Caterwauling

It was a day of firsts, that’s all I’ve got to say.

I miss the years of proper journaling where I could go into tantalizing, excruciating, bodice-ripping detail.

And now, I maybe vaguely mention something in passing and, years down the road, I don’t know who said or did it or, hell, who they even were.

Today was Peachy (bad), salty (good) and all-around “Did that just happen?” in every way possible.

And I may not like Peaches too well right now, but I enjoyed this day very much other than that. Very much.

I have no problem staying up past midnight doing fun things and having late-night talks with my favorite people.

But man, when you WORK till midnight (three times in the past week), the next morning is worse than a Jose Cuervo hangover.

Granted, last night I didn’t even start working till about 8 p.m. But still. I imagine I’d be less cranky if I were getting ahead of schedule instead of desperately just trying to catch up.

I lay awake most of the night, kicking myself for opening the Pandora’s box otherwise known as where I store my old journals.

I guess I was looking for some overlooked clue that would have made me happy, instead of a blow-by-blow documentation of the rise and fall of young would-be love.

But looking through all those years, wow, do I see how I became a more-intense version of who I was.

I used to love with all my heart … and shout it from the rooftops to the person who needed to hear it. And I fell on my face every damn time.

It was when I started to become elusive, to keep my sordid fantasies to myself, to be a tease and be detached and cool, when the boys started flocking to me. And staying.

Holy shit, what really gets me is how I named a bunch of them. People I’ve forgotten. People I, for the most part, cannot remember.

Had I not immortalize them, their existence might not have mattered to the universe.

It isn’t just matters of the heart. I chronicled all my jobs too. And I see where my absolute madness comes from.

I remember those shit jobs, where I was making stupid things out of construction paper and glue while sitting on personal calls all day because I had nothing better to do. I remember wondering who put those idiots in charge. I remember looking forward to the day when I would HAVE those jobs.

It’s funny. I look at the Millennial generation now and think they are a bunch of smug, self-entitled assholes. I don’t think that was me, though. I just wanted the chance to prove myself. And I fought for it everywhere. You didn’t have to hand me shit. And now, I would be dazzled if I met someone just like me.

In any event, I have thinking to do that I can’t type out here. But I am grateful for anyone who is listening. I think a lot of people would be surprised at what I remember about them — good, bad and everything in between. And how every last word and experience shaped who I am today.

Funny thing about keeping a journal since high school.

You can go back and figure out the exact day your mind started rewriting history.

I remember the doe-eyed girl with the hopeless crush. I’d forgotten the hurt. Oh boy is it there.

But my resilience by sheer force of will … Damn. The 19-year-old version of me was pretty kickass.

I need to process this. Because, reasons.

My most-oft uttered phrase today: OFMFGS

Oh for motherfucking God’s sake …

What I don’t do to make this shit look effortless.

It occurred to me today that it is killing my charge that I am such a Total Badass that it will be impossible to measure up.

But I think said individual is willing to die trying.

And that’s the warrior soul I was hoping to see a little sooner/more often.

That and shit really is too fucking hard around these parts …

In the aftermath of it being Boss’ Day yesterday for the second time this year, I have a revelation.

I suddenly understand why bosses dress up when they don’t have to … have an office with a door even in a collaborative environment … and work from home at every available opportunity.

It is truly the only way to instill some fear and awe into people to shock them into realizing you are not amused and you are not their friend and your expectations shouldn’t have to be revised downward every quarter like the earnings guidance of a crap company.

My charge made my heart swell yesterday when I was rattling off my to-do list … of things “I” had to do. He stopped me and said, “It’s not you anymore. We are a ‘we’ now.”

Which is the only reason why, on Day 7-ish of training on the same process and it was still a three-hour disaster, the body count is still below 1.

Of course, I LOL’d because, no, it’s all on me. Believe me, I hate it that it has to be that way. I WANT to share the love without it adding three hours into the middle of every day. And “I’d rather be alone than wish I were” is still my favorite phrase in love and work.

Ask me how much training (one day) I got on this process. Ask me how long it took me to train someone else (two days).

Ask me how many times I wonder whether I should have just hired the asshole bully kid with the cheap suit and the entitlement issue who actually knew his shit.

Look, I’d rather have the guy who has my back. I know this. But someone made a comment yesterday that this person “helps Goddess to be Goddess” and it clicked …

The Pygmalion Effect

See, we all focus on each other’s flaws and shortcomings and inabilities. I mean, when you’re Perfect in Every Way (*gag*) yourself, it’s no wonder, really.

The Pygmalion Effect is basically the non-Bible translation of “speaking favor” over someone — saying something as though it were already true.

