Caterwauling

Just to put the epitaph on the “oh God I think I’m gonna hurl if I hire this candidate” saga.

Just received this e-mail:

“I am sorry for you and (Delightful Company) that things did not work out.”

Sorry for me.

That one’s going in the Human Resources Hall of Fame. And mine!

I hear a lot about some mythical concept called “Inbox Zero.” Which, judging from the 40-odd thousand unreads in just ONE of my Gmail accounts, well, that’s not something to aspire to anytime soon.

But I read a good piece on about getting your mental inbox to zero. And that is basically to write down everything that’s been nagging at you — big and small — and ranking it in priority. And then calendaring the damn thing and DOING it.

Yesterday I put down a bunch of stuff on paper. Which, I love lists. Lists are lovely. Writing is half the battle with me.

Let’s just say I checked one of those things off my list today. I think people think I’m crazy for the decision I made. (Which I have shared with you in recent posts. No need to rehash the insanity.)

Maybe the kid did have another offer that warranted five calls this morning and two e-mails. *shrug* Honestly, I think we discount our gut feelings far too often. And I’m satisfied that I have honored mine.

Does that mean I go another year without a day off? I sure as hell hope not. But I do want to be able to continue wanting to come in each day and look forward to everything and everyone I will encounter.

So, anyway, there’s a part of me that wants to feel bad … to question myself even after playing Devil’s Advocate all weekend … to think that maybe this was supposed to be a challenge I needed to take on.

And yet, the absolute joy of not only writing down an item, but also taking it off the list with relish, trumps all.

Of course, back on the list is to do the whole miserable process all over again. But I’m OK with that. More than OK, actually. In fact, I can’t wait to go at it with fresh eyes now that the dread and fear is out of my heart.

So my candidate decided to negotiate with my voicemail all weekend.

It was kind of interesting to listen to the descent into madness. Or, more like working his steps till he finally came to the “acceptance” part.

Basically he supposes he can make it work if he gets promoted in six months and gets bonuses.

I often quote Whitney Houston in “Waiting to Exhale,” but I have to say it.

“Pretty close to resistible, Lover Man.”

First, see prior post: I Offered Someone a Job and I Regret It

So I get a voicemail on my work line, which comes to my cell phone. Now, I have told said candidate that you will not catch me at the office on a weekend. I also said, “Think about my offer over the weekend and we will speak Monday.”

So for him to leave a rambling, over-the-top voicemail on a line I am not answering — mind you, when he said he had to accept/refuse another offer by 4 p.m. Friday — cemented my nasty gut feeling that he wasn’t worth the trouble.

He said he might be able to make my numbers work (um, I gave him what he wanted) but he really needed to know the scope of the position. And he still has questions and concerns that he’d like to discuss.

I do not know how much more I can tell him. Because if paying him significantly more than the market rate for someone who actually has relevant experience isn’t enough, well I don’t have anything else to give.

You shot your wad, kid. Nice knowin’ ya.

I felt like I had the upper hand and didn’t have to give away my power. But then I did.

I had a shitty candidate pool. I fished the one decent candidate out of the bunch and I feel like the girl who just waited for SOME boy to look at her. Not the right boy.

The kid is young but very bright. Good editor. Good head on his shoulders. Not the most interesting person on earth but I thought, for having a year and a half of experience, I could mold him into something great.

And then he’s asking for my salary. Like, playing hardball with me and demanding an answer ASAP.

Homey don’t play that. I take time to make decisions. Not much time — I needed to sleep on it. But I didn’t have that. He put me on the defensive with a phantom (I think) other offer for a huge salary that frankly I think he should take.

I had just talked to my girl S and to HR about the fact that I was not attached to the outcome. I was willing to raise my offer a bit but I think he’s already out of his depth and I would feel like I am “giving” it to him rather than him earning it.

Also, some punk who was born while I was in college bossing me around on the first day of the relationship? I don’t want to continue it this way.

I did give him a final offer and told him he has the weekend. But I want to retract it.

I told my boss, before that final call, that I wanted the weekend to think about a counter offer. Me. My power. My PSYCHIC power, which I didn’t say. I wanted the night to sleep on it.

He said meet the kid halfway and be done with it, with a raise in six months.

I told the kid a raise ONLY IF he is pretty fucking exceptional.

I feel powerless and walked over and angry. And if this dumbass actually admits what I’ve felt all along — that he’s playing us — I am going to be all over his ass for the slightest thing.

I said before all of this that I would rather be alone than wish I were. No I am not a fan of the 72-hour workweeks. At all. But I like my team. The wrong person will fuck it up.

And I didn’t sleep last night. I am sick over the situation and want it undone. In the two short hours of fitful slumber I did have, I saw myself walking out because I could see him aligning with the boss and making my life hell.

I am so angry. I did not want to be pushed into making a rush offer. And I was. I let myself be. This kid isn’t worth it. He really isn’t.

