actually, 26 hours and 48 minutes, which was how long after midnight on January 1 that Squeaky called me to tell me that Tim was "eating handfuls of pills"--Benadryls and Advils, before he started going through the OTHER roommate's pills (the 61-year-old guy, who I'm sure is on some heavy-duty stuff, and who will henceforth be known as Old Bastard). And when I told her to call 911, she claimed "I said I was going to, and he snapped at me and shit." Now, Tim, when drunk/whatever, is not always the nice guy he is when sober; he said the only time he ever hit a woman was during a drunken blackout several years ago, and so I wasn't in the mood to put Squeaky in that position. So I told her "Give me the address and I'LL call 911. I don't care HOW mad he gets at ME." (Which is true.) So she did, and I did, and I gave them the address and told them what she told me, and they said they were going to send somebody over there. Past that point, as I told Squeaky, I'm not terribly concerned. If he never speaks to me again...oh well. I would rather have a pissed-off ex-friend than a dead friend. And if he DOES speak to me again, he's going to get an earful; I've been down this road with him before, and I'm reasonably sure that it's a)alcohol-fueled; b)not an actual suicide attempt; c)calculated to get under SOMEONE's skin, probably Squeaky's. I know he's having a positively shitty time right now; he's still jobless, living in a place he hates with people he can't stand, and seeing no viable way out for quite some time. But what he's going to hear from me is: he's making it worse for himself, too. Squeaky and Old Bastard are NOT the only ones responsible for his misery; he's done a fair bit to further THAT himself. Not that I don't understand; but there's only so much I can do, and tonight he basically reached that limit.
This is NOT an auspicious beginning to the year.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Something That Inexplicably Pisses Me Off Way More Than It Ought To
Okay. So all over the news, there's this link to a story about a former American Idol contestant who drove to Paula Abdul's house and killed herself, apparently. Her name was Paula Goodspeed, and she apparently was one of the not-so-good auditions from the 2006 season.
I don't remember her. I don't remember 99.999% of the bad auditions; in fact, I'd say I remember less than 75% of the actual top-ten contestants of a given season. But I do love the show; Season 1 got me through the summer after CR left me, and along with "Shrek" and "O Brother Where Art Thou?", I have to give it credit for the gloriously-necessary distraction that it was.
Not my point, though.
My point is: In not ONE of the articles, not one of the links that I've seen to the story of her suicide, do they actually show a picture of Paula Goodspeed. Instead we're treated to picture after picture of Paula Abdul--one of the most overexposed, most useless celebrities I've ever encountered. We KNOW what her goofy ass looks like; yet every media outlet that's writing about this poor girl's suicide, is making it into a story about stupid Paula Abdul.
Talk about shit not being fair....
I don't remember her. I don't remember 99.999% of the bad auditions; in fact, I'd say I remember less than 75% of the actual top-ten contestants of a given season. But I do love the show; Season 1 got me through the summer after CR left me, and along with "Shrek" and "O Brother Where Art Thou?", I have to give it credit for the gloriously-necessary distraction that it was.
Not my point, though.
My point is: In not ONE of the articles, not one of the links that I've seen to the story of her suicide, do they actually show a picture of Paula Goodspeed. Instead we're treated to picture after picture of Paula Abdul--one of the most overexposed, most useless celebrities I've ever encountered. We KNOW what her goofy ass looks like; yet every media outlet that's writing about this poor girl's suicide, is making it into a story about stupid Paula Abdul.
Talk about shit not being fair....
Saturday, October 18, 2008
A Logic Problem For You
If I sent you the following in an e-mail on Wednesday afternoon....
"...Please make sure George Blow's computer gets checked over AS SOON AS IT GETS THERE and please get it back to him tomorrow; this is hugely important because he's been waiting for it for a long time and I told him he'd have it Thursday at the latest..."
Would anything in that message lead you, when asked on Thursday afternoon, "Is there any hurry for checking out George Blow's computer?" to answer, "No, not really..."???
I was working on a computer from my regular building, which I'd brought to the downtown building so I could finish it. It took longer than I thought, and so on Wednesday, when I packed it up to send back to the main building, I sent my boss (Joe) an e-mail containing the sentences above. I made it a point to emphasize that I wanted him to get the computer to George on Thursday because I'm off on Thursdays and I knew I was in no position to check up on him til Friday afternoon at the earliest.
I got to work Friday, and the ticket was still in my queue. I called Joe and left a message for him to call me; when no call was forthcoming, I called twice more, then called the help desk to see if he was even in the office. "He's in a meeting," I was told.
Around 5 PM--you know, when reasonable people on a 9-5 shift are pretty much ready to go home--I got a call from Carl, one of the other techs. (Carl actually used to be our boss, but due to office politics he was "reassigned"--translation: demoted--and his job was given to Joe. Carl was EASILY the best manager I'd ever had, and I was so mad when he got shafted like that...) Anyway, Carl called me to ask me a question....about George Blow's computer.
"That's not DONE?" I squeaked. "I TOTALLY e-mailed Joe on Wednesday to tell him that needed to be done YESTERDAY!"
"Well then how come he told me, when I asked him 'Is there any rush on the George Blow machine?' he told me 'No, not really,'?" Carl asked.
"Carl, I have NO idea. I told Joe that George should get that computer back on Thursday."
"Well why didn't you tell ME that?" Carl asked.
"Dude, I had NO IDEA that you were going to be the one who got it. I figured Joe would have assigned it to one of the new guys..."
And of course, by that point in the day, George had long ago left for home, so by this time there really WAS no point in hurrying. But steam was coming out my ears. Talking--or e-mailing--to Joe is like talking to a brick wall, I swear. There is literally no point in telling him ANYTHING, because he will ignore it, forget about it, override it, or otherwise discard it, and then leave US to clean up the mess when it comes.
--done venting now.
:::deep breath:::
Okay. Goodnight, all.
"...Please make sure George Blow's computer gets checked over AS SOON AS IT GETS THERE and please get it back to him tomorrow; this is hugely important because he's been waiting for it for a long time and I told him he'd have it Thursday at the latest..."
Would anything in that message lead you, when asked on Thursday afternoon, "Is there any hurry for checking out George Blow's computer?" to answer, "No, not really..."???
I was working on a computer from my regular building, which I'd brought to the downtown building so I could finish it. It took longer than I thought, and so on Wednesday, when I packed it up to send back to the main building, I sent my boss (Joe) an e-mail containing the sentences above. I made it a point to emphasize that I wanted him to get the computer to George on Thursday because I'm off on Thursdays and I knew I was in no position to check up on him til Friday afternoon at the earliest.
I got to work Friday, and the ticket was still in my queue. I called Joe and left a message for him to call me; when no call was forthcoming, I called twice more, then called the help desk to see if he was even in the office. "He's in a meeting," I was told.
Around 5 PM--you know, when reasonable people on a 9-5 shift are pretty much ready to go home--I got a call from Carl, one of the other techs. (Carl actually used to be our boss, but due to office politics he was "reassigned"--translation: demoted--and his job was given to Joe. Carl was EASILY the best manager I'd ever had, and I was so mad when he got shafted like that...) Anyway, Carl called me to ask me a question....about George Blow's computer.
"That's not DONE?" I squeaked. "I TOTALLY e-mailed Joe on Wednesday to tell him that needed to be done YESTERDAY!"
"Well then how come he told me, when I asked him 'Is there any rush on the George Blow machine?' he told me 'No, not really,'?" Carl asked.
"Carl, I have NO idea. I told Joe that George should get that computer back on Thursday."
"Well why didn't you tell ME that?" Carl asked.
"Dude, I had NO IDEA that you were going to be the one who got it. I figured Joe would have assigned it to one of the new guys..."
And of course, by that point in the day, George had long ago left for home, so by this time there really WAS no point in hurrying. But steam was coming out my ears. Talking--or e-mailing--to Joe is like talking to a brick wall, I swear. There is literally no point in telling him ANYTHING, because he will ignore it, forget about it, override it, or otherwise discard it, and then leave US to clean up the mess when it comes.
--done venting now.
:::deep breath:::
Okay. Goodnight, all.
Monday, September 22, 2008
A "Good" Busy....
...uh, no.
Not a "good" busy; not a "bad" busy, either. (A "bad" busy, I guess, would be....what, heroin-related? That's the worst "busy" I can imagine for myself, right now, and it's definitely NOT the case; then again, the only "good" busy I could imagine would be a whole lot wilder and wackier than anything I'm currently experiencing. So...it's an AVERAGE "busy"--how's that?)
The job--which I still love--is driving me bat-crap bonkerellas--is that a word? If not, I hereby stick a flag in it and declare it to be one, 'cuz it's kinda cool--anyway. I know I've said this before, but I'm repeating it regardless: if I find myself sitting in a hugely-uncomfortable chair in Joe (El Boss)'s office, waiting for 15-25 minutes to ask him a work-related question, while meantime he yammers on through his PERSONAL FRIKKIN PHONE CALL about his kids' BOY SCOUT TROOP...There is no exaggeration anywhere within that sentence, incidentally. I have, in fact, sat for 20 minutes in his office listening to his personal call about the next campout. Generally my next comment has been something along the lines of, "you know, that thing we do here--you know, WORK????" In fact, today I actually said it out loud--for once he actually interrupted his call to ask me what it was I needed, and after I told him and as I left, he clicked back to his call with an "I'm sorry about that..." At which point I turned around, stuck my head back in the office and said: "Yeah...I'm sorry I had to interrupt this personal phone call to attend to WORK matters, while I'm at my JOB..." Fortunately, the environment is such that we can all get away with talking crap to Joe on a regular basis, so this was not seen as a transgression.
