Caterwauling

Perhaps the only reason I’d call myself OK right now is because I get out of the house nearly every day, to interact with animals.

Also, it’s good to see Florida still hustling and bustling. I mean, it isn’t — good, that is.

My governor is loath to lock us down and people don’t have enough sense to lock themselves down.

But seeing sunshine and people not too worried about life has been oddly refreshing.

I wish coronavirus never had to happen. And I am not one to say things happen for a reason. There isn’t always a reason.

Sometimes they just happen and it sucks. So you either get through/past it — and you grow from it — or you don’t. Dealer’s choice.

I’ve been turning into a salt pillar, in a few ways. Not reading certain social media. It ain’t that snark and smug superiority I miss. Or being typed at like I’m a 6-year-old.

Hard pass, Grimace.

As if it wasn’t hard enough waiting 45 years to open up my heart to someone, and for what?

But I do miss everything else.

Now that being completely discombobulated is happening to everyone else, I feel like I’m in good company.

I won’t say what drastic things I’ve done to help me cope. But let’s just say I have my magic ways. And my magic tarot deck.

* I pulled the Six of Wands today. The victory card. If you look at the card, he’s just won a battle. I think he’s on his way to one. And homey ain’t playin’. He left behind a lot of things he loved, in search of the things he’ll love and the tribe who will love him. YOU ARE DONE MAKING MOVES OUT OF FEAR. YOU ARE NOT DEFINED BY THE WAY OTHER PEOPLE SEE YOU.

* I pulled The Fool yesterday. He’s not naive — he’s seen some shit and he’s frolicking off to do whatever the fuck it was that he was put on this earth to do. He’s remembering who he wanted to be before all y’all told him what you think he is and what y’all told him he can or cannot be/do. DOORS ARE OPENING. FORGETTING IS THE ULTIMATE SKILL; YOU CAN CREATE FREELY NOW.

* I pulled the Queen of Pentacles before that. She is done with surviving. She’s thriving. She’s releasing others’ definition of her. She’s the wild woman of the deck — she is mother and psychic healer and light worker and lover and guess what? SHE IS SHOWING UP FOR WHAT IS HERS, AND SHE IS ASKING FOR MORE THAN SHE THOUGHT SHE WAS EVER WORTHY OF HAVING.

The golden thread?

She’s done some shit. People think she needs to feel a certain way about it. They haven’t seen the good she’s capable of because even she’s pushed that aside to deal with all the other stuff. And guess what? She was always worth more than they thought … than SHE thought. And you can’t manifest what you don’t think you’re worthy of.

I mean, look at all these people with great mates, money, homes, whatever. They think they deserve it all. You have dipshits running around worshiping at their idiot altars. Or maybe it’s all their bots or fake accounts “liking” them.

Wait till these fuckers pull the Tower card and the Wheel and a Five of Wands.

I already pulled all those bad cards myself, and here I am. Running up the seventh floor. Knocking the eleventh door. I’ma sick of trying. Baby could you love me some more?

In any event, life’s about to change again. I have a really hard week ahead. Hard road.

But the Six of Wands calls for balance between what calms you and what excites you.

The Fool said be a writer, lady. It’s time.

And the Queen of Coins says you’ve suffered enough actual fools. Let the cream rise to the top and let the spoiled milk curdle.

God willing, Imma find that missing cup in the wall of the Eight of Cups.

Now to parlay a legacy out of all this.

I just switched jobs and I realize what an economic privilege that is.

I say that because I pulled this card today, the Ace of Pentacles / Coins reversed. And once again, the tarot clearly can read my mind …

Over the years, I’ve been afraid of being let go. For financial reasons or a jerk with a grudge creating problems and employers needing peace too.

But I’ve been even more terrified of applying for something, getting it … and having to live 1-3 weeks without a payday.

Then you have to worry whether the new place even has the money to pay you. Or whether you were just a shiny new trade and it’s First In, First Out when they hit rough waters. Or if you are even a fit in the first place.

In any event, I say this as someone who just collected her last paycheck at her beloved job and gets her first shiny new check at the end of this week.

A trapeze artist, as it were, leaving the swing and tumbling midair — waiting for that next bar to meet my hands.

And it’s fine.

I have savings. I have a brokerage account. I have a 401(k). Plus a mattress stash that’s supposed to be for a couch but I just haven’t felt secure enough to commit to one yet. After a year. But who’s counting, really?

