Letters to the Universe

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I have a corner office.  This is not quite as impressive as it may seem on first blush.  My company is across the street from the former airport, on the other corner there's an empty Budget car rental office and one of those day-rate hotels where armed police sometimes show up to arrest people for god only knows what goes on there. And yes, I so earned this corner office with two windows and two entrances.

Which brings me to the subject at hand.  When I was actively involved with supervising and running things and being made crazy and sick by my job, I left both doors open.  People needed access to me and I was a hands-on kind of manager.  I was also a really fun manager and people dropped by to share in the fun from time to time.

After about a decade of frenzy, I ceased to be the hub of activity.  I had, by that time, had a stress-related illness for at least a couple of years.  My doctors had that really worried look that you hate to see and that make you a little worried, too.  But more about yourself, less about the job.  The nurse gave me a lecture every time she saw me about being underweight.  I did not own any bathroom scales.  Weight loss was definitely not on my mind.  My daily schedule consisted of getting up, being completely overwhelmed at work, coming home, eating, lying down on the bed, getting up to work out, then going back to bed.  The next day it started all over again.

I now keep those doors closed.  I am not friendly to those who hazard walking into my office without knocking.  Doors are closed for a reason.  Sometimes, like in this case, they're closed for many reasons.  It's sort of a metaphor for my relationship with this company or, more accurately, with the employees of this company.  They are, individually and as a group, the most dysfunctional people with whom I've ever worked.  And that's saying something.

Anyway.  I digress.  Crazy employee mentioned earlier this week offices right next door to me.  She is not allowed to have closed doors.  She's not high enough on what passes for a corporate ladder here and her job involves lots of coming and going.  Crazy employee is not so crazy that she believes she can just saunter in to my office via the connecting door.  She only recently started coming through that door at all.  Naturally, she knocks before entering.

Here's my quandary.  I take things to her from time to time and it feels stupid to not use the connecting door, but if I make her knock, shouldn't I?  I'm an egalitarian at heart and I loathe being rude without provocation.  So now I'm a little paralyzed by indecision.  Lately, I've been going through the other door to get to her doorless office.  Wouldn't you think I'd have better things to worry about?  I do.  

I actually used the connecting door a few minutes ago.  I did not knock.  She was at the reception desk in the foyer, so I didn't have to worry about courtesy.  Having said all that, it dawns on me that the Crazy Employee title applies to me every bit as much as it does to everyone else here.  It's just that I'm really nice while I'm being crazy. 

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It's a stormy day here and, as I gaze out the window at the canopy of trees, I'm surprised at the various shades of green.  It's a visual feast.  I thought I'd better write now, because the black mood may be arriving any minute now. So far, I'm just feeling what's come to be my regular level of dissociation.  Tell me anything.  I won't be moved.  I'm watching you from a distance and all is comfortably numb.

Hubby is taking a pre-employment, pre-interview test today with a company that published one of his books.  Can't remember which one, though.  Does that make me a bad wife?  We have no idea what it pays; that seems to be all the rage with companies.  Surely you'd like to waste your time applying for a job that, after the first interview, you'll find out the salary sucks and you have absolutely no interest whatsoever in even finishing the interview. 

He would be happier in this job than the current job, but that's not really high on my list of priorities.  Not like, for instance, replacing my Barney Rubble car.  I've been in a funk about my own job this week, so I'm simply not very sympathetic about his distaste for his current job. Life's a bitch, now get on with things.

Andy the Demon Dog continues to beat me up every night.  I have bruises all the way up both of my arms and about ten on my left thigh.  That's mysterious; I have no idea why it's only that thigh.  I made an appointment with his vet for Monday, but they called me back to tell me the doctor won't be in on Monday.  Good god, don't they realize that by Tuesday I could just be a carcass lying in my living room?  There's no time to waste here. 

I'm sure all that's needed is an obedience class for me, with Andy along, of course.  The Humane Society has one, but it's a six week class that costs $100.  For two of the weekends I'll be out of town dealing with breast cancer.  Of course, those two classes will be the ones that focus on keeping your dog from gnawing one of your fingers off.  I just don't see paying the cash for a couple of sessions while he's at my house, tearing up the sofa.

Aside from work, I've been spending most of my free time reading the Primo Levy biography.  I'm about 3/4 of the way finished, so when my mind isn't otherwise occupied, I'm obsessing about what to read next.  I have to obsess about something, you know.  Better this than how much I weighed 15 minutes ago and whether I need to go weigh again.  I've been trying to branch out into fiction more, but I just bought another non-fiction book, so who knows.

One more thing before I go.  I ate two cookies last night and a baked potato. Oh wait.  Had to reschedule Andy's appointment until next Wednesday at 6:00 p.m.  Perfect way to end my day.  If I make it that long.  If you don't hear from me before then, I'm probably just missing two or three of my fingers and can't type.  Must be time for more cookies.

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"Our own physical body possesses a wisdom which we who inhabit the body lack.  We give it orders which make no sense. ~ Henry Miller

As I stepped on the bathroom scales this morning, I thought, "I should never be allowed to own one of these things."  It makes me crazy.  I need to gain weight, but every day I step up and note, with some satisfaction, that I haven't gained any more weight.  (That means I get to have a cookie later on.  Maybe two.)

