There are distinct stages of termination realization -- I can unequivocably claim expertise in this area because I've lost three jobs in three years. I don't like saying I've lost a job, because it's so inaccurate. I mean, I know exactly where my jobs were and still are.... it's just that someone else is there doing them.
The First Stage sends a rush of stunned tears welling into your eyes. You don't dare blink for fear those traitorous rivulets will go streaking down your cheeks and make room for more. Lips tremble. Hands shake. There's a queer hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach as it shrivels into itself like a black hole collapsing. This is accompanied by disbelief and denial, a desperate hope that you have not heard correctly, or that this isn't a termination, but a poorly expressed promotion of some kind.
As the full knowledge begins to sink into your numbed brain, you enter the second stage. Now, if you are at home alone, for example, you can slide directly into Stage Three: hysterical sobbing. But for me, having all three of my terminations coming in the workplace, where you are exposed -- naked -- in front of the world as the rug is pulled from beneath your feet -- well, then Stage Two is one of the worst.
Often you have to stammer some kind of response to the person who has just sentenced you to peanut butter and jelly for the foreseeable future. What do you say, anyway? Thank you? I'm sorry? Please, please, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T DO THIS TO ME?!!?
It's all you can do to hang on to the last shred of your dignity as you stumble to your desk, blindly cramming all the personal belongings that will fit into your purse and inevitably missing some of them that you will never see again.
The last two times, I was escorted by supervisors to my desk. This is adding insult to injury with the unspoken suspicion that you might be capable of either theft or sabotage if you are not watched carefully. Maybe they are worried you might have an automatic rifle hidden under your desk, i dunno.
This time, it was assumed i would simply not be at the office, and therefore was told not to return to the scene of the crime. But not having gotten the message until the next morning, there i was at my desk. The woman whose messages I returned told me DO NOT REMOVE ANYTHING FROM YOUR DESK. But i was damned if i was gonna leave the more important items sitting there. Even so, I felt like a thief as I gathered what I could.
Stage Two also includes downcast eyes and averted face, trying desperately not to meet anyone's eye. You don't want to see the look of confusion and the question in their faces. Or worse, you don't want to see THEIR failure to meet your eyes because they KNOW you've been fired. It's like a scarlet letter on your chest or a mark of Cain on your forehead. Suddenly you have the plague and even your friendly coworkers want you gone quickly for fear you're contagious. Even the most sympathetic looks are an anathema to you, because the slightest hint of pity will cause you to plunge into Stage Three. When one of those sympathetic eyes do meet yours, asking what's wrong... This triggers more sniveling tears as you was forced to whisper those hateful words that you will be repeating to everyone: "I've bbbbbeeeen.... TERMINATED." Snivel, sniff, sniff. Wipe tears from your cheeks.
You don't want to enter Stage Three until you are absolutely safe from the eyes of world because it isn't pretty. I managed to save Step Three until I was hidden in my car in the parking lot. I couldn't start the car yet, because I was too busy sobbing in full force. It's always sobbing, not crying. Crying is too timid and lukewarm a word to be truly descriptive.
It's either the kind of sobbing pulled from so deep inside you that there is no sound but for the occasional gulp of breath in between gut-wrenching facial contortions. Or it's the type of crying that comes with moans of pure vowels, like an animal in a trap. I started with the former and ended with the latter. Either way, you are pitiful pathetic mess, not caring that snot is running freely from your nose.
Step Four begins when you can manage to put the keys into the ignition, and leave the parking lot. You are trying to stop crying, and begin to snivel and whimper. You may slip back and forth into the hysterical sobbing, but all of it is accompanied by the first thoughts you can actually begin to form. Most of these thoughts are "why? why me? what did i do? Why don't they want me?"
I really thought i was doing well at my last temp posting, the one that was terminated early. I had gotten a raise in the first two weeks, and told that they were very pleased with me. Then BOOM. Why did they let me go? I was told only that I was "still asking too many questions." Or it may have been that the week before was that terrible drop in the stock market that had scared the crap out of every corporation on earth.
Stage Five begins with the childlike disbelief as you turn that reason for your termination over and over in your mind, trying to bend your brain around it. I began to whimper, "But i thought i was supposed to ask questions? Everybody told me, you can ask the people around you, we're glad to help. You can't possibly get all of this stuff down right away."
Stage Six begins when your attempt to understand start to gel into anger. What do they mean, i asked TOO MANY questions? What was I supposed to do? Just make stuff up and get the caller off the phone and let them call back an hour later when they realized the problem still wasn't fixed? I'm not stupid, after all. The people who trained me said I was catching on quickly, faster than most of the other people they had trained... In Stage Six, you are crying in anger and outrage and disappointment.
(All i can figure is that maybe I was trying to hard, refusing to give up when the standard troubleshooting failed to resolve the problem. And because, in my belief that I should be learning as much as possible not only about how to solve the problem, but what caused the problem in the first place, maybe I was asking too many questions.I had said just the day before to Rhonda that i hoped I was doing okay, that I hadn't gotten any feedback yet about whether my stats were acceptable... and Rhonda's response was: "Don't worry. If your stats are bad, they will tell you."
Maybe I was naive to think that someone would say, You know, Belinda, you're not doing this right. If I had known that firing could come so quickly and so unexpectedly, I would have keep my mouth shut about anything and everything. I wouldn't have asked where the bathroom was. I would have just wandered around till i found it. Maybe that was what I was supposed to do. Shut up and fake it. sigh)
Stage Seven begins when you have to force yourself to stop crying, because you have no kleenex in the car or your purse, and you can't breathe. A numb sort of resignation creeps over you, and a bone-deep fatigue begins to pull you down. All you want to do is find a dark hole to crawl into. Your only motivation to keep moving is to get to your bed where you can clasp your pillow like a life-preserver and curl into a fetal position.
Stage Eight is spent in that fetal position, pillow over your face, the pillow case soggy as you are tossed back and forth on waves of tears. You may even backslide all the way to Stage Three and have to start all over again.
I have now settled into a fatalistic cynicism, broken only by bouts of hysterical sobbing that is now rooted in panic about what the hell I am going to do. (I know I keep repeating "hysterical sobbing" but there is really no other term for it. It is sobbing... and hysterical.)
