Caterwauling

Went to meditation last night at a place that pumps salt through the air. My skin was perfectly flawless and my sinuses were clear … till I got home and my body went to hell like usual from the “construction” fumes. (By construction, I mean “one guy and a bag of concrete to repair a neglected 100-unit building by the sea.” Hah.)

My teacher always asks us to set an intention at the start of the session and then to revisit it before we close.

Last time I asked for peace. This time I asked for joy.

And maybe it was the salt haze but I had a very interesting discussion with my Higher Self about that joy.

As a nice finishing touch to each session, my teacher drops an Earth Oracle card at our feet before we “awaken.” This time mine was Fire.

Which, whoa.

I always struggle with my career. I mean, struggle to the point of “I don’t want to work anymore” struggle. Like, find a way to make baskets on the beach with palm leaves rather than put on another pair of pantyhose and have another rambling meeting ever again. I am so burned out on everything that I don’t want to do anything. Ever. Again. Anymore. Ever. Never. Ever. Never.

The irony here was that my Higher Self told me to shut up already and find whatever sparks some passion in me again. And that if I’m not going to find it in an office, go get a side job in something that makes me use my brain again.

Find your fire again, my Higher Self said. No one else will give you back your joy.

So to awaken with the Fire / Passion Earth Magic Oracle card at my feet, well, whoa.

Awaken, indeed.

In a world where everyone is discouraged from/punished for daring to explore whether something else could or couldn’t be better fit …

The Spreading Sclerosis of the Non-Compete Agreement

Tim Fernholz on how non-compete agreements are gaining a chokehold on American business. “Economists think that innovation can be spurred by having lots of firms in the same skilled industry working near each other; as workers move from firm to firm and mix with new people, new ideas and firms are created. Non-competes limit their ability to do that—in fact, California law makes most non-compete agreements unenforceable, and other research found that Silicon Valley has an unusually high level of inter-firm mobility for workers.”

I’m watching my idol Hillary Clinton on Diane Sawyer. In awe. And crying as hard as I did the day I stood in the presence of her greatness in the National Building Museum as she conceded the nomination to our now-current president.

Hillary hasn’t declared her candidacy for president yet (and why should she — back in the day you only had to campaign for eight months, not two years). Even though all of us who donate to her PAC have no one else we can even dream of supporting at this juncture.

What if she doesn’t run? I wouldn’t blame her one bit. A girl can only handle so much heartache in one lifetime. But if we miss out on someone extraordinary (again), I genuinely don’t think I would be able to forgive humanity. I really don’t.

I’m into hour 2.5 of a root canal. Everyone likes me here. They said I’m the only patient who immediately put on CNBC and settled in for a great afternoon.

I came in with a smile, happy to be here. They said no one is happy to be here. I said I have health insurance and this is as close to a vacation as I ever get. Drill away!

Isn’t it sad that I don’t have time to watch the news any other day? If I manage to see what’s happening in my industry, I have to take that as gospel. Ironic that the only way to open my mind is for a hole to have to appear in my skull …

Perhaps the most fun part of being in excruciating pain has been my inability to sleep. I hope I managed to burn a lot of calories walking the house at all hours.

This is the kind of pain my mom is in every single day of her life. But worse, because it’s multiple teeth, and it’s her back, her legs, her heart, her brain … everything.

And yet, I barely hear a complaint out of her.

She’s a fuckin’ badass, man. Of course, I wish she would complain more so I would be able to prioritize her better.

When you have an exposed nerve in your mouth, and people spend two weeks DANCING ON IT, you really learn your limits.

Which explains why my most-texted phrase in response to “How are you?” is “I WILL KILL THEM ALL.”

Friday Yucko McFucko bothered me twice and I ignored him twice. Finally he tried again and I was like, “Do you NEED SOMETHING?” He said, “I was just checking in.” I said, “Well you have checked in. Anything else?”

My luck he still hasn’t gotten the hint. But Jesus, when you’ve already used up all your “nice” on everybody else and not yourself, what’s left?

I remember when I wanted to break into this field 10 years ago. I would drive out of my way (and boy was it out of my way) to park in the lot of the company I wanted to work at, and envision myself going to work there every day.

I did the same with my current gig. Funny, all the similarities, good and bad.

I gotta aim for something a lot more pleasurable, man. And easier.

They say the grass is always greener on the other side of the hedge. And I’ve never seen that more true since the other side of the company put a brand-new employee on the other side of the hedge from me.

Only, my side is the one that’s WAY prettier.

JESUS CHRIST THAT GUY HAS A LOT OF CONFERENCE CALLS.

Don’t get me wrong. One call a day is too many for me. But it sounds like there are 12 people on each call and that fucker is on the phone all goddamned day.

The best conclusion I can draw is it takes his team 35 people to do the same work that myself, the marketing head and the copy chief achieve for our entire division.

I have this guy I thought I got rid of. It’s been a gloriously silent two months.

Then, he resurfaced. Eight times in two days.

I made the mistake of not launching a missile toward his house.

He said to me, “Time just FLIES when we’re talking!”

I said, “For whom?”

He thinks I’m hilarious.

I call him Yucko McFucko. Because I get such a colossal HUZ when he’s on the prowl.

Maybe I’m no prize either. But damn. Is it so wrong that I’m holding out for my Chip Esten … or Jon Bon Jovi … or Kip Winger … or an adventure as the creamy center in a Jake Owen/Luke Bryan sammich?

One of my boys asked me yesterday how three of my other boys — the Peaches — met.

It dawned on me quickly that if just one of them had missed a plane … or had to run back to their hotel … or stopped to talk to someone else … these people would never have decided to start up a band, shall we say, and thus to arrive as a big box of peaches on our doorstep.

No head peach, no sweet peach and certainly no Angry Orchard.

While we all agree that their arrival in our lives was for the better (about 51% of the time), I can’t help but think about how blissfully uneventful things could be sometimes.

“Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around
Can’t bear to face the truth
So sick he cannot move
And when it hurts he takes it out on you.”

— Garbage, “The Trick is to Keep Breathing”