As much as I love the loose environment, the trash-talking, the verbal one-upmanship--and believe me, most of the time I can give as good as I get--I have a strong sense that the environment has changed for the worse within the last 3 months or so. And I can point, with a plus-or-minus-1% level of doubt, to the moment when the change began...
It was the moment we rolled out the first Windows Vista machine.
If you are (like me) a WinXP user, or even better (and God bless you, and she'll bless you even MORE if you buy one for ME) a Mac user--if, in short, the horror that is Vista has not touched your life...be grateful, dear reader, for you are Fate's own cherished tot. Windows Vista is, to computers, the equivalent of what would happen if you took bubonic plague germs, high-fructose corn syrup, the contents of the lint trap in the Chicago Sewage Treatment Plant, a 36-minute-long Michael Bolton vocal solo, the stuff at the bottom of the dumpster at a chicken shack, chili-farts, and that nightmare you have where you're running as fast as you can but you're not moving at all--if you took all those things, mixed them together with three pounds of Scotch Bonnet peppers, and reduced the whole concoction to a double-strength glaze, which you then poured into one ear through a large, sharp-pointed metal funnel. That, my friends, is called PAIN. There are simply no words on the planet Earth, nor in many of the better-known alien languages, for how very, very deeply I loathe Vista.
I am not alone.
Now, mind you, Vista by itself would be bad enough. Vista, coupled with our department's almost-phobic aversion to actually DOCUMENTING anything, has pretty much crippled our entire computer-building process. What took twenty to thirty minutes in the past--the installation and configuring of the necessary software for most of our clientele--now takes at least two days--and that's if you're LUCKY. If you're not lucky, you end up with a situation like the one I found myself in today--a pissed-off user waiting for her computer while I fiddle-faddled around trying to get one miserable, solitary, undocumented proprietary SQL-based program to act in Vista the way it always, reliably-as-the-seasons, acted under XP. At one point, both senior techs, a former senior tech, and a supervisor were all working with me to figure out what the hell this software fucking WANTED from us. "Database Error 556" was all it would tell us, and it was unGoogleable, completely opaque, utterly rage-inducing. Finally, Max the former-senior, who's been promoted to Systems, said "What if you re-create the folder it's looking for but can't find--you know, to fake it out?" I did, and it worked. Of course, that was after six hours of hair-pulling, head-desking, random Googling, reinstalling, and the rest...hours in which I could have been completing any of my OTHER ungodly number of work tickets.
And I'm just ONE person. There are FOUR of us who are doing builds, on and off; one, in particular--remember Erwin, the crank?--who does nothing BUT builds. At least we're not short-staffed anymore, thank heavens; we now have Johnny, the new Mac guy, and Dante, the new senior tech, who shares my cube. Dante seems to know his stuff; Johnny, a little less so, but both of them are still new. So now, in order of tenure, it's Alex, Erwin, me, Johnny, and Dante; Max has been promoted, and since the new guys are still...you know, new...the bulk of everything has fallen on Alex and on me. Erwin does builds. Erwin ONLY does builds. I found this out from Kevin, the helpdesk guy, when he joined Missy and I for lunch one day. (Missy...I haven't talked about her, because she makes me nervous. On the surface, she'd be the first guess of who I would pick for a friend--she's a fat white chick, like me; obnoxious and abrasive, like me; divorced, hard-headed, devil-may-care--again, like me. Unlike me, however, I wouldn't trust her farther than I could throw her. She's fun to talk to, but I'm constantly watching what I say because she seems SO very snaky and SO very two-faced--even Joe, Mr. Gullible-Isn't-In-The-Dictionary, warned me to stay away from Missy. The next day she asked me if I wanted to go for lunch. What could I do? Kevin walked out with us and she invited him along too; the newest of the help-deskers, he's already disillusioned with the place.) We were sitting at Eduardo's eating reheated nasty pizza when Kevin said "yeah, we can't give Erwin tickets anymore, just builds." I nearly spewed my Pepsi; "exCUSE me?" I squeaked. "You didn't hear that from me!" he said; "I'm tired of everything I say getting back to Joe with MY name on it!" "I won't breathe a word of where it came from," I said. And I didn't; I simply sat down in Joe's visitor-chair, waited for him to finish his personal call, and said, "So am I right in understanding that Erwin won't be doing any faculty or staff calls anymore, just builds?"
Joe, who'd been to some "leadership" seminar a few days back, said, "Well, that was a mutual decision, between The Crazy and Erwin and I, that Erwin should be focusing his energies on doing builds for a while--so he's not distracted, so he can just set them up like an assembly-line and one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, and so on til they're done."
"That's fine," I said. "I would just add, though, that if Erwin is doing all builds and no tickets, then the rest of us should be doing all tickets, and no builds."
"Yeah, well, that's the ideal, but sometimes Erwin gets snowed under, and...."
Yeah. Sometimes Erwin gets snowed under. It might help if he cut back his 90-minute lunches to the approved 60--or if, like the rest of us, he once-in-a-while worked THROUGH his lunch--you know, take a bite, click a mouse, tap a keyboard, take a bite...Anyway. Net result: Erwin does builds, no tickets; the rest of us do tickets AND builds. Thanks, Erwin. Thanks, Joe.
I can't hate TOO much on Erwin, though; he gets four times more Vista than the rest of us, so he's got his punishment already. Fucking Vista. I kid you not, my peeps--it's absolutely the WORST operating system ever created. It has, without question, poisoned the mood at my job, I'll tell you that much--and there's no chance of changing anyone's mind now. The techs hate it; more importantly, the users hate it--and let's not even TALK about Office 2007, which....oh, god, the STOOPID!--but because they're "progress", and because eventually Microfuckingsoft will stop supporting XP and Office 2003, despite the fact that they're FAR superior products to their descendents--because of that, the higher-ups have dictated that The Way Forward will include these two monstrosities--and that will happen regardless of how far behind we, the users and the techs, might happen to fall as we pursue this glittering, attractive Forward Way.
(My dearest, most beloved Microsoft. Have I told you lately that you SUCK? Oh...I have. Very well, then. But you SUCK.)
Not a "good" busy; not a "bad" busy, either. (A "bad" busy, I guess, would be....what, heroin-related? That's the worst "busy" I can imagine for myself, right now, and it's definitely NOT the case; then again, the only "good" busy I could imagine would be a whole lot wilder and wackier than anything I'm currently experiencing. So...it's an AVERAGE "busy"--how's that?)
The job--which I still love--is driving me bat-crap bonkerellas--is that a word? If not, I hereby stick a flag in it and declare it to be one, 'cuz it's kinda cool--anyway. I know I've said this before, but I'm repeating it regardless: if I find myself sitting in a hugely-uncomfortable chair in Joe (El Boss)'s office, waiting for 15-25 minutes to ask him a work-related question, while meantime he yammers on through his PERSONAL FRIKKIN PHONE CALL about his kids' BOY SCOUT TROOP...There is no exaggeration anywhere within that sentence, incidentally. I have, in fact, sat for 20 minutes in his office listening to his personal call about the next campout. Generally my next comment has been something along the lines of, "you know, that thing we do here--you know, WORK????" In fact, today I actually said it out loud--for once he actually interrupted his call to ask me what it was I needed, and after I told him and as I left, he clicked back to his call with an "I'm sorry about that..." At which point I turned around, stuck my head back in the office and said: "Yeah...I'm sorry I had to interrupt this personal phone call to attend to WORK matters, while I'm at my JOB..." Fortunately, the environment is such that we can all get away with talking crap to Joe on a regular basis, so this was not seen as a transgression.
As much as I love the loose environment, the trash-talking, the verbal one-upmanship--and believe me, most of the time I can give as good as I get--I have a strong sense that the environment has changed for the worse within the last 3 months or so. And I can point, with a plus-or-minus-1% level of doubt, to the moment when the change began...
It was the moment we rolled out the first Windows Vista machine.
If you are (like me) a WinXP user, or even better (and God bless you, and she'll bless you even MORE if you buy one for ME) a Mac user--if, in short, the horror that is Vista has not touched your life...be grateful, dear reader, for you are Fate's own cherished tot. Windows Vista is, to computers, the equivalent of what would happen if you took bubonic plague germs, high-fructose corn syrup, the contents of the lint trap in the Chicago Sewage Treatment Plant, a 36-minute-long Michael Bolton vocal solo, the stuff at the bottom of the dumpster at a chicken shack, chili-farts, and that nightmare you have where you're running as fast as you can but you're not moving at all--if you took all those things, mixed them together with three pounds of Scotch Bonnet peppers, and reduced the whole concoction to a double-strength glaze, which you then poured into one ear through a large, sharp-pointed metal funnel. That, my friends, is called PAIN. There are simply no words on the planet Earth, nor in many of the better-known alien languages, for how very, very deeply I loathe Vista.
I am not alone.
