Caterwauling

Had a salad at the mall with one of my boys, as is our Wednesday tradition.

We figure it’s a good supervisory session. We sure talk about the thing our jobs revolve around an awful lot. And it’s nice to do so as we power-walk and wind up in Starbucks for our afternoon java.

Today he asked what my title is. I mean, he knows it’s “his boss.” “But what does that mean to them?” he wanted to know.

He’s not trying to be anything other than curious. Because my boss and my boss’ boss called a meeting with him this afternoon. Why am I not a part of it?

If it were anywhere else, I’d wonder and worry and lobby to be in with the in crowd. But here, if I’m not babysitting everything else, someone would start playing with matches and burn the place down.

When I got the title, it was basically, “Just keep doing everything you’ve been doing for the past six years.” You know, under a lesser title.

I mean it about the babysitting though. I told him a string of six stories from today alone — from having to tell someone that you cannot spell it “thrown” in print when it’s what a king sits on, and that you should know how many newsletters Guy XYZ writes, and that if I ask you to do something and you ignore me without giving me a reason why you don’t think it’s a good idea, you don’t get to be mad when I assume you just don’t read your emails in full — and he was like wow.

As in, wow — all those ideas in your head and brainpower and knowledge and HISTORY … sitting idle.

Yeah I’m not going to take over the world at this rate. But at least the poop and throw-up I clean up is mostly metaphorical. And it beats doing it all by myself. And when the time comes that that changes, I am pretty sure I have the power to make that happen.

Today marks six years of my captivity, officially.

The first day of this month marked six months in the current incarnation of said captivity.

Ran into an old friend on Saturday, from my earliest days. He has a job he loves and an offer pending that came in out of the blue, and at a higher salary.

Good choice to have. Not a Sophie’s Choice, like I tend to attract.

I was thinking about how happy he looked, as sickness from too much “peopling” washed over me as thick as the dread at the daily peopling I didn’t miss at all Friday and Monday.

And then one of my truly favorite people on this earth paid me a visit.

And then another came in, armed with fresh macarons from Paris for his favorite editor.

It’s probably safe to say today has peaked.

Otherwise, I can’t escape today because I lost my stupid pass to get in and out of Fort Hard Knocks. And I am due for a visit from the fashion police lieutenant.

But I’ll be OK.

At least a couple people have my six, and I have theirs. And today, that is enough.

In my head, I’ve written a flurry of furious blog posts. In reality, meh.

Today I prefer to think about last night’s dream, in which I found the ever-elusive unicorn — a man I am attracted to.

Maybe it was Meghan McCain announcing her engagement, as crudely and obnoxiously as anything delivered out of her stupid mouth. I thought she was gay. (I still think that.)

As for me, I’ve been feeling pretty asexual this past decade or so. So, good to know there’s still something stirring down there in the ol’ beaver moon. (That’s tonight, dontcha know.)

In any event, he was rich. Tall. Had an awesome butt. Never quite knew myself to be a butt girl. But I was grabbing it in the dream and rather enjoying it. He had a mansion by the beach. And long hair. Helloooooo gorgeous!

Of course, as dreams do, they serve up the uncomfortable. He was a private citizen. Sheltered. Wasn’t used to going out in public because he and his family were regarded as royalty. So anytime we went out in public, we had to be “appropriate.”

Which, I’m not exactly a PDA fan anyway. But damn. Put restrictions on my behavior and I’m going to rebel. Especially with someone that damn hot.

I got sick of it all in the end. Being around other people did me in. I wanted to introduce him to my world, and he was so happy to be in it. But I needed a break. Not a long one, but definitely a day to myself.

And I wondered if I will always be this way — ready to bolt at the first sign of anything real.

I guess I always thought if I found something right, I wouldn’t want to bolt at all. This worried me long after I awakened.

In any event, doesn’t this beat hearing about how I got bullied into a sham of a Halloween costume contest and made an enemy as I squirmed out of it? (And why is squirming/bolting somehow the theme that holds my life pieces together?)

Today marks six months of my captivity.

A girl reminded me of a conversation we had on my first day …

Me: “Nice to see you. How are you?”

Her: “Living the dream.”

Me: “This is like no dream I ever had.”

I heard from quite a few people shortly afterward how “negative” I was. I figured out the connection real quick. Eventually she got to know me and realized that sarcasm is about the only speed I have. Now we’re cool.

