Caterwauling

The Options Pits

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

As a publisher, I spend a lot of time agonizing over brand identity. What is my overarching brand, how do I promote/preserve it, are my products/services continually fulfilling our mission, and are my direct reports walking/talking/breathing their individual brands as they fit within the greater franchise?

These are the things that put me to sleep during the day and keep me awake at night.

I’m not complaining — I’m in my element. This is the career path I was meant to take.

But it doesn’t come without some loss of brand identity of my own.

And that frustrates me sometimes.

I had my own “thing” I’ve been known for, for many years. I am actually pretty much an idiot when it comes to finance, but I know options like nobody’s business.

So, my knowledge base contains things that 99% of investors will never, ever learn about or use. Which makes me VERY marketable. And, as I say, that’s why I command the medium bucks!

However, I’ve always operated at somewhat of a deficit. I learned options the hard way — without knowledge of the stock markets in general. I’ve been trying to back-and-fill and spackle the holes in my financial brain for years.

But it was OK — I was always “The Options Goddess.” Any idiot can talk stocks with you. You wanna construct a broken-winged butterfly or an iron condor? I’m your girl.

And … I now have NO USE WHATSOEVER for this knowledge.

Sure, I can open up a trading account and do it myself. But I’m lazy. I guess I always expected I would work with famous options traders like I did before.

And while I’ve always been the options expert on staff, I’m in a place where I know more about them than the actual options experts we pay. Which is fine. But I feel like that part of my brain is atrophying — I don’t use my options knowledge that much anymore.

Sure, I dust it off when I flip into “editor” mode. But as publisher, I am really trying to get out of the day-to-day and eventually just be a consultant on the editorial instead of playing all the instruments in the band when I have records to sell and concerts to book!

So anyway, when I proposed we do something options-ish, I was given a green light. And then a red light.

And a part of me died. Not because my so-called authority was, gasp, challenged. But because I thought my stupid little project would keep my widdle options brain sharp.

And I came to realize in a big way that I’m not “Options Goddess” anymore. I mean, sure I can and probably always will be. But that’s not my life’s purpose anymore. I have a broader universe of responsibilities that may include options someday. But it’s so much bigger than that now.

So, in branding my boys and my business, I have one of my many new purposes in life. And after sleeping on it, I’m OK with that.

Sure, I guess I caught the football and made my team win the Super Bowl. But I am consciously letting that moment go and moving on to own the team. Well, it’s a team in another town and it’s going to need a lot of work to run as efficiently as the one I came from. But THAT is where I get to make a difference. I get to construct my own winning team instead of playing one position.

Sure, I got good at my position. Great at it, actually. Well-known within a very broad circle, actually. Fuck it — I RULED, people.

I’ll rule again. Just in a different way. One that lets me work normal hours, call the shots and make other people into stars.

And after being a star, I know how it feels. And it’s a feeling I can’t wait to help others experience.

Cafe Versailles, Miami

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

This was one of those days in which I entered the Compound and, within 12 minutes, I was searching for my car keys to drive to the nearest bridge to jump off.

But then I realized the nearest bridge is a block north and another block east. But there’s no parking right by it. And it was already 87 degrees and too damn hot to walk. So I might as well deal with the Calamity of the Day.

Whee!

I was thinking about the Den of Iniquity, how most of the employees were “A” players. (*Resisting urge to sing “C is for Crackhead” to the tune of Cookie Monster.*)

But wow, we had such a good gaggle of employees. Whatever we were paid or whatever our (useless) titles were, we were a real team. If I had to call someone on a Sunday night, they picked up and fulfilled my request as cheerfully as possible, because I wasn’t calling of my own accord and it was ALL our asses on the line if impulses weren’t accommodated ASAP.

And then you get these kids who have it SO good, and they have no idea. They have never been forced to walk on hot coals with their clothes on fire and a little monkey banging their head between cymbals the whole way. And Satan shoving a hot poker up your ass while Jesse James tattoos your twat and his girlfriend of the week pierces your nipples using a rusty nail.

Yeah, you ain’t never experienced pain, kids. Not till you can top that!

