Self Examination

It nears the end of the fiscal year–or as some of the wags I work with insist–the physical year. See, first sentence and I do digress. Blogging about anything vaguely work related invites bad juju. I’ll risk it this time and try hard to leave out the snark factor.

At end of year, management invites all of us strivers in the fields of business battle to assess our performance for the year ending. Seems easy enough. “Tell me what you did so that I can tell you whether I value it or not.” I have spent enough time in therapy (and in the workplace) to look into the mirror and see the reflection pretty clearly. I can even articulate a perceptive measure of both my performance and my character. In years past I have been very careful to include the shortcomings with as clear a description as the successes.

This year I am ever-so-slightly pissed that we have not been able to fill an empty position in the group because we were offering 30% below market for the position. In fact, I have been pissed that not filling the position meant that for the better part of twelve weeks I worked 14 hour days, Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays.

HR in its infinite perception has determined a new salary range for the (now 2) positions we have to fill. The bottom of the range is more than 10% higher than my current salary. With more than 20 years in the field, stellar performance, and shining reputation, I do not feel that my value should be anywhere near the bottom of the range. All this is background information. I DO digress. We are asked to assess our performance so that management can better review that performance.

I entered into the exercize in my usual–”what? you don’t KNOW? I should NOT have to tell you this…” mode–and then I shifted gears. By God, I have done some damned impressive things this year. I have changed the way our department sees itself and changed the way others look at us too. I have done it with wit and charm and I have done well. For once in my life, I actually kept the 10,000 atta-boy e-mails and notes that almost balance out one aw shit. In my self assessment this year I have quoted quotes, named names, spouted statistics, kicked butt, and claimed the prize. I have never before rated myself outstanding in all categories. This year I did. This year I do.

I wrote a seven page self assessment that basically claims I walk on water and feed multitudes–sometimes twice a week and in off hours. What’s more, if not for being a perfectionist, I would be damned near perfect. And it’s true. And it felt odd to say so. And it felt impowering. I can hardly wait to see the management view.

At home in suburbia

The other day, I climbed into my minivan–half asleep as usual–but as I turned the ignition, Melissa was sitting in her car in the middle of the street waving frantically in my direction. I knew the garage door wasn’t open–I came out through the front door not the garage. She wasn’t close enough to be calling my attention to the spinach in my teeth. So I turned off the key and walked to the middle of the street next to her driver-side door.

“Chicken,” she said.

“huh?”

“Chicken,” she repeated and pointed to the strip of no-man’s-land betweeen her driveway and mine.

There pecking and scratching was a Sunday’s dinner worth of fluffy red hen. Her feathers were a rich mahoghany color. Her wattle was an unreasonably beautiful shade of red.  Her beak shined golden in the sun and her black eyes darted with each jerk of her head. There was a chicken in the front yard.

In some parts of the country a chicken in the front yard is an expected, even desirable thing. In my bedroom community, a chicken in the front yard is an anomoly. It isn’t done. It is against the CC&Rs. Chickens are not allowed. For half an hour I stood in the street next to my neighbor’s car, stopped in the middle of the street, watching a chicken do chicken things. I forgot that I was in a hurry and half asleep. I forgot that there was too much work waiting for me in my office. I forgot that I had not had a cup of coffee yet, much less breakfast.

I watched a chicken for half an hour and then I laughed all day long.

two fewer hours in my life

This afternoon I donated two hours of my life to total inanity. I lied. It wasn’t a donation. Donations are voluntary. Two hours of MY afternoon were wrenched from my wrinkled hands. In another 30 years or so, I may NEED those two hours. The people who siezed them didn’t even have fun with them. They are much farther away from counting lost hours than I am.

Used to be I could roll with the abject waste of time. Or at least I thought I could. Now I have no illusions. When the TV show is boring, I leave the room. When the movie is a bust, I walk out. Two hours are more precious than the hope that for $20 and few more pained moments the return on investment will improve. I book.

Few things in this world are never a waste of time. Doing nothing with a grand-girl on my lap is the most important kind of enterprise. Baking, knitting, sewing, reading, or just laughing with one of those blonde sprites is more meaningful than an afternoon with the Dali Lama. Calling to talk to three and five year-olds may not be everyone’s idea of stimulating conversation but, had I been talking to them for two hours this afternoon instead of the dweebs who stole my time, I would be in a lot better humour right now.

