My ride-or-die just reappeared.
Friend: You got a brother-in-law for me yet?
Me: I got as close as I’ve ever been. But, yeah. No.
Friend: I normally charge but, for you, ass-wupping-grams are always delivered free.
Me: I have a better idea …
Friend: I’m on the next flight out. I got you, girl.
The only thing better than a pissed-off goddess is two of us.
Well, three, really …
“I used to be a writer,” I said to my fellow director. “Before all this.”
To be fair, I did some writing today. It was fun.
It’s all good, really.
I realized that I hadn’t written anything here in two weeks. Not for lack of anything to say. It’s just that I’ve been … fine.
I got to talking with a gal who’s leaving the company tomorrow. I opted to take over the most-important part of her job. It’s huge and too much to train me on in just a few days.
But really, there’s no one else … and certainly no one else I’d trust as much to handle what is, in effect, the life blood of what it is we do.
She and I got to talking about how, for both of us, everything is fine. Which generally means, oh shit.
Nothing is wrong? Really, nothing AT ALL is wrong?
Time to panic!
Well, panic later. Enjoy now.
I really am enjoying the peace. And trying really hard to just be grateful for how good things are, and not wonder when it’s all going to change. Maybe this time, it will stay fine for a good, long while …
“You wanted to be where you are
But it looked much better from afar
A hillside in shadow between the people and the starsTwelfth night, we go
After something everyone should know
Somewhere in the distance out of sight.”— Gin Blossoms, “Pieces of the Night”
I feel like Viola, the heroine of “Twelfth Night.” To recall the “Shakespeare in Love” movie ending that set up the coming of that play, I feel like her as she married her rich king and sailed off to America with him … while leaving her beloved poet behind.
The torture she felt. The knowing she would love this man until she left this mortal coil. The sadness at how she didn’t feel anywhere near the same way about the man with whom she was about to start a new life.
And her grace at being able to say goodbye … to remind Will to redirect his sorrow into magnificent prose … to steel herself for the journey ahead, and whatever joy and sadness it would bring.
I will always miss my “Will.” And though my “king” is a great man, it hurt to matchmake T. with someone else.
It’s over now. It was the moment I drove to his office to withdraw my acceptance of his offer.
Time to stop looking back, and to start looking ahead at my chosen path.
And now, I sail on.
I un-quit today.
I wish I were dead.
Every time I downed a whole bottle of wine … flipped a coin … woke up from a dream (or drunken stupor) … or asked the universe which boss to pick, the answer was universal. “T.” Every goddamned time.
I picked M.
I emailed M at 7 a.m. to say he wins. By 9 a.m., not only had he told the whole staff, but he asked me to address the staff. Say something encouraging, he suggested.
I spun my sugar. People were pleased. Enthralled. Full of applause. And they came by to say thank you for staying. We need you, they said. You care so much. You give me hope, they added. If you believe, then I can too, they emphasized.
God, I am this guy’s student. Spin control. Master marketer. I earned my stripes today alone. Well and in the six years leading up to this day.
Privately, I prayed for death.
“Trapped in each other’s arms
We got the best of us
We keep each other warm
But we both know it’s not enough.”Dark Waves, “I Don’t Wanna Be In Love”
I believe I made the right choice for me. For today.
But then I drove to my would-be new office … the one I stood in front of Saturday and Sunday with a metaphorical boombox … and cried the whole way back.
I saw my would-be boss. And “broke up” with him, so to speak.
I wish I were dead. I really do. I really fucked up. I can’t convince myself otherwise right now.
I had a very bad day. Constant flow of tears not withstanding. I got to meet his dog and I’m like, “I could have worked in your office with your sweet puppy? Mother of God. What have I done?”
I didn’t say that. I did bawl. Didn’t meant to go there to do that. But still. I am out of my fucking mind.
He gets it. We parted friends, the way we started. I said I hope you hire someone fabulous. I said I hope that if you don’t, and if I feel the way I do today — just one hour after making my decision — you will think of me again.
I think this ship sailed. And I am so, so very sorry for that.
I have very little relationship experience. I’ve fucked many. Dozens. Probably more than dozens. But knowing a good guy from a bad boy … and picking the good guy? I ain’t real good at. Not even in my career.
Ultimately I think I picked right. It was just a really bad day. And my emotions are so very raw. I mean, I just dumped the guy who would love me in favor of the guy who will take care of me. I wish I were dead. I’m so drunk and I can’t stop crying and OMG why God why did I not follow my heart?
I’ll tell you why. When I follow my gut, it leads me to the buffet. This time, I followed my brain. I am hoping for a better — or, at least, more prosperous — outcome.
But I won’t lie. I am already missing the one who got away. The one I let slip away. And I know it.
I’m sorry, T. He needs me more … but you are the one who deserves me. I know you can’t wait for me. And I will love you forever, even still.