So every day when I say my prayers (generally in my POS car when I’m thanking God for my mom, my job … and for them and the car not blowing up on me), I realize I do a bit of praying to Pygmalion anyway.

I thank God for perfect health and perfect love, for saying the right things, for being able to swiftly react to idiot drivers, to being amazing and attracting amazing people.

Speaking favor over oneself, essentially. Assume it will happen and be grateful in advance.

So I’m going to thank the heavens for someone who worships the Goddess as she deserves. (Which, I do think we have that.) I will also thank God for the learning sensors to fire on all cylinders. And for the ability to work from home where no one can hear my reactions in the meantime.

Ah, “Fifty First Dates.” I’d want a divorce if they weren’t so nice.

Someone else got the pleasure of experiencing that today. The moment in their head, no doubt of, “You had ONE JOB.” And … not the right result.

My “someone else,” though, is a better person than me and he said that the new result would probably be EVEN BETTER.

I have to hand that man an award. Not an Academy Award for acting, which I DESERVE SO MUCH. But for being so good at making everyone feel smart.

Of course he got it once. I get it way more often. And after a while, it starts to hurt.

My emotions are all over the place today.

I hugged Mom goodbye this morning and got that same horrible, horrible feeling I got when I saw my grandparents alive for what would be one of the last times.

She called me on the way to work today — and she does NOT like me talking on the phone and driving. So, it has to be An Occasion for that to happen.

I admit, for the past two years, every time the phone rings and I see “Momma” on the screen, I am terrified it will be a goodbye because her body can’t take the sickness anymore.

She was mostly fine today. I told her my fear and she said with her dizzy spells and heart and brain attacks, she won’t be able to figure out how the phone works. She can barely do that when she has control of her senses.

The feeling I got earlier, though, was confirmed by one of my boys from afar who said he just lost his grandfather. I love that he thought enough to tell me. I love that he just got back home and could be there in his final hours and to support his beloved parents.

His mom is sickly, too. We bond over that. I’m his younger, healthier mom-type person. But we know, there ain’t nothing like the real thing.

I posted an article on Faceypages yesterday about some tech companies now paying for women to store their eggs — encouraging them to focus on their career and delay the mommmyhood track.

Hell I did that thanks to the Pill and a whole lot of luck. 🙂 But I was telling Mom, even if I’d frozen my eggs, when the fuck would I have time off for good behavior to have a kid?

We’d be scrambling those eggs — my Momma, for saying she won’t eat breakfast food, makes some pretty kickass breakfasts for me.

OK, ew. 🙂

In any event, her one regret in life (and she has thousands, don’t get me wrong) is that she may not live to see me have a kid. Which, I told her if that’s what she’s hanging on for, she’s going to around forever.

That’s the thing. I couldn’t do it without her. Not just as an emotional support but OH MY GOD the free babysitting so I can work my schedule and do my other things I just can’t let go of.

This is all making me just a little weepy today. I mean, I wouldn’t trade my life because I know it could get worse as much as it could get better.

But as I keep hearing about people getting health coverage just because they happen to work even if they’re not good at anything, and people getting healthcare simply because they married someone with it, I’m a little bit annoyed that my momma — who is my full-time CHAMPION — gets zip for her trouble.

One of my sub-roles as concierge/fluffer/ninja/warrior princess/terrorist/fluffer includes editing.

Which is always done before and after everyone else’s normal work hours.

Yesterday I got something done in two hours. Which, considering that prose does not arrive as perfectly as anyone might believe, IS A RECORD, PEOPLE.

And instead of, “Oh Goddess. We bow before your brilliance,” it was more, “Yeah that shouldn’t take that long.”

Instead of answering, I consulted a fellow wounded warrior.

Goddess: How would you spell/capitalize the sound that emanates from your body if someone asks you “Why does it take so long to edit XX?”

Pal: It would be one of those symbols you can’t pronounce, like when Prince changed his name.

Goddess: She wore a Raspberry Beret — and pulled it down over her face and tied it at the neck till she deprived herself of oxygen.

Pal: I think XX does that when s/he sits down to write.

I love the time before 8 a.m.-ish when I am in the office by myself.

It gives me hope that everyone else will call off and just leave me to play by myself. No meetings, no demands other than the ones I’ve placed upon myself, no looks/comments/questions I have to either interpret or not react (too visibly) to.

It’s the time when I know what needs to be done … before the onslaught of surprises hits me like a freight train and derails my plans.

It’s when I anticipate the pleasant surprises, too, that pop up throughout the day. And when the day is still full of the promise of becoming the best day ever.

Hell, at this hour, it starts off as the best day ever. May it continue for as long as it can …