God’s will

We each live by some value set. In my cash drawer for the universe, I collect coins that represent God’s will and God’s won’t. I am never sure when the news is good that it will stay good and I am never completely convinced that really shitty news is totally bad. So for every $20 gold piece, there is a lead slug. It makes for a very full drawer and a hard time making change.

We are gestating again. My girls spend a lot of time gestating. I happen to believe that a new baby is testimony from the Universe that life should go on…God voting “Yes.”

The funny part of their gestation is I seem to have to do it with them. Not that I mind, but I really was not a very effective gestator. SO I worry about every odd discharge, every swollen ankle, and rock-hard breast. I know more about ultra-sound than any 58 year old needs to know. And I know that it does no good at all to worry. The little bugger will either gestate happily to fruition or it won’t. Either way that little life will fulfill whatever its devine purpose may be. Even I will fulfill whatever my divine purpose may be.

Reading up on depression

This week I have been doing the requisite annual self examination. Self examination may be a form of OCD. Some historical wag declared, “An unexamined life is not worth living.” An over-examined life is a pain in the butt. Right now, I want to find the measuring stick and break it in half. I am so very tired of not measuring up.  So, of course, that sends me to the internet to read up on depression.

Smile Pretty

I work in a very high stress environment. We are on deadline for everything including bathroom breaks. In the midst of our daily obstacle course, we are also subject to command performances–attendance at meetings to which we have no meaningful input and which require no particular output from us. So we go. We sit. We smile. And whatever we should have accomplished in the hour of go–sit–smile gets done after hours, on lunch, or when we would much rather be playing with our kids. We start out behind the eight ball and a lot of it could be skipped.

Among my character flaws: I do not suffer fools gladly. It is a failing. I do not have a smiley, come-tell-me-about-your-day kind of face. If I am annoyed, I may as well have a neon sign across my forehead that proclaims to all, “Bullshit.”

Conversely, I am a lot less easily annoyed than many people think. For some reason, many people decide that I have my feelings hurt about things that I could not care less about. What they perceive as my feelings being hurt is really an opus attempt not to tell them that, whatever their current foolishness, it is too damned late to start over. There is never time to do it right but always time to do it over. No one wants to hear it. Your face can take on a peculiar expression when biting your tongue.

This week I have been accused of being overly emotional, and maybe I am. There is a lot in my life that is not much fun right now. I have also been accused of being a perfectionist. That, my cyberfriends, is laughable. I am not a perfectionist; I am a pragmatist. What does it take to get from here to there? How long will it take? And is there anything we can do to make the trip more pleasant–or to arrive in one piece? Failing that, what can we skip entirely?

My face in repose does not look like Pollyanna or Doris Day or Goldie Hawn. I have the kind of countenance that invites questions like “Are you alright.” When God slapped my mouth onto my face, he turned the corners down rather than up. It isn’t my fault; I was just drawn that way. Sometimes, I am really beautiful. I know; I have seen the pictures. More often, I look like I’d rather be somewhere else. It isn’t even that I would rather be somewhere else–my mind IS somewhere else, probably trying to do what I get paid to do. My eyebrows knit and the little frownie lines furrow into valleys when I concentrate. It doesn’t mean I am pissed off. Leave me be or I could GET pissed off.

I have no tolerance for the smile police. I don’t do cute and perky well at all. It always comes off sarcastic. See, there is no win. When there is no win; it may be best not to play. 

…see in a mirror dimly…

I have had a pretty shitty last few days. That really makes you want to read more, doesn’t it?

My mother died in February. Should be a non-event because we had been fairly well ‘estranged’ for years. That’s old news and a different blog topic too. I have been missing my pre-years-ago, pre-dementia mother. I’ve needed a mom lately–the mythical one who probably never existed. Maybe it’s because this is the first holiday season after her demise. Maybe it is because last Christmas she was alive and not at all present. Maybe it is because I feel my life changing in ways that don’t follow any of the roadmaps I had considered for myself.

I miss the relationship I thought I had with my sister.  More immediate and day-to-day, I  mourn a work-place friendship that seems to have stalled (or crashed) due to teen-angst-bullshit, mental masterbation, and by some observations, an unwillingness on either side to be anything but right…or at least an unwillingness to have the other be always right. And I miss my best friend, my Big Guy, who is fighting his own demons in his own way and his way doesn’t seem to be working so well.

