Caterwauling

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 …

Dude.

Seriously.

Holla’ing at MY friend, to bitch about ME and claim that I somehow am singlehandedly keeping you from relaunching the business you flashed your hairy butt crack at …

And somehow claiming it’s ALL MY FAULT …

Seriously.

Dude.

Not that any of us believe it will work this time. You burned everyone who made it work. No one likes you.

But I love that you give me all this power.

Especially when I spent years giving mine up to you.

You are the REASON for the #metoo movement.

I have zero desire to hear of you whining that I somehow am hurting you. No need to suddenly give me credit for the first time. But hey, thanks.

First of all, I LOVE me some Lisa Vanderpump — the one on “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” and “Vanderpump Rules.”

I am NOT the slightest bit enamored with MY “Lisa VanderPump” — LVP. To say the least. The very least.

Not overly certain how someone who has maybe worked five full days in their career …

Who is brilliant at bullshitting their way into massive salaries, big titles, bigger bonuses and falsely selling their superiors on their so-called indispensability …

Who never saw fit to promote me despite calling me by a higher title …

Who wrote horrible reviews for me that painted me as aspiring to mediocrity on a good day …

Who publicly embarrassed me on group calls that said person couldn’t even spell correctly on the meeting reminders they put on our calendars …

(Oh and no one else got that treatment — one other person got private reamings and the rest got left alone. And for both of us, 99% of those reamings were for not working on projects said absentee person never TOLD us about) …

Who didn’t even say thank you for the $60 birthday cake or the $50 birthday booze and didn’t even acknowledge me with a happy birthday that year …

And who — among other ridiculous things — got everyone ELSE fired after attracting a million-dollar lawsuit against the company and its owner …

Is now entitled to the charred remains of the dream this person sold to us in a (successful) effort to get us all to work around the clock to make that person “famous.”

And the fact that this person is back to BARKING UP OUR ASSES to jump to serve said person is like a battered wife being told she has to give her abuser the dog, too.

I have been working on a reply in my mind. But I am enjoying the silence an awful lot. I know LVP is motherfucking me in their mind.

I mean, it’s not like LVP could speak to me with a modicum of respect or the awe I deserved for being one of the wizards behind the curtain that made the puppet dance.

That hurt me in a big way. The not having my name on anything. I hear my name was never credited for anything either. So I had to work very hard to show folks I am capable and was working my ass off all along.

They see that now. And they don’t know the depth of my rage. But they know that for me to refuse to comply with a command from LVP, I have reasons.

They all finally figured out that everything was smoke and mirrors. And my guess is this no-strings-attached “gift” my friend and I are to provide to LVP is less an OB tampon and more like a compact cooter plug. One where the string is hidden inside the smaller pouch.

(Compact cooter plug. I may have to save that for a future nickname …)

In any event, I know LVP comes here looking for answers. And I’ll put it right here …

I jumped for you on every occasion. I lost out on nights and weekends and time with my mom and friends. I was kind to you at all times and listened to your stupid stories about your arrests and all the money you spent on things I’d never be able to afford because you said I was too “expensive” so I clearly was never going to get a raise. I stopped talking to my editors who actually loved me, just so you could stop needling me and egging me on, claiming “you knew” I was talking to them when I wasn’t. You’re a liar and a miserable person.

Oh and thanks for those casual bullshit comments made to (I guess former) future potential employers. But funny about people who repeat things back to me — they have a LOT more to say than what they heard.

Sorry karma’s teeth are sharp. I really do want you to be happy. I just wish this had all made you nicer instead of making me harder.

I have a friend I quote here from time to time. Because she’s brilliant.

Her latest is stuck in my head:

“Life will throw you curveballs. But you don’t always have to swing at them.”

We’ve always been told the opposite. Wayne Gretzky said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” And that man sure scored a lot of points for my beloved Penguins. Other than every Wayne I’ve ever known being a compete douche (and one more follow-up douche moment for the books), wouldn’t you want to be like this particular Wayne?

I don’t have anything profound to say after another night of listening to the neighbors gallop across my ceiling and then the cat yanking me out of bed to feed her hungry belly.

But yeah. Lots of curveballs here.

I’ve felt pretty helpless, swinging at them till my arms hurt. Today I’m going to stand still and let a few whiz by. Let someone else swing. Let someone else endure the injury today. I’m too old for this shit. And so is the screwball lobbing all these blunt objects at my head.

“Leaving’s hard, trust me, it’s really bad
It’ll shake you, damn near break you, it always has
You don’t go until you’re praying to break even,
Until staying is worse than leaving.”

— Sunny Sweeney, “Staying’s Worse Than Leaving”

I prayed to keep this apartment. Now it drives me crazy again.

I prayed to keep this job somehow. They (sort of) gave it back to me. And when I approached after another fucked-up commute and saw smoke billowing out of a (nearby, damn) building, it was an “Office Space” moment. I thought, hmm, should I turn around?

Have to keep reminding myself that, yeah. Staying definitely feels worse than leaving. But no paychecks are MUCH worse than paychecks.