But hey. You know what a scarcity mindset manifests as? Scarcity!

In other words, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Hopefully for a long, long time.

But damn, that scarcity mindset is a bigger foe than a guy driving around your neighborhood with a Jason Voorhies mask.

In any event, how many people decide NOT to make the leap because they’re afraid to take a financial risk like this?

Money provides such freedom.

I’d like a little more of that freedom.

A lot more.

I bet my life would be a lot different now if they knew how much freedom I plan to secure … and soon.

The shiny new work-from-home job is GREAT … except for the CONSTANT CONSTRUCTION here at the Rock of Fraggles.

I’m temped to lease a second apartment till this shit gets done. At the very least, to secure a co-working space. Although that’s terrible to leave mom here while I go get some damn peace.

Again, it’s nice to have options. And lots of them.

Well I keep getting billed for this site. Might as well use it.

I think the last we all spoke was when I was between two job offers. I had taken a Faceypages poll amongst the non-tRump voters (because I only wanted folks whose judgment I trust) whether to stay or go.

Overwhelmingly, everyone said RUN LIKE YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE.

One random voice I hadn’t even expected to pipe up said stay. I owe her a thank-you. BIG TIME.

I had presented all this to my boss at the time, for all of the five minutes that I reported to her before SHE left.

And she’s like, ya know. Maybe that lone voice has a point.

I woke up the day I was supposed to confirm I was leaving. I said OK, I’ll stay. I cried the WHOLE DAMN DAY.

But … the crying stopped. It really did turn out OK.

And even if it hadn’t, I’m still better off.

My second suitor just had a layoff.

Read: I would be OUT ON THE STREETS AGAIN had I gone there.

I would love to know whether he feels terrible that I would have given up what turned out to be a pretty great gig, only to be fookayayed up one side and down the other without a trace of lube in sight, had I accepted (and taken him up on) his offer.

This has messed me up seven ways to Sunday.

I mean, I am SO LUCKY and I know it. SO lucky.

But honestly, if not for my friend/neighbor-type Kim planting that wee seed of doubt, I would have frolicked right the fuck into a horrible situation.

And really, if not for my then-boss pounding my worth into their heads where I’m at, I wouldn’t have had the choice in the first place.

Thank God. Just, thank God and the angels and my spirit guides and my ancestors and whoever guided my hand when I sent the email where I said yes to the dress and no to the rest.

Girl power, man.

And Hillary voters.

We know what to do. 🙂

When I was told in November that my job was eliminated, I joked that I’d still keep showing up to work — either at the current place or the company that was buying our assets — in hopes that eventually they’d start paying me.

Me and my little red stapler down in Storage Room B.

So it’s only fitting that I moved into a new office on Tuesday. An office that used to be our storage room.

It’s official. Forget being Viola. I am Milton Waddams.

To be fair, the office had already been cleared out a week earlier for the owner. It’s pretty nice, actually. Spacious and with a wall of windows.

He decided I should have it.

Yesterday he came looking for me. He was so pleased to see me in there. Said he loved how I arranged it. Said I deserved it.

He also thanked me for a project I rushed through earlier in the day. I said no problem; you made it easy. He said, well, you make everything easy.

It was a nice moment. And in that moment, I was happy I decided to stay.

I’m done debating and going 10 rounds on my latest Major Life Decision. But I have one last thing to say on the topic …

When we sold my company to another company, they interviewed each of us and came up with a shortlist of who would be hired. Out of 50 people eligible, they only took five.

I learned this week that there was actually a sixth name on every iteration of that list.

Mine.

I was wondering. I used to work there. My interviews went well. There was really no reason why they wouldn’t scoop me up. I knew which division I wanted to go to (back to D.C., if you can believe it) and there was really no reason why they didn’t make me a formal offer.

I figured it was because LVP was badmouthing me. But I got it on good authority that getting a good reference from that one might have been more harmful than a bad one.

Then it dawned on me that the other company’s rejection came at the same time I was invited to stay where I am.

Coincidence? Not a chance.

My boss had the power to set everyone’s start dates at the new gig. I’m sure he had the power to make sure I never got offered one at all.

Pretty tricky. I like it.

Look, I’ll never stop having a lot to say about all the decision-making I’ve felt the brunt of, this past year. But I am going to stop saying it, starting today. This is it.

Yesterday would have been my last day there. I consider Tuesday to be my start date. Which, technically, it is.