Now, mind you, Vista by itself would be bad enough. Vista, coupled with our department's almost-phobic aversion to actually DOCUMENTING anything, has pretty much crippled our entire computer-building process. What took twenty to thirty minutes in the past--the installation and configuring of the necessary software for most of our clientele--now takes at least two days--and that's if you're LUCKY. If you're not lucky, you end up with a situation like the one I found myself in today--a pissed-off user waiting for her computer while I fiddle-faddled around trying to get one miserable, solitary, undocumented proprietary SQL-based program to act in Vista the way it always, reliably-as-the-seasons, acted under XP. At one point, both senior techs, a former senior tech, and a supervisor were all working with me to figure out what the hell this software fucking WANTED from us. "Database Error 556" was all it would tell us, and it was unGoogleable, completely opaque, utterly rage-inducing. Finally, Max the former-senior, who's been promoted to Systems, said "What if you re-create the folder it's looking for but can't find--you know, to fake it out?" I did, and it worked. Of course, that was after six hours of hair-pulling, head-desking, random Googling, reinstalling, and the rest...hours in which I could have been completing any of my OTHER ungodly number of work tickets.
And I'm just ONE person. There are FOUR of us who are doing builds, on and off; one, in particular--remember Erwin, the crank?--who does nothing BUT builds. At least we're not short-staffed anymore, thank heavens; we now have Johnny, the new Mac guy, and Dante, the new senior tech, who shares my cube. Dante seems to know his stuff; Johnny, a little less so, but both of them are still new. So now, in order of tenure, it's Alex, Erwin, me, Johnny, and Dante; Max has been promoted, and since the new guys are still...you know, new...the bulk of everything has fallen on Alex and on me. Erwin does builds. Erwin ONLY does builds. I found this out from Kevin, the helpdesk guy, when he joined Missy and I for lunch one day. (Missy...I haven't talked about her, because she makes me nervous. On the surface, she'd be the first guess of who I would pick for a friend--she's a fat white chick, like me; obnoxious and abrasive, like me; divorced, hard-headed, devil-may-care--again, like me. Unlike me, however, I wouldn't trust her farther than I could throw her. She's fun to talk to, but I'm constantly watching what I say because she seems SO very snaky and SO very two-faced--even Joe, Mr. Gullible-Isn't-In-The-Dictionary, warned me to stay away from Missy. The next day she asked me if I wanted to go for lunch. What could I do? Kevin walked out with us and she invited him along too; the newest of the help-deskers, he's already disillusioned with the place.) We were sitting at Eduardo's eating reheated nasty pizza when Kevin said "yeah, we can't give Erwin tickets anymore, just builds." I nearly spewed my Pepsi; "exCUSE me?" I squeaked. "You didn't hear that from me!" he said; "I'm tired of everything I say getting back to Joe with MY name on it!" "I won't breathe a word of where it came from," I said. And I didn't; I simply sat down in Joe's visitor-chair, waited for him to finish his personal call, and said, "So am I right in understanding that Erwin won't be doing any faculty or staff calls anymore, just builds?"
Joe, who'd been to some "leadership" seminar a few days back, said, "Well, that was a mutual decision, between The Crazy and Erwin and I, that Erwin should be focusing his energies on doing builds for a while--so he's not distracted, so he can just set them up like an assembly-line and one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, and so on til they're done."
"That's fine," I said. "I would just add, though, that if Erwin is doing all builds and no tickets, then the rest of us should be doing all tickets, and no builds."
"Yeah, well, that's the ideal, but sometimes Erwin gets snowed under, and...."
Yeah. Sometimes Erwin gets snowed under. It might help if he cut back his 90-minute lunches to the approved 60--or if, like the rest of us, he once-in-a-while worked THROUGH his lunch--you know, take a bite, click a mouse, tap a keyboard, take a bite...Anyway. Net result: Erwin does builds, no tickets; the rest of us do tickets AND builds. Thanks, Erwin. Thanks, Joe.
I can't hate TOO much on Erwin, though; he gets four times more Vista than the rest of us, so he's got his punishment already. Fucking Vista. I kid you not, my peeps--it's absolutely the WORST operating system ever created. It has, without question, poisoned the mood at my job, I'll tell you that much--and there's no chance of changing anyone's mind now. The techs hate it; more importantly, the users hate it--and let's not even TALK about Office 2007, which....oh, god, the STOOPID!--but because they're "progress", and because eventually Microfuckingsoft will stop supporting XP and Office 2003, despite the fact that they're FAR superior products to their descendents--because of that, the higher-ups have dictated that The Way Forward will include these two monstrosities--and that will happen regardless of how far behind we, the users and the techs, might happen to fall as we pursue this glittering, attractive Forward Way.
(My dearest, most beloved Microsoft. Have I told you lately that you SUCK? Oh...I have. Very well, then. But you SUCK.)
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Why Am I Angry?
No--seriously, it's a valid question today.
Brief background: we have two buildings--Hyde Park and downtown. The downtown building is staffed Monday thru Saturday; I get most of the Saturdays, but part of my job is ALSO to cover for the evening-shift person downtown when he schedules a day off. So this Tuesday just past, I was informed by my boss that this had happened, and that I'd be working 1 PM-9:30 PM downtown on Friday.
Well, pleh, I said, because this means that I leave downtown at 9:30, arrive home at 10:15, and am then expected BACK downtown at 8 AM Saturday morning. Again--pleh. But whatever. I can deal. It's part of the job.
Anyway, on Thursday, as I walked in, three separate people including my boss asked me "Hey, is Bobbi Smith's computer ready yet?" I had two builds in the works--Bobbi Smith and Joe McBlow. I knew Joe McBlow was scheduled to start on Monday, and so I had to have his machine done by the end of the day; nobody had told me anything about Smith, but when three people ask you about something as you walk in the door, you sort of assume that it's high-priority.
So I spent the morning and early afternoon working on Bobbi Smith's computer. As I finished it up, I came across the note on the bottom of the final page of the spec sheet: This machine will be set up in the user's home in St. Paul, MN. Which means that there was absolutely, positively NO rush to it--I didn't have to break my neck to get the machine done after all, because the user wasn't even expecting it yet.
Along with the change in priority, the fact that someone's computer is going offsite means OTHER things change as well. It's the sort of thing I should know BEFORE I start, not after I finish. I spent way too much of the rest of the day trying to find out what I now needed to change, what I needed to do to fix it, and why, exactly, I wasn't notified of this beforehand. No one seemed terribly sympathetic or interested in helping me solve the problem. As a consequence, I only got to work on the McBlow machine at about 4:30 PM.
There are two ways to set up a computer if it's been used before--one quick but corner-cutting, one slow but correct. Normally I'm all about correctness, but I had two hours to get this computer configured start to finish...so yeah, I took the quick-and-dirty route. To be fair, I tested EVERYTHING before I declared it was finished, and everything worked.
I asked Max, my cube-mate, to do the quality check for me and deliver the machine on Friday while I was gone. He said that was fine, he'd take care of it. So Friday at 1:00, when I got downtown, I checked my mail and found a note from McBlow's supervisor, asking if the machine would be ready for Monday. I immediately e-mailed Max to ask what the progress was, and I got a one-liner response:
"Erwin had to rebuild it."
HUH? I said, and picked up the phone to call Max. "What happened?" I asked.
"I dunno--I came in this morning and he was working on it. He said it was supposed to be a full rebuild, not just a new profile."
"Okay, yeah--but how did he even know that's what I did? I never asked him to TOUCH that computer," I said.
"Nobody tells me anything," said Max.
So I called Joe. "What's the deal with Erwin rebuilding the McBlow computer?"
"What are you talking about?" Typical Joe--he's always the last one to know.
"Erwin is rebuilding the McBlow computer, even though I never asked him to look at it, because he says it's supposed to be a full rebuild. But he's not on that ticket and he has no business inspecting my work."
"Well...why didn't you rebuild it?" (Okay, granted, this is the six-million-dollar question. I -should- have. But I didn't.)
"Mainly because I ran out of time from working on the other machine, and figured as long as I wiped all the files from the previous user and tested everything, I could get it done faster..." (Hey, at least I'm honest.)
"Okay," he said. "But I don't know anything about it."
Finally I called Erwin. Now, if you'll remember, Erwin and I don't get along well. I find him to be an insufferable, complaining jerk who's only out for himself and has no sense of teamwork whatsoever--and he irritates me. He's the only one of my colleagues I actively dislike. So for HIM to be the one ratting me out, or making me rat myself out, makes it a billion times worse than if it were Alex or Max. So I asked him, "What's going on with the McBlow machine?"
"Well, you were supposed to rebuild it, not just add a new profile."
"Yeah, but everything worked when I tested it."
"I tried ApplicX and it didn't work, and then I started looking around and realized it was just a new profile, so I figured I'd rebuild it just to get it done."
Small problem: ApplicX worked FINE when I checked it. And that STILL doesn't answer the main question: What the hell was he doing looking at MY work anyway? I don't check HIS work without being asked--what made him think he was supposed to look at mine?
So, back to the original question: am I angry...
a) ...at myself for getting caught taking a shortcut, especially because it's something I don't normally do?
b) ...at Erwin for messing with my stuff without reason?
c) ...because it was Erwin who found MY shortcut and exposed it?
d) ...because Erwin is a colossal ass-blister who can't even get his OWN work right, so what the hell is he doing calling ME out on MINE?
e) ...all of the above?
I think it's e--all of the above. But from now on I'm carrying my cabinet keys with me; if someone needs something out of my desk when I'm not there, that's just going to be too damn bad.
Brief background: we have two buildings--Hyde Park and downtown. The downtown building is staffed Monday thru Saturday; I get most of the Saturdays, but part of my job is ALSO to cover for the evening-shift person downtown when he schedules a day off. So this Tuesday just past, I was informed by my boss that this had happened, and that I'd be working 1 PM-9:30 PM downtown on Friday.