Sure, there are occasional bursts of a soul-deep self loathing as I wallow in total rejection, a growing certainty that I am worthless, incompetent and useless, of being judged as not good enough. Doubts that in my personal life and my art as well, I'm unwanted and worthless, second-class. A fuck-up. Again those outraged cries of "but this is not who I am.... I am not the kind of person who gets fired. I'm smart, I'm competent, I've always been the good girl that gets things done....how in the hell did i get HERE?"
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My Thanksgiving Nightmare
For many people, holidays like Thanksgiving are something they look forward to only slightly more than root canals and rigid sigmoidoscopies. Me? I generally like the holidays. I get to spend just enough time with my family to remind me why I don't live in the same state anymore. (I'm joking.... really. I love my family. I do. Don't look at me like that.)
But this past Thanksgiving was.... well, a nightmare. For the first time -- for stupid reasons I now regret -- I took my cat Dolittle home to Savannah with me. And he proceeded to get lost for SEVEN nerve-racking, miserable days.
Understand that my mom is not a cat person, so it was a very big deal for my cat to get an express invitation to visit. But she wanted me to be able to stay a while without having to hurry back to check on Do.
He did relatively well on the trip down -- the vet gave me some sedatives for him -- though I did spend a bit of the nine/ten hour trip with a cat wrapped around my neck and head. He seemed to want to be as close to me as possible. He spent most of the trip literally under my seat, resting his butt against the back of my shoes. (Don't bother telling me it was dangerous and dumb not to put him in the carrier, but i couldn't listen to him yowl for nine hours.)
When we got to Mom's, Do was a little freaked. Strange place and all, and my mom... well, i think she made both of us nervous. If she'd caught him on the kitchen counters, my clean-freak mom would have had a heart attack. (She doesn't understand why i haven't "trained" the cat to stay on the floor. Obviously, she has never spent any time around cats.)
But we let him out on mom's screened porch, and he seemed to really like that. So much so that he didn't want to come back in the house when it was time to go to bed. And since my mom was dead set against letting Do sleep in my room, and I didn't want to put him the carrier (with all the attendant piteous yowling), the porch seemed a good compromise. He had his litter box, food and water, his own comfy pillow from home.... and yes, we checked to make sure the very sturdy door with a wooden lower half was latched securely. The entire lower half of the porch is paneled with wood.
The next morning at eight am, a frantic mom bursts into my room. "Is the cat in here with you?"
My first groggy thought was: "Are you kidding? I wouldn't bring the cat in here after you said no way; I have no desire to die, thank you very much." Then I realized why she was asking, noticed the panic in her voice, and bolted out of bed.
Somehow, that damned cat had managed to open the door. Within minutes, we were both out in the yard, walking around the neighborhood in our pajamas, calling "Doooo-kitty... kitty kitty kitty..." (Do actually will come when called... 90% of the time.)
But this only brought the three stray cats my mom has been feeding to the back porch, expecting their breakfast.
I spent hours walking around the neighborhood, then both of us in our cars driving around.... still no sign of the cat.
I was sick, crying, frantic. Mom was guilt-stricken and miserable.
Needless to say, Thanksgiving dinner was pretty dismal. By the next day, after more hours of searching, asking neighbors... and still no cat... I had cried so much i had a gushing nose bleed.
I found every cat in a two-mile radius around my mom's house over the next six days, but still no Dolittle. No one had even seen him. We made two visits to the local pound, and I cried some more in disappointment and just from the sight of all those poor cats and sooo many kittens.. oh, god how many kittens -- so cute, so furry, so innocent, looking out of those cages, reaching out their little paws....
I'll just say it right now: if you have an animal you haven't spayed or neutered, you deserve to burn in hell for all eternity. I know that almost all of those sweet cats and kittens I looked at will be probably be gassed in the next week, and it just breaks my heart.
Worst of all, i had been through this before with my darling lost Luci, my first cat. I still don't know what happened to Luci, and all of this was so miserably familiar. By day four, i was certain i would never see Dolittle again. I was sinking into a deep, nihilistic depression marked by a certainty that my life was such shit that even my cat had left me. I had no job, no money, and certain other people had let me down that week.... It was just more shit on top of more shit.
I did something I haven't done in... hell, twenty, twenty five years? I didn't just offer a quick prayer to God that I'd find Do. I got down on my KNEES and prayed, "Lord, please have mercy on my poor cat... Let me find him. Let him find his way home."
Understand, I don't believe in prayer. Even if there is a God, I am pretty sure he has more important prayers to answer -- an end to famine, war, disease, people in deep and dire pain and suffering -- and if he hasn't answered a significant number of those prayers, I don't expect him to worry about one cat. Even if he did, I'd be a pretty lame asshole to barter for favors after years of a distinct lack of faith. Still, i did it. I prayed, "Don't do it for me, do it for Dolittle. He's just a poor little cat, after all."
Finally, a friend of mom's called and said he'd spotted a cat fitting Do's description three streets over. We rushed over, I crawled through back yards while Mom slowly drove the streets... and found the cat the friend had seen, but it wasn't Do.
I hadn't expected an answer to my prayer, but still, I was a little resentful. I'd swallowed my own principles to beg on my knees, and God still wasn't cutting me any slack. God couldn't even be bothered to throw me the bone of getting my damned "lost cat" ad in the local paper.
The complication, of course, was the holidays. Even after we called and emailed an ad in, with assurances it would go in Saturday, the ad never showed up. We called again on Sunday but, of course, got no answer. (I mean, really, the Savannah paper is more like a big flyer.) We placed it again on Monday and were promised it would definitely go in on Tuesday.
I was, frankly, reaching the breaking point of my endurance for family, a bed not my own, a shower with lousy water pressure..... i wanted to go home desperately, but was loathe to leave without Do. I wanted to find him just to have the weight lifted, the omnipresent worry ended.....
Monday afternoon Mom had me raking her yard (and we won't even go into details on what my mother's standards for yard work are; if she could find a way to get rid of dirt altogether, she'd do it.) I decided to walk around the outside of her backyard privacy fence one more time.
And that's when I saw it: Do's bright red reflective collar and tag. It was snagged on the top of the privacy fence behind Mom's. Now I was sure, without his collar, even if someone found him, they wouldn't know to whom he belonged. I was sure I would never see him.
But I looked at the collar and thought that at least I now knew what direction he'd gone in. I went walking around the street behind Mom's again... and this time i managed to stick my head into the back yard with the privacy fence where I'd found the collar.
