Instead of me giving my opinion, I am going to pose some questions and let you decide how you feel about what I’ve asked. I am not very confident that I can follow through with my side of this game, because I am prone to letting it rip, but let’s see how I do.
Is it appropriate for any representative of a company to ask an employee, who is being asked to travel on behalf of that company, if they would like their own hotel room or if they would like to share a hotel room with a fellow work associate? Have you decided? Yes? No? Okay, how about a little more? Is it appropriate for an employee to share a hotel room with their manager?
Have you tried to break this down further, deciding if the gender of the associate and/or the manager makes a difference? Have you decided why that would make a difference? Let me ask another question. Should a company ask an employee to sleep, shit, or shower in the same room as someone they work with? True, a lot of people shit at work, but do they change into their pajamas, undress, or snore in the same room as someone they work with? Does it still matter what the gender of that someone they work with is?
Have I been asked if I want to share a room with someone I report to while traveling? What do you think? How do I feel about that? What do you think?
Alright, I’m done.
No. I’m not. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? If you idiots can’t afford for me to get my own room, regardless of associate, reporting structure or gender, then maybe you shouldn’t ask me to travel. In what world is sharing a hotel room with someone you work with appropriate? Hasn’t anyone ever heard of the term HR nightmare?
Beyond the potential HR ramifications, am I the only one who knows the term work/life balance? Boundaries, anyone? What’s scary is that the person who asked me probably didn’t have a clue of how inappropriate the question was. This brings me back to my point. Why was the person who asked if I wanted to share a hotel room or wanted my own room put in that position to ask me in the first place?
How in the hell can a company that has somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000 employees be so fucking stupid?
One last question. Has the world gone mad?
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Leaning into it
A friend once said to me, "We all need to feel needed. You need to allow yourself to need others the way they need you. When you trust another person enough to share, it makes them feel good. They feel needed."
Wow. That’s a lot of need. Question: How many of us can actually say we’re better at trusting someone else than being trusted by them? Anyone? I’m betting not so many of us. It’s fucking scary to count on others.
We know it feels good to the people we lean on that we’ve entrusted them with a piece of our struggle. We know that no matter how small our need, when we break through our own walls we help to tear down the defenses of those we’ve called upon. As such, we are doing that relationship a service. To trust someone, and to reciprocate that trust, it's one of the most beautiful parts of our human experience. Still, we don’t lean into others willingly or easily, do we?
If you are anything like me, sometimes it's not about the basic need, or about sharing too much. It’s not even about whether or not you trust the person you have shared with and/or leaned on. Sometimes, it's about questioning how we feel about what we've shared. Sometimes, we haven't totally worked it out in our own heads yet. So, sometimes, if/when we put something out there, or sometimes, if/when we lean on someone else, before we've thought it through, we feel like we've exposed our self.
Put simply: We feel like we've opened up our innards for surgery without anesthesia. The tricky part is, we often don't know we weren't ready to leap, to lean, or to share, until after we've cut ourselves open and then think, "Fuck. I'm kinda bleeding here."
But, that's the thing. Life is life. It is a leap. That's the beauty.
And, we can do it alone, never sharing or leaning, never leaping forward or letting others in. We can do our best to make sure we never bruise or bleed. Or, we can do it together, sharing, leaning, loving, learning, and sometimes falling, but always getting back up because we have each other to lend a hand.
If this post seems like in any way I am appreciating the friends, the family, in my life again, and relishing in the fact that I have the kind of love in my life, the kind of people, who help me remember I don't have to do it alone, then I'm okay with being transparent.
If I didn't have people to lean on, I'd look for a way to stick a drill in my ear.
Wow. That’s a lot of need. Question: How many of us can actually say we’re better at trusting someone else than being trusted by them? Anyone? I’m betting not so many of us. It’s fucking scary to count on others.
We know it feels good to the people we lean on that we’ve entrusted them with a piece of our struggle. We know that no matter how small our need, when we break through our own walls we help to tear down the defenses of those we’ve called upon. As such, we are doing that relationship a service. To trust someone, and to reciprocate that trust, it's one of the most beautiful parts of our human experience. Still, we don’t lean into others willingly or easily, do we?
If you are anything like me, sometimes it's not about the basic need, or about sharing too much. It’s not even about whether or not you trust the person you have shared with and/or leaned on. Sometimes, it's about questioning how we feel about what we've shared. Sometimes, we haven't totally worked it out in our own heads yet. So, sometimes, if/when we put something out there, or sometimes, if/when we lean on someone else, before we've thought it through, we feel like we've exposed our self.
Put simply: We feel like we've opened up our innards for surgery without anesthesia. The tricky part is, we often don't know we weren't ready to leap, to lean, or to share, until after we've cut ourselves open and then think, "Fuck. I'm kinda bleeding here."
But, that's the thing. Life is life. It is a leap. That's the beauty.
And, we can do it alone, never sharing or leaning, never leaping forward or letting others in. We can do our best to make sure we never bruise or bleed. Or, we can do it together, sharing, leaning, loving, learning, and sometimes falling, but always getting back up because we have each other to lend a hand.
If this post seems like in any way I am appreciating the friends, the family, in my life again, and relishing in the fact that I have the kind of love in my life, the kind of people, who help me remember I don't have to do it alone, then I'm okay with being transparent.
If I didn't have people to lean on, I'd look for a way to stick a drill in my ear.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
No, really, this isn't me.
What ever made me think I could continue to work in a corporate environment? How the hell have I survived this long, for the last 17 years, without throwing myself under a bus?
Man, I wanted to be so sweet in my last blog, and I wanted to be such a good girl in this one, but I can’t. Because when I say this to the VP, “One of the ways that I remain effective and available to the people I support is to make sure that they know that I am not management. That said, it’s imperative that I not communicate decisions and information which management should directly communicate to their staff, such as providing the details of why some employees have been fired and why many others have left the company,” and the VP translates that into telling someone else, “She’s right. She needs to remain close to the support so she can spy on them and tell us what they do wrong,” I can’t help but to blog about it.
My gangster wants to play. I want to tell the VP, “Listen, bitch, you’re making me want to bounce even more. But you’re doing me a favor, yo! Reminding me, I wasn’t made for this fool’s game. But check it. My fists are up. I ain’t gonna show you my back and tuck my mug in the corner like I’ve done before with other power trippers. You’re play’n me? You can’t play a player.”
I’d also like to know how I could think (even for a second) that I could get comfortable enough to forget that it’s not my destiny to work for someone else. It’s wickedly obvious that the universe is done tapping me on the shoulder. The last two years have been the smack in the face I needed. I’m not supposed to be comfortable.
I’m supposed to be afraid, every day, that if I don’t take action, if I don’t keep moving forward and doing whatever it takes to work it out with my art, with my writing, with making money from my creativity, I’m going to die. Either corporate life will be the death of me or I will kill myself. I will find my own fucking bus and figure out a way to drive over myself whilst I’m throwing myself at my bus.