I have absolutely no sense of perspective about weight.  None.  I've really tried hard to get comfortable with my body, no matter how much it weighs.  I think of it as a political statement.  Madison Avenue should not be allowed to make women feel inadequate. I don't think that was the cause of my weight obsession, but it probably exacerbated it.

Last year, I weighed more than I ever have in my life.  I weighed 140 pounds.  I'm 5'5 3/4" tall.  (Oh my god, that was so brave to say that!)  It was the steroids during chemo that caused it.  Even knowing that, though, I was in a panic.  As I started radiation treatment, all I could think of was that I had to get back to my target weight.

I actually got to my target weight a couple of weeks after I started radiation treatment.  Having lost an additional 10 pounds, though, I'm entertaining the idea that maybe I could get down to 115.  I weighed 115 forever, but it's been a decade since that forever ended.  Why not be satisfied with where I am?

Because I'm just fucking crazy about the weight thing.  I got the scales so I could make sure I didn't continue the weight loss trend.  I know I shouldn't continue to lose weight.  I guess the good news is that I haven't.   

Somebody come over and take the damn scales away from me.   As if anyone could.  Or having taken them, as if I wouldn't just start to get even crazier. 

Maybe I should go get a cookie now.  Or two.  It might not make me less compulsive, but I might feel a little better while I'm eating them.  Mmmmm...chocolate. 

Bushism of the day:

"The best way to defeat the totalitarian of hate is with an ideology of hope—an ideology of hate—excuse me—with an ideology of hope."—Fort Benning, Ga., Jan. 11, 2007

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I just saw an opossum (does anyone ever really use the "O"?) ambling along the top of our privacy fence that separates the office patio from the small, evangelical (somewhat hostile) church next door.  At the end of the fence, a big gray and white tom cat watched and waited.  I couldn't really tell if the cat had murder in mind or if he was just as surprised as I was to see the guy up and about at 9:30 in the morning.

By the time the opossum (I can't help it...I have to use the "O") made it another foot in Tom's direction, he smelled something amiss.  He paused and sniffed the air.  Then the O (I'll just call it that) turned around and headed back into the opposite direction.  Tough Tom sauntered along after him, not looking particularly dangerous.  O. reached a crepe myrtle tree and began his descent.  

That's when I gave up watching.  If something bloody was going to happen, I didn't want to spoil my morning by intervening.  It's hard to have the weight of the opossum world on your shoulders.   

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"We are discreet sheep; we wait to see how the drove is going, and then go with the drove. We have two opinions: one private, which we are afraid to express; and another one - the one we use - which we force ourselves to wear to please Mrs. Grundy, until habit makes us comfortable in it, and the custom of defending it presently makes us love it, adore it, and forget how pitifully we came by it. Look at it in politics." ~ Mark Twain

It's started already. My esteemed co-workers think Elizabeth Edwards' revelation about her cancer constitutes an attempt to get the pity vote. After I commented that I need to limit how much I think about the subject, they're off and running anyway.

Then they moved on to Tony Snow. I just had to tell them (more than once) that it was making me anxious and depressed to continue that conversation. Finally, I walked away. I came over to my side of the building where, for the moment, I don't have to offer up my opinion "as a cancer survivor" about any of this.

As if the anxiety and depression and fatigue weren't enough, I'm now having colon pain. Thanks, guys, for stressing me out just a little bit more. What the hell. It's important that you express your opinion to me. We all know I can take it, but it might just cause an eensy bit of pain in my stomach. What's the big deal, anyway? I'll just stand here and listen to what you have to say, whether it's informed or relevant, whether it's less than generous or difficult to hear.

Apparently it hasn't occurred to anyone that I'm still struggling emotionally. Despite the number of hours I'm whiling away at the office and the fact that the girls are sporting a new bra, Even though I regularly (though not always) expend the energy in the morning to actually put on make up. I'm still in free fall. On the inside, I'm still bruised, you assholes. Wake up!

Maybe I'm just being too demanding. Why should anyone get the hint when I tell them I don't want to talk about it anymore? Suddenly the words from an old folk song come to mind, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning..." right on the tops of your heads, you inconsiderate lumps of humanity with whom I have to spend my days. Jesus.

I guess I'm just trying to hog some of that pity vote.

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What's the matter with me?  At first I thought it was gray day, black mood.  Now the sun's come out and I'm still stuck.  I even tried a sure-fire remedy: cinnamon mints.  Not any better.

Maybe it's just fatigue.  I'm up to five hours at work this week, which doesn't seem like much, but it's kicking my ass in a big way.  I did yoga last night for the first time in months.  Gentle yoga.  So gentle it didn't even feel like yoga.

It's hard to discern the difference.  Is depression causing fatigue or is fatigue causing depression?  I reel from my own vulnerability.  I'm hardly ever vulnerable, so it's hard to tolerate, even if no one else can see it. 