There’s a guy I write about here from time to time. Nicest guy ever. Also not the brightest.

I’ve probably referred to him as “soccer ball to the skull” more times than not. Dreaming out loud, sort of a modern-day Lucy to the good grief his Charlie Brown-ness creates in my life.

So, we’re all hitting the street, yes? He told me he had two great interviews. I gave him the DL on both, and when he said the one he really wanted, I immediately called my executive friend over there and raved.

Not only that, but I called a friend who knows the guy he interviewed with. And HE raved too.

Look, I did it to spread good karma. Not for any other reason. But …

I can’t help being hurt that he told everyone ELSE about getting … and accepting … an offer. An offer that I am pretty sure having two strong references helped him to get.

He’ll make more money, too. You’re welcome.

He got the offer around the same time a project I sent over got completely fucked up. Completely. His great talent is asking 1,000 questions and yet not reading/listening to most of the answers.

I’d normally have a shit fit. But hey, I get that both feet are out the door now. I say we push the rest out before I try to shoot a goal at his tonsils.

The way I think of it, I just made him someone else’s problem. Maybe he’ll excel. He’s never going to do that where he is now. Never had to. Never planned to.

My real fear? I don’t want to turn out average and checked-out like him. I’m afraid that’s my path if I don’t find a fork in the road that actually whets my appetite rather than ruins it at every turn.

“I got a feeling I, I can’t get over
Maybe all we had has always been right
Think of all the love you gain when you send it over
Think of all the wool I’ve spun to be here tonight.”

Nathaniel Rateliff, “Wasting Time”

My soul is tired.

One month ago, less a couple of days, I was told I was getting evicted from my house AND my job.

A Category 5 shitstorm washed away my plans for Thanksgiving dinner and, oh, being able to afford to move and pay for an emergency car repair that contained a comma.

Then grace found me. The landlord said stay put till you get a job. The company said stay till after Christmas … then till Jan. 5 … then till Feb. 1.

My friend Sue said buy a tree. It arrived today. So did my long-awaited shipment of PB2 chocolate peanut-butter powder. That was my Christmas. All downhill from there.

That’s OK. Every day I’ve thanked God for the same things — for Momma, for Kadie, for Stewie, for gas in Stewie’s tank, for wine for the holidays and a roof over my head during them.

Thankful to Dada for introducing me to Boneshaker, and to Crown Spirits in Fort Lauderdale for selling it.

I’ve told everyone I’m going to believe in Santa Claus this year. And I know I’ve been lucky …

Sue buried her sister-in-law. Cindy buried her aunt. Five of seven people who got walked out of the building got in their cars with no new job to go to. At least one felt like retirement is the only option at this point. Another went home to pack up to leave the state for a new opportunity.

I’ve tried to stay positive. We all have. It’s been emotionally exhausting for all of us.

Productivity is in a dead heat with morale in the limbo contest. Staying or going, doesn’t matter. Things change every day. You can find favor or lose it just as easily.

I give thanks for a safe, if not stupidly long, commute.

And then, Santa Claus came to my office today in the form of the owner’s nephew. Who took me to a meeting with the owner. Who said Santa is staying in town if you’re interested.

No, you don’t get to stay editorial director. Just keep doing all the work and assist the foo with the title. But you can get another title and another 40-hour load on top of it if you want it.

I mean, given that an offshoot of Fox News is calling me to lead their conservative, Trump-boot-licking production team, there are WORSE options.

Why me? Why save me, and why now? Because last week I said how much I loved the company … loved the work I’ve done … loved my boys … and how sad I was to see it all come to an end.

That stuck with him. You don’t let go of people like that.

Mom says I’m probably going to eat those words.

I have a lot to think about. Uncertainty is the name of the game whether I stay or go. I mean, at least getting the boot was the most amount of certainty I’ve had in a long time.

In any event, I just put up my tree and I’m parking my tired soul beside it tonight and watching “The Great Christmas Light Fight.” My tree is simple and a replacement of one I threw out in the last move. I’m just glad the lights work. (I bought the same tree last year and it didn’t light.)

So this is Christmas …

Much better …

Just happy to have a tree … a roof … a Christmas … and a happy-ish new year ahead.

It looks like my chance to leap isn’t going to look like I thought it would. I just hope this recommitment to a thousand-hour workweek doesn’t stop me from seeking … and taking … something I might love. But who can say no, really, to a very unexpected personal invitation like this one?

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.

• My landlord said, look. Get your life together. Find your next job. I’ll worry about selling the condo next year. Breathe. Oh and hey, I may know someone who’s hiring.

• My tow-truck driver saved my life. SAVED. MY. LIFE. My mechanic took quick and excellent care of me. And I have a no-limit credit card so I can deal with the money part later.

• My company owner said please stay till year-end.

• And I wouldn’t say I have a job prospect by any means. But I met a really cool dude who knows people. Who knows people who like me. Maybe there’s a love connection, maybe there isn’t. But there is the hope.

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.

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.