I have a new prayer. Please God, Universe, Gus, Frank, Sally, Wendy, whoever, help me find the energy to make my dreams come true. Please guide me to be an inspiration, to be the story that worked, rather than the person who complained too much and did too little. NO, REALLY, please help me fight the propensity to be a part of my own problem. I want to be my solution.
Please let me be fabulous and not the stinky (complaining) kid no one wants to sit next to.
Man, I wanted to be so sweet in my last blog, and I wanted to be such a good girl in this one, but I can’t. Because when I say this to the VP, “One of the ways that I remain effective and available to the people I support is to make sure that they know that I am not management. That said, it’s imperative that I not communicate decisions and information which management should directly communicate to their staff, such as providing the details of why some employees have been fired and why many others have left the company,” and the VP translates that into telling someone else, “She’s right. She needs to remain close to the support so she can spy on them and tell us what they do wrong,” I can’t help but to blog about it.
My gangster wants to play. I want to tell the VP, “Listen, bitch, you’re making me want to bounce even more. But you’re doing me a favor, yo! Reminding me, I wasn’t made for this fool’s game. But check it. My fists are up. I ain’t gonna show you my back and tuck my mug in the corner like I’ve done before with other power trippers. You’re play’n me? You can’t play a player.”
I’d also like to know how I could think (even for a second) that I could get comfortable enough to forget that it’s not my destiny to work for someone else. It’s wickedly obvious that the universe is done tapping me on the shoulder. The last two years have been the smack in the face I needed. I’m not supposed to be comfortable.
I’m supposed to be afraid, every day, that if I don’t take action, if I don’t keep moving forward and doing whatever it takes to work it out with my art, with my writing, with making money from my creativity, I’m going to die. Either corporate life will be the death of me or I will kill myself. I will find my own fucking bus and figure out a way to drive over myself whilst I’m throwing myself at my bus.
I have a new prayer. Please God, Universe, Gus, Frank, Sally, Wendy, whoever, help me find the energy to make my dreams come true. Please guide me to be an inspiration, to be the story that worked, rather than the person who complained too much and did too little. NO, REALLY, please help me fight the propensity to be a part of my own problem. I want to be my solution.
Please let me be fabulous and not the stinky (complaining) kid no one wants to sit next to.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Where you running off to?
I figured something else out today, about myself, but before I tell you what, let me tell you how I arrived at this new but old conclusion on knowing myself. Don’t worry, the sad sack has been gone for a while, so any sarcasm you detect isn’t from my whoa-is-me, it’s from my I-can-call-a-spade-a-spade, even if I’m calling myself out.
The VP at my work came to see me today, to ask me, “Are you happy here? Do you have passion for what you do?” and to share with me, “I realize I haven’t gotten to know you. I don’t even know what you’re working on. I’d like to work more closely with you (insert my new immediate manager’s fake name here—let’s go with Mika) since Mika has a lot on her plate. Oh, and we also may look into moving you to a new location.”
Translation: “Are we happy with you? Who the fuck are you?” and tell me, “Have you really proven yourself yet? What have you done for us so far? Why does Mika seem to appreciate you so much and yet the rest of us don’t know what she appreciates? And, by the way, I am a bit of a micro manager so when I say new location, I mean I might move you from the office which makes sense (since it is six physical feet from the room where you perform one of your major functions for our company) to a place which doesn’t make sense, which is to the opposite corner of the floor into a cube right outside of my office. I will do this for no other reason than the fact that I want you to know I have power over you. I also think it would be a great idea if you met my boss, if you maybe gave her a shorter version of one of our recent projects.”
Before I tell you how I responded, I have a quick question. How is it that I now work for someone like Mika, one of the best people I’ve ever worked for, EVER, and Mika not only knows what goes into doing my job (because she’s done it, and therefore understands the experience and skill it takes to do it well, she also knows I’ve produced a fucking truck load of sorely-needed material where there was a major gap, so she leaves me the fuck alone and let’s me do it. Yet, I now also work in an environment which makes thirty percent of the people who work with me cry during the day and the other forty percent either go home at night and drink or they act out sexually.
Okay, so I made up those percentages and the results thereof. But, I am trying to drive the point home that one of my best friends works in the same type of environment as I now work within, for a different company, and she does the kind of work my job function supports, and I have watched anxiety and depression take a little more from this friend every day. (Yes. I am actually talking about a friend and not me, even though it sounds a lot like my recent experiences.)
Ain’t all work a muther fucker? But, what if your work required you to endure external customers yelling at you all day, calling you names, and insulting you personally because they are unhappy with the company you work for? That’s the environment the people I support work within. (God, I’m such a long-winded bitch when I am trying to maintain my anonymity and protect the identity of those I love and of those I talk shit about).
How did I answer the VP? I said, “You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed working here. And this office, being able to work uninterrupted, I can’t believe how conducive it has been to my productivity. If it seems like a lot of the team doesn’t know me, it’s probably because I haven’t really been invited to any of the meetings. But, I am so glad you mentioned it, because I was just thinking last week, as I came up for air with from all the work I’ve been so focused on, that I should be included more. Yes, per your request, first thing tomorrow I will give you a list of all the projects I’ve been working on.”
What was I really thinking? Okay, so you are a micro manager, but I respect that you haven’t been up my ass so far. Now, it kinds feels like I am going to have to ask you to move in order for me to take a shit.
It would have been fun to get all gangster on the VP’s ass, though, and said, “Look, I’m a’ight here, but it ain’t no picnic, yo! Your peeps are hurting. They’re going home wounded at night. I gotta play the line, baby, and keep it real with the ground forces. I know I’m profile, you want me out there, but I got my fingers on the pulse and I’ve been doing what needs to get done. I’m working this playground, girl, and trying to make this grass grow for both of us. You want the low down? I’ll hook you up. My throw down list will blow your mind. I’ve kicked more ass up in here than you even know. I feel you now. Even though you want to run the game on the yard, and want to intimidate me with meet’n the high roller, I might still feel the love. I might just chill now that you came to see me. But check back. If you start play’n me, I’ll bounce, bitch. I know how to roll.”
Now, I’ll make my point. This is what I’ve realized about myself. When it comes to making points, it takes me a hot, sweaty, wait for it… drawn-out minute to make them. Sorry. That obviously wasn’t my point, but I couldn’t help myself.
I’m a runner. That’s the truth. The question I find myself asking today, and it’s the same question you should ask yourself (work or play), is, “Are you running from or to?”
You know, in the book I haven’t finished yet (perhaps procrastination and the psychology behind it should be my next topic), the main character is a runner. I probably made her that way because I understand running. But I think the difference between her and me is that I created her to run from love yet I run from work. And, since she runs from love, she runs from men.