I was calling, "Dooo kittty... kitty, kitty, kitty" as I'd been doing all day, every day for seven days. But still nothing.... I began walking away toward the next yard.
And then I heard a meow. And then another meow. It sounded like Do, but then I'd thought I'd heard him before and it only turned out to be one of Mom's strays.
I pressed my face against the slats of the fence one more time.....
And there was Do. He was just hunkered down in the middle of that back yard, meowing. Being the same cowardly little shit he is at home when he gets of the house. He just hides under the bushes and yowls, as if to say, "I changed my mind, I don't like it out here."
I could try to tell you how my heart leapt, the joy and sheer relief that flooded every fiber of my being... but if you have a pet, you can imagine better than any cliche I can put down here.
I had to force my way into that back yard's privacy gate, but worries of trespassing and damage to the fence only flitted through my mind for the briefest of seconds. I'd have climbed that fence if I'd had to.
Do let me grab him up, but it was quickly obvious that the cat was seriously freaked. He was staring around in panic. As i carried him back to Mom's, he jumped at every noise -- a car passing, a dog barking in the distance, a squirrel rustling through the leaves... and he began to struggle to leap out of my arms. He scratched me quite badly, but i kept hold of him, whispering in his ear that he was safe now, that I wasn't going to let anything hurt him. It scared me that he was so scared, even in my arms.
Finally home, he was still skittish, but he seemed okay except for a strange bend in his tail. Hair seemed to be missing, as if it had been caught in something. He still won't let me touch it.
That night Mom relented in her own relief (she was blaming herself, just as I was blaming both of us for his loss) and allowed Do to sleep with me. I was so relieved and contented to have my cat sleeping on my legs again. By morning, he was rubbing his face against mine, depositing his hair onto my lips....
The next morning, I got him in the car and broke the speed limit most of the way home. I just wanted both of us back where we belonged. I wanted that cautious look in his eyes completely gone.
He seems completely recovered now. He spent most of this evening in my lap, utterly deep in kitty dreams, limp and alternately curled into a comfy ball, then sprawling in that boneless way of cats.
I do not believe that my prayer brought him back to me. I'm not that much of a hypocrite.
But still, I prayed again, a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.
But this past Thanksgiving was.... well, a nightmare. For the first time -- for stupid reasons I now regret -- I took my cat Dolittle home to Savannah with me. And he proceeded to get lost for SEVEN nerve-racking, miserable days.
Understand that my mom is not a cat person, so it was a very big deal for my cat to get an express invitation to visit. But she wanted me to be able to stay a while without having to hurry back to check on Do.
He did relatively well on the trip down -- the vet gave me some sedatives for him -- though I did spend a bit of the nine/ten hour trip with a cat wrapped around my neck and head. He seemed to want to be as close to me as possible. He spent most of the trip literally under my seat, resting his butt against the back of my shoes. (Don't bother telling me it was dangerous and dumb not to put him in the carrier, but i couldn't listen to him yowl for nine hours.)
When we got to Mom's, Do was a little freaked. Strange place and all, and my mom... well, i think she made both of us nervous. If she'd caught him on the kitchen counters, my clean-freak mom would have had a heart attack. (She doesn't understand why i haven't "trained" the cat to stay on the floor. Obviously, she has never spent any time around cats.)
But we let him out on mom's screened porch, and he seemed to really like that. So much so that he didn't want to come back in the house when it was time to go to bed. And since my mom was dead set against letting Do sleep in my room, and I didn't want to put him the carrier (with all the attendant piteous yowling), the porch seemed a good compromise. He had his litter box, food and water, his own comfy pillow from home.... and yes, we checked to make sure the very sturdy door with a wooden lower half was latched securely. The entire lower half of the porch is paneled with wood.
The next morning at eight am, a frantic mom bursts into my room. "Is the cat in here with you?"
My first groggy thought was: "Are you kidding? I wouldn't bring the cat in here after you said no way; I have no desire to die, thank you very much." Then I realized why she was asking, noticed the panic in her voice, and bolted out of bed.
Somehow, that damned cat had managed to open the door. Within minutes, we were both out in the yard, walking around the neighborhood in our pajamas, calling "Doooo-kitty... kitty kitty kitty..." (Do actually will come when called... 90% of the time.)
But this only brought the three stray cats my mom has been feeding to the back porch, expecting their breakfast.
I spent hours walking around the neighborhood, then both of us in our cars driving around.... still no sign of the cat.
I was sick, crying, frantic. Mom was guilt-stricken and miserable.
Needless to say, Thanksgiving dinner was pretty dismal. By the next day, after more hours of searching, asking neighbors... and still no cat... I had cried so much i had a gushing nose bleed.
I found every cat in a two-mile radius around my mom's house over the next six days, but still no Dolittle. No one had even seen him. We made two visits to the local pound, and I cried some more in disappointment and just from the sight of all those poor cats and sooo many kittens.. oh, god how many kittens -- so cute, so furry, so innocent, looking out of those cages, reaching out their little paws....
I'll just say it right now: if you have an animal you haven't spayed or neutered, you deserve to burn in hell for all eternity. I know that almost all of those sweet cats and kittens I looked at will be probably be gassed in the next week, and it just breaks my heart.
Worst of all, i had been through this before with my darling lost Luci, my first cat. I still don't know what happened to Luci, and all of this was so miserably familiar. By day four, i was certain i would never see Dolittle again. I was sinking into a deep, nihilistic depression marked by a certainty that my life was such shit that even my cat had left me. I had no job, no money, and certain other people had let me down that week.... It was just more shit on top of more shit.
I did something I haven't done in... hell, twenty, twenty five years? I didn't just offer a quick prayer to God that I'd find Do. I got down on my KNEES and prayed, "Lord, please have mercy on my poor cat... Let me find him. Let him find his way home."
Understand, I don't believe in prayer. Even if there is a God, I am pretty sure he has more important prayers to answer -- an end to famine, war, disease, people in deep and dire pain and suffering -- and if he hasn't answered a significant number of those prayers, I don't expect him to worry about one cat. Even if he did, I'd be a pretty lame asshole to barter for favors after years of a distinct lack of faith. Still, i did it. I prayed, "Don't do it for me, do it for Dolittle. He's just a poor little cat, after all."