I just need to take care of momma and me. I know you understand. That would makes one of us. You knew me better than I knew myself. Which makes me sadder still.
Is this pain ever going to end? OMG I can’t do this, if not.
Some people have great love stories. Mine are all with employers. Especially the ones I let get away …
“Gritting your teeth, you hold onto me
It’s never enough, I’m never complete
Tell me to prove, expect me to lose
I push it away, I’m trying to move
Hoping for more, and wishing for less
When I didn’t care was when I did best
I’m desperate to run, I’m desperate to leave
If I lose it all, at least I’ll be free.”— Broods, “Free”
When my bosses came to me with really, the worst idea ever, I said, “Over my dead body will I (insert what I was asked to do).”
For the girl who did everything asked of her, and then some, for the past six years (40 years, but who’s counting?), they were stunned.
I didn’t elaborate. But come on over to my desk (and everybody does because I’m hilarious), and I will HAPPILY fill you in.
We all had a good old time today when I did what I needed to do for a long time. Not what was asked of me. But what I should have done to prevent that even being an option in the first place.
I told the bosses about it. Like I’d said, over my dead body. Now that is no longer an option because there are literally no choices in the matter left. The one said, “OK” and we talked about that nitwit Trump’s nitwit “shithole” comment instead.
I mean, really, it’s their problem. It always was. I’m sorry I can’t help. And I’m grateful that I don’t have to explain why #timesup on this particular “thing.”
“I have lived my life so perfectly
Kept to all my lines so carefully
I’d lose everything so I can sing
Hallelujah, I’m free
I’m free, I’m free
I’m free, I’m free, I’m free
Hallelujah, I’m free.”
I asked my friend if I could be fired for this. She said who knows. But wouldn’t it be worth it to never, ever have to even think about it ever again?
It’s a good day to be me.
Well, the latest Layoff Day was as miserable as I thought it would be.
I should be used to saying goodbye to my friends by now. But it never really gets easier.
I spent the day working on a project for some jag who should have been working on it but probably would have screwed it up. I see the previous two issues his team published and the complete lack of punctuation in the sentences. And the owner added literally 97 special requests to this process. All of which I handled and had to tap no fewer than four people to help me handle.
It all came together, thank God. And surprisingly, the only tears I shed where when my friends came to hug me and goodbye.
However, there was a wonderful rage-filled moment when the jag sent an email to all my boys with the SL: “Greetings from your new editorial director.” Fuck you, jagoff. Let the body get cold, OK? I’m still here, doing YOUR work and not my own. So thank God I still had a full (read: already reduced, and about to be reduced AGAIN) team through yesterday.
One of my boys emailed me to say, wow, holy power trip up there. Yeah, no shit. Good luck with that. No more Goddess for you when my own Layoff Day arrives.
“I might be more a man if I stopped this in its tracks
And said come on, let’s go home.
But she’s got the wheel,
And I’ve got nothing except what I have on.”— Del Amitri, “Driving With the Brakes On”
I heard this song on Pirate Radio and thought of my earliest days with the company. Back when I was brought in before my start date to attend a copywriting class with the owner.
I met a boy that day. He was videotaping the whole ordeal. The tapes got lost somewhere. Probably because another attendee challenged the owner on something. They made that person disappear fast. The footage soon followed.
That boy asked me out at some point. And I probably dedicated a million words on this blog to the ensuing thrills and aches.
He didn’t survive a major layoff, and I did. Said relationship, whatever was left at that point, didn’t survive either. All I have left of him is a Drive-By Truckers CD and a Facebook friendship with two of his friends who live in my neighborhood.
He would love Del Amitri. Maybe he does love them. I almost wanted to send him this song but for what, really? Do I tell him I am meeting the same career fate he did? That I feel just as emasculated that my livelihood that I love now has an end date and there’s no new beginning in sight?
He’d probably say the right thing about it. The man was never at a loss for words or an intelligent observation. He’d probably look damn cute saying it. And then he’d retreat, like he was so good at.
Beat me at my own game, that one. I thought *I* was emotionally unavailable until I tried to pull him out from under the rock he loved hiding under.
“When you’re driving with the brakes on,
When you’re swimming with your boots on,
It’s hard to say you love someone
And it’s hard to say you don’t.”
Anyway. Hard to stay dead inside when so many emotion-invoking things keep happening. I look forward to returning to my status of being unavailable to jobs and heartache. But right now, I am more available than I ever wanted to be. And the fear of falling … fear of failing … is more than my cold little heart can take.
One of my favorite movies from my younger years, “Sweet November,” was on HBO last night.
It’s still hard to watch Keanu Reeves. He’s too jerky to be believable as the leading man/love interest. But like Trump, he has a job and I don’t. Which makes me loathe them more.