The Big Guy just had another plumbing repair procedure. He is taking his recouperation pretty seriously to the detriment of relationships that are feeling fairly tenuous right now anyway. I NEVER expected to be angry with him. I NEVER expected to be the only one supporting this little household. and I certainly NEVER expected to feel so resentful  of so many totally unintentional (read inconsiderate, thoughtless) omissions. It has not been a good week.

So in the spirit of ‘how miserable can I make myself?’ I have let myself be dragged into discussions about my mental/emotional state. Did you read “teen angst bullshit” earlier?This is a bad idea–particularly in a corporate setting–particularly in a corporate setting with people who have their own baggage and issues. Come to think of it, are there any people who don’t? Really?

One tear led to another and one opinion expressed was just one too many. There are times when talking about my pain only focuses it–not good when the pain is crystal clear to begin with. The only way through it is through it. Any other course is just wasting time and energy. For my part, since it is a journey I have to make alone anyway, I’d just as soon do it my way and quickly. Just let me leave it at home..and for that matter, how about you leave your attitude and baggage at home too?

So how do I say: “No, you cannot help. Not everything in my life has anything to do with you. When my heart is through breaking I will know what I need to do for myself and if I don’t, maybe I’ll ask (sotto voce–but I probably won’t ask you).” without sounding like a total snark?

Now thank we all our God…

I am thankful. I swear I am thankful. I am thankful that Mogo calls and asks if I will make her a pink dress. Yes, of course I will. Dark pink or light pink? I am thankful that A and V were over this afternoon and that they were all three angels for turkey day. I am thankful that my children let me be a part of their children’s lives even though I am quite sure that, in the grand scheme of things, I am not a very good influence on small children. I am apt to say shit or damn at the least opportune moments.  I am thankful that A and V showed up in their new gramma-made Minnie Mouse dresses. I am thankful to have a skill that makes my little girls giggle and twirl their full and poufy skirts. I am thankful that V wears glittery mary janes without socks and that she is going to be the Imelda of her age.

I am thankful that I have a sister in law who cared enough to take time to know me rather than just blow me off as another too-smart-for-her-own-good idjit. I am thankful for a brother who went to group therapy for long enough to figure out that, as screwed up as he is, on the continuum, he is pretty okay. I am thankful that psychotropic drugs really work if you take them.

I want to be thankful that for whatever reason dinner at my sister’s was much more pleasant than I feared it would be. I am so busy being pissed off at the big guy that it is kind of disappointing not to be able to redirect my anger at him to my my more generalized pissedness at her.

I decided several weeks ago to declare the big lug retired.  That way I stop obsessing about whatever it is he does or doesn’t do to resolve his unemployment. It works in principle. In fact, not quite so effective. He has time to play golf. He has time to sleep until the sun is high in the sky. He doesn’t have time to work on any of the things on his ever-expanding honey-do list. I get to work from sun up to sun down, deal with the hired help, drive myself unmitigated bat shit trying to keep things on a halfway even keel, and damned if he doesn’t unload half the garage into the wine room and, when asked to remove said flotsam and jetsum, loads it into the guest room. We are rearranging the deck chairs and the ship isn’t floating any better for it. Shur glad I know how to swim.

Collecting Turkeys

This is a wonderful time of year for me. For the next few weeks, no one will ask why I have my house decorated for Thanksgiving. Some years ago a friend gave me an antique glass turkey candy dish. A few months later another friend found one in another color and a collection was born. Now I have a lot of turkeys–a veritable flock of gobblers. I have stuffed turkeys, carved turkeys, cookie jar turkeys, salt and pepper turkeys, candle stick turkeys, tea pot turkeys, gravy boat turkeys, ironstone turkeys, pot metal turkeys, platters, plates, and quite a few human turkeys in my collection. Even my dog is a turkey. So we won’t discuss my coworkers.

Raindrops on Roses…

There is a list of things I want in my life. It starts with the Big Guy and gallops through wonderful relationships with my children; enough money, happiness, success, whatever, to be comfortable until a piano falls on my head when I am jogging at 92. Most of the time…when my chemistry is well adjusted…my life is a source of joy and wonder. But I can go from Doris Day to Bette Davis in the blink of an eye.

I want balance most of all lately–balance and peace. Personally, I am feeling pretty far out there. The war between control and chaos is raging in my mind daily. Chaos is winning today. Today, I feel like Tom Cruise looked bouncing on Oprah’s sofa. I am a characature of the person I want you to see. It’s important to share the joy. It’s important to be real. But sometimes a girl has to to walk back into the room where she just made a fool out of herself. At least Tom has Scientology.