I don’t run from men, or from love. Not really. I’ve not had much of a reason to run from men. When I was younger, I didn’t know how to use my gut, so I was too stupid to run from my mistakes. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned not to be stupid and to trust my gut. And, since my gut has only gotten better, and the red flags have always gotten brighter, if love is in front of me (which is rare and I’ll take it when I can get it), no matter how scary it can be, it feels stupid to run (especially if it feels like I can learn as I love).
How is running from work different than running from love? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is. When is the battle worth fighting and when is it better to take flight? IN love, I’ve always known the answer, or thought I did. My gut has been the guide.
In work, I haven’t always known. Or, at least, I don’t think I do, that’s why the last few years have gone down the way they have.
I guess when it comes to the people I have to spend eight hours a day with, when it comes to authority, to people who have control over how I pay for my life, when it comes to compromising my ultimate path, or when my independence and security are tampered with, if it doesn’t fit, if it doesn’t feel good, if it hurts, if it’s scary, check the door and check the temperature, because the door was already open and I was ready to bolt before the room got too hot.
I’m sure where work is concerned, my gut has also guided me. But, again, I have more trouble reading the map. Maybe I’ve never been comfortable putting my financial affairs into anyone else's hands because that’s not where my affairs ultimately belong.
Again, now that I am working for a great manager, Mika, and not a totally villainous VP, let’s just see if procrastination, panic, general apathy, and/or comfort sets in as I find my way back to healing in the work place. Time may still be revealing the VP’s character, but my concern is that the power-hungry, estrogen/fear-driven persona I met during the initial interview process may be exactly who she is.
It's so sad that my last job gave me PTSD. (If only that was a joke.)
God help me. I want that sense of accomplishment at work back again, but don’t let me get so comfortable that I forget it’s not my destiny to work for someone else. Maybe this blog has always been about me finding my love in my work. If so, seriously, God, help me! I want to run to my destiny not from my fear.
The VP at my work came to see me today, to ask me, “Are you happy here? Do you have passion for what you do?” and to share with me, “I realize I haven’t gotten to know you. I don’t even know what you’re working on. I’d like to work more closely with you (insert my new immediate manager’s fake name here—let’s go with Mika) since Mika has a lot on her plate. Oh, and we also may look into moving you to a new location.”
Translation: “Are we happy with you? Who the fuck are you?” and tell me, “Have you really proven yourself yet? What have you done for us so far? Why does Mika seem to appreciate you so much and yet the rest of us don’t know what she appreciates? And, by the way, I am a bit of a micro manager so when I say new location, I mean I might move you from the office which makes sense (since it is six physical feet from the room where you perform one of your major functions for our company) to a place which doesn’t make sense, which is to the opposite corner of the floor into a cube right outside of my office. I will do this for no other reason than the fact that I want you to know I have power over you. I also think it would be a great idea if you met my boss, if you maybe gave her a shorter version of one of our recent projects.”
Before I tell you how I responded, I have a quick question. How is it that I now work for someone like Mika, one of the best people I’ve ever worked for, EVER, and Mika not only knows what goes into doing my job (because she’s done it, and therefore understands the experience and skill it takes to do it well, she also knows I’ve produced a fucking truck load of sorely-needed material where there was a major gap, so she leaves me the fuck alone and let’s me do it. Yet, I now also work in an environment which makes thirty percent of the people who work with me cry during the day and the other forty percent either go home at night and drink or they act out sexually.
Okay, so I made up those percentages and the results thereof. But, I am trying to drive the point home that one of my best friends works in the same type of environment as I now work within, for a different company, and she does the kind of work my job function supports, and I have watched anxiety and depression take a little more from this friend every day. (Yes. I am actually talking about a friend and not me, even though it sounds a lot like my recent experiences.)
Ain’t all work a muther fucker? But, what if your work required you to endure external customers yelling at you all day, calling you names, and insulting you personally because they are unhappy with the company you work for? That’s the environment the people I support work within. (God, I’m such a long-winded bitch when I am trying to maintain my anonymity and protect the identity of those I love and of those I talk shit about).
How did I answer the VP? I said, “You have no idea how much I’ve enjoyed working here. And this office, being able to work uninterrupted, I can’t believe how conducive it has been to my productivity. If it seems like a lot of the team doesn’t know me, it’s probably because I haven’t really been invited to any of the meetings. But, I am so glad you mentioned it, because I was just thinking last week, as I came up for air with from all the work I’ve been so focused on, that I should be included more. Yes, per your request, first thing tomorrow I will give you a list of all the projects I’ve been working on.”
What was I really thinking? Okay, so you are a micro manager, but I respect that you haven’t been up my ass so far. Now, it kinds feels like I am going to have to ask you to move in order for me to take a shit.
It would have been fun to get all gangster on the VP’s ass, though, and said, “Look, I’m a’ight here, but it ain’t no picnic, yo! Your peeps are hurting. They’re going home wounded at night. I gotta play the line, baby, and keep it real with the ground forces. I know I’m profile, you want me out there, but I got my fingers on the pulse and I’ve been doing what needs to get done. I’m working this playground, girl, and trying to make this grass grow for both of us. You want the low down? I’ll hook you up. My throw down list will blow your mind. I’ve kicked more ass up in here than you even know. I feel you now. Even though you want to run the game on the yard, and want to intimidate me with meet’n the high roller, I might still feel the love. I might just chill now that you came to see me. But check back. If you start play’n me, I’ll bounce, bitch. I know how to roll.”
Now, I’ll make my point. This is what I’ve realized about myself. When it comes to making points, it takes me a hot, sweaty, wait for it… drawn-out minute to make them. Sorry. That obviously wasn’t my point, but I couldn’t help myself.
I’m a runner. That’s the truth. The question I find myself asking today, and it’s the same question you should ask yourself (work or play), is, “Are you running from or to?”
You know, in the book I haven’t finished yet (perhaps procrastination and the psychology behind it should be my next topic), the main character is a runner. I probably made her that way because I understand running. But I think the difference between her and me is that I created her to run from love yet I run from work. And, since she runs from love, she runs from men.
I don’t run from men, or from love. Not really. I’ve not had much of a reason to run from men. When I was younger, I didn’t know how to use my gut, so I was too stupid to run from my mistakes. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned not to be stupid and to trust my gut. And, since my gut has only gotten better, and the red flags have always gotten brighter, if love is in front of me (which is rare and I’ll take it when I can get it), no matter how scary it can be, it feels stupid to run (especially if it feels like I can learn as I love).
How is running from work different than running from love? Maybe it’s not. Maybe it is. When is the battle worth fighting and when is it better to take flight? IN love, I’ve always known the answer, or thought I did. My gut has been the guide.
In work, I haven’t always known. Or, at least, I don’t think I do, that’s why the last few years have gone down the way they have.
I guess when it comes to the people I have to spend eight hours a day with, when it comes to authority, to people who have control over how I pay for my life, when it comes to compromising my ultimate path, or when my independence and security are tampered with, if it doesn’t fit, if it doesn’t feel good, if it hurts, if it’s scary, check the door and check the temperature, because the door was already open and I was ready to bolt before the room got too hot.