Well, pleh, I said, because this means that I leave downtown at 9:30, arrive home at 10:15, and am then expected BACK downtown at 8 AM Saturday morning. Again--pleh. But whatever. I can deal. It's part of the job.
Anyway, on Thursday, as I walked in, three separate people including my boss asked me "Hey, is Bobbi Smith's computer ready yet?" I had two builds in the works--Bobbi Smith and Joe McBlow. I knew Joe McBlow was scheduled to start on Monday, and so I had to have his machine done by the end of the day; nobody had told me anything about Smith, but when three people ask you about something as you walk in the door, you sort of assume that it's high-priority.
So I spent the morning and early afternoon working on Bobbi Smith's computer. As I finished it up, I came across the note on the bottom of the final page of the spec sheet: This machine will be set up in the user's home in St. Paul, MN. Which means that there was absolutely, positively NO rush to it--I didn't have to break my neck to get the machine done after all, because the user wasn't even expecting it yet.
Along with the change in priority, the fact that someone's computer is going offsite means OTHER things change as well. It's the sort of thing I should know BEFORE I start, not after I finish. I spent way too much of the rest of the day trying to find out what I now needed to change, what I needed to do to fix it, and why, exactly, I wasn't notified of this beforehand. No one seemed terribly sympathetic or interested in helping me solve the problem. As a consequence, I only got to work on the McBlow machine at about 4:30 PM.
There are two ways to set up a computer if it's been used before--one quick but corner-cutting, one slow but correct. Normally I'm all about correctness, but I had two hours to get this computer configured start to finish...so yeah, I took the quick-and-dirty route. To be fair, I tested EVERYTHING before I declared it was finished, and everything worked.
I asked Max, my cube-mate, to do the quality check for me and deliver the machine on Friday while I was gone. He said that was fine, he'd take care of it. So Friday at 1:00, when I got downtown, I checked my mail and found a note from McBlow's supervisor, asking if the machine would be ready for Monday. I immediately e-mailed Max to ask what the progress was, and I got a one-liner response:
"Erwin had to rebuild it."
HUH? I said, and picked up the phone to call Max. "What happened?" I asked.
"I dunno--I came in this morning and he was working on it. He said it was supposed to be a full rebuild, not just a new profile."
"Okay, yeah--but how did he even know that's what I did? I never asked him to TOUCH that computer," I said.
"Nobody tells me anything," said Max.
So I called Joe. "What's the deal with Erwin rebuilding the McBlow computer?"
"What are you talking about?" Typical Joe--he's always the last one to know.
"Erwin is rebuilding the McBlow computer, even though I never asked him to look at it, because he says it's supposed to be a full rebuild. But he's not on that ticket and he has no business inspecting my work."
"Well...why didn't you rebuild it?" (Okay, granted, this is the six-million-dollar question. I -should- have. But I didn't.)
"Mainly because I ran out of time from working on the other machine, and figured as long as I wiped all the files from the previous user and tested everything, I could get it done faster..." (Hey, at least I'm honest.)
"Okay," he said. "But I don't know anything about it."
Finally I called Erwin. Now, if you'll remember, Erwin and I don't get along well. I find him to be an insufferable, complaining jerk who's only out for himself and has no sense of teamwork whatsoever--and he irritates me. He's the only one of my colleagues I actively dislike. So for HIM to be the one ratting me out, or making me rat myself out, makes it a billion times worse than if it were Alex or Max. So I asked him, "What's going on with the McBlow machine?"
"Well, you were supposed to rebuild it, not just add a new profile."
"Yeah, but everything worked when I tested it."
"I tried ApplicX and it didn't work, and then I started looking around and realized it was just a new profile, so I figured I'd rebuild it just to get it done."
Small problem: ApplicX worked FINE when I checked it. And that STILL doesn't answer the main question: What the hell was he doing looking at MY work anyway? I don't check HIS work without being asked--what made him think he was supposed to look at mine?
So, back to the original question: am I angry...
a) ...at myself for getting caught taking a shortcut, especially because it's something I don't normally do?
b) ...at Erwin for messing with my stuff without reason?
c) ...because it was Erwin who found MY shortcut and exposed it?
d) ...because Erwin is a colossal ass-blister who can't even get his OWN work right, so what the hell is he doing calling ME out on MINE?
e) ...all of the above?
I think it's e--all of the above. But from now on I'm carrying my cabinet keys with me; if someone needs something out of my desk when I'm not there, that's just going to be too damn bad.
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.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The Only Thing Dumber
...than reading the comments section of a politically-oriented or otherwise-controversial news story/news blog??
Is reading the comments section of a Perez Hilton item.
Because G-d knows Amy Winehouse might not ever, even accidentally, be RIGHT about something.
(Okay, yeah; it's Amy Winehouse. And yeah, it's self-justifying. But it also happens to be FACTUAL; in fact, back when I was in rehab, they gave us an immense amount of information re: the physical risks, long-term and short-term, of various drugs. By far the most destructive long-term effects were caused by alcohol--in fact, I remember thinking "Damn, it's a good thing I don't like to drink!" So for people to just jump all over it like they know what they're talking about...urgh.)
Is reading the comments section of a Perez Hilton item.
Because G-d knows Amy Winehouse might not ever, even accidentally, be RIGHT about something.
(Okay, yeah; it's Amy Winehouse. And yeah, it's self-justifying. But it also happens to be FACTUAL; in fact, back when I was in rehab, they gave us an immense amount of information re: the physical risks, long-term and short-term, of various drugs. By far the most destructive long-term effects were caused by alcohol--in fact, I remember thinking "Damn, it's a good thing I don't like to drink!" So for people to just jump all over it like they know what they're talking about...urgh.)
Sunday, September 2, 2007
This Has Got To End.
From a conversation that occurred at 5:00 this morning, roughly:
Tim seems to think that he is to Squeaky what I am to him: he sees himself as the person who looks out for her, the one who cares about her when nobody else does--the way I do for him.
Okay, fine. Admirable, even. If you've got something to teach her that you think will help her handle her life better, then by all means go for it, and good luck to you.
But then don't go getting blotto-drunk and traumatizing the poor kid by doing stupid shit like threatening to kill yourself and/or cutting your wrists with a steak knife.
And then don't get pissed at her for being scared and waking me up because she doesn't have any idea how to deal with it. Or defend it as an attempt to make a point. You don't make a point by cutting yourself. (unless the point is "I am absolutely batshit crazy, and also very drunk." If that was the point? You've made it admirably.) You don't make a point by scaring the hell out of someone. So don't get pissed at her for dealing with it in the only way she could...
Then ESPECIALLY don't get pissed at ME for being pissed at YOU instead of Squeaky--"she shouldn't have woke you up!" Well yeah--and she wouldn't have, if you hadn't scared her half to death (and apparently opened up some old psychic wounds, as well.)
And Squeaky? When the situation is calming down? The sarcastic remarks calculated to piss Tim off? They don't help. Really. Shutting up--THAT helps. Rule #1: Do NOT poke the crazy.
Once the merriment and festivities had died down, the following facts were explained to Tim:
1. It is my FUCKING DAY OFF. This drama was not appreciated. This drama WILL NOT RECUR. That is a declarative sentence--not a request.
2. The day we move out of this house--no matter where we move to, no matter whether we move by ourselves or whether there are other roomies involved--is the LAST day that Squeaky will be living with us. Once we're in the new place, I am not putting up with this.
3. Any attempt to ignore #2 will be considered a total dealbreaker. Regardless of our friendship, regardless of our history, if you insist on poisoning my personal space with this ridiculous situation, I will GLADLY live on my own rather than put up with this childish crap. I understand that you are trying to help, but this Sid-and-Nancy-Lite shit is not helping anyone, least of all ME.
4. Your attempts to emulate me, by helping someone obviously in need of it, are appreciated. Your methods, however, are at times misguided (and at other times, COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE and inappropriate) and you might think about how the potential outcomes.
5. Did I mention about it being my day off? Have we not, for some time now, maintained an understanding about my personal space? Then stop setting off the drama. It's every bit as much your doing as Squeaky's--more, really, since you're the one who knows better.
I don't know how thoroughly my statements sunk in--for one thing, they were percolating through a thick layer of Miller High Life, and were probably garbled on the trip--but at least I've said my piece. If necessary, I will repeat it.
It has also become obvious that I cannot have beer (or any other alcohol) in this house. Not that it's such a great loss for me--summer's almost over anyway, and that's the only time I ever really drink--but it's become apparent to me that for Tim, beer is like rocket-fuel for his inner butthead. This is the third or fourth time I've had to involve myself in their little interpersonal crises, and each time there was alcohol involved. It's like in the I Has A Sweet Potato story: "WE JUST WON'T HAVE ANY ROOT VEGETABLES ANYMORE. THERE. ARE YOU HAPPY?" Except in this case, it's beer. (I only WISH it was root vegetables. I've never heard of anyone becoming a jerk after an overdose of yams.) Like I said--beerlessness is no great hardship for me. I just happen to enjoy a couple of Coronas after a hard day's work; I'll just have to find something else to enjoy after a hard day's work instead. (Breyers' Caramel Pretzel ice cream is looking like a good candidate. In the words of lolcats everywhere, nom nom nom.)