Furthermore, I'm vulnerable at work.  I stopped being emotionally available here many years ago.  After the reconstruction surgery, I had a brief bout with it.  Now it's back.

Maybe it was the long conversations I've had today with various people regarding cancer.  That's hardly ever a good topic.  That's doubly true when we're talking about breast cancer.

The day is almost over for me.  I don't even want to go home.  If I could disappear for just a little while, I'm sure it would perk me right up.  

Oh yeah.  I forgot that feeling emotion is a good thing.  It's like honoring the present moment.  I need to work on that, but I'd rather not do it today. 

What the hell is the matter with me? 

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"If you're going through hell, keep going," ~ Winston Churchill

Owner of Company is on a rampage. He most definitely does not approve of the Edwards' decision to continue the Presidential campaign. He's been calling me all morning on the intercom, reading his own satires of news stories about them, asking me for synonyms, wanting definitions. He just called me while I'm writing this to tell me that "satire" was, indeed, the word he was looking for, instead of "parody" or "lampoon" or whatever. When Owner of Company gets worked up about something, he can get obsessed. This is a quality we share. I'm just not obsessed about this one.

He thinks that it's really John Edwards' decision to continue the campaign, no matter what his wife wants. I don't know. I don't think that's necessarily the case. Sometimes it's helpful, when you're battling cancer, to just try to get on with daily things. For them, political campaigns are a regular part of their lives. You certainly don't need to be sitting around with nothing to do but think about your diagnosis or how the chemo is making you feel or any of the other wrenching sidetracks your mind creates. Maybe you just campaign, if that's what you do.

Owner of Company thinks John and Elizabeth Edwards should spend their time, however much that is, being with their small children. I have a stepson I first met when he was 7. I don't feel qualified to judge. Owner just told me that they plan to take their children out on the campaign trail with them. I've worked on several political campaigns and they are incredibly grueling, even if you're young and healthy. I'm not sure how much time they'll really have to spend with the kids.

These are very early decisions, though. Those decisions may change as treatment and illness progress. I didn't have stage 4 breast cancer that metastasized to the bone, but early on in treatment, I thought I could maintain my regular schedule. That vision of my future was incorrect. That may be so with Elizabeth Edwards. As I said before, you deal with it however you can.

Everyone has their own way of coping with cancer and with death, I think. I'm reluctant to seem judgmental or be judgmental. It's a tough journey to even get through treatment. I know that when I was first diagnosed, I didn't know where I would find all of the mental, physical and emotional resources I'd have to call upon to endure.

Throughout my own treatment, people felt comfortable suggesting how I might deal with it. Many friends pushed me to confront my feelings about everything that was happening to me. I wasn't hurt or irritated by those suggestions; I didn't have the physical or emotional luxury of being offended. I just plowed through, hanging on until it was over. I know everyone has to find their own way. The path isn't always easy to see.

Owner will be working on emails about this all day. He calls me up and asks me how I feel, as a cancer survivor, about what he has to say. I'm not really the person to ask. I have a predilection for dark humor. I can be very sardonic. What he's saying is fine with me.

But then I don't have Stage 4 breast cancer that's metastasized to my bones. He might need to check back with me should that come to pass. (I'm superstitious about this. I'm knocking on my fiberboard desk.)

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I'm actually wearing a real bra today.  Not my little velcro fastened-in-the-front breast vest thingy.  Better yet, you can not tell the difference between the girls.  That's right--we've moved on from "breast stump" to just one of the girls.

I'm not sure that this is necessarily good news, but I'm increasing my work schedule to five hours this week.  I'll just have to see how close I am to crawling out to my BarneyRubblecar before I make a firm decision for all five days.  Ultimately, the body's needs will take precedence over my need to get back to a regular schedule.  Even if that means staying longer every day in Crazy Land.

I'm also going to try to start a very low-key yoga practice. I haven't done anything physical since my recent surgery.  I think yoga will help me to learn how to stand up straight again.  It also adds to my range of motion for my arm.  Someday soon, I'll be back to cardio workouts and weight training.  That will most certainly not be this month or next month.  Soon, though. 

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I saw the John and Elizabeth Edwards Sixty Minutes interview and I'd be lying if I didn't say it made me uneasy.  I don't like to think about metastasis or recurrence.  Unfortunately, people tend to bring it up fairly regularly, so I don't get to completely put it out of my mind.  Watching that interview was a gesture of solidarity; I thought it might be uplifting.  It wasn't uplifting.

As for the continuation of the Presidential campaign, we all deal with this however we can.  She can deal with it by campaigning and continuing on with her normal life as much as is possible.  It seems likely to me that there will be some days (maybe many) when treatment will completely exhaust her ability to cope. 

Would I do the same thing?  Probably not, simply because I'm not strong enough to push myself forward while undergoing chemotherapy.  I wasn't before and there's no reason to believe that I've changed in that regard.  

I got an email on Friday from owner of Crazy Company railing against the decision.  As for me, judging her or her husband is really none of my business.  We deal with cancer (as with all life trauma) however we can, we get through treatment however we can.  Sometimes you don't know how you'll cope, but eventually you just do it.  Elizabeth Edwards is going to cope by getting on with life.  