I’m sure where work is concerned, my gut has also guided me. But, again, I have more trouble reading the map. Maybe I’ve never been comfortable putting my financial affairs into anyone else's hands because that’s not where my affairs ultimately belong.
Again, now that I am working for a great manager, Mika, and not a totally villainous VP, let’s just see if procrastination, panic, general apathy, and/or comfort sets in as I find my way back to healing in the work place. Time may still be revealing the VP’s character, but my concern is that the power-hungry, estrogen/fear-driven persona I met during the initial interview process may be exactly who she is.
It's so sad that my last job gave me PTSD. (If only that was a joke.)
God help me. I want that sense of accomplishment at work back again, but don’t let me get so comfortable that I forget it’s not my destiny to work for someone else. Maybe this blog has always been about me finding my love in my work. If so, seriously, God, help me! I want to run to my destiny not from my fear.
Monday, March 26, 2012
What’s really going on?
I will tell you what’s going on. I don’t want to find the other beige sock that goes with the light brown loafers. I don’t want to iron another pleat or cold wash another appropriate cotton and polyester blend blouse. I don’t want to pack my lunch the night before. I don’t want go to bed at 9:30 pm or wake up at 5:30 am. I don’t want to comb my hair or put on mascara.
Instead, I want to stay up as long as the creative juices are flowing and I want to sleep in and get up when I am damn well good and ready. I want to wear flip flops. I want a pair of yoga pants to be my daily uniform. I only want to put on make up when I have plans.
In other words, I’m getting it. The last few years have been about the universe telling me that I need to work for myself. Have we covered this? Am I just daft and I take nine blows to the head until I am called to action?
Trouble is, my creative juices have been dried up lately. I haven’t felt much like writing or painting. So, I’ve decided I need to steal from my prior self. That’s why I’m getting off my ass and trying to license some of my previous paintings to see if I can make money off my images.
It’s going to take an initial financial investment, and so far it’s taken it’s time toll (in keeping up the momentum, I’ve gotten a head cold), but fortunately, I’ve gotten what I’ve asked for so I can’t slow down now. All these years I’ve know what a horrible administrative/business person I am and I've hoped I could find someone to do it for me or tell me how to do it when it comes to making money off my art. "Where or where is the art manager or consultant for me to trust and light a fire under me?" I've asked.
Turns out, no one is going to do it for anyone, so the universe sent me someone to tell me how to do it. I've met that consultant and she's started me on my way.
More later… I’ve got to get some nose spray now so that I can breath. (God, I’m a head case in more ways than one.)
Instead, I want to stay up as long as the creative juices are flowing and I want to sleep in and get up when I am damn well good and ready. I want to wear flip flops. I want a pair of yoga pants to be my daily uniform. I only want to put on make up when I have plans.
In other words, I’m getting it. The last few years have been about the universe telling me that I need to work for myself. Have we covered this? Am I just daft and I take nine blows to the head until I am called to action?
Trouble is, my creative juices have been dried up lately. I haven’t felt much like writing or painting. So, I’ve decided I need to steal from my prior self. That’s why I’m getting off my ass and trying to license some of my previous paintings to see if I can make money off my images.
It’s going to take an initial financial investment, and so far it’s taken it’s time toll (in keeping up the momentum, I’ve gotten a head cold), but fortunately, I’ve gotten what I’ve asked for so I can’t slow down now. All these years I’ve know what a horrible administrative/business person I am and I've hoped I could find someone to do it for me or tell me how to do it when it comes to making money off my art. "Where or where is the art manager or consultant for me to trust and light a fire under me?" I've asked.
Turns out, no one is going to do it for anyone, so the universe sent me someone to tell me how to do it. I've met that consultant and she's started me on my way.
More later… I’ve got to get some nose spray now so that I can breath. (God, I’m a head case in more ways than one.)
Friday, March 9, 2012
Am I baked?
What the fuck? I have so many other things I could post, update on, etcetera, but, apparently, this is me checking in and asking, "Is the pot smoking from the downstairs neighbor giving me a contact high?"
I'm not kidding. I always smell my downstairs neighbor's cigarette smoke and pot smoke rise up through the pipes and hit me in my bathroom. (I still can't figure out how the fumes get isolated and rise up to my bathroom, but they do.) But, until now, tonight, I had only smelled the cigarette smoke and/or pot smoke coming up through the bathroom.
The smoke is now more aggressive. It is rising up through the plumbing, the pipes, the carpet, the walls, and the what-ever-the fuck, and doing so so aggressively that I not only am getting a smoke/sinus headache, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get enough of a contact hit that I am going to go to bed high.
Good night.
I'm not kidding. I always smell my downstairs neighbor's cigarette smoke and pot smoke rise up through the pipes and hit me in my bathroom. (I still can't figure out how the fumes get isolated and rise up to my bathroom, but they do.) But, until now, tonight, I had only smelled the cigarette smoke and/or pot smoke coming up through the bathroom.
The smoke is now more aggressive. It is rising up through the plumbing, the pipes, the carpet, the walls, and the what-ever-the fuck, and doing so so aggressively that I not only am getting a smoke/sinus headache, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get enough of a contact hit that I am going to go to bed high.
Good night.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Pick your battles and your friends wisely
There you are, in the Trader Joe’s check-out line, standing behind some strange woman with mostly black but also slightly burnt-reddish hair, and you’ve got a million things going on in your mind. You think to yourself, I’m tired. I don’t want to go to the grocery store. But I want my green-leaf lettuce for salads, and I also need to get— Fuck! I don’t want to go to the grocery store. But, if I don’t go, then I’ll have to go tomorrow. I’ll also have a crappy lunch, because I’ll have to walk to get fast food and my toe hurts.
Your mind is so preoccupied with what you’ve done, and what you have to do, that you don’t see the person in front of you, you just see someone standing in front of you. You’re just waiting for your turn to pay.
In my case, my mind was busy thinking about the copies I’d just made, 30 minutes ago, for my up-and-coming court appearance where I was scheduled to discuss the appeal I’d filed to the State of California. It would be decided whether or not it was a financial hardship for me to pay back the $4,500 in unemployment benefits the state awarded me. As I was thinking about lettuce, I was realizing that I’d spent a year of my life stressed out of my mind working for a woman who I felt was the source of my misery. I know now, she was just a catalyst and I have a lot of work to do. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve spent another year fighting to prove I was justified in receiving the benefits the state awarded me because of this boss and the environment she set forth.
That’s two years of my life re-living something I desperately want to be in my rear-view mirror. That’s two years of my life giving up my power. I’ve wanted to be done with this energy for so long now, I even planned an apology blog, saying how sorry I was that I didn’t realize sooner that it was never my right to use my pain, my hurt, or my anger in a blog to complain against my previous boss, or the boss before, both human beings.