So all in all, this so-called "long weekend" has been a total loss: Friday night I went to bed early because I wasn't feeling well; Saturday I worked from 8:00-4:30; and today was spent either babysitting my roommates and their domestic disputes, or sleeping in the aftermath of same. And then tomorrow, it's off to Mom's--where I will no doubt be treated, along with a delicious meal, to a running commentary about how much weight I need to lose. (But at least there won't be any drama. It's hard to believe it--I'm faced with a lecture about my weight, my hair, or my beliefs, and yet those lectures actually seem PREFERABLE to staying at home--because if I go where the lectures are, I won't have to deal with the silly childish crap going on HERE...Yeah, that's a sad state of affairs if ever I've heard one.)
All things considered, I'll be glad to get back to work on Tuesday.
Tim seems to think that he is to Squeaky what I am to him: he sees himself as the person who looks out for her, the one who cares about her when nobody else does--the way I do for him.
Okay, fine. Admirable, even. If you've got something to teach her that you think will help her handle her life better, then by all means go for it, and good luck to you.
But then don't go getting blotto-drunk and traumatizing the poor kid by doing stupid shit like threatening to kill yourself and/or cutting your wrists with a steak knife.
And then don't get pissed at her for being scared and waking me up because she doesn't have any idea how to deal with it. Or defend it as an attempt to make a point. You don't make a point by cutting yourself. (unless the point is "I am absolutely batshit crazy, and also very drunk." If that was the point? You've made it admirably.) You don't make a point by scaring the hell out of someone. So don't get pissed at her for dealing with it in the only way she could...
Then ESPECIALLY don't get pissed at ME for being pissed at YOU instead of Squeaky--"she shouldn't have woke you up!" Well yeah--and she wouldn't have, if you hadn't scared her half to death (and apparently opened up some old psychic wounds, as well.)
And Squeaky? When the situation is calming down? The sarcastic remarks calculated to piss Tim off? They don't help. Really. Shutting up--THAT helps. Rule #1: Do NOT poke the crazy.
Once the merriment and festivities had died down, the following facts were explained to Tim:
1. It is my FUCKING DAY OFF. This drama was not appreciated. This drama WILL NOT RECUR. That is a declarative sentence--not a request.
2. The day we move out of this house--no matter where we move to, no matter whether we move by ourselves or whether there are other roomies involved--is the LAST day that Squeaky will be living with us. Once we're in the new place, I am not putting up with this.
3. Any attempt to ignore #2 will be considered a total dealbreaker. Regardless of our friendship, regardless of our history, if you insist on poisoning my personal space with this ridiculous situation, I will GLADLY live on my own rather than put up with this childish crap. I understand that you are trying to help, but this Sid-and-Nancy-Lite shit is not helping anyone, least of all ME.
4. Your attempts to emulate me, by helping someone obviously in need of it, are appreciated. Your methods, however, are at times misguided (and at other times, COMPLETELY FUCKING INSANE and inappropriate) and you might think about how the potential outcomes.
5. Did I mention about it being my day off? Have we not, for some time now, maintained an understanding about my personal space? Then stop setting off the drama. It's every bit as much your doing as Squeaky's--more, really, since you're the one who knows better.
I don't know how thoroughly my statements sunk in--for one thing, they were percolating through a thick layer of Miller High Life, and were probably garbled on the trip--but at least I've said my piece. If necessary, I will repeat it.
It has also become obvious that I cannot have beer (or any other alcohol) in this house. Not that it's such a great loss for me--summer's almost over anyway, and that's the only time I ever really drink--but it's become apparent to me that for Tim, beer is like rocket-fuel for his inner butthead. This is the third or fourth time I've had to involve myself in their little interpersonal crises, and each time there was alcohol involved. It's like in the I Has A Sweet Potato story: "WE JUST WON'T HAVE ANY ROOT VEGETABLES ANYMORE. THERE. ARE YOU HAPPY?" Except in this case, it's beer. (I only WISH it was root vegetables. I've never heard of anyone becoming a jerk after an overdose of yams.) Like I said--beerlessness is no great hardship for me. I just happen to enjoy a couple of Coronas after a hard day's work; I'll just have to find something else to enjoy after a hard day's work instead. (Breyers' Caramel Pretzel ice cream is looking like a good candidate. In the words of lolcats everywhere, nom nom nom.)
So all in all, this so-called "long weekend" has been a total loss: Friday night I went to bed early because I wasn't feeling well; Saturday I worked from 8:00-4:30; and today was spent either babysitting my roommates and their domestic disputes, or sleeping in the aftermath of same. And then tomorrow, it's off to Mom's--where I will no doubt be treated, along with a delicious meal, to a running commentary about how much weight I need to lose. (But at least there won't be any drama. It's hard to believe it--I'm faced with a lecture about my weight, my hair, or my beliefs, and yet those lectures actually seem PREFERABLE to staying at home--because if I go where the lectures are, I won't have to deal with the silly childish crap going on HERE...Yeah, that's a sad state of affairs if ever I've heard one.)
All things considered, I'll be glad to get back to work on Tuesday.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
No Good Deed...
You know how that proverb ends, right?
Yep--so do I.
(Note: this post was written over the space of three days. I started it Sunday; it is now just after midnight, which makes it Wednesday. I would say the three posts in a sequence--this one, the "OMFG..." post, and the "Disclaimer-ish" post--give a pretty accurate picture of the state of this house from Saturday evening til the present--to say nothing of the state of my mind.)
So Saturday evening, I get home from my first Saturday of work. I arrive with a 12-pack of beer, to find the house empty, and, expecting an evening of peace and quiet based on this fact, put the beer in the fridge and turn on the TV.
First problem: the cable is off. I calculate the date in my mind, then realize yeah, shoulda paid that one about 2 weeks ago. The bills in this house are in total disarray; basically, the squeakiest creditors get the cash, and anyone who can shut something off will be paid before someone who can't. Once we move, I will change that; I plan to be the...
pause.
This pause in my blog has been inserted because in light of the story I am about to relate, I need to add this interruption to show you all what I'm up against.
*************************************************************
(written Sunday night) I was writing this post, here in my living room where the computer desk is, at 11:00 PM--even though I have to be up for work before 6 this morning--because Tim and Squeaky had gone into their room at last and FINALLY, for the first time ALL FREAKING WEEKEND, I was reasonably assured of some privacy.
As I wrote the sentence just before the pause, they came out. Tim came over and whispered gibberish at me, to make it seem like he was talking about Squeaky. It's a game, I guess, that they play. Then, he went to the fridge for some ice cream. They sat down on the sofa, talking to me all the while. (Actually, Tim was mostly silent; Squeaky was yammering on about some TV show or something.) I listened for about three sentences and went back to reading whatever page I'd brought up when they came out--neither of them, as you might imagine, know about my blog.
After about ten minutes, Tim said to Squeaky, "Okay, leave her alone and let her read. She gets cranky if you don't let her read." (True enough.) After some more jabber, she followed him into the room, and I brought my page back up.
NOT TWO MINUTES LATER, from the room: "Gladys!!!"
I put my head in my hands. "What?"
"He called me fat!" Door opens. Squeaky and Tim emerge.
"Leave her alone," says Tim.
"I AM leaving her alone," she tells him. "He called me fat! Make him stop calling me fat!"
"Will you LEAVE HER ALONE!" Tim said.
"I AM leaving her alone!"
"Actually," I piped up, "you're really not. Actually you're sorta...still talking."
"I SAID, leave her the fuck alone!" Tim said. "I swear to God, I'm gonna smack you..." (He's not. We threaten horrible lingering death to each other a million times a day; I know of exactly one incident when Tim has hit a girl, and that was fifteen years ago and he was blackout drunk. So that threat, though it's obnoxious and dickheaded and all the rest, is not anywhere near as threatening as it seems--and what's more, Squeaky knows this.)
"I AM leaving her alone!!!!" To me: "Did you hear what he just said to me??? You're supposed to save me!!!"
I put my hands over my face again. "Okay, actually? No I'm not. That's what all that bullshit was about last night. I'm so totally NOT supposed to save you."
After some more squawking and yammering, and the background sound of a vein in my forehead throbbing, they finally went back into the room. The odds of them staying there long enough for me to complete this post are roughly nil.
end pause
****************************************************************
As I was saying:
Once we move, I plan to be the soul of order and punctuality as regards the payment of bills; now, however, it seems to be too Herculean a task to even contemplate the masses of unopened and opened mail which has accumulated on every available desk, much less to undertake to pay it all. I will continue to dwell on this shoestring, and take it as a lesson learned.
Anyhow.
As I was on the phone with the Automated System of the Damned, paying the Comcast bill, the door opened and in came Tim. Since my back was to the door, I didn't realize Squeaky was with him til she came out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later.
Here's the thing, though: Tim wasn't speaking to her. He went into his room, leaving her in the living room, and slammed the door and turned his music up loud. She made several forays into the room, and every time emerged looking crestfallen.
As I heard the story from her: apparently she was supposed to be staying at her dad's house. (Not her stepdad the sexually-abusing asshole; her real dad, who I guess is a wee bit of a jerk but otherwise mostly harmless.) Tim apparently had a long talk with Squeaky's dad a week or so ago, affirming that they both care a lot about what happens to her, and making an agreement that she could alternate between staying at her dad's and staying here. (In case you're wondering--no one asked me, no.) And it was that agreement that touched off the whole conflagration.