Finally, a friend of mom's called and said he'd spotted a cat fitting Do's description three streets over. We rushed over, I crawled through back yards while Mom slowly drove the streets... and found the cat the friend had seen, but it wasn't Do.
I hadn't expected an answer to my prayer, but still, I was a little resentful. I'd swallowed my own principles to beg on my knees, and God still wasn't cutting me any slack. God couldn't even be bothered to throw me the bone of getting my damned "lost cat" ad in the local paper.
The complication, of course, was the holidays. Even after we called and emailed an ad in, with assurances it would go in Saturday, the ad never showed up. We called again on Sunday but, of course, got no answer. (I mean, really, the Savannah paper is more like a big flyer.) We placed it again on Monday and were promised it would definitely go in on Tuesday.
I was, frankly, reaching the breaking point of my endurance for family, a bed not my own, a shower with lousy water pressure..... i wanted to go home desperately, but was loathe to leave without Do. I wanted to find him just to have the weight lifted, the omnipresent worry ended.....
Monday afternoon Mom had me raking her yard (and we won't even go into details on what my mother's standards for yard work are; if she could find a way to get rid of dirt altogether, she'd do it.) I decided to walk around the outside of her backyard privacy fence one more time.
And that's when I saw it: Do's bright red reflective collar and tag. It was snagged on the top of the privacy fence behind Mom's. Now I was sure, without his collar, even if someone found him, they wouldn't know to whom he belonged. I was sure I would never see him.
But I looked at the collar and thought that at least I now knew what direction he'd gone in. I went walking around the street behind Mom's again... and this time i managed to stick my head into the back yard with the privacy fence where I'd found the collar.
I was calling, "Dooo kittty... kitty, kitty, kitty" as I'd been doing all day, every day for seven days. But still nothing.... I began walking away toward the next yard.
And then I heard a meow. And then another meow. It sounded like Do, but then I'd thought I'd heard him before and it only turned out to be one of Mom's strays.
I pressed my face against the slats of the fence one more time.....
And there was Do. He was just hunkered down in the middle of that back yard, meowing. Being the same cowardly little shit he is at home when he gets of the house. He just hides under the bushes and yowls, as if to say, "I changed my mind, I don't like it out here."
I could try to tell you how my heart leapt, the joy and sheer relief that flooded every fiber of my being... but if you have a pet, you can imagine better than any cliche I can put down here.
I had to force my way into that back yard's privacy gate, but worries of trespassing and damage to the fence only flitted through my mind for the briefest of seconds. I'd have climbed that fence if I'd had to.
Do let me grab him up, but it was quickly obvious that the cat was seriously freaked. He was staring around in panic. As i carried him back to Mom's, he jumped at every noise -- a car passing, a dog barking in the distance, a squirrel rustling through the leaves... and he began to struggle to leap out of my arms. He scratched me quite badly, but i kept hold of him, whispering in his ear that he was safe now, that I wasn't going to let anything hurt him. It scared me that he was so scared, even in my arms.
Finally home, he was still skittish, but he seemed okay except for a strange bend in his tail. Hair seemed to be missing, as if it had been caught in something. He still won't let me touch it.
That night Mom relented in her own relief (she was blaming herself, just as I was blaming both of us for his loss) and allowed Do to sleep with me. I was so relieved and contented to have my cat sleeping on my legs again. By morning, he was rubbing his face against mine, depositing his hair onto my lips....
The next morning, I got him in the car and broke the speed limit most of the way home. I just wanted both of us back where we belonged. I wanted that cautious look in his eyes completely gone.
He seems completely recovered now. He spent most of this evening in my lap, utterly deep in kitty dreams, limp and alternately curled into a comfy ball, then sprawling in that boneless way of cats.
I do not believe that my prayer brought him back to me. I'm not that much of a hypocrite.
But still, I prayed again, a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.
Categories of Valentine's Cards
Ah, Valentine's Day. It's all about love... real, genuine love. Love that lasts until the end of time. Love, deeper than the ocean and higher than the heavens. Love that binds two souls together and lifts them up on the wings of a snow white dove.....
What a load of crap. Pardon me while i retch.
February 14th approaches, and I'm generally pretty cynical these days about the L word to begin with. But this year? I don't even know if I'm still in a relationship or not. Do I buy a card, just in case? And if I do buy a card (without having my brain explode in the middle of the Hallmark aisle), what in the hell should it say?
Valentine’s day cards should be categorized differently. I know they have sections for mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, platonic friends and even 4-year grandchildren who can’t even read yet. But they need to break down the whole spouse/lover categories down to more efficient divisions, like how long you’ve been together.
On your first valentine’s day together you spent an hour considering all the romantic cards. The ones that say things like: “I’ve been looking for you all my life, you are my world, my soulmate, I’d drink your bathwater and lick the ground you walk on.” And you want the biggest, most elaborate card you can find, in the shape of a giant heart, trimmed in real lace and satin ribbon. Or the mutant cards that are 2’ x 3’ and not only take extra postage, but the postage costs as much as the card itself.
The first Valentine's Day is also the one where the man not only buys an embarrassingly mushy card that says things that would never in a million years come out of his mouth, but a dozen red roses, a box of Godiva chocolates and/or a stuffed gorilla who dances to “Wild Thing.” He takes you to an expensive, special restaurant and orders wine. That night you put on the sexy lingerie you paid too much money for and you have acrobatic sex all night long.
By the second or third valentine’s day, you’re both looking cards that say things like: “You’re still the light of my life.” And neither of you bother to write a poem on it. You just sign it, “Love, Cindy.” In bed that night, you surprise each other with oral sex.
By the fourth Valentine’s – if you’re still together – you’re sending the funny cards with cats wearing clothes and a caption that says “You are the cat’s meow, baby!” You give him a blow job, but you’re doing it with all the enthusiasm of ironing. He makes a gesture at going down on you, but moves on to the missionary position before you reach an orgasm.
A dozen red roses have changed to a nice potted plant; the chocolates are now Russell Stover or Whitman’s; and if he grabs a stuffed animal, it’s small enough to get tossed into the back of the closet without attracting much attention. And yet you’re beginning to look at the cross-eyed teddy bear and thinking you’d rather have had the money he spent on it.
If you make it to the sixth or seventh valentine’s day, you’re sending a card that says something equivalent to “Thanks for still letting me live here.” You might have sex for the first time in months that evening.