Is it the money? Partly. I wasn’t making that salary till I was like 32. But moreover, these people won’t let me put mom on our health insurance — and I work my ass off for them — but this fucking kid out of nowhere rates? I mean yes I made the offer.

But goddamn it what is in it for me, other than finally getting help from someone I think is only interested in helping himself?

So the weekend work rush (and today’s) was all to support something scheduled for tomorrow morning that, IMHO, should never have been scheduled for tomorrow morning.

I got my final piece of the puzzle done at 5:35 p.m. today.

And everyone who can put that puzzle piece into place … left for the day.

And this is the “oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit” moment over a deadline that was almost impossible for me to hit.

But I hit it. It just hit back.

I have an interview tomorrow. No, not for a new job. But for a helper. And I have no time to prepare because OH HEY there’s more to do that didn’t get done thanks to this crazy deadline.

HR sent me a candidate. They just hired a girl for another division and her boyfriend wants a job here. At least he’d be willing to make the commute.

But MAN the girl is a fucking BITCH to walk past. I’ve tried to say hello to her at least six times. She just ignores me. Not that I wanted to hire her stupid boyfriend anyway (what with divisional secrets and all — no need to have them comparing notes).

But man, TRY to be nice to the hiring managers on staff, eh?

Mom’s been getting sicker and weaker (and yet we just got turned down for Medicaid for her again this week. I’m about ready to say her name is Consuela on our next application and see what happens).

So I’ve been picking up some slack around this glorious dump. This after working an awful lot. And after spending Good Friday and Easter working instead of hanging out with her.

Which, I hated to do, because when it has come to my family over the years, you never know which holiday is going to be their last.

The other day, she said, “You work so hard for us.”

And she cried.

She feels so bad that everything falls on me. I count my blessings that I still have most of my health and about half of my spirit left.

And I have my momma. For which I thank God multiple times a day.

I know all the preachers say we can’t tell God what to do, nor beg Him to help us. But rather to be grateful for what we have and especially grateful for what we cannot see.

Doesn’t stop me from arguing with God about my momma’s health and the lack of means to get it fixed. And even when I try the “Thank You for the miracles you’re working in my momma,” I don’t really get any results that way either.

I know you’re supposed to detach yourself from all outcomes, but I can’t. I have to work like a mule to keep the financial ship (there and here) afloat. I just really and truly hope that all this butt-busting and not, say, spending time with my mom can pay off for us.

She understands. I’m glad somebody does. Because I will wrestle with it till my dying day, no doubt.

Riddle me this …

Finding out that one of your friends who only works 40 hours a week (to your 70. Ish. And working Good Friday and Easter Sunday because other people must think you just sit around looking cute during those other 70 hours) …

Who commutes 15 minutes to his job (to your 45 each way) …

And who otherwise has it all AND makes more money than you (no comment) …

And HE is the one looking for a new job!?!?!

Is that a yam crammed into my mouth or am I just happy to see you?

There was a moment on this week’s episode of “Grey’s Anatomy” that will live in my head for quite some time.

Our beloved Miranda Bailey, constantly trapped at her computer to stare at boring research about genomes that kept her out of the operating room she loves so much, got pulled into a surgery she didn’t have time to perform.

(Insert “staring at numbers” and “doing the writing she loves so much,” and guess who we’re talking about.)

Meanwhile I’ve been cursing a writing project in very much the same way.

The surgery gave Bailey a brilliant breakthrough idea that would catapult her research from the point where she was stuck.

I … haven’t quite gotten that inspiration.

Writing has become that thing I used to do. Like a high school football or cheerleading star looks back after 20 or 40 years and fondly recalls when it all seemed so important and yet so effortless with the benefit of youth on our side.

I tried to think about my book characters for the series I started writing 25 years ago. And I wondered if I should just have a mental funeral for them. I have come to hate writing that much.

But I’m not sure how to define myself without it. In fact, I’m not certain how to define myself at all these days.

I think of my mom and what makes her special. She will always say that I was the best thing she ever did with her life. I imagine most parents feel that way. What makes my mom special is that she makes everything more-beautiful.

She’s artistic and creative and kind and caring. She can match a shade of blue bought in a dress in Pittsburgh with the perfect matching blue shoes in Virginia and a blue hair accessory found on a random trip to the Florida Keys.

She can, for under $35, pull together an entire house in lime greens and magentas and purples and turquoises to make it look like an Easter spread from a high-end magazine.

She can, after everyone else has tried to trample my soul, reinflate it with a, “Well, you’re happy inside and they aren’t. And you look skinny, too. Fuck everyone else.”

And so on.

But I’m the only one who sees all that.

And I wonder if, whatever makes me special — whatever that is — will ever be visible to anyone but my mom and my cat. And whether I’ll have my Bailey-like inspiration and finally, finally do something the world is going to appreciate.

Maybe I just need to stop caring about what the world thinks. And that will be the jumping-off point I’ve missed up till now …