Speaking of Crazy Company, no need to bring a gun.  I win.  We have not discussed the database, neither with Crazy Employee nor Crazy Employee's Crazy Supervisors.  We're not going to ever discuss it.  Because I decided.

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Remember how I'm so good with relational databases?  Remember how I work in Crazy Land? 

One Crazy employee has asked me to go through the prehistoric employee database, cull specific information and print it out.  Huge numbers of records.  Prehistoric database.  Crazy employee's supervisor has no idea why Crazy employee needs that information.  He wants to talk about it next week. 

I don't want to talk about it.  Yes or no.  Very simple.  Should I do it or not?  I'm hoping for not, because I've tried twice to get the records to print (90% of which are most certainly completely irrelevant) and they just won't.  Or they will, but not sorted in the order I specified.  

I feel a migraine coming on.  The muscles in my neck feel like they've been dipped in cement. 

Oh god.  Somebody get a gun and shoot me in the head.  Before Monday, please. 

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There's a song that's been running through my head the past couple of days.

"Rock 'n roll hoochie coo

(Rock 'n roll hoochie coo)

Lordy Mama, Wipe my shoes

As opposed to "Lordy Mama, Light my fuse."

I don't remember who recorded it, didn't much like it when it came out, know the correct lyrics (obviously), but it just keeps popping up in my head with the wrong lyrics.  Someone please free me from The Brain That Would Not Shut Up.  God I hate this. 

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The news story of the little boy who was killed by a convicted sex offender and his family reminded me of a day in my own life.  Luckily, no one was murdered in my case. (My therapist would disagree with that conclusion.)   I've mentioned before that my parents were sexually abusive, but the abuse was psychological, not physical.  The events of that day  fill me with such shame that I'm unable to even revisit it except in a fleeting, looking at the scary monster way.  The shame has nothing to do with me other than that knowledge of my parents' amorality.  Or at least my dad's amorality.  I can't really speak to my mom's motivations.

I wrote a post several days ago in which I said that I always believe that people are doing the best they can.  One of my friends commented,

"Nobody you know, nobody you don't know, in all the world, has ever done less than their very best, at any time? All around you is perfection and excellence?!"

The answer is that things have been so far from perfect and excellent in my life that hanging on to that belief is the only way to see around the dark center at the heart of my childhood.  Do I believe my father was doing the best he could?  I have no idea.  Most people would say he wasn't.   It just all gets very confusing to me, so I choose to believe that which is, in some ways, easiest.

What I do know is that I've been judged and found lacking based on people's inability to see what motivates me.  That was one of the great things about Mrs. N.  She understood that I was, as a human being (not a student), trying to do the best I could when there really hadn't been any model of moral and ethical conduct I could attempt to emulate.    In fact, that's one of the things she gave me:  a moral compass beyond that which a 15 year old could formulate in a vacuum.

My therapist and I have had many conversations about people doing the best they can.  She's pointed out to me many times that my Inner Fascist was born, in part, out of that struggle to transcend my family's moral sickness.  IF cracks the psychological whip much too hard so that I could ensure that I never even approached the road to moral decadence.  Children who parent themselves invariably create their own Inner Fascists; it's a survival skill. 

However, my therapist, like everyone else I've ever spoken to about it, strenuously disagrees with my theory of human behavior.  I understand that position.  For me, the things that motivate other people are mysterious and unfathomable.  If a parent you love regularly engages in conduct that is terrifyingly abusive, a kind of blindness descends that prevents you from seeing their motivations.  If the motivation is simply to enjoy hurting someone else, that blindness is kind.

I've had many sessions with therapists over the years trying to come to grips with my father's sadism.  The longer away I am from his suicide, the harder it becomes to understand how I can continue to love him.  Obviously, he's the only father I'll ever have.  Equally obviously, the best he could ever do was destructive beyond measure. 

I don't know.  I do the best I can based on where I am at any given moment and I choose to believe that everyone else does, too.  As in the case of the six-year old boy, though, sometimes what arises from that "best" is horrifying and maybe even inhuman. The darkness at the  center of my life was built around that horror. I've spent the rest of my life trying to see around it.

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"In order for the wheel to turn, for life to be lived, impurities are needed, and the impurities of impurities in the soil, too, as is known, if it is to be fertile.  Dissension, diversity, the grain of salt and mustard are deeded:  Fascism does not want them, forbids them, and that's why you're not a Fascist; it wants everybody to be the same, and you are not.  But immaculate virtue does not exist, either, or if it exists it is detestable." ~ Primo Levi

Last Friday, my therapist and I took a longer look back than I have in quite some time.  Breast cancer severely limits the energy and interest one can summon to think about one's history.  I've had a lot of trouble with my Inner Fascist lately and she became the focus of our delicate probing.

I've been pushing myself physically a bit because I don't wish my co-workers to think I'm a slacker.  "Who has ever thought you were a slacker?"  My therapist wanted to know.  There are many heads to the Inner Fascist Hydra, notably my parents.  By the time I was 13, I'd developed my own early version of her and she was already quite a taskmaster.