By the ninth or tenth Valentine’s Day, you find a card in his sock drawer meant for his girlfriend, not for you. He sleeps on the couch, or at the Holiday Inn. The next day you go out and buy 1 lb box of chocolate that’s been marked down to half price, and eat every damn piece in the box except for the ones with the weird orange jelly centers and try to decide whether or not to just to have done with him and love and all the crap that goes with it.
Kisses change too, of course, In the first year, you’re sucking face with wet sloppy kisses and tongues that writhe like eels in a barrel.
The second year, you’re not opening your mouth anymore. And by the fifth year, the only thing you want him to kiss is your ass.
I had to take the cat Dolittle to the vet today, and he's still pissed at me. I'm off my meds, and he's the one chewing bald spots in his coat. Go figure. Maybe Do will buy me a card, and it will say "Meeroow' and I'll know it's simple, heartfelt and has no hidden agenda or message or anything.
Then again, where would Doo get the three bucks? He hasn't got any pockets for change, nor does he have a check card. I don't think he can drive, but then again, how do i know what he gets up to while I'm asleep? There is a suspicious amount of cat hair in the drivers seat.
I'll be 46 in a couple of weeks, on my way to becoming an old woman with a cat. Saturday, I will open a can of tuna for Doo, and maybe even draw a heart in his kitty litter.
Sunday I will go to Krogers and buy myself the biggest damned box of half price Russell Stovers they have. I will eat it all, every damned piece, in my pajamas in front of the tv, watching reruns of something -- anything -- with murders, explosions and more special effects than plot, and definitely no love story. Then I will cuddle up with my cat and take a long nap. Maybe I'll even take a stab at writing the erotic novel my agent keeps pushing, because she says that whole genre is "selling like hotcakes."
(And how, actually, did hotcakes get such a reputation for killer sales? Have you ever stood in line to buy hotcakes? Me neither.)
What a load of crap. Pardon me while i retch.
February 14th approaches, and I'm generally pretty cynical these days about the L word to begin with. But this year? I don't even know if I'm still in a relationship or not. Do I buy a card, just in case? And if I do buy a card (without having my brain explode in the middle of the Hallmark aisle), what in the hell should it say?
Valentine’s day cards should be categorized differently. I know they have sections for mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, platonic friends and even 4-year grandchildren who can’t even read yet. But they need to break down the whole spouse/lover categories down to more efficient divisions, like how long you’ve been together.
On your first valentine’s day together you spent an hour considering all the romantic cards. The ones that say things like: “I’ve been looking for you all my life, you are my world, my soulmate, I’d drink your bathwater and lick the ground you walk on.” And you want the biggest, most elaborate card you can find, in the shape of a giant heart, trimmed in real lace and satin ribbon. Or the mutant cards that are 2’ x 3’ and not only take extra postage, but the postage costs as much as the card itself.
The first Valentine's Day is also the one where the man not only buys an embarrassingly mushy card that says things that would never in a million years come out of his mouth, but a dozen red roses, a box of Godiva chocolates and/or a stuffed gorilla who dances to “Wild Thing.” He takes you to an expensive, special restaurant and orders wine. That night you put on the sexy lingerie you paid too much money for and you have acrobatic sex all night long.
By the second or third valentine’s day, you’re both looking cards that say things like: “You’re still the light of my life.” And neither of you bother to write a poem on it. You just sign it, “Love, Cindy.” In bed that night, you surprise each other with oral sex.
By the fourth Valentine’s – if you’re still together – you’re sending the funny cards with cats wearing clothes and a caption that says “You are the cat’s meow, baby!” You give him a blow job, but you’re doing it with all the enthusiasm of ironing. He makes a gesture at going down on you, but moves on to the missionary position before you reach an orgasm.
A dozen red roses have changed to a nice potted plant; the chocolates are now Russell Stover or Whitman’s; and if he grabs a stuffed animal, it’s small enough to get tossed into the back of the closet without attracting much attention. And yet you’re beginning to look at the cross-eyed teddy bear and thinking you’d rather have had the money he spent on it.
If you make it to the sixth or seventh valentine’s day, you’re sending a card that says something equivalent to “Thanks for still letting me live here.” You might have sex for the first time in months that evening.
By the ninth or tenth Valentine’s Day, you find a card in his sock drawer meant for his girlfriend, not for you. He sleeps on the couch, or at the Holiday Inn. The next day you go out and buy 1 lb box of chocolate that’s been marked down to half price, and eat every damn piece in the box except for the ones with the weird orange jelly centers and try to decide whether or not to just to have done with him and love and all the crap that goes with it.
Kisses change too, of course, In the first year, you’re sucking face with wet sloppy kisses and tongues that writhe like eels in a barrel.
The second year, you’re not opening your mouth anymore. And by the fifth year, the only thing you want him to kiss is your ass.
I had to take the cat Dolittle to the vet today, and he's still pissed at me. I'm off my meds, and he's the one chewing bald spots in his coat. Go figure. Maybe Do will buy me a card, and it will say "Meeroow' and I'll know it's simple, heartfelt and has no hidden agenda or message or anything.
Then again, where would Doo get the three bucks? He hasn't got any pockets for change, nor does he have a check card. I don't think he can drive, but then again, how do i know what he gets up to while I'm asleep? There is a suspicious amount of cat hair in the drivers seat.
I'll be 46 in a couple of weeks, on my way to becoming an old woman with a cat. Saturday, I will open a can of tuna for Doo, and maybe even draw a heart in his kitty litter.
Sunday I will go to Krogers and buy myself the biggest damned box of half price Russell Stovers they have. I will eat it all, every damned piece, in my pajamas in front of the tv, watching reruns of something -- anything -- with murders, explosions and more special effects than plot, and definitely no love story. Then I will cuddle up with my cat and take a long nap. Maybe I'll even take a stab at writing the erotic novel my agent keeps pushing, because she says that whole genre is "selling like hotcakes."
(And how, actually, did hotcakes get such a reputation for killer sales? Have you ever stood in line to buy hotcakes? Me neither.)
Will Marry for Health Insurance
The reason is simple. I have pretty much given up on ever marrying either for love or money, and am willing to settle for health insurance.
I'm at the age where all the smoke and mirrors of romantic love have been scattered and shattered, and I realize that marriage may be most effective if it is viewed as a simple partnership for economic benefit and the clear and effective meeting of compatible needs.