I’m not saying that terrorizing employees is the best way to motivate them. But there is something to be said for hiring more-mature people who work well together as a team, instead of artificially putting a team together (i.e., hiring the lowest bidders, in many cases) and hoping for the best.

I ran into one of my ex-bosses at Publix tonight. I realize I have more ex-bosses than I do ex-boyfriends. It was cool. It was a decent conversation. He hired me where I work now, so I praised him for his good taste and said I hope I hire as well as he does.

(Minus that one whose mug shot appeared in my IM a week after I let her go. That was fun. Good times. I championed her, but he was the one who picked her. We all make mistakes!)

Speaking of mistakes, I had to serve as an ATM again this morning. I made sure to tell the UEOEH that she is getting thrown out on her ass if I see anything so much as resembling cake or candy in this house with my money. The end, no questions asked. So far, I see nothing. Proof that she DOES comprehend what’s said to her! Who knew?

Downtown Miami

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Lady L and I road-tripped to Little Havana in Miami today, to try the famed Versailles’ Cuban sammiches. We also got fried plantains, cafe con leche, guava cookies and a delicious Spanish Baguette sammich (with chorizo and Manchego. Dear God, YUM).

We also spent the afternoon with her friends D and L, and their precious five-month-old daughter. Who is by far the cutest baby I have ever, ever seen.

And of course, there’s that stupid twinge that I want one. But I liked her because she’s adorable, she was quiet and cooing and ridiculously enjoyable in her stylish outfit in her bouncy chair. Toss in poopy diapers, a meltdown and the teenage years and, yeah, that kills the baby fantasy REAL quick.

So I decided I will be a foster parent. I can keep a kid during infant and toddler years. Then I can hand the kid back to its (rehabilitated) parents when it starts to need shit.

I had this long, ridiculous conversation (argument?) with the UEOEH yesterday. And I bottom-lined it that she needs to exit, stage left, pronto. I cannot even look at her anymore. I just want her gone.

I hear that a cousin is very angry with me — that I don’t take “good enough care” of my mother. The FUCK? Apparently she told my mother that had my mom gone to live with her, she would have given her access to health care and helped her get a job.

I’m like, A) WTF is she withholding said help for, and B) how soon can I put your ass on a plane?

I guess the offer expired four years ago. Apparently said cousin had asked me, casketside, if I wanted her to “take” my mom and I said no. So this is all MY fault. (God DAMN the UEOEH needs a new fucking tune to sing.)

I said, well, why does anybody need to TAKE her? Who the fuck thought that four years after my grandfather died, she’d still be sitting on her ass, watching the Food Network in my master bedroom? If I knew she would still be more dependent than an infant, fuck YEAH I would have said to banish her to the Midwest, never to be seen again. I didn’t want my cousin to be burdened … but I never DREAMED I would be, either.

Anyway, that was probably the highlight of the two-hour conversation. I seriously just can’t take another minute of this and I don’t know why she doesn’t shove the fuck off now that I have clarified (for the 40th time) that I don’t want her here.

She says that life is so short and that I will regret not being nice to my mother. I said, no, life is so short that I will regret having to waste so much time having her underfoot and not doing the things I want or enjoying my apartment because she won’t leave it.

I’m at my wits’ end on a lot of things right now. Her, first and foremost, but after enjoying the beauty and luxury of D and L’s apartment, I think luxury is what I want. No, I know it. I’m tired of struggle and annoyance and worry and waiting. I’ve done enough of each.

I think I see a clear path to the life I want. But I need to put all the distractions in check. I rediscovered my motivation. And damn it, I’m over this plateau. I’m gearing up to move up.

It’s been a busy weekend. I reconnected with some folks last night. Really had a wonderful time. It reminded me that there are some really intelligent, competent, loving and downright extraordinary people in my life. And that while I often think God is torturing me by putting all my friends in other cities, He’s done just fine by having great people right here for me.

At church tonight, Pastor John said something that I actually wrote down: “How can you be in a love relationship with someone you don’t spend time with?” It was about making time every day to hang with God, but it hit me on a variety of levels. I don’t spend the time with God that He deserves.