The only person who ever thought I wasn't working up to my level of capability was my college prep English teacher in my junior year of high school.  She was more than that, though.  Her name was Mrs. N.  She was the first person who ever saw who I really was, not the product of a truly degenerate (I use that word advisedly) living situation, not a young person who was on her way to teen pregnancy and the streets.  She saw how hard I tried, how much I kept hidden in order to gain approval from someone, anyone.

Though I placed out of lower division English classes in college and made A's in upper division classes, Mrs. N. never ever gave me an "A".  She always told me that I wasn't working hard enough, that I was skating by on inherent smarts instead of applied focus.  Oh.  I had no idea what she even meant by "working hard."  I actually thought I had been giving it my best.

Therein lies the development of one of the Hydra heads.  Am I working hard or am I coasting?  I can't ever tell.  I never could.  If I have to try too much, I have a tendency to get bored and move on.  If I'm interested, there isn't enough time in the day for me to indulge my intellectual passion. I become obsessed.  Some of those obsessions wax and wane repeatedly over the years.

"So what?" my therapist wanted to know.  I didn't have much of an answer for that.  I suppose the answer is that if I'm not living up to my capabilities, I'm unhappy with myself.  I'm unhappy with myself a lot.  The Inner Fascist would like to know whose business it is of hers, anyway.  IF is perfectly capable of setting the agenda for me. And she looks fabulous in black.  She has some mighty impressive boots, too.

Therapist suggests that the Inner Fascist take a hike and that I come to recognize there's no need to push so hard so much of the time.  I've been trying to get the IF to take a less active role in my life, but she's pretty dedicated to getting me right.  I suppose it's helpful to know how one of the Hydra heads developed, that love has always been the motivation for feeling myself somehow less than I might be.  

I would have done anything to please Mrs. N.  She saved my life, both figuratively and literally.  She died when I was in my early 20's, so I have no way to measure my accomplishments by that touchstone.  Would she be pleased?  I don't know.  I hope so.  But the Inner Fascist doesn't think she'd be pleased at all.

Bushism of the day:

"And there is distrust in Washington.  I am surprised, frankly, at the amount of distrust that exists in this town.  And I'm sorry it's the case, and I'll work hard to try to elevate it." ~ George W. Bush, interview on National Public Radio, Jan. 29, 2007

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What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

I love being Einstein.  He's got way better hair than I do.

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"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~ Gilda Radner

I've been catching up with blog friends I haven't been able to read lately.  I need to stop for a moment to talk about yesterday.  It was a bad, bad day and it took me until late in the afternoon to realize it.  Realization should have started when my mom told me a couple of times early in the day to stop beating up on myself. 

On the way home, she was talking about the 4th of July and it immediately reminded me that July 6, 2006 was my last day of radiation.  Then I recalled that March 28 was my last chemo day.  But then I wasn't sure...was it March 26 or March 28?  I became obsessed (oh yeah, I never do that ) with verifying the date.  Around 7;00 p.m. last night, I finally managed to find some written evidence that the date was correct.

Then it suddenly hit me.  A year.  As someone on my breast cancer message board told me, I've been through a lot.  It made for a sad and somber evening.  It's okay...just a part of coming to terms with it all.  I allowed myself to grieve for the relinquishment of wholeness.  I remembered it all.  The diagnosis--in three stages.  The mastectomy.  The chemo.  The radiation.  It was all unbearable, so I chose not to bear it.

I haven't only changed physically.  I know now, with complete certainty, that I can get through anything.  Maybe my father's suicide should have enlightened me on my transcendent abilities.  Now I know.  It seems to have created a greater reserve in myself, a distancing from the hard events of life.  I am inviolable.

It seems I've permanently retreated into myself to shield myself against misfortune and pain.  That doesn't mean I'm emotionally unreachable; as a matter of fact, I may be more open to love (in a general, nonspecific way) than ever before.  I can survive love and loss.  That knowledge liberates me, but it leaves me with an openness to love primarily on a non-specific basis.  I have good will towards everyone.  Close personal relationships seem even more unreachable.  If you care about everyone equally, do you really care about no one?  I don't think so.  I hope not. 

How have I changed?  How have I changed?  It's a question that's rather haunting and not fully answered still.  There's a lot more grieving to be done, a lot more suffering to be worked through.  I can survive it, though.  I can survive anything. 

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The Comptroller of our company and I just had a conversation about an out-of-state employee who is generally contentious and whether, despite the lack of grounds, he may decide to litigate.  Nothing like litigious employees to screw up a Friday morning.

I used to believe (and maybe I still do, to some extent) that people are essentially good.  They will, more often than not, do the right thing.  The ethical thing.  Make the morally positive choice.  During the past 20 years, I've certainly seen quite a few people to whom that did not apply.  At all. I stubbornly hang onto the belief that, given the opportunity, people will do whatever I perceive to be the correct alternative, nonetheless.

