Junk in my trunk. And other basket case stuff

February 10th, 2018, 7:13 PM by Goddess

Ever since I gave my resignation, I have had a series of talks with the company owner.

Usually I’m just pleasant and agreeable. I raise the occasional objection and deal with it when he counters it. After all, that’s sort of what he does for a living — helps potential customers overcome their potential objections to spending money with us.

But these days, I am brutally honest. I have held exactly nothing back. I quit for many reasons. I was very happy to leave without explaining any of them. But he wants to know what’s broken … what got me to the point where I said “enough.”

He says he’s seen my value — he hopes not too late. And he can’t fix the past but he can make the present and future right.

I don’t know what I believe at this point. I believe he wants to pay me what I’m worth and I believe I’d like to be paid what I’m worth.

But this is the girl who literally has a coffee cup and a box of Tampax at her desk … and nothing else.

All my office supplies are in my trunk. I need scissors? To the parking lot. Done with that tape? Back to the vehicle. I don’t take lunches. Walking to the car is my therapy.

Look, I told him. I’m scarred. A basket case. It’s been a tremendously bad year.

He wants to understand. I tell him everything. Most people, after hearing it, had NO IDEA.

To sum up 2017, just with a 30,000-foot employment overview:

January-March — Still smarting from the rigged election. Hating the Trumpian boss (boastful, bullying, inflated sense of importance and rightness) for always treating me like garbage. Job-hunting. And noticing he was even more absent than usual. Like, office-cleaned-out absent after not exactly showing up for our daily 10:30 “ediotrial” (gaaah) meetings but always showing up for his daily 8:30 “monring” call (gaaahhhhh) brag/lie sessions. Like, I came to find out now that included lying about how well we were doing financially. Meanwhile, the cash cow in the main company died unexpectedly, so the worrying about the finances began in earnest.

April-June — Rejoicing that the boss officially quit instead of just claiming he had to stay home because of “contractors” on his brand-new, custom-built house anyway. (Maybe hoping to catch the wife in a nap to retrieve his balls from her purse.) Then dying a thousand deaths as the company imploded our beloved department and shuttered our satellite office. My commute increased fivefold and so did my frustration. I got a job offer paying more, but the guy was even crazier than the crazy I had just started getting acclimated to. So, Stockholm syndrome kicked in and I stayed.

July-October — My patience was rewarded quickly as my useless new boss (even worse than the last) who made $50K more than me and who worked about 11 minutes a day got tossed. Fucker wouldn’t do ANYTHING other than take hour-and-20-minute lunches. I got promoted. And got only $5k more. (Don’t get me started on the worse discrepancy from the department before that.) Then most of my new staff got laid off, one by one. My new publisher had the same taste for blood as the one I worked for at the company that booted me in 2010. Luckily, I was safe. For now.

November-January — I celebrated my anniversary Nov. 7. Nov. 8, I was told I’d be laid off on Nov. 30. Landlord tried to evict me and changed his mind. Car crapped out on 95 on top of it all. What a week! Applied for a bunch of jobs, even tried groveling at the place I shot down in the summer. (Hah.) Then I was invited to stay till Dec. 29. Then that turned into Jan. 5. Then Feb. 1. Then “Hey you know what? Don’t leave. Like, ever. But we gave your title away to someone who makes more than your old boss and who works even less. So just keep doing ALL THE WORK and oh hey BY THE WAY, we are destroying our old systems and you have to learn all new ones. Oh and all the old shit is going to break and drive you to the point of insanity. But we’re moving too far ahead, too fast, to fix it. Oh and hey THE WEBSITE IS GONNA GET HACKED TOO but no one will involve you pre-launch so of course you won’t be able to prevent it because nobody ASKS you what the risks (LIKE THAT) are. Oh and yeah we’re not even going to try to pretend your replacement can find his ass with both hands; just keep being his secretary. OH and WHY AREN’T YOU DOING THAT NEW JOB WE INVITED YOU TO STAY TO DO, TOO?!

February — I finally get brave enough to let everyone know that I accepted another job on Jan. 19. Owner finally has his “oh shit” moment. Realizes how much I have been doing not just the last two months, but the last six years. Everyone’s guard is down and they say well we know you loved your old boss and I’m like well, not quite. And they are like damn, how classy were you not to tell us the truth like how much you did to keep it afloat. So, hey, stay and do the same here? Small raise good? I’m like PASS because fair market rate is THIS. They’re like cool. Oh hey you can have that and more staff, sound good? And I go into INSANE INNER TURMOIL because I have a great offer I accepted but DAMN the number I always wanted is now MINE ALL MINE IF I REJECT THE JOB I HAVE BEEN PREPARING TO TAKE. Christ fucking kill me how much alcohol can a girl drink to cope?

