good news and bad news

Whenever anyone asks me the question, I've got good news and bad news, which do you want first? My answer is always the same: give me the bad news first. That way I don't have bad news ahead muting my enjoyment of the good and I finish up with...well, good news!

Today I had my first interview since being laid off. Now, it's been 3 months and that doesn't mean I haven't been working. It just means that I didn't start actively applying for jobs until this week. I'd hoped that my placement agencies would have come up with something by now but since it's slow, I figured I might as well get in there and hunt myself.

The interview. Well, let me just put it this way: this interview would be a potent catalyst to someone considering entrepreneurship. Among the lower points were when the interviewer asked where I lived and announced that their employees were expected to be on call 24/7. He was, to put it politely, a man in starched underwear.

I got home and called the agent who had sent me over there and said (more diplomatically than this), no fucking way will I work for a man with that big a rod up his ass. 24/7? How did I get here? I am sure I unsubscribed from Serf Staffing.

In all honesty, I am delighted. It's as if Life said, let's give her the bad news first. It can only get better from here.

dynamic tension

I was writing to a friend about the ongoing, internal sparring match in me brain.

In the far corner The Inner Pragmatist dances in anticipation of a slugfest with The Inner Purist. It's a necessary battle, I believe. But not constantly. Except while you're in it, it sort of feels like you're always in the ring.

Here's how it goes. I agree to do "x" because it's sensible and potentially beneficial financially. Inner Accountant raises its arms in victory. Inner Philosopher sulks and starts picking a fight because "x" is also time-consuming and sucks a little of my soul out.

I agree to do "y" because it's practical and appropriate (goddamn, I so hate that word). Inner Intellect applauds, Inner Emotion jeers.

Oh, fuck. Enough with the "x" and "y". Too much cryptic annoys.

I agreed to be a supervisor at work and I'm crabby as hell about going to meetings and I'm letting myself get all anxious as if I'm responsible for the fucking world. That kind of hypocritical, egotistical, counterproductive whining is OBNOXIOUS to the nth degree. And yet, here I am.
Come down off the cross, we could use the wood, I tell myself.

The "y" is so much harder. A couple of years ago, I/we stopped paying for our children to fly home for the holidays. (Which, by the way, they never asked us to do and were ever grateful for the gift.) Economic constriction made it easier but ultimately, they are adults and need to figure out whether they want to come home enough to figure out how to do so, she said firmly...

...while her heart howls with grief.

I just can't get this shit aligned.

i'm still here

Everyone I know is posting blog apologies. Blogologies, if you will. Or even if you won't. I don't owe you a post but it's hard not to feel...neglectful. And on a purely selfish level, I miss writing. Just so much flying around in the shitstorm right now. Will be back. Have all sorts of stuff simmering on the burners. Hope the pressure cooker holds until then.

the things people say, part 1

First off, people, you need to know I've been taking hits off a flask of Haterade® all afternoon. This was one of the those weeks that you take out behind the building at 5pm on Friday and beat to death. That's all the disclaimer I've got.

You know that fabulous website overheadinnewyork.com? Well, it's possible that some of those quotes are the product of a few creative minds. I don't know. If they're funny, I don't really care. Point is, the quotes I'm slinging here, are ones that I have heard with my own disbelieving ears. If ears have beliefs.

Evidently I was in rare form this afternoon. My coworker made a remark insinuating that I had something in common with the snarky audience in Mystery Science Theater. A metaphor: I like percussion instruments as much as the next music lover but on Friday afternoon at 4pm I don't want to hear a fucking cymbal solo in the next cube. It's jarring and sucks out what little remains of my soul...troglodytes.

Earlier today, one of the relentlessly enthusiastic sales types said about the same successful transaction: "You really boxed him in!" [Breath.] "Man, you squeezed him out!" Okay, which is it? Boxed in or Squeezed out? Because if you do both, you need to see a digestive specialist. Or you're in labor.