I was also thinking that my luck always seems to change for the better when Lady L and I are hanging out. We have “parking karma” and “seating karma” and “travel karma” and all kinds of positive events that we chalk up to having collective good karma.

When I’m with the UEOEH, the meal is always wrong, someone walks into her and dislocates her shoulder, the traffic sucks, there are no good parking spots and, well, I have to pick up the check anyway. I’d much rather pay for a great experience.

The argument with UEOEH yesterday started over her saying she was dressed and ready to go out. And my reply was my usual disinterested, “Good for you.” Which turned into her asking me if I’m embarrassed to be seen with her. (The hell?!?!) And I said, point-blank, that I can’t stand being around her and I shouldn’t have to be subjected to entertaining her on top of everything else when I hate being in the same zip code with her these days.

I don’t know. I feel like I should start focusing — really focusing — on work and travel. That’s it. Just put (and keep) the blinders on and bust my butt to afford the rewards I want.

Let’s face it, UEOEH isn’t going anywhere. I’m not going to have a warm body in my bed anytime soon. I’m not going to fit into the smallest size in my closet (that I was wearing at this time last year. Le sigh). I’ve got to just do what I know how to do … and that’s to work, and to leave. At least I’m good at something.

2010 wasn’t the year of “happy” that I expected. It was one of change, though, and that’s just fine. 2011 will be the happy year. I just have to lay the groundwork right now first.

Fairmont Pacific Rim

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

Had the best night out ever last night. I was apprehensive at first. Tried on about seven outfits. Ended up going casual with an old favorite.

(Nothing fits … diet starts again tomorrow. But first? Road trip to Little Havana with the lovely Lady L for a Cuban sammich!)

I call my friend “Lady L” because, well, her name starts with L. But I was thinking at some point, she’s also “Lady Luck” as well. Because, seriously, if you want your life to be better, don’t you hang around with people who have a great attitude and to whom great things come because of that ray of sunshine shooting out of their butt?

I’d love to say I’ve been deep in my head the past few days. But I haven’t. Clarity has struck me in a way that I never anticipated. And maybe my new glasses are just the right strength, but I’m seeing the world with 20/20 vision.

And I’m both loving it and hating it at the same time.

In quasi-related news, the UEOEH and I had a long, ugly talk yesterday. Lots of tears (from her). Lots of accusations. Lots of misperceptions and missing the point. I NEEDED our group night out last night to recover from it!

I won’t bore anyone with the details. But I will say I’m looking at a lovely dining room set. I also zeroed in on my dream car.

I decided not to enroll in our 401(k) plan at work. At least, I’m going to miss the Monday deadline. It’s my intent to enroll in January. I am going to save up for a down payment on my dream car as my Christmas present to myself.

It will be nice to have a car whose A/C works. That doesn’t lurch at red lights. That actually stops when dumbfuck pedestrians and bicyclists dart out in front of me when I’m speeding along the A1A.

I’m back to my “I don’t want to have kids” phase. I had a long talk with someone about my childhood. And I realize why it’s important to me to have freedom, privacy and, oh, cash. Never had a drop of any of it till I was into my second decade.

I want 1,200-threadcount sheets. I want to fly first class to Barcelona — and, hell, to Baltimore! I want to not fret that the car loan is going to be $60,000 simply because I have shit credit. I want to pay for Mom’s seat on the space shuttle to the moon. I want plastic surgery. I want the finest wines and cheeses that money can buy.

And that will be Enough for me.

I just hope to earn (or have access to) enough to enjoy the lifestyle to which I expect to become accustomed!

Palm at night

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

In the midst of evaluating employees, naturally I am on the list to BE evaluated. Lucky me!

My boss is after me to be tougher. She wants me to be, at work, the same Goddess I am when I start talking about my mother. That’s when all the “dipshits” and “dumbasses” and “motherfuckers” start flying out of my mouth.

THAT’S the Goddess she loves. That’s the one she wants running the first floor. And not just so that she doesn’t look like so much of the Wicked Witch in comparison to Glenda the Good Witch. (Her analogy, not mine!)