Apparently she'd stayed a day or two at her dad's, then gone to visit a "friend" of hers on the South Side. "Friend" gets quotes because it's a guy, and because her choice of "friends" in the past has led her into all sorts of situations. This was no exception; apparently, as she got off the Red Line at 95th to meet him, she was followed by a guy she knew, a guy who had raped her in the past, who she'd seen several weeks ago in a public place and who she'd apparently told off, made brave by the fact that he couldn't do anything to her while there were people around.
Well, this time, she wasn't so lucky; he grabbed her and choked her, telling her "This is for last time--you think you're so tough?" According to her, that was all that happened; she has bruises all around her neck, so either she's telling the truth or something else happened that she isn't mentioning.
She didn't want to tell Tim about getting choked, allegedly because she was afraid Tim would get mad and insist on finding and killing this guy. (Do I believe this story? Not entirely.) All she told Tim was that she left her dad's and spent the weekend with "a friend".
That's HER story. Tim's story--which came out after four hours of the silent treatment, during which I was left to entertain Squeaky and listen to her kvetch about Tim's treatment of her, all while I would have MUCH rather been relaxing with my Coronas, my onions-and-beef over rice, and my NASCAR race--Tim's story was: she was supposed to be staying at her dad's, and then all of a sudden she calls him and leaves him a message that she's staying with a friend--a GIRL, in the original story. And then halfway through her story, that girl becomes a guy. She claims she has no recollection of telling him she would be staying with a girl. She claims she was stung by a bee and because she's allergic, she took Benadryl and it made her sleepy and she doesn't remember that phone call because she was half-asleep.
I wasn't sure who, if anyone, was telling the truth. I didn't like, though, the way Tim was talking to her--like the ONLY places she was permitted to stay were either here or at her dad's, like she had no say-so and she wasn't allowed to change her plans. That was MY main objection--that he was talking to her as though he owned her, and that regardless of how angry he was, it was NOT okay for him to bring someone to the house and ignore them, leaving them as MY responsibility. "She's not your responsibility, though, G!" he said. "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation."
He claimed, after the fact, that the sentence "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation," meant "please stop mediating the situation." I didn't take it that way. So when he started yelling at her about her "friends" and her changing stories and her general lack of trustworthiness and consistency, I tried to calm the waters.
Big mistake.
At one point, he said something about Squeaky having no job. Now, she had told me that she'd just gotten a job, at a coffee shop, and would be starting in a week or so. I mentioned this, and he scoffed. "What, after waiting around for six months for a job?"
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Tim," I said quietly, "You really shouldn't judge people for making the same kind of decisions you made." He wasn't listening; apparently something in my expression showed my amazement that he would even have the nerve to say such a thing, because his voice started getting louder as he started talking about jobs she'd apparently turned down.
I was running out of words, not to mention patience, and so I just pointed at him. And apparently, this was exactly the worst thing I could have done, judging from the explosion that followed. The sum of what he was yelling--in my face, at the top of his lungs--was that he could have three or four jobs, and yeah he'd turned down a job, because he was entitled to do whatever he wanted if he thought a job wasn't worth taking, and don't you point at me, and blah blah really loud and ineffectual and probably at least somewhat guilt-ridden blah.
And he'd been drinking, and I'd been drinking (and yes, you are all entitled to crawl up my ass for the decision I made immediately thereafter, but I was, SERIOUSLY, not drunk) and Squeaky was in the background talking about "fuck it, I'm getting out of here, I'm going back to my dad's" and Tim was yelling at her about "no you won't, if you leave this house you'll just go right back to the South Side to fuck around some more," and I had now officially had ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY ENOUGH, so I said "C'mon, Squeaky, I'll give you a ride to your dad's house." And I grabbed my bag and my car keys and walked out the door, got in the car and started the ignition.
And waited.
And waited.
No Squeaky.
About five minutes later, I called the house number on my cell phone. "Squeaky," I said. "I am outside in the car waiting for you. If you want a ride, you need to come outside, right now."
Five minutes after that, out came Squeaky.
"Tim says to tell you that no way are you driving and no way am I getting into a car with you in your condition. He wants you to come inside."
"Oh," I said, turning off the car and getting out. "So now I get to look like the idiot for stepping in and trying to help somebody else. Good. That's wonderful."
"I think he's gonna apologize," she said.
"I don't give a fuck either way," I replied, largely because I know Tim well enough to know that an apology was not forthcoming, at least not for an hour or so. As I walked in the door, I repeated that sentence, and added "I really have nothing to say.'
"Ohh," said Tim. "So if I don't want to talk, that's terrible, but if YOU don't want to..."
"I don't use it as an everyday strategy!" I said, walking up the stairs. " 'I don't wanna talk about it!' 'I just want to be by myself.' 'Leave me alone--I don't wanna talk,'" I said, doing my best (and, might I add, extremely childish) imitation of Tim whenever he's faced with some negative consequence to HIS actions. "Well, now it's MY turn: I don't want to talk."
I went upstairs and put a sign on my door: DO NOT KNOCK. I put another sign on a string at the top of the steps: I WOULDN'T. And I went into my room, got out my yarn, and sat down in front of the TV to crochet.
It took about half an hour, but Tim came upstairs, ignoring all notices to the contrary, and knocked on my door. And A Conversation was had; I explained to him that yelling at me was a very, very, VERY bad idea, for a myriad of reasons including but not limited to: if you're yelling at me, you're not hearing my point. (I managed, with Herculean effort, not to add "...and you'll never see another cigarette, can of beer, dollar added to your bus pass, dollar 'loaned' to you, meal shared, personal-care item purchased, cell-phone bill paid, or financial obligation ignored EVER AGAIN." Never let it be said that I have learned nothing from my mother's money-is-power issues.) "And my point WAS," I added, "that you shouldn't judge people for doing EXACTLY THE SAME THING YOU DID."
He conceded the issue, but added, "Yeah, but when you point your finger at me like that...."
"Yeah, I know. That was maybe not the best way of expressing myself," I told him.
We talked some more, and he did apologize; I told him that I really didn't appreciate a lot of the stuff that had been going on, and he told me that he would really, REALLY appreciate if, in the future, I didn't take it upon myself to mediate their arguments/bickering/complaining/disputes/whatever. "It's not your job," he said. "Don't put yourself in that position."
"I DON'T put MYSELF there," I reminded him. "SHE comes to ME when she wants to bitch about you."
"Well then, shut her down," he advised. "Tell her 'Look, I'm not going to put myself in the middle of this--if you have a problem with Tim, go talk to Tim.'"
"And then when you don't want to talk, and YOU shut her down TOO...?"
"That's between her and me, though." Which...okay, yeah, he's right, but it's tough to see a person with a problem, who's TRYING to talk to the other involved party about the problem, but the other person doesn't want to talk and so the wounded party is left with no recourse than to just deal--and it's very hard for me NOT to try to help, under the circumstances. Especially when I know that--for the most part--I can usually manage to remain objective...
...until people start yelling, and not listening to me, and claiming that true things are false, and the sky is green, and rain falls up, and they could have three or four jobs ANY TIME THEY WANTED THEM. Apparently that's my breaking point.
Anyhow, Tim and I worked it out, and had a hug, and the problem was mostly solved...
Mostly. As the other posts in this sequence will show.
Yep--so do I.
(Note: this post was written over the space of three days. I started it Sunday; it is now just after midnight, which makes it Wednesday. I would say the three posts in a sequence--this one, the "OMFG..." post, and the "Disclaimer-ish" post--give a pretty accurate picture of the state of this house from Saturday evening til the present--to say nothing of the state of my mind.)
So Saturday evening, I get home from my first Saturday of work. I arrive with a 12-pack of beer, to find the house empty, and, expecting an evening of peace and quiet based on this fact, put the beer in the fridge and turn on the TV.
First problem: the cable is off. I calculate the date in my mind, then realize yeah, shoulda paid that one about 2 weeks ago. The bills in this house are in total disarray; basically, the squeakiest creditors get the cash, and anyone who can shut something off will be paid before someone who can't. Once we move, I will change that; I plan to be the...
pause.
This pause in my blog has been inserted because in light of the story I am about to relate, I need to add this interruption to show you all what I'm up against.
*************************************************************
(written Sunday night) I was writing this post, here in my living room where the computer desk is, at 11:00 PM--even though I have to be up for work before 6 this morning--because Tim and Squeaky had gone into their room at last and FINALLY, for the first time ALL FREAKING WEEKEND, I was reasonably assured of some privacy.
As I wrote the sentence just before the pause, they came out. Tim came over and whispered gibberish at me, to make it seem like he was talking about Squeaky. It's a game, I guess, that they play. Then, he went to the fridge for some ice cream. They sat down on the sofa, talking to me all the while. (Actually, Tim was mostly silent; Squeaky was yammering on about some TV show or something.) I listened for about three sentences and went back to reading whatever page I'd brought up when they came out--neither of them, as you might imagine, know about my blog.
After about ten minutes, Tim said to Squeaky, "Okay, leave her alone and let her read. She gets cranky if you don't let her read." (True enough.) After some more jabber, she followed him into the room, and I brought my page back up.
NOT TWO MINUTES LATER, from the room: "Gladys!!!"
I put my head in my hands. "What?"
"He called me fat!" Door opens. Squeaky and Tim emerge.
"Leave her alone," says Tim.
"I AM leaving her alone," she tells him. "He called me fat! Make him stop calling me fat!"
"Will you LEAVE HER ALONE!" Tim said.
"I AM leaving her alone!"