So, I am simply putting this out to the world. If you are a reasonably intelligent man between 25 and death, without an excessive amount of personal baggage, who is financially stable -- not rich, mind you, though rich would be nice -- but stable, with a job and health insurance, have most of your teeth or nice dentures, and good hygiene, I have an offer to make.
I will sign a legally binding agreement to provide cooking and housekeeping services. Your home will always be clean, and you will have a nice dinner waiting when you come home from work, from a menu to be negotiated based on your preferences and my culinary skills.
I will also add my services as a personal secretary to handle your phone calls, appointments and travel arrangements. Additionally, I will handle making sure that your family and friends receive timely greeting cards for all major holidays and occasions. I will be your personal shopper for all gifts, providing attractive wrapping and even hand delivery when required.
I will make sure that your clothes fit properly, that they are clean and pressed and that you never leave the house looking like a homeless bum.
Additionally, I will enthusiastically provide standard intercourse at least once a week, with oral sex once a month, and additional sexual favors of your choosing on your birthday. In return, you have no obligation to provide me with either foreplay or an orgasm.
Fidelity is not a requirement; you may continue to date as long as you practice safe sex and that I am informed of any overnight guests at least 48 hours in advance. I will even provide one breakfast in bed a month for you and your guest(s) on mornings after.
In return, I ask for a bedroom of my own, plus another room for my arts and crafts and writing. I will be allowed to sleep until at least 10 every morning. On weekends when I have an art or craft event, I will be allowed to suspend other duties.
I ask for complete health care and prescription drug coverage, plus long term disability insurance and a dental plan. $100 a month will be deposited in my 401k. You will pay all household expenses and provide a $100 a week allowance, with provisions for future cost-of-living raises.
I require a nice flat screen tv of my own with a complete cable package.
If you can additionally provide a yearly vacation to destinations of my choosing, with or without you, and an in-ground pool, I will provide two additional evenings per month of oral sex in the erotic costume of your choice. I will also make sure all our neighbors hear me screaming, "Oh, yes, you are sex machine! Do me, you stallion!' bi-annually, and tell all your male friends that you are hung like horse.
If child care is required, I will expect an additional weekly bonus at two-thirds of the going rate for a nanny, but you will lose oral sex once every other month.
If at some point you choose to divorce me, I expect a severance package of $35,000 a year for the next five years. I will, of course, keep the house unless you buy me one of equal or greater value. In return, you will get no sulking, no hurt feelings, no recriminations, no expensive and time-consuming time in divorce court.
Frankly, I think it's a damned fine offer. You take care of my needs, I'll take care of yours, without any annoying demands that you take out the garbage, cuddle or watch chick flicks. Just imagine... you will never be forced to watch a Hugh Grant movie ever again.
If you are interested, please provide a recent photo of you, your home, resume, bank statements and three credit reports.
I'm at the age where all the smoke and mirrors of romantic love have been scattered and shattered, and I realize that marriage may be most effective if it is viewed as a simple partnership for economic benefit and the clear and effective meeting of compatible needs.
So, I am simply putting this out to the world. If you are a reasonably intelligent man between 25 and death, without an excessive amount of personal baggage, who is financially stable -- not rich, mind you, though rich would be nice -- but stable, with a job and health insurance, have most of your teeth or nice dentures, and good hygiene, I have an offer to make.
I will sign a legally binding agreement to provide cooking and housekeeping services. Your home will always be clean, and you will have a nice dinner waiting when you come home from work, from a menu to be negotiated based on your preferences and my culinary skills.
I will also add my services as a personal secretary to handle your phone calls, appointments and travel arrangements. Additionally, I will handle making sure that your family and friends receive timely greeting cards for all major holidays and occasions. I will be your personal shopper for all gifts, providing attractive wrapping and even hand delivery when required.
I will make sure that your clothes fit properly, that they are clean and pressed and that you never leave the house looking like a homeless bum.
Additionally, I will enthusiastically provide standard intercourse at least once a week, with oral sex once a month, and additional sexual favors of your choosing on your birthday. In return, you have no obligation to provide me with either foreplay or an orgasm.
Fidelity is not a requirement; you may continue to date as long as you practice safe sex and that I am informed of any overnight guests at least 48 hours in advance. I will even provide one breakfast in bed a month for you and your guest(s) on mornings after.
In return, I ask for a bedroom of my own, plus another room for my arts and crafts and writing. I will be allowed to sleep until at least 10 every morning. On weekends when I have an art or craft event, I will be allowed to suspend other duties.
I ask for complete health care and prescription drug coverage, plus long term disability insurance and a dental plan. $100 a month will be deposited in my 401k. You will pay all household expenses and provide a $100 a week allowance, with provisions for future cost-of-living raises.
I require a nice flat screen tv of my own with a complete cable package.
If you can additionally provide a yearly vacation to destinations of my choosing, with or without you, and an in-ground pool, I will provide two additional evenings per month of oral sex in the erotic costume of your choice. I will also make sure all our neighbors hear me screaming, "Oh, yes, you are sex machine! Do me, you stallion!' bi-annually, and tell all your male friends that you are hung like horse.
If child care is required, I will expect an additional weekly bonus at two-thirds of the going rate for a nanny, but you will lose oral sex once every other month.
If at some point you choose to divorce me, I expect a severance package of $35,000 a year for the next five years. I will, of course, keep the house unless you buy me one of equal or greater value. In return, you will get no sulking, no hurt feelings, no recriminations, no expensive and time-consuming time in divorce court.
Frankly, I think it's a damned fine offer. You take care of my needs, I'll take care of yours, without any annoying demands that you take out the garbage, cuddle or watch chick flicks. Just imagine... you will never be forced to watch a Hugh Grant movie ever again.
If you are interested, please provide a recent photo of you, your home, resume, bank statements and three credit reports.
I Need A New Career
My "temp" assignment is supposed to be up at the end of June. Though I need a job -- any job -- I am torn between praying it will be extended and praying that it will indeed end.
I think it’s time to consider a serious career change. I’m not alone in this predicament; "they" are now saying that most people will go through three distinct careers during their lifetime.