I wouldn’t say everything changes. But I’m officially a big boss now. And I have a whole lot of people looking toward me for inspiration. Not the least of which is the big boss himself.

There’s a rumor going around that I never had another opportunity — that this was all some sort of stunt. Whether it was on his part to sell me as a leader, or on my part to get power. No one knows. But they sure do like to talk.

My guess is the boss never believed I would walk. And maybe the others with an opinion are jealous. But as a fellow director said to me, thank God you stayed. You care. They figure only good can come from that.

Now I start my new career and life. I celebrated with a new iPhone for me and a new Samsung for Mom. And I’ll celebrate further by moving us away from the ignorant cunt upstairs. And, if I can hang around long enough, look out Paris — I’m coming for you.

I hope it will all be worth it. At the very least, I am finally at peace with it.

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?!?!!!!!!?

People are dropping like flies around these parts. Half are out with the killer flu. The other half are heading for the hills.

You already know they showed my friend the door. This was expected, yet still abrupt.

(If I hadn’t been offered permanent residency at this Las Vegas show, I would have already been gone.)

We also had a not terribly surprising departure on Friday, as Can-Can cha-cha’ed out.

Then we got the resignation I’ve been waiting for on my Company Bingo card. (Yes, I have a Trump Bingo card with his Swamp Cabinet, and I have one for my company too. And we sit on an ACTUAL swamp with creatures less dangerous than Orange Shitgibbon’s cronies.)

But that wasn’t all. ANOTHER dear friend got to have her own “Half Baked” moment.

Everyone else is rearranging their own bingo cards. And these betting folks have a new odds-on favorite to leave.

My money is on the overworked programmer/designer. Their money is on the overworked editor/marketer …

My neighbor (the one who was told his daughter doesn’t attend a real school) came over and said, “Are you next?”

I put up my hands and said, “I plead the Fifth.”

He said, “You’re leaving February fifth?”

I looked at him wide-eyed. For longer than I should have.

Because, well, Feb. 5 would be a great day to resign.

The perfect day, really …

Edited to add: I QUIT on Feb. 5.

“Crown Royal and Coke. What I am drinkin’
Newports don’t work, look at ’em throwin’ words

I know I need to quit again
But soon as I try to go a day or two,
I’m caught up in some shit again.”

Lil Wyte & Jelly Roll — “And the Band Plays On”

New boys don’t work.

No shit.

Fuckin Eric Trump with the Booger Fetish called me at 4:05 Friday to ask where an issue was.

My reply was a metaphorical, “Eat shit, Sparky.” I said I have seven issues — with 700 steps each. You can wait in line, booger boy.

Furthermore, he missed most of the editing mistakes in the one issue he deigned himself good enough to glance at. Unless he agrees that credit card providers engage in “transitions” rather than transactions. In which case, let’s order gay wedding cakes for them all!

Thursday, I skipped lunch (well, that’s not an unusual occurrence) because I was told to send an “urgent” issue. I edited the 14-page thing, formatted it in WordPress, reformatted it for Dreamweaver … and waited.

Came in the next day to a brand-new version. “Disregard the old,” I was told. So the six (at the time) projects with the 750 steps became six plus a redo.

Well, six plus TWO redos. After I re-edited and reformatted the big-ass document for web and HTML, I was sent a THIRD version.

So Booger man —

You know, the motherfucker who watches TV (LOUD) all day and hires a freelancer to write his shit … and who bullies a marketer into doing his editorial work … and who has me to edit and publish all the shit that he doesn’t feel he has to inherit until he is good and goddamned ready —

You can borrow my beach-ball-sized lady nuts if you ever want to know what it feels like to have a set.

My boss overheard him making the call and immediately Skyped me to offer to beat the shit out of him. I said I want the first, last and EVERY OTHER PUNCH I could get in.

It’s OK. I’m about to force him to take it all on. Although something tells me that poor marketer whom he has designated as his editorial slave will suffer the most.

Good thing I’ve been training her well. That’s all I gotta say about that … today, anyway …

“I’m fed up, I’m on the road
I’m doing shows, I ain’t going home
On I-40, in the fast lane
Tryna get away from all the wrong

It’s catching up, I’m driving faster
It ain’t getting the best of me
Only reason I made it this far is I have the recipe

I know what I’m doin, 10 years and I’m only venting a little bit

If shit really get bad you’ll know cause I’ll fuck around and kill a bitch.”

In the “Mexico” region of Epcot, there is a wonderful display about the Day of the Dead.