"Actually," I piped up, "you're really not. Actually you're sorta...still talking."
"I SAID, leave her the fuck alone!" Tim said. "I swear to God, I'm gonna smack you..." (He's not. We threaten horrible lingering death to each other a million times a day; I know of exactly one incident when Tim has hit a girl, and that was fifteen years ago and he was blackout drunk. So that threat, though it's obnoxious and dickheaded and all the rest, is not anywhere near as threatening as it seems--and what's more, Squeaky knows this.)
"I AM leaving her alone!!!!" To me: "Did you hear what he just said to me??? You're supposed to save me!!!"
I put my hands over my face again. "Okay, actually? No I'm not. That's what all that bullshit was about last night. I'm so totally NOT supposed to save you."
After some more squawking and yammering, and the background sound of a vein in my forehead throbbing, they finally went back into the room. The odds of them staying there long enough for me to complete this post are roughly nil.
end pause
****************************************************************
As I was saying:
Once we move, I plan to be the soul of order and punctuality as regards the payment of bills; now, however, it seems to be too Herculean a task to even contemplate the masses of unopened and opened mail which has accumulated on every available desk, much less to undertake to pay it all. I will continue to dwell on this shoestring, and take it as a lesson learned.
Anyhow.
As I was on the phone with the Automated System of the Damned, paying the Comcast bill, the door opened and in came Tim. Since my back was to the door, I didn't realize Squeaky was with him til she came out of the bathroom a couple of minutes later.
Here's the thing, though: Tim wasn't speaking to her. He went into his room, leaving her in the living room, and slammed the door and turned his music up loud. She made several forays into the room, and every time emerged looking crestfallen.
As I heard the story from her: apparently she was supposed to be staying at her dad's house. (Not her stepdad the sexually-abusing asshole; her real dad, who I guess is a wee bit of a jerk but otherwise mostly harmless.) Tim apparently had a long talk with Squeaky's dad a week or so ago, affirming that they both care a lot about what happens to her, and making an agreement that she could alternate between staying at her dad's and staying here. (In case you're wondering--no one asked me, no.) And it was that agreement that touched off the whole conflagration.
Apparently she'd stayed a day or two at her dad's, then gone to visit a "friend" of hers on the South Side. "Friend" gets quotes because it's a guy, and because her choice of "friends" in the past has led her into all sorts of situations. This was no exception; apparently, as she got off the Red Line at 95th to meet him, she was followed by a guy she knew, a guy who had raped her in the past, who she'd seen several weeks ago in a public place and who she'd apparently told off, made brave by the fact that he couldn't do anything to her while there were people around.
Well, this time, she wasn't so lucky; he grabbed her and choked her, telling her "This is for last time--you think you're so tough?" According to her, that was all that happened; she has bruises all around her neck, so either she's telling the truth or something else happened that she isn't mentioning.
She didn't want to tell Tim about getting choked, allegedly because she was afraid Tim would get mad and insist on finding and killing this guy. (Do I believe this story? Not entirely.) All she told Tim was that she left her dad's and spent the weekend with "a friend".
That's HER story. Tim's story--which came out after four hours of the silent treatment, during which I was left to entertain Squeaky and listen to her kvetch about Tim's treatment of her, all while I would have MUCH rather been relaxing with my Coronas, my onions-and-beef over rice, and my NASCAR race--Tim's story was: she was supposed to be staying at her dad's, and then all of a sudden she calls him and leaves him a message that she's staying with a friend--a GIRL, in the original story. And then halfway through her story, that girl becomes a guy. She claims she has no recollection of telling him she would be staying with a girl. She claims she was stung by a bee and because she's allergic, she took Benadryl and it made her sleepy and she doesn't remember that phone call because she was half-asleep.
I wasn't sure who, if anyone, was telling the truth. I didn't like, though, the way Tim was talking to her--like the ONLY places she was permitted to stay were either here or at her dad's, like she had no say-so and she wasn't allowed to change her plans. That was MY main objection--that he was talking to her as though he owned her, and that regardless of how angry he was, it was NOT okay for him to bring someone to the house and ignore them, leaving them as MY responsibility. "She's not your responsibility, though, G!" he said. "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation."
He claimed, after the fact, that the sentence "You shouldn't even be mediating this situation," meant "please stop mediating the situation." I didn't take it that way. So when he started yelling at her about her "friends" and her changing stories and her general lack of trustworthiness and consistency, I tried to calm the waters.
Big mistake.
At one point, he said something about Squeaky having no job. Now, she had told me that she'd just gotten a job, at a coffee shop, and would be starting in a week or so. I mentioned this, and he scoffed. "What, after waiting around for six months for a job?"
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Tim," I said quietly, "You really shouldn't judge people for making the same kind of decisions you made." He wasn't listening; apparently something in my expression showed my amazement that he would even have the nerve to say such a thing, because his voice started getting louder as he started talking about jobs she'd apparently turned down.
I was running out of words, not to mention patience, and so I just pointed at him. And apparently, this was exactly the worst thing I could have done, judging from the explosion that followed. The sum of what he was yelling--in my face, at the top of his lungs--was that he could have three or four jobs, and yeah he'd turned down a job, because he was entitled to do whatever he wanted if he thought a job wasn't worth taking, and don't you point at me, and blah blah really loud and ineffectual and probably at least somewhat guilt-ridden blah.
And he'd been drinking, and I'd been drinking (and yes, you are all entitled to crawl up my ass for the decision I made immediately thereafter, but I was, SERIOUSLY, not drunk) and Squeaky was in the background talking about "fuck it, I'm getting out of here, I'm going back to my dad's" and Tim was yelling at her about "no you won't, if you leave this house you'll just go right back to the South Side to fuck around some more," and I had now officially had ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY ENOUGH, so I said "C'mon, Squeaky, I'll give you a ride to your dad's house." And I grabbed my bag and my car keys and walked out the door, got in the car and started the ignition.
And waited.
And waited.
No Squeaky.
About five minutes later, I called the house number on my cell phone. "Squeaky," I said. "I am outside in the car waiting for you. If you want a ride, you need to come outside, right now."
Five minutes after that, out came Squeaky.
"Tim says to tell you that no way are you driving and no way am I getting into a car with you in your condition. He wants you to come inside."
"Oh," I said, turning off the car and getting out. "So now I get to look like the idiot for stepping in and trying to help somebody else. Good. That's wonderful."
"I think he's gonna apologize," she said.
"I don't give a fuck either way," I replied, largely because I know Tim well enough to know that an apology was not forthcoming, at least not for an hour or so. As I walked in the door, I repeated that sentence, and added "I really have nothing to say.'
"Ohh," said Tim. "So if I don't want to talk, that's terrible, but if YOU don't want to..."
"I don't use it as an everyday strategy!" I said, walking up the stairs. " 'I don't wanna talk about it!' 'I just want to be by myself.' 'Leave me alone--I don't wanna talk,'" I said, doing my best (and, might I add, extremely childish) imitation of Tim whenever he's faced with some negative consequence to HIS actions. "Well, now it's MY turn: I don't want to talk."
I went upstairs and put a sign on my door: DO NOT KNOCK. I put another sign on a string at the top of the steps: I WOULDN'T. And I went into my room, got out my yarn, and sat down in front of the TV to crochet.
It took about half an hour, but Tim came upstairs, ignoring all notices to the contrary, and knocked on my door. And A Conversation was had; I explained to him that yelling at me was a very, very, VERY bad idea, for a myriad of reasons including but not limited to: if you're yelling at me, you're not hearing my point. (I managed, with Herculean effort, not to add "...and you'll never see another cigarette, can of beer, dollar added to your bus pass, dollar 'loaned' to you, meal shared, personal-care item purchased, cell-phone bill paid, or financial obligation ignored EVER AGAIN." Never let it be said that I have learned nothing from my mother's money-is-power issues.) "And my point WAS," I added, "that you shouldn't judge people for doing EXACTLY THE SAME THING YOU DID."
He conceded the issue, but added, "Yeah, but when you point your finger at me like that...."
"Yeah, I know. That was maybe not the best way of expressing myself," I told him.
We talked some more, and he did apologize; I told him that I really didn't appreciate a lot of the stuff that had been going on, and he told me that he would really, REALLY appreciate if, in the future, I didn't take it upon myself to mediate their arguments/bickering/complaining/disputes/whatever. "It's not your job," he said. "Don't put yourself in that position."
"I DON'T put MYSELF there," I reminded him. "SHE comes to ME when she wants to bitch about you."
"Well then, shut her down," he advised. "Tell her 'Look, I'm not going to put myself in the middle of this--if you have a problem with Tim, go talk to Tim.'"
"And then when you don't want to talk, and YOU shut her down TOO...?"
"That's between her and me, though." Which...okay, yeah, he's right, but it's tough to see a person with a problem, who's TRYING to talk to the other involved party about the problem, but the other person doesn't want to talk and so the wounded party is left with no recourse than to just deal--and it's very hard for me NOT to try to help, under the circumstances. Especially when I know that--for the most part--I can usually manage to remain objective...
...until people start yelling, and not listening to me, and claiming that true things are false, and the sky is green, and rain falls up, and they could have three or four jobs ANY TIME THEY WANTED THEM. Apparently that's my breaking point.
Anyhow, Tim and I worked it out, and had a hug, and the problem was mostly solved...