My whole life, all I’ve ever wanted was for people not to hurt each other. This need started earlier than I can remember, but there are events in my life which have stacked up, and I can recall me saying, in one way or another, “Hey, you can’t do that to someone else! You can’t take from them while you are trying to give to yourself. That’s not fair!”
Everything always has to be fair with me. I think it’s deplorable for someone else to step on the back of someone weaker as they attempt to grow stronger. Yet, in my efforts to gain back my own strength, I’ve been unfair to the people who are probably my soul mates.
If you are thinking WTF?, let me explain.
Bad bosses, difficult friends, challenging mates, intensely-negative chance encounters, they are all people who may have agreed to enter into a contract with us, to return and assist us with the lessons we asked to learn. Hard or easy lesson, they are our soul mates. Another theory? You’re either learning and paying dues, because life is a sentence, or you’re on the path to your happiness, because life is an experience to seek fulfillment from. Either way, I’ve not been fair. And, since I’ve allowed myself to be free in this blog, and not always check myself (when it comes to spelling or being a big of enough person to let go of my own hurt and anger), I’m sending out an apology.
To any boss I’ve worked for who I felt wronged me:
If somehow my blog gets circulated and my attempt to grow while I seek happiness affects you adversely, I’m sorry. I’m just as much of a fraud as the rest of us. Only, in this moment, I am able to recognize that you deserve better than my unfairness.
(Check back with me tomorrow, and I might call you an asshole again. HEY! I’m human, too!)
Back to the check-out line.
My mind was whirling, desperate to catch itself up with something other than my stresses at hand, so I started to dissect the woman in front of me. She’s got thinner arms than me and no cellulite, I thought. Good for her. She’s obviously older than me and I’m never going to have arms like that at her age. She doesn’t have much of an ass. Eh, well, it probably looks better than mine will when I get older. Shit, she has bags under her eyes. The bags under my eyes are only going to get worse and probably put hers to shame.
Then, realizing I was not seeing the stranger in front of me for the whole woman she was, but was, instead, just dissecting her individual parts to escape my own mind, I didn’t stop myself. Hey, I needed the diversion. So, I did the chick check all of us gals do. You know, when we compare ourselves to another woman to gauge where we are.
I thought: if I am being honest with myself, she looks better than I am going to look when I get older if I keep going at this stress rate. I even thought about what Vican has said to me. “Negative energy and stress, it can age you more than anything else.”
Got that right, sister. I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I seem so much older than I’ve ever thought I’d look. I can’t remember seeing such a weighted gravity behind my eyes. Nor do I recall seeing the visual evidence (the dark circles and bags) of the weight I’ve been carrying.
I’m not the only one carrying a lot, though. Lyta and I were talking the other night, and we agreed that the world has gone a little mad. It’s time for this bad economy to wake people up, so we can all realize what’s really important. But that is not what’s happening yet. Everyone is still chasing fires. Many of us are chasing our tails, growing more and more fearful. The fear is palpable in the work place and it’s affecting our personal lives.
Sadly, I’m still experiencing a difficult work condition, asking myself if I am in the right environment yet, as, just in the last two weeks, four people were canned and two others resigned. Another cried to me at lunch as she told me she couldn’t take the stress our work environment was offering her.
“I can’t do it. The negativity is too much here,” she said. I felt like I was watching myself meltdown before I’d walked away from my last employer. About 40 minutes later, after only two days back on the job, she walked out after lunch and went back on Leave of Absence; joining approximately 6 other employees also out on LOA. (Considering the department I work for only has about 55 employees, that’s about 10% out on leave and 10% canned or fired. Did I do the math right? Just saying.) Another person at work confided in me that she couldn’t eat lunch in the break room. “They’re all just talking about how much they hate their job. I can do that at home,” she said.
I had another friend, who works for a different company, who has admitted that she hates weakness, confide in me that she just had her first panic attack at work and can now understand how horrible it feels. She also confided that there’s too much weighing her down.
After telling Lyta all of this, she says she’s decided that anxiety, depression, stress, and anxiety attacks are NOT a sign of weakness. They’re simply signs of having tried to remain strong for way to long.” (Of course, she’s brilliant, and right.)
It was time for me to take the pay spot. The woman in front of me was about to leave the store and it was my turn to pay for my goods. As the clerk asked her, “Do you need a bag?” and she responded, “No. I live close,” I felt guilty for making my way up to the cash register. Had I encroached on her territory too soon? It sure felt like I had.
I wanted to make good on the energy I felt I’d soured by being anxious to knock out one more errand, so I scrambled to focus on something I could make a light comment about. The woman was buying flowers. There was a small graphic stamped onto the clear cellophane which the flowers were wrapped within. The graphic looked like the old-style blue and yellow California license plates. There it was, the simple something I could turn into a light exchange to engage a stranger and give my silent sorry for getting in her space.
“Oh, that’s cute. Made-in-California,” I said, as I pointed to the graphic. But, I can’t remember her response. It was something like, “Argh,” or, “Harrumph,” or, “Eggh,” but I can’t say for sure. My eyes followed her walking away from me and that’s when I thought: Well, I guess I didn’t smooth that one over, did I?
Then, my brain kind of bounced between my ears. Wait! What the fuck!? I know that walk, that hunkered-down, shoulder-slumped purposeful swagger. That’s the Mr. Burns gate. That was not a Simpsons encounter I just had. That strange woman who was standing in line in front of me was my old boss.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
Screech! Quick. Turn to the cashier. Find your ground. Figure it out.
“Oh, shit! That was weird,” I said to the young brunette girl scanning and bagging my goods. “I’ve been in a court case for almost a year and the woman who just left your checkout line is the person who made my life miserable for a year before that. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her until she walked away.”
The cashier clutched her chest. “Oh my gawd. Are you serious?”
I was still reeling. I looked to see if my old boss was totally gone from the store, then, in almost a whisper, I said, “Yeah. I’m serious as a fucking heart attack. I mean, her hair is now almost black and it used to be more red, and it’s now four inches longer, but still, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her. I wonder if she recognized me.”
The clerk said, “Yeah. I thought I felt a weird energy there. I don’t know.”
Now, as I write this, it still mystifies me that I didn’t recognize my old boss. The only explanation I have is that I am done. So fucking done. I want to put this shit behind me. I was done a long time ago, but I didn’t recognize it. I am sure that if this life is for lessons, I haven’t yet learned how to deal with authority, with people who exert their power (their pain) over others, but I have learned which battles are important to keep fighting. This one isn’t. No matter how broke I am, $4,500 is not worth my sanity.
Yup. I’m out. I hope one day that my old boss can forgive my anger, can forgive herself, and can find the same peace I am just grazing the surface at and wish I could get to so much sooner. But, whether she’s already found peace, and I’m still the asshole scrambling, or we’re both just as lost, I’m done with this exchange. It’s not useful anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.