I mean it’s good to be me. It’s fucking GREAT to be me. I just know that if I leave, I will be like well this is nice but I AM STILL BROKE. And if I stay it will be like JESUS CHRIST I AM KEEPING MY SHIT IN MY TRUNK BECAUSE YOU PEOPLE ARE STILL CRAY AND ALL MY FRIENDS QUIT AND ALL MY RAISE GOES TO TOTAL WINE GAAAHHH FUCK THIS SHIT.

Honestly I wouldn’t even be so torn if not for all the gossip I’ve gotten about LVP. Karma is only a bitch if you are, is all we’re sayin’.

Anyway, when I was little, my grandmother told me it’s just as easy to marry a rich man as it is a poor boy. Pick the rich man.

And after I told the owner that my biggest career regret was leaving Ye Olde Employment Establishment, he said, “I’m trying to prevent you from making that mistake again,’ I wonder — is this divine intervention, or is the universe fucking with me?

I mean, if I get wiped off the planet because dipshit in the Oval Office pisses off the North Korean nutcake, where would I rather be working? Would I rather be happy or have my bills paid? Or would I be happy at either? Or both?

I know I’m lucky. And this is my last day/weekend of being so fortunate to be loved and wanted. Monday, I’ll be a basket case (even more so) and furious at whomever I DID end up picking.

I mean, I already picked. “Should I stay or should I go?” was resolved Jan. 19 when I officially said OMG GO, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST.

But doing otherwise would be selling my soul. Telling the Carpathia, “Nope, just gonna hang onto Jack here in the ocean. Thanks for offering me a lift!”

My smart HR-type friend who is fresh out of fucks told me to turn off my phone. Silence the well-meaning friends and also those who don’t want me to do better. And drink a full bottle of wine. If the answer doesn’t appear to me after that, drink another.

God I love this woman.

I’m already done with one bottle. Go, go, go — my mind tells me.

My bank account says, “Fuck it. Stay and save up. Even if you get tossed, you’ll have a bigger slush fund.”

My heart says, “You do love you some drama. New guy? None. You’ll love it and be productive and get done at 3:30 every Friday and have time to spend with your momma.”

My brain says, “You stay and your ass is on fire three out of five days. Your inbox will have 47 new messages every morning with brand-new on-fire projects that you will be expected to execute THAT DAY oh and hey, your Fridays will continue to be fucked FOR LIFE.”

My bank account says, “Christ, isn’t it that way already? TAKE THE DEAL.”

My soul says, “You saw your new, clean, cute office today. Your heart jumped when you thought, this is where I should be on March 1. This is where I PROMISED to be March 1. OMG WILL I BE HERE MARCH 1 BECAUSE I ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT HERE AND CAN’T WAIT TO UNLOAD MY TRUNK HERE.”

Will I ever unload my trunk or will I always be ready to quit or be fired? “Volunteered or volun-told,” my dear friend always says. At this joint, your resignation is either/or. Right now, it’s volunteered. In three months when they find someone else cheaper with far less to complain about, I could be volun-told to leave.

Or I might inherit the whole damn empire when the guy retires next year.

GAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT WOULD YOU DO?!?!!!!!!?



Same old, same old (auld lang syne)

January 1st, 2018, 3:25 PM by Goddess

Welp. After buying and losing tons of food, I was just told that I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place.

That it wasn’t my place to try to figure out what to buy. Which I did when nobody gave me a list because their memory is so bad from all the body pain that they can’t remember how to cook.

That’s why I didn’t get my lasagna (Gram’s recipe) or my orange cookies (my grandfather’s mom’s recipe) as requested.

And don’t get me fucking started on all the vegetables that have gone bad that I bought as side dishes for Christmas that never got cooked because GOD FORBID I went to spend three fucking hours with a colleage’s family who said come over for a slice of ham and a board game.

I asked for precious little this year. That was it. I begged for three months for these two things. And then I threw out the yucky ground beef (and I don’t eat beef anyway on a normal day), expired ricotta and jacked-up oranges that have been here seemingly since time began.

OH YEAH. And I bought a brand-new orange juicer at her request. Granted it was cheap. But still. I bring home the bacon and the damn contraption to make it with.

I mean, it’s not like she gets out to buy gifts. But this was the real wake-up call that her mind is really going.

And it’s not like I learned how to cook from her. I mean, I used to cook when I lived on my own. I even knew the recipes. But she’s also not a nice person in the kitchen.

I remember her throwing a box of Band-Aids not just at my head — but another at my grandmother’s, as she lay in her hospital bed in the living/dining room — when she got pissed off at us for breathing.

Since then, it’s not like I’ve tried to hang around in the kitchen and get the secrets to why her bacon-wrapped scallops are like the best thing EVER in this whole entire universe.