I guess my first career was... i dunno, miscellaneous crappy jobs? I sold furniture in the Alabama branch of Hell, where I was fired every other week, once because there were no towels in the men’s restroom (yes, my boss was clinically insane).... then worked about six months as (don’t gasp too loudly) a nanny to a 2 year old.... then three years in medical records at St. Thomas, serving as the whipping boy/scream magnet for doctors too stupid to find their own charts or know where to sign their orders..... oh, and don’t overlook the part time job at Super X Drugs, where I learned just how many disgusting minor medical conditions the body is prone to (I learned more than I ever wanted to know about RID, hemorrhoids, boil medications, wart removal and erection creams.)
My second career was as a graphic artist, which seems to be coming to a close now. I send out resumes, but can’t seem to get even an interview in the last couple of months.
So..... I am considering possible alternative careers.... here are my top options:
1) Opening my own meth lab.
Sure, i don’t know anything about chemistry, but i figure if gang-bangers with seventh grade public school educations can figure it out, surely a college graduate of some intelligence could manage it. It would certainly be an outlet for my entreprenurial aspirations. The downside, of course, is the very likely possibility of blowing myself up. Or being shot up by the competition. I don’t consider being busted much of a drawback. In jail I would at least have better health care than I do now, and I could live with a lesbian lifestyle. Do you get cable in minimum security? Will I at least get to watch "Lost"?
2) Hooking.
This probably isn’t that viable an option. While sex is something I’m good at, and I’m not squeamish about it, have no moral qualms about providing a necessary service to mankind, i have to face the fact that a 45 year old overweight white woman is not exactly gonna have the johns lined up on the street corner. I don’t even think I could tap into the small niche market of fat fetishists, because I’m not fat ENOUGH for those perverts. I mean, they want to be able to get lost in the vast rolls of cellulite. Even if i was better physically suited, there’s the expense of motel rooms, condoms, mouthwash and knee pads. I don’t have the right wardrobe anyway. Not a single spandex mini dress in my closet. None of my earrings are big enough. I don’t even own any sky-blue eyeshadow.
3) Porn Star.
See above.
4) The Military.
Sigh. They won’t take me. I’m too old. And even if I weren’t, I’d die in boot camp. But it’s not fair really. I can step on a land mine just as well as any 21-year old marine. Why can’t I kill and die for my country and the oil companies like anybody else? Again, even the mismanaged and dangerous VA hospital system trumps my current health provider. By which I mean the very popular GNJGNHI HMO. ("Got No Job, Got No Health Insurance") I wonder if Hillary or Obama would put me on their personal health insurance policy?
5) Phone Sex Operator.
Now, this has real potential. It’s lucrative and legal. I can speak, I have a good imagination and plenty of time during the peak hours of 10 am to 5 pm. That’s when men can call on the company dime and not get caught by their wives. I can fake orgasms just as well as Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally." I’d probably have to up my cell phone minutes and invest in a good fake photo, maybe my own website. But how many times can you say, in a suitably breathless voice, "Spank me, Daddy! Spank me!" before you start to yawn or giggle into the phone?
6) Marrying for Money: Becoming a Trophy Wife
Unfortunately, all rich bastards want younger, thinner, sexier, dumber women. At my current age, IQ and body type, I’m the first wife they’re all dumping. So to succeed in this career, I’d need a lobotomy and a plastic surgeon. Of course, having no health insurance, I’d have to finance it all with at least ten different credit cards. (Note to self: check credit limits.)
7) Customer Service Rep.
This would require either relocating to Calcutta, or at least learning how to say, "I’m so sorry that our product is crap" while sounding like Ghandi.
8) Janitorial Services.
Never mind. They probably have a union, and I don’t have the right contacts to get in.
9) Lottery Winner.
Oh, wait. I can’t win because I wouldn’t be able to say, with a straight face, "No, I’m not gonna quit my job. I may have 230 million dollars, but I’m gonna go right on working for the man every day until I drop dead." I have no job not to quit. And you have to buy at least one ticket to win, and they don’t take credit cards.
10) Being caught in a sex scandal with a leading Republican politician.
Shit, I’m the wrong sex. Never mind. No amount of foot-tapping in public restrooms is gonna get me on Jerry Springer.
11) Bank Robber.
It’s true, I know nothing about guns or stealing a getaway car, but I figure if I can get arrested for the meth lab thing, and spend a couple of years in the right prison, I can learn. It would be like going to college for criminals. You gotta invest in your career path, network and all that.
Of course, if I can find the right online sources, and learned to be a competent criminal without first acquiring the criminal record, my chances of getting away cleanly go up dramatically. I mean, really.... who would suspect a middle-aged, middle-class white woman of robbing the local SunTrust? I’d just jump in my SUV with the "I Brake For Yard Sales" bumper sticker, and go straight to the Starbucks drive-thru until the manhunt cooled down.
I think it’s time to consider a serious career change. I’m not alone in this predicament; "they" are now saying that most people will go through three distinct careers during their lifetime.
I guess my first career was... i dunno, miscellaneous crappy jobs? I sold furniture in the Alabama branch of Hell, where I was fired every other week, once because there were no towels in the men’s restroom (yes, my boss was clinically insane).... then worked about six months as (don’t gasp too loudly) a nanny to a 2 year old.... then three years in medical records at St. Thomas, serving as the whipping boy/scream magnet for doctors too stupid to find their own charts or know where to sign their orders..... oh, and don’t overlook the part time job at Super X Drugs, where I learned just how many disgusting minor medical conditions the body is prone to (I learned more than I ever wanted to know about RID, hemorrhoids, boil medications, wart removal and erection creams.)
My second career was as a graphic artist, which seems to be coming to a close now. I send out resumes, but can’t seem to get even an interview in the last couple of months.
So..... I am considering possible alternative careers.... here are my top options:
1) Opening my own meth lab.
Sure, i don’t know anything about chemistry, but i figure if gang-bangers with seventh grade public school educations can figure it out, surely a college graduate of some intelligence could manage it. It would certainly be an outlet for my entreprenurial aspirations. The downside, of course, is the very likely possibility of blowing myself up. Or being shot up by the competition. I don’t consider being busted much of a drawback. In jail I would at least have better health care than I do now, and I could live with a lesbian lifestyle. Do you get cable in minimum security? Will I at least get to watch "Lost"?
2) Hooking.