Still, that day I kept asking myself how it was possible that I didn’t pick up on her energy sooner and recognize her when I am so sensitive to energy. I kept telling myself: Maybe it’s because that energy is supposed to be behind you. But, I wasn’t sure if that was it yet.
It was not until I appeared before the appeals judge for the case I had been preparing for that day that I truly realized that I wanted— No, needed, this experience in my life to be finished.
Ultimately, I still don’t know what my lessons are. I still don’t have a firm grasp on my happiness. But, after meeting with the judge, I realized, at the very least, that money has been a major reoccurring fear in my life. So much so that it’s consumed many of my decisions pertaining to security and I’ve had enough of that fear. Or, at least I want to have had enough.
But, before I visited In-and-Burger (for the tenth time in the last four months) after my meeting with the judge, and before I realized that I was not going to see anyone from my previous employer’s office during that meeting with the judge, and before I questioned the receptionist at the California office of appeals (or whatever it was called), and asked, “Is anyone from my previous employer going to be here?” as my ever-threatening tears remained at bay, I hadn’t yet recognized the need for the end.
I do remember the drive to the Appeals office, though. As I tried to figure out where I could park, so I wouldn’t incur the debt of another parking ticket (I’d gotten one that morning just outside my apartment), I was feeling bad for Lindsay Lohan. I asked myself: Who cares what Lindsay has done or hasn’t done? Who, amongst us, would want their drama played out and exploited in front of millions?
Later that night, as my belly (my mostly-three-years-of-being a vegan stomach) did it’s best to work up even more enzymes to deal with the meat and cheese emotional coma I attempted to induce, I thought about the judge I’d met with. (Before I get to the meeting with the judge, I need to ask: why does it always have to by so extreme with me? When I am stressed, I either can’t eat or I want to eat the couch with my French fries, my quesadilla, and my salted and enriched snack. Can we get a happy medium here?)
Anyway, I kept thinking about how hard the judge’s job was. I thought about when I was in my late 20s and I was on a jury where we had to decide if this guy was guilty or not of building a pipe bomb. (Wait. I hope I am allowed to write about this and not break the law.) Our job as a jury was to make a decision based on the facts. Emotions weren’t supposed to play a part of the equation.
I think I was the youngest one on the jury, as I only recall mostly business men (old guys) and barely remember if there were any women. It might as well have been 12 Angry Men and me. Okay, so the dudes weren’t that angry, but they were pretty damn adamant in their path forward.
They all wanted to enter a plea of guilty for this guy because two of his fingers, his thumb and his pointer, were missing. He didn’t even have stumps. He just had skin over the knuckles.
Yet, I kept saying, “But his two missing fingers are not the evidence that was presented to us. We are not allowed to make assumptions based on our emotion or based on what we can see. We are only supposed to decide based on the evidence presented to us.”
Against my trepidation, and in spite of fearing the wrath of these powerful older dudes, over and over I kept repeating my understanding of our task at hand. Finally, based on the evidence that was presented, which we all finally agreed didn’t prove guilt, our jury was hung.
Maybe it was that experience which allowed me to be okay with whatever the judge decided. Maybe I saw the fairness of the law in this judge. Maybe I couldn’t hate the judge because he looked like Tim Kang, the actor who plays Kimball Cho in The Mentalist. (Tim Kang is one of my secret crushes.) Maybe, I was just DONE.
Whatever the judge decided, I’d decided that putting this experience behind me really was more important. Now, more than ever, I understand what it means to pick your battles. If the fight to hold on is costing you more than you will lose if you let go, it’s not a battle worth fighting.
How come this took me so long to figure out?
It’s a good thing that I’d made the decision that I wasn’t going to fight for $4,500, an amount so small in comparison to moving forward, because when I got the letter yesterday that I had lost the battle, my instinct was to keep fighting. Jen and I were on the phone together, as I was driving home from a tough day within a tough work week, when I parked my car, checked my mail, saw the envelope from the EED, and then went upstairs to open the envelope and accept the verdict.
“Hold on,” I told Jen. “I’m opening the envelope now. I guess we’ll both find out together.” I read the high points out loud to Jen. “The decision is final unless appealed within 20 days from the date of mailing… .” I sucked in a breath and continued. “Any person who is overpaid unemployment insurance benefits is liable for repayment… .” More breath sucking. Tears starting. Then I finished reading what I knew was coming. “In the present case, the claimant was paid $4,500 in benefits to which she was not entitled.”
“I guess that’s it,” I said to Jen. “It never mattered, my appeal. The law had already decided my fate before I started fighting.” Then, I felt the panic ensue. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I didn’t want to live it anymore. I couldn’t afford it anymore, financially or emotionally. It didn’t matter that I’ve been $139.00 in the hole every month and that my new job doesn’t pay me enough to pay for my life and that I’m not only going more and more into debt, I am still not happy at work. I couldn’t breath. I had to get off the phone.
What I didn’t tell Jen, is that I was overwhelmed that I still had another phone call ahead of me that I didn’t want to make. I was pissed that I knew it was going to take more out of me. It was going to take me many days of dialing and waiting time, and possibly more than once call, where I would have to figure out how, during work hours, I’d work out a monthly re-payment plan with an EED representative (and finally, finally, put a part of my life I was eager to have behind me, behind me) all the while figuring out how to keep up with the demands of my present job because the only time I could get this resolved was during work hours.
Once that phone call (or calls) was made, I knew I could breathe again. But I still had that ahead of me, and that meant I still had some battle to do when there wasn’t any more fight left in me. So, trying to avoid the panic, I was desperate to get off of the phone with Jen. “I have to go. I need to process this.”
I hung up. Then, I cried. But, only for about five minutes. Then, I decided to write. But, only enough to get an outline down so I could process what I could. Now, I’m finishing this. But, I know there are gaps and brain mishaps. I don’t care.
I can’t say if I’ve processed it all. It may take more time. But, I don’t want to write about it anymore. It’s been said that to conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom (they said that on the television show The Finder). Here is to hoping that I am starting my wisdom. Here’s is to my hope that I won’t let my fears be stronger than my faith.
Here is to thanking my friends for getting me through this. I know sometimes we all feel ordinary when it appears that we are standing alone. But, when we stand together we are extraordinary. We are fabulous. Better than fabulous. We are friends.
Thank you, my friends. I’d be lost without you.
Your mind is so preoccupied with what you’ve done, and what you have to do, that you don’t see the person in front of you, you just see someone standing in front of you. You’re just waiting for your turn to pay.
In my case, my mind was busy thinking about the copies I’d just made, 30 minutes ago, for my up-and-coming court appearance where I was scheduled to discuss the appeal I’d filed to the State of California. It would be decided whether or not it was a financial hardship for me to pay back the $4,500 in unemployment benefits the state awarded me. As I was thinking about lettuce, I was realizing that I’d spent a year of my life stressed out of my mind working for a woman who I felt was the source of my misery. I know now, she was just a catalyst and I have a lot of work to do. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve spent another year fighting to prove I was justified in receiving the benefits the state awarded me because of this boss and the environment she set forth.
