Caterwauling

They say vacations stimulate your creativity.

I wasn’t so sure at first. I spent the week losing sleep, thinking about all the stuff that gives me anxiety every day anyway. That service we need to close, the product lineup. the kinds of people we need to hire who just don’t exist, shifts that need to happen that I can’t outline here, and basically the feeling of being so overwhelmed (and other adjectives) about it all.

But I started reading a book that I am not ready to talk about here. And it has helped me to be more aware of my role in things. Not that I feel like I can put out the fires by myself. But I can try to not feel so crushed, and it only takes some small fixes to do it.

When I travel, for example, I put my phone in “airplane” mode. It saves the battery and I don’t get 42 alerts an hour on whatever psycho the Orange Clownfish is appointing to his Cabinet. But when I turn the phone back on … woweee. Everything hits at once.

So I recognize, hey maybe I don’t need to be getting alerts from 20 news apps. I mean yes it helps because some write the headlines/nut grafs better (and more accurately) than others. But gah, the anxiety it triggers now that my candidate — the safe, lovely, experienced, charming grandma with whom I felt my future was safe — is hiding in the woods and this nutty fucker is up rage-tweeting against “Saturday Night Live” while I’m trying to watch it.

(Aside: As I tweeted to the orange menace himself, I agree — SNL isn’t funny. It’s FACTUAL because he’s a PARODY already.)

(Aside 2: I have never tweeted President Obama, or VP Biden, with anything other than a thank you or a congratulations. But this fucker? I wish I could say how I really feel about his Nazi-loving ass. Jesus. My grandfather fought the Nazis and now we are inviting them to run the country. I’m so glad he isn’t here to witness this.)

In any event, I think I also need to unsub from most eletters too. I found myself fascinated by politics when I thought competent people were going to be/remain in charge of them. Now it’s all such a joke. I might as well do something more productive with my downtime.

I know this isn’t creative, by any means. But it’s a start.

And I did get a really good idea that I’m not going to talk about. Because I don’t do anything once I’ve written it down. But I type this to say I wouldn’t have had the idea had I not been walking around paradise with nary a thought in my head other than, “What cocktail am I going to order next?”

(That’d be “coconut mojito,” for those playing along at home.)

OK, back to the salt mines. Good to be away. Good to have something to come back to. Even if it’s the same thing I left. My goal is for things to be better before my next escape. Even if my adherence to my values is the only thing that improves, that’ll still be a good thing.

So far, my vacation started with an hour-long conference call, a pile of emails and an article yet to edit.

But being at home, in my jammies and not having to speak on that conference call? PRICELESS.

I can actually get things done when people think I’m not around. I like it.

Walked into the office five years ago today. Time for some Little River Band …

This is our fifth year baby
And I feel like I’m in jail, Lord
I’m holding on to this card
Can’t seem to get it in the mail
And the card reads …
Happy anniversary baby
Got you on my mind
Happy anniversary baby
Got you on my mind

At the time, I was most excited at the prospect of getting paid biweekly again after 11 months of sweating every cent.

That’s the thing abut low expectations. It was more like a series of pleasant surprises than crushing disappointments. Which was a welcome change.

It’s a coin-flip whether the other opportunities I sought heard about along the way would have panned out.

Maybe the hot Italian with the chiseled jaw isn’t the marrying type after all, but the less-exciting guy takes care of you better because he knows you can leave him for the better-looking, richer one who sweeps you off your feet.

Look at all the people who have come and gone in that time, after all. Many have gone on to better things. Some are still searching.

I could have landed in either camp, or back in the “Hey I’ll write you a book for 250 bucks” zone because another client screwed me and I was desperate.

Standing at the sink now, looking at the mirror
Don’t know where I am or how I got here
Well the only thing that I know how to find
Is another vice

Here’s to the devil you know. This one at least will drink some whiskey with you. And not tell anyone the next morning how you skulked out of there all Miranda Lambert “Vice”-like. So, there’s that.

Got some good news yesterday. Well, two sets really. 

Made some progress on something that’s been unnecessarily hard. 

And I hear an end to some uncertainty is around the corner. 

Hooray. 
I woke up at 4 am with an idea, feeling inspired for the first time in a long time. Typed furiously on my laptop till 6 am … when the laptop died. It died. It fucking died. 