Some people don't care whether they do the wrong thing, even when it's abundantly clear that it's the wrong thing.  Why is that?  I'm 53, grew up in some very dubious circumstances and I still don't get it. I recognize that there's some seriously evil stuff going on in the world.  (Well, actually the word "evil" gives me a problem.  It's too Manichean for me; I'm morally neutral on the nature of the universe.) Clearly, choosing things that benefit the common good over things that benefit me personally to the detriment of the common good is one of those things that would keep me up at night.

Apparently it doesn't keep everyone up at night, though.  On the other hand, I choose to believe that we are all doing the very best we can at all moments.  If we could do something better, we would.  There are, however, lots of reasons why we might make a less than desirable choice.  The intersection of nature and nurture sometimes create moral blinders.  I guess most people would say that idea is amoral or just plain stupid.  Maybe that's so, but it just seems pragmatic to me.  My therapist and I discuss this on a regular basis and she completely disagrees.  

Maybe the employee is going to try to sue us, but if he does, it will be because he doesn't know how to do otherwise.  I could argue the case some more, but it's time for...you guessed it:  therapy.  I guess I'll just have to take it up there. 

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I have a one-year old adolescent husky mix dog.  We're going through those teenage, rebellious years and it's wearing me down.  They're not grown when they're a year old.  They're not adults until they're at least 3 years old.  I learned that this morning as I desperately searched the Internet for help in correcting behavior problems, specifically biting.

Andy (formerly known as "Wolf") gets overly excited, just like all males.  When he's tired and needing to sleep, he goes absolutely crazy.  He jumps on the sofa and shoves his head in between the cushions (which he knows is Bad Boy).  While he's there, he bites me.  A lot.  Really hard.  It's not so much an aggression thing as a crazy thing.  He knows that's Bad Boy, too.

He just started this acting out about a week ago.  My hands and arms are covered with cuts (where adolescent dog teeth dug into my flesh) and bruises.  I look like an iv drug user or something.  I've started to wear long sleeved shirts, even though the weather is decidedly warmer these days.  So now I look really weird.  I have to wear this vest-like bra which peeks out of virtually all of my shirts and now I can't even wear short sleeves.  

This is ruining my reputation as friend to all creatures not human.  My mom thinks I deserve it because that's exactly the way I was when I was a baby.  I don't think I bit, but I'd do anything to stave off sleep.  Of course, that's because my life was terrifying and that made it really hard to sleep, but that's neither here nor there.  We don't take that into account.  Furthermore, Andy's life is anything but terrifying. 

I always thought one of the advantages to having dogs/cats vs. children was the fact that they never rebelled and got tattooed or pierced.  As far as I know, Andy hasn't managed to get anyone to do either of those things.  But it could happen.  I also thought they were cheaper because you don't have to pay for college.  I won't be paying for college, but I see some serious puppy-training classes in my future.  They're not cheap, folks.  Neither are bandages and antiseptic in massive quantities. 

I'm re-thinking the whole animal paradigm.  Not that it matters because I'm going to have to do whatever it takes to get Andy out of his Steve McQueen phase and into something a little more submissive.

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I've been in the midst of my semi-annual will-i-have-a-job-at-the- end-of-the-month panic.  Our primary client is making ridiculous cost-saving (theirs, certainly not ours) demands.  Even if we could meet those demands, we'd cease to be a company in probably a matter of hours.  I've also been working on my annual accident report for another client and spilling what's left of my Xanax prescription all over my office.  Of course, that's another story.  See ggirl crawl around on the floor, searching for every single pill. 

I heard yesterday that we've managed to get a new contract with an equally large company that we did some work for several years ago.  Given the fact that I have less than one month's salary in my savings account, you'd think I'd be happy.  Oh no.  You underestimate me.

The contract was secured by (maybe) my most hated co-worker.  So, mean-spirited bitch that I am, I'm a little unhappy about the whole thing.  If nothing else, this proves there is no such thing as karma.  Up until this latest employment insult, I've been fabulous.  Little Mary Sunshine with breast cancer.  Yes, I find all of you adorable, my noble co-workers.  Let me feed the homeless kitties.  Let me cheer up those who are sad for no reason.  What do I get?  Not a damned thing.  A car that's quickly degenerating into one of those Barney Rubble foot-powered models, among other things.

And the most loathed employee?  The reason I started hating him in the first place is his narcissistic refusal to acknowledge that other people in the office may have contributed to his dumb ass success.  And I do not mean me.  The man doesn't even understand that to have a complete sentence, there must be a noun and a verb.  Only one will not do.  When he sends out memos or (worse) business correspondence to clients, he refuses to use the word "I."  They all sound like communiques from a distressed Batman cartoon.  "Must get folders.  Have no idea what should be doing.  Will massage enormous ego."  Know what I'm saying?

So what does this idiot get?  A contract.  Damn damn damn.  I don't know the budget, but I'd be willing to bet it's big.  That's just how the universe likes to screw with me. It just loves to point out that I can be as vindictive as everyone else in my office.  I don't care.  I still can't stand the guy. 

Why does he think he got the bid?  Because he looks so good.  I guess I should give him credit for not thinking it's his overwhelming brain power that gives him the winner's edge.  He does think he's a really bright guy, though.  I never let him get away with that.  I've already forgotten more than he'll ever know.  I challenge his assertions, I question his know-how, I mow him down with facts. He rarely engages in intellectual conversation with me now.  Wonder why.