That’s two years of my life re-living something I desperately want to be in my rear-view mirror. That’s two years of my life giving up my power. I’ve wanted to be done with this energy for so long now, I even planned an apology blog, saying how sorry I was that I didn’t realize sooner that it was never my right to use my pain, my hurt, or my anger in a blog to complain against my previous boss, or the boss before, both human beings.
My whole life, all I’ve ever wanted was for people not to hurt each other. This need started earlier than I can remember, but there are events in my life which have stacked up, and I can recall me saying, in one way or another, “Hey, you can’t do that to someone else! You can’t take from them while you are trying to give to yourself. That’s not fair!”
Everything always has to be fair with me. I think it’s deplorable for someone else to step on the back of someone weaker as they attempt to grow stronger. Yet, in my efforts to gain back my own strength, I’ve been unfair to the people who are probably my soul mates.
If you are thinking WTF?, let me explain.
Bad bosses, difficult friends, challenging mates, intensely-negative chance encounters, they are all people who may have agreed to enter into a contract with us, to return and assist us with the lessons we asked to learn. Hard or easy lesson, they are our soul mates. Another theory? You’re either learning and paying dues, because life is a sentence, or you’re on the path to your happiness, because life is an experience to seek fulfillment from. Either way, I’ve not been fair. And, since I’ve allowed myself to be free in this blog, and not always check myself (when it comes to spelling or being a big of enough person to let go of my own hurt and anger), I’m sending out an apology.
To any boss I’ve worked for who I felt wronged me:
If somehow my blog gets circulated and my attempt to grow while I seek happiness affects you adversely, I’m sorry. I’m just as much of a fraud as the rest of us. Only, in this moment, I am able to recognize that you deserve better than my unfairness.
(Check back with me tomorrow, and I might call you an asshole again. HEY! I’m human, too!)
Back to the check-out line.
My mind was whirling, desperate to catch itself up with something other than my stresses at hand, so I started to dissect the woman in front of me. She’s got thinner arms than me and no cellulite, I thought. Good for her. She’s obviously older than me and I’m never going to have arms like that at her age. She doesn’t have much of an ass. Eh, well, it probably looks better than mine will when I get older. Shit, she has bags under her eyes. The bags under my eyes are only going to get worse and probably put hers to shame.
Then, realizing I was not seeing the stranger in front of me for the whole woman she was, but was, instead, just dissecting her individual parts to escape my own mind, I didn’t stop myself. Hey, I needed the diversion. So, I did the chick check all of us gals do. You know, when we compare ourselves to another woman to gauge where we are.
I thought: if I am being honest with myself, she looks better than I am going to look when I get older if I keep going at this stress rate. I even thought about what Vican has said to me. “Negative energy and stress, it can age you more than anything else.”
Got that right, sister. I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I seem so much older than I’ve ever thought I’d look. I can’t remember seeing such a weighted gravity behind my eyes. Nor do I recall seeing the visual evidence (the dark circles and bags) of the weight I’ve been carrying.
I’m not the only one carrying a lot, though. Lyta and I were talking the other night, and we agreed that the world has gone a little mad. It’s time for this bad economy to wake people up, so we can all realize what’s really important. But that is not what’s happening yet. Everyone is still chasing fires. Many of us are chasing our tails, growing more and more fearful. The fear is palpable in the work place and it’s affecting our personal lives.
Sadly, I’m still experiencing a difficult work condition, asking myself if I am in the right environment yet, as, just in the last two weeks, four people were canned and two others resigned. Another cried to me at lunch as she told me she couldn’t take the stress our work environment was offering her.
“I can’t do it. The negativity is too much here,” she said. I felt like I was watching myself meltdown before I’d walked away from my last employer. About 40 minutes later, after only two days back on the job, she walked out after lunch and went back on Leave of Absence; joining approximately 6 other employees also out on LOA. (Considering the department I work for only has about 55 employees, that’s about 10% out on leave and 10% canned or fired. Did I do the math right? Just saying.) Another person at work confided in me that she couldn’t eat lunch in the break room. “They’re all just talking about how much they hate their job. I can do that at home,” she said.
I had another friend, who works for a different company, who has admitted that she hates weakness, confide in me that she just had her first panic attack at work and can now understand how horrible it feels. She also confided that there’s too much weighing her down.
After telling Lyta all of this, she says she’s decided that anxiety, depression, stress, and anxiety attacks are NOT a sign of weakness. They’re simply signs of having tried to remain strong for way to long.” (Of course, she’s brilliant, and right.)
It was time for me to take the pay spot. The woman in front of me was about to leave the store and it was my turn to pay for my goods. As the clerk asked her, “Do you need a bag?” and she responded, “No. I live close,” I felt guilty for making my way up to the cash register. Had I encroached on her territory too soon? It sure felt like I had.
I wanted to make good on the energy I felt I’d soured by being anxious to knock out one more errand, so I scrambled to focus on something I could make a light comment about. The woman was buying flowers. There was a small graphic stamped onto the clear cellophane which the flowers were wrapped within. The graphic looked like the old-style blue and yellow California license plates. There it was, the simple something I could turn into a light exchange to engage a stranger and give my silent sorry for getting in her space.
“Oh, that’s cute. Made-in-California,” I said, as I pointed to the graphic. But, I can’t remember her response. It was something like, “Argh,” or, “Harrumph,” or, “Eggh,” but I can’t say for sure. My eyes followed her walking away from me and that’s when I thought: Well, I guess I didn’t smooth that one over, did I?
Then, my brain kind of bounced between my ears. Wait! What the fuck!? I know that walk, that hunkered-down, shoulder-slumped purposeful swagger. That’s the Mr. Burns gate. That was not a Simpsons encounter I just had. That strange woman who was standing in line in front of me was my old boss.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
Screech! Quick. Turn to the cashier. Find your ground. Figure it out.
“Oh, shit! That was weird,” I said to the young brunette girl scanning and bagging my goods. “I’ve been in a court case for almost a year and the woman who just left your checkout line is the person who made my life miserable for a year before that. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her until she walked away.”
The cashier clutched her chest. “Oh my gawd. Are you serious?”
I was still reeling. I looked to see if my old boss was totally gone from the store, then, in almost a whisper, I said, “Yeah. I’m serious as a fucking heart attack. I mean, her hair is now almost black and it used to be more red, and it’s now four inches longer, but still, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her. I wonder if she recognized me.”
The clerk said, “Yeah. I thought I felt a weird energy there. I don’t know.”