Mostly. As the other posts in this sequence will show.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Infinitely Long List, Item One
Reasons There Is No Possible Earthly Chance That I Will Move To My Mother's House, No Matter How Financially Beneficial It Might Be For Me To Do So:
1. Tonight, the following statement was made:
"...And I also pray that you'll lose weight. Not just for the medical reasons, but for the aesthetic..."
And so on.
If that doesn't sound offensive to you, please consider:
a) This statement was immediately preceded by the information that she is "praying" that I'll find a proper boyfriend/spouse/whatever, despite the fact that I have informed her that I am not looking, do not plan to look, and do not really wish to involve myself in a relationship, casual or otherwise, at this time.
b) This entire conversation was held over dinner--a meal which SHE prepared, and which featured chicken, noodles, sour-cream gravy, and buttered corn--all in substantial portions--with ice-cream for dessert. (This was a very popular meal in our home during my childhood and adolescence, as well.)
c) This statement, and the conversation containing it, both registered LOW on the evening's Offensive-O-Meter.
I am very, very, very very glad to be home.
There are developments, or at least potential developments, in the future-housing issue. (I just went back to remind myself what name I'd given the person who's about to become a major character in this part of the saga, only to discover that I had never posted the remainder of my long long post from LAST Saturday night's adventures at Tim's favorite bar. Since it's no longer germane, I'll summarize: Tim got drunk, spurred on largely by his rage at a "friend" who stole his phone a few days previous and then showed up at the bar to give it back, but who acted like an extreme asshole for the rest of the night til Tim threatened his life. During this evening, the main goal was accomplished despite the drunkenness and drama: I met Tim's friend, the bartender, who I've named Betty, and who Tim wanted me to meet with the aim of the three of us getting an apartment together. We got along fine, and the three of us planned to meet yesterday to go apartment-hunting. End summary.) Anyway, Betty has a friend, who owns a condo and is moving out of state for a promotion he just received at his job. The friend wants to keep the condo, but would obviously need to sublet it; since he knows Betty, there's a possibility that he might give her, and consequently us, a good deal. It's apparently a 2-bedroom, 2-bath place, newly renovated, gorgeous, and maintained immaculately by her friend, who Betty describes as "a great big queen". GBQ also apparently has a tendency, as an interior designer, to abandon furniture whenever he relocates--after all, why would he pay to move LAST season's furniture?? (I want to meet this guy--he sounds awesome!) So it's possible we'll inherit an enormous condo-ful of totally unwanted, practically-new furniture, as well. How cool is THAT?
Things have a habit of working out for me, I've discovered. Maybe not on my schedule, but they work out.
1. Tonight, the following statement was made:
"...And I also pray that you'll lose weight. Not just for the medical reasons, but for the aesthetic..."
And so on.
If that doesn't sound offensive to you, please consider:
a) This statement was immediately preceded by the information that she is "praying" that I'll find a proper boyfriend/spouse/whatever, despite the fact that I have informed her that I am not looking, do not plan to look, and do not really wish to involve myself in a relationship, casual or otherwise, at this time.
b) This entire conversation was held over dinner--a meal which SHE prepared, and which featured chicken, noodles, sour-cream gravy, and buttered corn--all in substantial portions--with ice-cream for dessert. (This was a very popular meal in our home during my childhood and adolescence, as well.)
c) This statement, and the conversation containing it, both registered LOW on the evening's Offensive-O-Meter.
I am very, very, very very glad to be home.
There are developments, or at least potential developments, in the future-housing issue. (I just went back to remind myself what name I'd given the person who's about to become a major character in this part of the saga, only to discover that I had never posted the remainder of my long long post from LAST Saturday night's adventures at Tim's favorite bar. Since it's no longer germane, I'll summarize: Tim got drunk, spurred on largely by his rage at a "friend" who stole his phone a few days previous and then showed up at the bar to give it back, but who acted like an extreme asshole for the rest of the night til Tim threatened his life. During this evening, the main goal was accomplished despite the drunkenness and drama: I met Tim's friend, the bartender, who I've named Betty, and who Tim wanted me to meet with the aim of the three of us getting an apartment together. We got along fine, and the three of us planned to meet yesterday to go apartment-hunting. End summary.) Anyway, Betty has a friend, who owns a condo and is moving out of state for a promotion he just received at his job. The friend wants to keep the condo, but would obviously need to sublet it; since he knows Betty, there's a possibility that he might give her, and consequently us, a good deal. It's apparently a 2-bedroom, 2-bath place, newly renovated, gorgeous, and maintained immaculately by her friend, who Betty describes as "a great big queen". GBQ also apparently has a tendency, as an interior designer, to abandon furniture whenever he relocates--after all, why would he pay to move LAST season's furniture?? (I want to meet this guy--he sounds awesome!) So it's possible we'll inherit an enormous condo-ful of totally unwanted, practically-new furniture, as well. How cool is THAT?
Things have a habit of working out for me, I've discovered. Maybe not on my schedule, but they work out.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Circles of Hell and the People Who Live There
There is a special circle in hell for people who use publically-available information (i.e. foreclosure listings) to hassle and harass individuals who already have enough worries on their plate, thank you very much.
I have now received two letters--one I could tell was a possible lie, but the other of which looked very legal in nature, with a "docket number" and everything--which both indicated sale dates on my house. The legal one convinced me, and I assumed that all was lost on July 31st. A couple days later, Tim called me at work to let me know that "the appraisers from the bank" were here to take pictures of the house. Since no one had told him anything, Tim did not allow them in; since no one had notified me they were coming, I told him to tell them that they could come back when proper arrangements had been made with me. I assumed the house had been sold, based on this info.
It hadn't. Had I known, I would have spent those few days exploring options.
In an effort to find out WHO had bought my house, I called my mortgage company. They told me the sale date had NOT passed; it had, however, been set for August 7th. This Tuesday. I found this out Friday at about 4:30 PM.
I'd already accepted the inevitable; it just burns me that I was misled to believe that it was MORE inevitable than it actually was. And apparently all this crap is legal--phone calls and letters from people "interested in the property"--Those "interested" parties --better known as VULTURES--have not only called my number, but also my mother's. Whenever my mother gets a call about any financial matter of mine, it sends her into a tizzy. Not enough of a tizzy to help me save the house, of course; enough of a tizzy to give me a thorough questioning about my personal affairs. I have begun to believe that my reckless impulse to help people regardless of my OWN condition may very well spring from my mother's over-cautiousness in this regard. She will give me enough financial assistance to keep me functional; she will not help me enough to keep me INDEPENDENT, regardless of the fact that I have addressed all her concerns about "I don't want to get stuck with the mortgage if something happened to you." Yeah, see, that's why I signed up at my job for life insurance worth about twice the value of the house... Long and short of it--she wants me HOME. HER home, not mine.
I'm off now to Tim's favorite bar, to meet one of the bartenders who's a friend of his, a girl who needs a potential roomie. I may be back on the North Side soon...not the worst idea, by any stretch of the imagination.
The job, by the way, continues to go splendidly. I've already had my first Really Bad Day Where Everything Went Wrong, and I think I handled it well; I just went to my boss and confessed my screw-up, and we talked about it and decided how to handle it and then it was pretty much forgotten. It's nice to be treated as an adult...
...which is why I'd pretty much rather chew off my limbs, at this moment, than go to live at Mom's.
I have now received two letters--one I could tell was a possible lie, but the other of which looked very legal in nature, with a "docket number" and everything--which both indicated sale dates on my house. The legal one convinced me, and I assumed that all was lost on July 31st. A couple days later, Tim called me at work to let me know that "the appraisers from the bank" were here to take pictures of the house. Since no one had told him anything, Tim did not allow them in; since no one had notified me they were coming, I told him to tell them that they could come back when proper arrangements had been made with me. I assumed the house had been sold, based on this info.
It hadn't. Had I known, I would have spent those few days exploring options.
In an effort to find out WHO had bought my house, I called my mortgage company. They told me the sale date had NOT passed; it had, however, been set for August 7th. This Tuesday. I found this out Friday at about 4:30 PM.
I'd already accepted the inevitable; it just burns me that I was misled to believe that it was MORE inevitable than it actually was. And apparently all this crap is legal--phone calls and letters from people "interested in the property"--Those "interested" parties --better known as VULTURES--have not only called my number, but also my mother's. Whenever my mother gets a call about any financial matter of mine, it sends her into a tizzy. Not enough of a tizzy to help me save the house, of course; enough of a tizzy to give me a thorough questioning about my personal affairs. I have begun to believe that my reckless impulse to help people regardless of my OWN condition may very well spring from my mother's over-cautiousness in this regard. She will give me enough financial assistance to keep me functional; she will not help me enough to keep me INDEPENDENT, regardless of the fact that I have addressed all her concerns about "I don't want to get stuck with the mortgage if something happened to you." Yeah, see, that's why I signed up at my job for life insurance worth about twice the value of the house... Long and short of it--she wants me HOME. HER home, not mine.
I'm off now to Tim's favorite bar, to meet one of the bartenders who's a friend of his, a girl who needs a potential roomie. I may be back on the North Side soon...not the worst idea, by any stretch of the imagination.
The job, by the way, continues to go splendidly. I've already had my first Really Bad Day Where Everything Went Wrong, and I think I handled it well; I just went to my boss and confessed my screw-up, and we talked about it and decided how to handle it and then it was pretty much forgotten. It's nice to be treated as an adult...
...which is why I'd pretty much rather chew off my limbs, at this moment, than go to live at Mom's.
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