Did I say mean-spirited and vindictive?  I believe I did.  

Oh no.  Computer seems to be going inexplicably slowly for some reason.  Must go.  Save self. Resume quiet seething.

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Two years ago, I lost my best friend of 30 years to a massive heart attack. The only good news was that she didn't suffer; death came very quickly. Please make sure that your family and friends don't lose you to heart disease.

http://www.goredforwomen.org/" title="http://www.goredforwomen.org/" target="_blank"http://www.goredforwomen.org/...

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"Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state." ~ George Eliot

Except for the fact that the sun is shining through my office windows and there are lots of foraging birds and squirrels, it's another grim Monday.  I'm not even sure at this point exactly what it is that makes me dread another week at work.  Really, every day is pretty much like every other day.  I've pushed myself physically in order to be here when no one expected me to show up.  I don't even have to be here today.  Or tomorrow, probably.  Office became a haven from whatever form of breast cancer torture I was trying to get through for the past 18 months.  Maybe my reluctance to be here is related to actually feeling better. 

I lost another kitty this past week.  Mom Kitty, the grandmother of all who came after, disappeared several days ago.  She was looking shiny and a little tubby, so I thought it would be a while before I had to endure another loss.  I have no idea what happened.  It's possible that some other kitty in the colony made her leave.  She's been having problems with Ring Tail Kitty for a while now.  Mom Kitty used to be able to quell any big ideas by doing her incomparable hateful-kitty look.  As she got older, hateful-kitty wasn't as effective.  She may have been taken by a predator.  The problem with being older and a little chubby is that you just can't move as quickly as you once did.

I'm hoping she's not living here anymore, but still dropping by for food after the rush hour when all the other cats are vying for food.  Not that there's any food shortage, but the crowd can probably be a little intimidating.  

If I've told myself once, I've told myself a million times that this is just how life is.  "Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional." The Buddhist approach to life.  I guess I'm opting for suffering these days.  I still have my beloved Mr. Swagger, the cowardly Black and White Kitty and his improbable pal Ring Tail Kitty.  I now have a large grey and white male who's been recuperating from a foot accident here in the relative safety of the patio.  Crazy Cat Lady (aka me) made sure he had access to food nearby so he could stay off the foot as much as possible.  I have Mom Kitty's Daughter, she of the beautiful blue eyes and the stand-offish attitude.  They looked just alike except for Mom Kitty's white tipped tail.  I have four baby kitties (that I need to catch and get fixed).  I'm face to face with the inevitable lately.  The inevitable never gets easier, no matter how many beings abandon me for death. 

I finished up Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides yesterday.  It took me forever to get through it.  For some reason, reading about people almost dying on the side of mountains has seemed more compelling to me.  Celebrating survival, I suppose.  A week ago or so, I got really committed to finishing Middlesex.  It was worth the struggle to concentrate.

Last night, I started reading a biography of Primo Levy.  I became familiar with his work, The Periodic Table not too long after my dad died.  For several years after that, I became obsessed with suicide.  I read everything I could find.  (Although that's just another manifestation of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, to some extent.)  I'm not sure how I became aware of Primo Levy, but he fascinated me.  He survived Auschwitz, lived another couple of decades and then, inexplicably, threw himself down the stairwell of his apartment building.  He did not survive the fall.  How could it be that someone could summon the will to get through a concentration camp only to lose the will when life seemed to be on a even keel?  

The answer is clear in some ways.  Auschwitz doesn't end for survivors.  It just keeps on playing in their heads.  More than one therapist has told me that my early life was just as difficult to survive as a concentration camp. If that's true, then I know for a fact that it never ends.  Even on my best days, when life seemed full of wonderful possibilities, the past nonetheless cast a deep shadow.

That's just my interpretation, though.  It doesn't explain Levy's choice necessarily.  It's another one of those enormous tomes that will take a while to wade through, but he was a fascinating man in more ways than that which he chose to end his life.  Like every other life, there's plenty to celebrate in addition to the sadness.

Now what was it I'm grateful for today?  Right.  Just being present.  The opportunities to love.  Those two are enough to get me through a lot of suffering.  Which, by the way, is optional. 

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My stepson turned 38 yesterday.  38.  I had to re-count a couple of times just to make sure I wasn't wrong about that.  I guess I stopped counting when he was 36. 

He doesn't have full-time permanent employment.  He has no training.  He did not go to college.  None of this seems to trouble him at all.  He still believes that he's going to be a major rock 'n roll star.  I can't believe it.   

He's working for the time being, though.  It's on a trial basis, though.  Stepson has to prove that he's going to be valuable to the company.  I take that to mean they expect him to show up every day, on time, clear-headed and to work hard.  That gives me some hope, anyway.

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"Keeping off a large weight loss is a phenomenon about as common in American medicine as an impoverished dermatologist." ~ Calvin Trillin

The ggirl you know now has a solid hold on personal style.  People point out clothing in catalogs and say, "That's a ggirl dress."  This was not always the case.