In the same vein, I was in church some months ago. [Pause.] Yes, I go to church for weddings, funerals and whatever inane rites my loved ones choose to celebrate with invitations. I go to church but trust me, I always breathe a sigh of relief that I am leaving as me and not a zaftig pillar of salt. Anyway, I was listening to the preacher wax folksy about one thing or other when he read a passage from the bible and said of the quote, "when I first heard this scripture, as a human..." Seriously. He referred to himself in the past tense as being a human, as if something transpired since then to change his status.

I hear this shit and look around at the placid, unaffected faces of the people around me and just know that I am either hyper-aware or demonic. (Why am I so black and white about it? I could very easily be demonically hyper-aware.)

are we on the same page?

oxymoron: urging people to think outside of the box by using a hackneyed cliché.

holy shit, something REAL

Weasels 'n Polecats
I've come up with a ferret analogy of why some of my co-workers make me absofuckinglutely crazy. I like ferrets. Mostly from a distance and behind glass but occasionally in the flesh as well. I believe if I had to cohabitate in close quarters with them, however, I'd swell up with hives and homicidal urges. So it's a proximity thing. Once in a while a potential irritant is tolerable, perhaps even likeable. Increase the exposure to 9 hours a day with only a fabric covered divider and well, you see where I'm going with this.

Playing-nice-with-others theory aside, the fact is most days I ought to be annoyed at the mindless, spin-saturated, jargon-rife patter. It is insulting and fucks over language and meaning. It is a sacrilege to truth and direct communication. For example, a direct quote I heard with my own bleeding ears:

"[let's have them]...take a very detailed, cursory glance."

Sweartogod. And that's just the surface rash. The real carcinogens dwell beneath the surface.

When someone shovels conference room-loads of bullshit and everyone around them fawns: Isn't she smart? Isn't he corporate material? it's all I can do to keep from standing on the "desk" surface of my demoralizing miniature cube and scream, "But the Emperor is Naked and He Has a Hard-On and Why Can't You See It"?

But, you know, that way unemployment lies...and this approach would have me standing on restaurant tables, car roofs and government agency countertops and the whole thing makes me too weary to bark.

Commentaterheads
Now, the latest trend in online news is to invite the public to comment on editorials, stories and whatnot. The rationale behind this is wreathed in inclusiveness and the voice of democracy and it makes me want to puke. First of all, the impetus behind this is like the impetus behind most noble crap: money. Page clicks, in this case. Give people the ability to publish their two-cents or just read the two-cents of their "regular guy" neighbor and you get more page clicks. More page clicks attracts more advertisers. Please don't make me connect any more dots.

And there's the other part of this hot new approach that sickens me. You see, the idealistic believer in democracy who has a cube of her own in the mayhem that is my head gets pummeled whenever I read the puling, lobotomied comments. Bovine troglodytes with keyboards. Racist illiterates and simpletons manipulated by fear. The self-righteous and the smug. These are my fellow Americans (insert your own country). From these lowing masses would be chosen a jury of my peers. It's another thought that chills me into staying my hand everyday.

Is that a voice in the wilderness?
Then I read something as real and raw and bullshit-free as this blog: Violent Acres*. A woman who writes about the idiocy of the war on drugs. She tells the self-pity-free, flat-out horror story of her childhood and how the system didn't just fail her, it rubberstamped her abusers.

And I, non-believer and skeptic, understand for just a moment why people form congregations.

I love that this woman doesn't give a shit about my approval. I love that she doesn't hesitate to say riotously "unladylike" things. She's not interested in playing fact wars. She draws conclusions based on her experience and observation and can't understand why so many people can't fucking do that. She doesn't think she's a good writer and in that she's dead wrong. Her writing has power and cohesion. She doesn't invite comments. I understand that. I write for the two-dozen people I've invited to read my cerebral, foul-mouthed opinionated diatribes, and it took forever to decide to publish anything to the "world."

V, you fucking rock. And I think you're full of shit and right on.

*I wholeheartedly thank my good and anonymous friend for this gem of a link and several others. My life is richer because of you.