I saw this painted on a wall, and my breath caught in my throat …

It was one of those rare moments in life when you say, yes — that is the truth. There is more time than life.

I think of that as I have to coax myself into going to work. I say my gratitudes and one of them certainly is relief that they believe in me and that they pay me.

But the thing is, even though I am not exactly in possession of extra money, I have a profundity of my own. I am pretty sure they need me more than I need them right now.

It’s a powerful feeling. And one they can slap outta me right-quick with a pink slip.

This six-years-too-late empowerment helps me to be bold, for a change. To put my foot down at staying past a certain hour. To yell at the Booger Wooger Bugle Boy they named editorial director when he yells at ME for writing back to customers who have questions when I am the goddamned retention director and — oh hey — I have been corresponding with customers for 20 years buddy FUCK YOU FOR GETTING HANDED THE TITLE I EARNED MOTHERFUCKER.

*ahem*

Ain’t nobody got time for all this.

I spent my 30s-now-40s taking care of mom and not my social life.

I spent my 20s-then-30s-now-40s taking care of everyone else — and truth be told, I didn’t take THAT great a care of mom because I worked too hard for the almighty paycheck.

And I am under no illusion that my 40s-turned-god-willing-into-something-more isn’t going to be spent chasing more money and my tail when it comes to happiness and balance and whatnot.

You know, I was kind of excited about this new venture we’re doing. We cut out most of the overhead (dead salary weight, make no mistake) and kept the underpaid people who are the hardest workers.

For the most part, anyway — there’s still Booger-Eater and a few others who can eat more than what their snoot produces, as far as the rest of us are concerned.

And as I return to juggling 17 jobs because no one else is there to do them … and Boogie-Woogie refuses to take on the jobs I’m supposed to part with … I think, wow.

I mean, I gave up my life for LVP. AND FOR WHAT? Promises of riches and company ownership and other perks that, after five years, never came? That fucker never worked past 4 p.m. And the time leading up to 4 p.m. was filled with braggadocios stories about his arrests and $100 steaks he’s eaten and thousand-dollar wines and trips on his BFF’s yacht. Never a productive minute of supervision or coaching or a supportive word for any of us. And no bonuses/ownership/CREDIT as far as the eye could see.

*ahem*

I have not lived, is the point of all this. Sure, I’ve had fun. Tried to give us a good little life. But the only thing crueler than anyone I’ve ever worked for is time itself.

There’s always more than enough work to go around. And for all our complaining that “there isn’t enough time,” well, there really is. The collective we just fuck up royally when it comes to using it.

I can’t get time back. And maybe I can’t get my life back, per se, when I never really HAD one.

But, well. You know. I’m thinking it’s high time to add some life to all that time.

And this all *waves hands* ain’t the way to do it.

I should instead be posting one of my many photos of the Impeachment March to Mar-a-Lago. Because, tRump is still a piece of shit and the country is worse off than even I thought, one year ago today when I last marched.

But, alas, I have more hope now than I did then. For various reasons. And I sort of need this reminder that yeah, maybe all the cool kids go to the women’s marches. But there’s good stuff out in the rest of the world, too.

I just have to find it.

I should have worked this weekend. But last week would have looked better not only on fire, but that turd should also have been ablaze in tRumpy’s gold-plated bidet and tweeted all around the world.

THAT would have more accurately resembled the alternating frozen-and-flaming hellscape that refers to more than just our psychotic weather.

We got a bonus, of sorts. I never in my life looked at a gift before and thought, wow, my morale was higher BEFORE I got it. But it was still better than hearing LVP’s name (a whole week without it!), so thanks for that.

A colleague wrote to say the place will fall apart if they don’t keep me forever. I guess I forgot to deliver the news that I CAN stay as long as I want.

That’s the rub. They gave away my title — that I worked HARD to get — and gave it to a stinky nose-picker. One whose grand talent is barking seven paragraphs of orders at random roundups of people he decides to nominate via email.

And much as I try to transition work to this guy, he only ends up making it harder for me to finish the job.

And we’re launching new projects that fall into my-now-his domain. Everyone is just assigning them to me, knowing they will get done and get done RIGHT.

I mean, I love having me some work that I, in fact, LOVE working on. But I don’t know how to get this guy motivated and frankly I am READY for a new challenge.

I am not going to let this Eric Trump looking character keep me from my destiny. Whatever that destiny looks like.

And I am BEYOND ready to find out.