I like that we’re a team, running the division. I do like being “nice” although I see what she means — it’s draining when people don’t put forth their best effort and I’m the asshole trying to coax it out of them when I should be a LOT more bottom-line about it.

But this is good. This is the mentorship I never really got. My leadership ability came out of Jack Welch, Peter Drucker and Patrick Lencioni books, for the most part.

And all my leadership roles have had me in “doer” mode — i.e., you never really manage to improve the PROCESS because you’re so immersed in it that you can’t stop a train that’s got momentum and no functioning brakes.

So, whenever I’m being a wuss, she’s asking, “So how’s your mom?” and that unleashes the hellfire and fury of the demons.

I swear, that woman (the Ultra Extra Over Extended Houseguest) is going to be the death of me. And if she’s the reason why I go to hell instead of heaven, well, at least we’ll be in different places for eternity!!!

In the middle of the night, I found candy under my pillow. After a big argument about how she needs a dorm fridge in her room if she keeps insisting on having sweets in the house (as I am a terrible 2 a.m. snacker and fan of all things sweet). Which is why I’ve put on *mumblemumble* pounds that I’d worked SO HARD to lose.

Of course, last time I had this discussion with her, it was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The same asshole who pushed a huge piece of cake in my face last night and I flat-out told her to go to hell in response.

Now, this is the sad part. A friend of mine’s family threw her a birthday party last night. With candles and a gourmet cake and whatnot. Fuck, I don’t even think I remembered to text her “Happy Birthday.” Or maybe I did it “from” George the dog, like she texts me as my cat Kadie. (Which annoys the FUCK out of me, thanks.)

I almost felt bad that someone else’s family treats her better than I do. But they can buy her a cake; I pay her fucking rent and bills.

My boss suggested I hand her a one-way plane ticket to Pittsburgh on Dec. 31, to show I’m serious about her getting her shit together and going the fuck away from me. I’m not opposed to this idea.

Of course, it all comes down to the fact that the UEOEH is perfectly wiling to go anywhere I put her … as I’m paying for it, after all.

And that’s my problem. I don’t want to pay for it anymore.

Of course, my friends say that a paltry amount of $250 could probably rent a nice ratbag apartment in Pittsburgh.

I watch other people who only get motivated in dire situations. Pending homelessness? Yeah, time to get a job. Tired of Ramen noodles? Perhaps it’s time to work harder and get a promotion.

Most others are complacent their whole lives. I don’t know why I have this feeling of something stuck in my craw all the time — I always want to be better, I want more, I want change and I want it NOW.

Well, except when it comes to being fat. I like blaming that on my mother. Hell, I blame everything ELSE on her!

I was just telling someone that every wish I make is for her to meet a man. Even on my OWN birthday cupcake, it was “Please oh please, God, let mom meet a man and marry him ASAP.”

I don’t even wish for myself, people. And I’m as horny and as cranky as it gets. If anyone needs a man, it’s ME!

Today she was stalking me as I brewed my first cup of coffee. (Grrr.) She asked if I slept in. Uh, it’s Saturday and it’s 7:30 a.m. I’m usually in the car by now. WTF do you think?

I ignored her but of course she kept talking. Getting hints ain’t her thing.

Basically she said she was just about to come in and wake me up when I got up. (And I would have hit her with the candy I found under my pillow, I swear.)

I said why on EARTH would you wake me up? (O HAI I go to bed late on weekends, Fool.)

She was afraid I’d be late for the plans I made today.

Now, we can all go, “Awwwwww!” and think, “Goddess really IS mean!” Or we can put it into context that, at age 36, I know how to set a FUCKING ALARM.

*blood-curdling scream*

And this is why I am nice to our employees. This is why I do not hop on a plane to Baltimore and KILL the people who don’t “get it” and make me nuts with their repeated mistakes. Because I am already going to hell for the evil, evil thoughts that pervade my entire being when That Woman simply speaks. I have to be nice to SOMEBODY, yes?

And if her friends love her so much, why don’t THEY adopt her for a while? Maybe I’d remember what might have once made her lovable and maybe recover some of that feeling again.

Or I may change my phone number and move. Whichever. At least I’d like to have the option!