My iMac is sitting dead across the room. I can barely hear callers on my iPhone. 

Gonna be an expensive project to replace all this shit. 

It’s just too bad I finally felt a shade less than crazy and it was all for nothing. 

Got a call from a person looking to hire a former employee. 

I bet it killed them to have to list me as a contact. 

I referred the call to someone else to handle. I said my hope is that this person finally finds a terrific fit. 

I mean it. And I hope others who maybe have their own set of frustrations with me would do the same thing. After all, we know those people had their own challenges with us. 

There’s a commercial for a candy bar, where a punk-rock girl tattoos “No Regerts” on a dopey biker dude’s arm.

It makes me cringe because there are two misspellings on my calendar that drive me crazy. Also, I’m an editor.

At least, I think I’m an editor. I really don’t know how to identify lately. Female, feminist, Republican (at least, I am voting for the Republican in this election — for Democrat Hillary Clinton), daughter, kitty momma, blogger, wine drinker, coffee connoisseur, sun worshiper and goddess.

Note there’s no writer or editor or expert or investing legend in there. I’ve gotten away from those sorts of things in an effort to manage my time better. Way to go, giving up what defines you so you can learn OPP (other people’s processes) instead.

Anyway. Regerts.

*cringe*

I wish I had never just walked out on the job that March morning six years ago.

There, I said it.

I was upset about a lot of things, yes. And I also had a job waiting. So there’s that.

But …

I wish I hadn’t wasted the moment. On people who I thought at the time either deserved it or wouldn’t care either way.

I’m not saying I wish I could do it now. But what I am saying is that I wish I hadn’t burned that bridge, and not for the reason I did it.

I did it in solidarity with another employee (a bunch, actually, but one in particular) who would go on to screw ME over big-time. Like the bitch didn’t learn how it felt to be utterly shafted by people you trusted.

I lost friendships when I picked my allegiance. I lost connections, too, some of whom have actually gone on to do better things — even the people I hoped to never run into again.

Anyway. When I maybe perhaps just briefly for a moment imagine saying exactly what’s on my mind at the exact moment I think it, I reflect. And feel more than just a little regret.

Did I owe them more? Maybe. Did I owe myself — my reputation, my integrity, my ability to hold my head high and not avert my gaze when I see these people on the street — more? Absolutely.

Because nobody would accept it if I said I were simply eating a Milky Way. I shoulda had a Snickers bar … or a damn V-8 … instead.

My vacation week is going well, if you define vacation week as “being at work every single day.”

Number of Arnold Horshack-sounding belly laughs out of me today: 1

Number of random crying jags: 2

Number of times someone said, “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation this week?”: 3

Number of articles left to edit at 4 p.m.: 4

Here’s to not hearing another Trumpish cocaine stiff for the balance of the day. I have a big fight to go have with a neighbor later, so I’m saving my rage for that.

I won’t lie. I am filled with a very familiar feeling right now. And it’s ugly. 

Hearing about Trump’s taxes pushed me over the edge. Sure, I get to pay 2% of my income, on top of the other 30%, because of Obamacare. But we reward Trump for being a terrible businessman. 

The thing with the candidates in this election is that the one you won’t vote for reminds you of every boss you hated. 

He’s the blustering butthead you couldn’t escape till you were mad enough to take the first halfway decent offer that came along. 

He’s the one who made you turn your back on your cool team for greener pastures. 

The one who found a way to scratch a fingernail down the chalkboard of your soul 260 days a year. 

The one who got promoted and rewarded as dozens if not hundreds abandoned their passions because of him. 

And I know plenty who worship at the Cheeto Jesus altar who feel the same way about my candidate. 

As I’ve said before, some you’d want to go over a cliff for and others will kick you over it. 

That’s the choice on Nov. 8. I choose not to get kicked. I’m fuckin’ Lucy this year. That ball is mine. And if it isn’t, I am not giving it to him. 

Ever throw a tantrum before finally reaching the acceptance stage …

Only to have a wrench thrown at that …

And now you may not experience what you FINALLY talked yourself into believing would be a good thing?

Honestly I was just mad about something else in the first place. But it’s easier to be crabby about something tangible than try to tap-dance around what’s really bugging you.