I’ve begged for years, write me a recipe book. I want to make my Great-Grandmother Anastasia’s Polish recipes. My other Great-Grandmother Jesse’s French recipes. My Grandmother Rose’s Italian recipes.

I already know I can buy all our traditional Jewish stuff at the local deli. And I can fake the Feast of the Seven Fishes just by raiding the local Publix and Costco meat counters.

But I can’t even spell half the things I grew up eating at Christmas and New Year’s. (Pierogi. And Paczki for Easter. Well that and Shit on the Shingles the rest of the year.)

Clearly, I don’t ever want to eat Shit on the Shingles again for as long as I live …

But it’s real hard to make the same “No Bullshit (insert year)” resolutions when that is EXACTLY what is emanating from the kitchen over the cajun pork tenderloin I picked up on a whim (hey! We are actually going to eat that!) and sauerkraut that I really want to know how to make but, really, what is the point when it might as well join the Halushki recipe that’s been lost to the ages.

I know I am going to regret these rage-filled posts. But if it keeps my trap shut and prevents a fight, I’m all about beating the shit out of my keyboard instead.

(Also, neighbors kept us up till 6 a.m. with what sounded like roller-skating across the ceiling, and Electronic Dance Music blaring. I fucking hope they die. Choke on a dick, you miserable fucks.)

Christ, I feel like a husband. Maybe I should find a good wife instead of looking for a man. One who has the Italian, French and Polish heritage who can feed my fat ass well.



This is what my limit looks like

October 29th, 2017, 5:52 PM by Goddess

Got screwed for the third time at a favorite restaurant today.

Three visits in a row now, I’ve not been able to eat at the same time as my friend or mom. Always have to send someone’s food back to be redone.

The thing is, the food is always great when it’s fixed. The managers are fantastic, and totally make up for the sucky server and/or cook. Two out of the three visits, I got my meal comped.

The thing is, it’s like any job. If the corporate equivalent of servers and cooks can’t get it right — and the manager ends up doing everything anyway — why do you need “help”?

I’m already at my wits’ end about so many things. Is it so much to expect that when I order grilled salmon, the fucking thing touches some fire at some point and isn’t oozing its innards all over my plate?

Maybe I’m just annoyed because it’s Sunday night and I have work to do that I would like to be done right. Without 75 questions that require more effort than tackling the project itself. Without “well I never did this before” from someone who’s been there exactly a year and a half LONGER than me and I KNOW my/our old boss didn’t do jack shit so SOMEONE had to do it.

And I have a sneaking suspicion I have to cancel next weekend’s plans. Unrelated but equally infuriating. Especially since I’ve spent money I guess I can’t afford anymore to make it happen because my landlord is putting me on the street AT CHRISTMAS.



Oh just ask me how my day was, thanks

October 7th, 2017, 10:32 AM by Goddess

“Christ, what an embarrassment.”

That’s what Mom texted last night after I explained why I would be late. Because I had to apologize to one of my editors because my team’s utter inability to publish a four-sentence alert in less than an hour and a half. And the only reason it went out at all was because I had to pull rank and say get it together, for crying out loud. (I was informed it could go out Monday. Um, who has the fucking title and makes that kind of decision? Me. Get it the fuck out now, Sparky. Every goddamned thing cannot be a big-ass FIGHT.)

I give up. I really do. This one person is making a mockery of all of us. And I guarantee his job is safer than mine.

He has this grudge against this particular editor. An editor who TRIED TO GET ME FIRED four jobs ago when we worked at the same company before. Hell, even I don’t have a grudge against the man. He seems to forget, and I’m committed to doing the same.

Sure he’s not the most riveting writer. Or especially accurate with certain details. And it is difficult to turn his stuff around super-quickly sometimes. But Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, the man is VERY good at the thing we hired him for. Be good to him, OK?

Hell, I even offered to do this project because I happen to be fast and accurate. But nooo, his self-appointed keeper wouldn’t let anyone near it as usual. I even had to ask him, what is your obsession with this guy? I think I need to separate you.

My mood keeps alternating between furious and more-furious. It’s like when I had The Kid as my problem. This one is more useful, granted. But my department has been the one targeted for cuts all year. If by some grace of God I am not the next target and can help choose the target, well. I won’t pick anyone who helps me look good. That’s for sure.



I heard a rumor …

September 27th, 2017, 10:20 AM by Goddess

That someone in my recent past may want to come back.

They didn’t call me, of course.

In fact, I didn’t even hear their voice for a long, long time. Till today.

My immediate response was terror. I don’t know why. They can’t hurt me anymore.

But they can’t help or comfort or amuse or reassure me anymore, either. That feeling washed over me too.

I was also hoping they were happy. Or, at least, done coming off as somewhat gleeful at the havoc they wreaked, and actually happy with their decision.

So if they really want to come back, at least I’ve already gone through my stages of grief and can have a normal, human reaction in person.