Now, as I write this, it still mystifies me that I didn’t recognize my old boss. The only explanation I have is that I am done. So fucking done. I want to put this shit behind me. I was done a long time ago, but I didn’t recognize it. I am sure that if this life is for lessons, I haven’t yet learned how to deal with authority, with people who exert their power (their pain) over others, but I have learned which battles are important to keep fighting. This one isn’t. No matter how broke I am, $4,500 is not worth my sanity.
Yup. I’m out. I hope one day that my old boss can forgive my anger, can forgive herself, and can find the same peace I am just grazing the surface at and wish I could get to so much sooner. But, whether she’s already found peace, and I’m still the asshole scrambling, or we’re both just as lost, I’m done with this exchange. It’s not useful anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.
Still, that day I kept asking myself how it was possible that I didn’t pick up on her energy sooner and recognize her when I am so sensitive to energy. I kept telling myself: Maybe it’s because that energy is supposed to be behind you. But, I wasn’t sure if that was it yet.
It was not until I appeared before the appeals judge for the case I had been preparing for that day that I truly realized that I wanted— No, needed, this experience in my life to be finished.
Ultimately, I still don’t know what my lessons are. I still don’t have a firm grasp on my happiness. But, after meeting with the judge, I realized, at the very least, that money has been a major reoccurring fear in my life. So much so that it’s consumed many of my decisions pertaining to security and I’ve had enough of that fear. Or, at least I want to have had enough.
But, before I visited In-and-Burger (for the tenth time in the last four months) after my meeting with the judge, and before I realized that I was not going to see anyone from my previous employer’s office during that meeting with the judge, and before I questioned the receptionist at the California office of appeals (or whatever it was called), and asked, “Is anyone from my previous employer going to be here?” as my ever-threatening tears remained at bay, I hadn’t yet recognized the need for the end.
I do remember the drive to the Appeals office, though. As I tried to figure out where I could park, so I wouldn’t incur the debt of another parking ticket (I’d gotten one that morning just outside my apartment), I was feeling bad for Lindsay Lohan. I asked myself: Who cares what Lindsay has done or hasn’t done? Who, amongst us, would want their drama played out and exploited in front of millions?
Later that night, as my belly (my mostly-three-years-of-being a vegan stomach) did it’s best to work up even more enzymes to deal with the meat and cheese emotional coma I attempted to induce, I thought about the judge I’d met with. (Before I get to the meeting with the judge, I need to ask: why does it always have to by so extreme with me? When I am stressed, I either can’t eat or I want to eat the couch with my French fries, my quesadilla, and my salted and enriched snack. Can we get a happy medium here?)
Anyway, I kept thinking about how hard the judge’s job was. I thought about when I was in my late 20s and I was on a jury where we had to decide if this guy was guilty or not of building a pipe bomb. (Wait. I hope I am allowed to write about this and not break the law.) Our job as a jury was to make a decision based on the facts. Emotions weren’t supposed to play a part of the equation.
I think I was the youngest one on the jury, as I only recall mostly business men (old guys) and barely remember if there were any women. It might as well have been 12 Angry Men and me. Okay, so the dudes weren’t that angry, but they were pretty damn adamant in their path forward.
They all wanted to enter a plea of guilty for this guy because two of his fingers, his thumb and his pointer, were missing. He didn’t even have stumps. He just had skin over the knuckles.
Yet, I kept saying, “But his two missing fingers are not the evidence that was presented to us. We are not allowed to make assumptions based on our emotion or based on what we can see. We are only supposed to decide based on the evidence presented to us.”
Against my trepidation, and in spite of fearing the wrath of these powerful older dudes, over and over I kept repeating my understanding of our task at hand. Finally, based on the evidence that was presented, which we all finally agreed didn’t prove guilt, our jury was hung.
Maybe it was that experience which allowed me to be okay with whatever the judge decided. Maybe I saw the fairness of the law in this judge. Maybe I couldn’t hate the judge because he looked like Tim Kang, the actor who plays Kimball Cho in The Mentalist. (Tim Kang is one of my secret crushes.) Maybe, I was just DONE.
Whatever the judge decided, I’d decided that putting this experience behind me really was more important. Now, more than ever, I understand what it means to pick your battles. If the fight to hold on is costing you more than you will lose if you let go, it’s not a battle worth fighting.
How come this took me so long to figure out?
It’s a good thing that I’d made the decision that I wasn’t going to fight for $4,500, an amount so small in comparison to moving forward, because when I got the letter yesterday that I had lost the battle, my instinct was to keep fighting. Jen and I were on the phone together, as I was driving home from a tough day within a tough work week, when I parked my car, checked my mail, saw the envelope from the EED, and then went upstairs to open the envelope and accept the verdict.
“Hold on,” I told Jen. “I’m opening the envelope now. I guess we’ll both find out together.” I read the high points out loud to Jen. “The decision is final unless appealed within 20 days from the date of mailing… .” I sucked in a breath and continued. “Any person who is overpaid unemployment insurance benefits is liable for repayment… .” More breath sucking. Tears starting. Then I finished reading what I knew was coming. “In the present case, the claimant was paid $4,500 in benefits to which she was not entitled.”
“I guess that’s it,” I said to Jen. “It never mattered, my appeal. The law had already decided my fate before I started fighting.” Then, I felt the panic ensue. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I didn’t want to live it anymore. I couldn’t afford it anymore, financially or emotionally. It didn’t matter that I’ve been $139.00 in the hole every month and that my new job doesn’t pay me enough to pay for my life and that I’m not only going more and more into debt, I am still not happy at work. I couldn’t breath. I had to get off the phone.
What I didn’t tell Jen, is that I was overwhelmed that I still had another phone call ahead of me that I didn’t want to make. I was pissed that I knew it was going to take more out of me. It was going to take me many days of dialing and waiting time, and possibly more than once call, where I would have to figure out how, during work hours, I’d work out a monthly re-payment plan with an EED representative (and finally, finally, put a part of my life I was eager to have behind me, behind me) all the while figuring out how to keep up with the demands of my present job because the only time I could get this resolved was during work hours.
Once that phone call (or calls) was made, I knew I could breathe again. But I still had that ahead of me, and that meant I still had some battle to do when there wasn’t any more fight left in me. So, trying to avoid the panic, I was desperate to get off of the phone with Jen. “I have to go. I need to process this.”
I hung up. Then, I cried. But, only for about five minutes. Then, I decided to write. But, only enough to get an outline down so I could process what I could. Now, I’m finishing this. But, I know there are gaps and brain mishaps. I don’t care.
I can’t say if I’ve processed it all. It may take more time. But, I don’t want to write about it anymore. It’s been said that to conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom (they said that on the television show The Finder). Here is to hoping that I am starting my wisdom. Here’s is to my hope that I won’t let my fears be stronger than my faith.
Here is to thanking my friends for getting me through this. I know sometimes we all feel ordinary when it appears that we are standing alone. But, when we stand together we are extraordinary. We are fabulous. Better than fabulous. We are friends.
Thank you, my friends. I’d be lost without you.
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