In any event, my response on Day 1 was dead-on. No dream I ever dreamed could have have prepared me for this. To say the least.

The very least.

#toostressedtofeelblessed

Every day, it’s the same.

Fix insane amounts of other people’s fuckups.

Get cryptic email from owner.

Spend an hour interpreting it.

Field at least 20 interruptions from people who know better about things they should know better about.

Give email to at least two other people to get their interpretation. They interpret it completely differently from each other AND from me.

Spend another hour implementing owner’s request as I understand it.

Return to fixing others’ fuckups on other unrelated projects.

Spend at least 15 minutes apologizing to the owner for the part that I misunderstood … the part someone else fucked up in helping me implement it … and getting four more instructions that I’m certain will get fucked up despite my best intentions. Like military time. How do I get all the complicated shit right and yet fucking schedule something at 1500 hours when I knew in my head, heart and soul that he wanted it at 1600?!?!

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.

Sia’s name came up this week.

Well not by name, per se. But I heard the name of the editor who boarded the flight out of Vancouver just moments before she collapsed. The guy who assumed she made the flight … who got a call from their publisher in the connecting city to ask where she was … who assured him that she HAD to have made the flight because she was RIGHT BEHIND HIM. Who inadvertently provided temporary relief that didn’t last long at all.

His name coming up rattled me to the core. I said editing him probably contributed to the sudden cardiac event that took her from us. And another person in the room confirmed that his raw copy was truly a sight to behold, as it somehow went live in his new gig and it was … let’s just say breathtaking.

An opportunity to work with this guy is on the table. I had to ask who his editor will be. Since, you know, I would like to survive this all somehow.

Anyway, I got to thinking about Sia. Whether we’d still even be friends. She had an opportunity to move back to Baltimore. An opportunity that they mercilessly botched and, from what I’m told, resulted in her having a lesser title and pay after they’d raised both.

If you know my industry, you don’t have any surprise left in you. A world of hurt for the good people affected, yes. But it’s been a long time since my jaw dropped about anything.

But after “Lisa VanderPump” left, I would have called her. Call her like I hadn’t been calling her because she worked for LVP’s BFF.

I didn’t want LVP to catch wind how very much I’d had it and wanted an escape route. So I didn’t tell *MY* BFF, who maybe could have helped me or at least talked me off the damn ledge when I needed it.

Just like she hid the bullshit demotion from me and I had to hear about it at her memorial.

How’s that for how fucked-up things were?

Now I can run for any hills I want. Of course, without her up in B’more, I really don’t have any incentive to make our collective dream come true of working together again. There’s no dream left to fulfill.

I’d say “funny how things turn out.” But I’m not laughing.

You’d think I’d be accustomed to missing my friend by now. Since I’ve been doing it for probably two years before she died anyway.

The Mohicans group lost another key member yesterday.

At least this one got to leave of his own accord.

AM
BH
CP
DP
GW
JB
JC
JW
MC
MS
NM
SB
SG

And that doesn’t count the other three members of my new team who got exiled. One who, IMHO, needed to go.

So basically we are an expert team with almost zero experts. Not that anyone else is doing any better.

But if maybe they had let my BFF shine, I might still have someone to eat lunch with.

A rumor went around that LVP (“Lisa VanderPump,” maybe?) wanted to come back. I would shoot on sight.

Speaking of dead weight, now they tell me that one dumbass I was happy to part ways with five years ago is coming back to my team, to revive a project that failed seven ways to Sunday.

I said I used to work with the best pros in the business, and you want me to put THAT piker to work?

And don’t get me started on how I heard we turned down a paying customer, whose name is on that crossed-out list. It’s too early to even “even” about that.

Hard to get out of bed today. Considering I’m a raging insomniac, that should tell you all you need to know about the state of my heart right now.

It occurs to me that I have 25% fewer projects than I did at my beloved (pre-May 1) job. I have staff now, where I had none before. And … I AM BUSIER THAN EVER.

So many more steps. So many more issues. So many more setbacks.

I don’t want my old life back so much as I want one that isn’t a permutation — or maybe the word I’m searching for here is MUTATION — of it.

One day I will make it to 9 a.m. without wanting to walk right back out.

That ain’t today.