But it was one of those things I needed to see when I saw it. A dying girl who takes life one month at a time. He was her November. And she walked away in December, leaving him with a broken heart and beautiful memories.
It made me think back to all my Novembers. The best was six years ago when I landed the job that’s now ending. After 11 months of barely getting by with freelance work, I knew this wasn’t a dream job. But it sure saved my life. And I gave till it hurts in return to show my gratitude.
The worst November was when we lost my grandfather. Thanksgiving 2006. It was one thing if old age got him. But the VA killed him and there’s nothing we could do about it.
The second-worst November was the first time I was jobless. 2004, I think. I couldn’t afford the gas to go to Pittsburgh to see my family. Seriously mapped out ways kill myself. My Calico kitty saved me just by refusing to leave my side.
Third-worst November is clearly when assclown tRumpy somehow was elected by the Russians and 74,000 stupid fucking Americans last year. I might even say that was the worst November ever because it fucking ruined the country and not just my year. Lost a lot of friends over it. Losing tax breaks and a whole lot of other shit. Losing my shit still. And that fucker is at his gaudy beach estate down the street so I’ve also lost the ability to drive around town. Fuck him. Die. Just die.
Then there’s this November. Which should hands-down win “worst November ever.” I mean, your landlord tells you to move out … you lose your job because you work for people who can’t manage a company or hire competent help … your car shits the bed in the middle of one of America’s busiest freeways … you pick up a virus you just cannot shake … your cat’s sick and your mom’s sicker … and yet the orange fuckface up the street, no matter how much he taunts North Korea, still can’t get them to drop a nuke and end it all.
But … it’s not the worst.
Apparently my decision to believe in Santa isn’t the funniest thing ever.
Look. Things ain’t perfect. Or anywhere close. But compared to electing Trump, losing my grandfather and sharpening a knife I wasn’t using because I couldn’t afford food, this November is almost sweet here too.
I won’t lie — I never felt “safe.” Not even working 75 hours a week, juggling more projects than my five counterparts on the other side of the company who collectively did ONE of my jobs.
It was a shitty review (how do I get 2s out of 5s for dependability and output. HOW?) and the death of a friend (no doubt from overwork) that helped me scale back to 60 hours.
Still, I fretted.
Then the person who would have fired me left, and I got promoted. Go figure. Someone who judged me on reputation alone (obviously by everyone else’s view) would be the one to elevate me. Best decision they ever made, probably.
I still never felt safe, though.
And now that living in my car is all I want for Christmas, because that implies the car is still running, there’s a certain level of relief. They can’t hurt me any more than they already have.
I mean, yes, now the worries are much bigger. But it’s not like staying two extra hours these days will save the whole operation. Too late to make a difference. If it ever did.
And call me crazy, but I’ll find relief anywhere I can get it.
That time when you lost your job, your apartment, your mind AND your car.
And when your car died in the middle of 95 and you could literally SEE YOUR OFFICE as the cars whipped around your dead fucking fuel pump ass.
And when you called AAA and said yes this is an emergency and OMG I AM NOT IN A SAFE LOCATION and they still had you wait an hour.
And when you called Florida Highway Patrol to give your coordinates and say please please please send a squad car to hang out with me OMG GONNA DIE HOLY SHIT YOU KNOW HOW FLORIDIANS DRIVE and they say call us when there’s a real accident.
And when you CRAWL OUT OF YOUR SUNROOF and jump onto the truck bed so you don’t get kilt on the fucking highway.
And when YOU FEEL YOUR PERIOD START as you grab your coffee and laptop out of your passenger seat as you kneel on the not-so-strong hood of your car.
Meanwhile you’ve been coughing up a lung for a week and a half. And you busted both your big toes wearing new shoes to Disney two weeks ago and the nails look like janky eggplants.
And when you have to pay over a hundred bucks to get towed to your mechanic BY YOUR HOUSE 30 MILES SOUTH omg why did I leave the house whyyyyyy.
And when your mechanic’s discount still sets you back a grand.
AND YOU STILL DON’T HAVE A JOB OR A PLACE TO LIVE so you pay it because you’re about to be living in that fucking vehicle.
So you’ll have to forgive me that I’m a little focused on the negative right now when I know I should be grateful that I lived … that no one hurt poor Stewie … that I had a terrific AAA driver … that I have an awesome mechanic … and that I didn’t have to look at those sad sack motherfuckers inside that building, although I did end up fighting with the one idiot all goddamned day long because he has never been able to follow instructions and, with two weeks to go, doesn’t apparently plan to.
I tell everyone we can either tell a tale of fear or triumph. This is all setting up to be one of those stories that no one will believe I could (eventually) overcome.
Right now, unfortunately, the only one who is unsure I will overcome all this bullshit is me.
I worked 80-plus hours a week for five years.
Trump still has a job and I don’t.
Whose pussy do I have to grab to get a fair shake in this stupid world?