This probably isn’t that viable an option. While sex is something I’m good at, and I’m not squeamish about it, have no moral qualms about providing a necessary service to mankind, i have to face the fact that a 45 year old overweight white woman is not exactly gonna have the johns lined up on the street corner. I don’t even think I could tap into the small niche market of fat fetishists, because I’m not fat ENOUGH for those perverts. I mean, they want to be able to get lost in the vast rolls of cellulite. Even if i was better physically suited, there’s the expense of motel rooms, condoms, mouthwash and knee pads. I don’t have the right wardrobe anyway. Not a single spandex mini dress in my closet. None of my earrings are big enough. I don’t even own any sky-blue eyeshadow.
3) Porn Star.
See above.
4) The Military.
Sigh. They won’t take me. I’m too old. And even if I weren’t, I’d die in boot camp. But it’s not fair really. I can step on a land mine just as well as any 21-year old marine. Why can’t I kill and die for my country and the oil companies like anybody else? Again, even the mismanaged and dangerous VA hospital system trumps my current health provider. By which I mean the very popular GNJGNHI HMO. ("Got No Job, Got No Health Insurance") I wonder if Hillary or Obama would put me on their personal health insurance policy?
5) Phone Sex Operator.
Now, this has real potential. It’s lucrative and legal. I can speak, I have a good imagination and plenty of time during the peak hours of 10 am to 5 pm. That’s when men can call on the company dime and not get caught by their wives. I can fake orgasms just as well as Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally." I’d probably have to up my cell phone minutes and invest in a good fake photo, maybe my own website. But how many times can you say, in a suitably breathless voice, "Spank me, Daddy! Spank me!" before you start to yawn or giggle into the phone?
6) Marrying for Money: Becoming a Trophy Wife
Unfortunately, all rich bastards want younger, thinner, sexier, dumber women. At my current age, IQ and body type, I’m the first wife they’re all dumping. So to succeed in this career, I’d need a lobotomy and a plastic surgeon. Of course, having no health insurance, I’d have to finance it all with at least ten different credit cards. (Note to self: check credit limits.)
7) Customer Service Rep.
This would require either relocating to Calcutta, or at least learning how to say, "I’m so sorry that our product is crap" while sounding like Ghandi.
8) Janitorial Services.
Never mind. They probably have a union, and I don’t have the right contacts to get in.
9) Lottery Winner.
Oh, wait. I can’t win because I wouldn’t be able to say, with a straight face, "No, I’m not gonna quit my job. I may have 230 million dollars, but I’m gonna go right on working for the man every day until I drop dead." I have no job not to quit. And you have to buy at least one ticket to win, and they don’t take credit cards.
10) Being caught in a sex scandal with a leading Republican politician.
Shit, I’m the wrong sex. Never mind. No amount of foot-tapping in public restrooms is gonna get me on Jerry Springer.
11) Bank Robber.
It’s true, I know nothing about guns or stealing a getaway car, but I figure if I can get arrested for the meth lab thing, and spend a couple of years in the right prison, I can learn. It would be like going to college for criminals. You gotta invest in your career path, network and all that.
Of course, if I can find the right online sources, and learned to be a competent criminal without first acquiring the criminal record, my chances of getting away cleanly go up dramatically. I mean, really.... who would suspect a middle-aged, middle-class white woman of robbing the local SunTrust? I’d just jump in my SUV with the "I Brake For Yard Sales" bumper sticker, and go straight to the Starbucks drive-thru until the manhunt cooled down.
Allow Me to Introduce Myself
I am a writer, an artist, a crafter and most importantly, I am the center of the universe. Unfortunately, I've been fighting all my life for the rest of you to acknowledge this simple fact. Honestly, I don't see the problem.
So why am I starting this blog -- aside from my continued campaign for recognition as the COTU? Well, a couple of years ago, I lost my job as a graphic artist. (I didn't really lose it, i mean, I know where I left it...)
I immediately found another job that actually paid more money, but it turned out to be total mistake. Since then, I've been bounced from unemployment to temp jobs to unemployment to Shit Jobs. (A Shit Job is where you do shit, are paid shit and take shit, until you no longer give a shit.) My last SJ was Blockbuster. Oy vey. (No, I'm not Jewish, I just find some Yiddish expressions to be.... expressive.)
I am currently in a temp job that is just slightly above SJ. I'll call it a Crappy Job. For reasons of liability, I can't tell you where I work or what I do. I will just tell you it's clerical, tedious, and, some days, similar enough to hell to make me weep.
Now, the thing is, that due to the nature of the work, there are periods of time in which I have nothing to do. Now, my first thought for using this downtime was to work on my FaceBook Farm Town. I really ought to find a twelve-step program for this game, but I'm too busy planting and harvesting my crops.
But alas, as fate and the Devil himself would have it, I cannot access Farm Town on this computer. So that leaves me with posting status messages on FB every twenty minutes, until my friends there are begging for respite, and play mahjong and Super Text Twist until my eyes cross.
You can only play mahjong for so long. So here I am. Blogging away on my masterplan to force the universe to accept my place smack dab in the center of it.
So why am I starting this blog -- aside from my continued campaign for recognition as the COTU? Well, a couple of years ago, I lost my job as a graphic artist. (I didn't really lose it, i mean, I know where I left it...)
I immediately found another job that actually paid more money, but it turned out to be total mistake. Since then, I've been bounced from unemployment to temp jobs to unemployment to Shit Jobs. (A Shit Job is where you do shit, are paid shit and take shit, until you no longer give a shit.) My last SJ was Blockbuster. Oy vey. (No, I'm not Jewish, I just find some Yiddish expressions to be.... expressive.)
I am currently in a temp job that is just slightly above SJ. I'll call it a Crappy Job. For reasons of liability, I can't tell you where I work or what I do. I will just tell you it's clerical, tedious, and, some days, similar enough to hell to make me weep.
Now, the thing is, that due to the nature of the work, there are periods of time in which I have nothing to do. Now, my first thought for using this downtime was to work on my FaceBook Farm Town. I really ought to find a twelve-step program for this game, but I'm too busy planting and harvesting my crops.
But alas, as fate and the Devil himself would have it, I cannot access Farm Town on this computer. So that leaves me with posting status messages on FB every twenty minutes, until my friends there are begging for respite, and play mahjong and Super Text Twist until my eyes cross.
You can only play mahjong for so long. So here I am. Blogging away on my masterplan to force the universe to accept my place smack dab in the center of it.
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