I always drop about ten pounds whenever I start a new job.  It's not like I mean to, it's just a result of stress.  I've worked for this company many, many years now and haven't dropped 20 pounds in at least the past ten. 

During chemotherapy, I gained about ten pounds, making me the largest ggirl ever.  I weighed about 140 pounds.  It completely freaked me out, even though my oncologist kept telling me I'd lose the weight after the steroids went away.  A couple of weeks into radiation, I had already gotten down to 135.  I was trying to get back to my starting weight of 130.  By the end, I'd hit my target weight.

After reconstruction surgery, I've lost another ten pounds.  I've reverted to the ggirl I used to be. My personal style has taken a back seat to my inability to force myself to eat.   During my first serious job, I had the first experience of dropping ten pounds.  It was an extremely demanding job and I didn't really notice that I was losing weight.  

It began to be apparent in the way my clothes didn't fit me anymore.  I'd stand up from a desk and the back zipper of my dress would have migrated around to the side.  I was always a little twisted and baggy.  I had a co-worker who gave me grief about it constantly.  I didn't make very much money, so it wasn't really possible to buy larger clothes.  It made me angry, but I couldn't really refute what she was saying.  I couldn't regain the weight, either.

I noticed yesterday that I've returned to the Ggirl of the Twisted and Baggy Clothes.  (That's a title much like Miss Universe, but with no swimsuit competition.)  I'm trying to stop losing weight, but the trend is not looking good.  I was really fond of the number 125 and was hoping to hold onto it, but it slipped away sometime in the past week.  I just got rid of all my size 6 clothing prior to surgery, thinking that I would never be that size again.  Damn.  Some of them were really cute clothes, too.

Now I'm worried that I'm going to return to a size 4, which is what I weighed about ten years ago when I was really ill for a couple of years.  I tried to weigh more; I just couldn't.

I guess I'm going to go home a motor through the remainder of a large piece of German chocolate cake and see if there's anything else I can stand to eat.  I'm just not fond of food right now.  I know that's a condition lots of people would like to have, but I'd just like to get back to 125 and find a way to stay there.

In the meantime, I walk around all baggy and twisted like I did when I was 23.  Maybe people will have the courtesy of not noticing or, if they do, just keeping the jokes among themselves.  I just hate being paranoid about where my zipper is located. 

Bushism of the day:

"I think that the vice president is a person reflecting a half-glass-full mentality."—Speaking on National Public Radio, Jan. 29, 2007

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the world of tblog collapses in upon itself like a huge black hole, here's a link to my shoutpost site.

http://ggirl.shoutpost.com/" title="http://ggirl.shoutpost.com/" target="_blank"http://ggirl.shoutpost.com/

Please bookmark as you see fit.   

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Last week, one of my co-workers started having duplicate invoice numbers.  We have one client that gets billed in several different company names.  It's all legal, of course.  It's just an added layer of complexity.  K. told me about the duplications and so I decided to add an "07" to the front of every invoice number.  It made sense to me and seemed to correct the problem.

Yesterday, I got an email from the controller telling me that his accounting software won't accept that many numbers.  He says I should ignore K, because she doesn't know what she's doing.  Today, first thing, I went in the files and removed all the "07's."  Controller happy.

Then K. came in and was upset about the change because she said we're still having duplicating invoices.  I opened all of the invoice files--Misc. 2006, Misc. 2007, OtherCompanyName2007--and I can't find any duplications.  I pointed this out to K., who insisted that a change be made.  I told her to go talk to the controller about it.  She wouldn't.  I'm not changing the invoices again.  This is it.  Everyone just has to find a way to make it work because this is getting on my last nerve.

Here's the thing.  I just don't really give a shit.  I enjoy working with databases and I've had a moderately good time creating all of them.  It's the process itself that I enjoy.  Yes, I would like it all to be easy to use and efficient.  Yes, I would like for it to work well for everyone who uses it.  It doesn't keep me up at night worrying about it, though, because ultimately I don't give a shit.

I quit caring what goes on in this company a long time ago.  Want something?  Ask me.  Otherwise I'll just be in my office entertaining myself.  Not only is there no incentive to do a good job, there is, in fact, plenty of rewards for doing a crappy job.  I got it.  I finally figured it out after about 10 years.  I don't care, folks.

When other people get upset about how things don't work here, they never like the response they get from me.  I nod my head, distractedly, and wander off into another office as soon as possible.  I do not empathize.   "Sometimes I frown slightly and comment, "Hmmm."  Sometimes I ask them, "And where do you work?"  That's guaranteed to piss people off.  But you know.  Get with reality, people. 

I've just had one of those moments.  No one wants to talk directly with anyone else to resolve the problem.  Fine.  But I'm cutting myself out of the process.  I will not act as office translator.  Or diplomat.  Or liaison or any other stuck-in-the-middle-with- you jobs.   

This is one of the great things about having breast cancer--clarity.  I'm clear about where the system breaks down and I'm equally clear about what I'm going to do to address it.  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing. 

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I used to care how I looked.  I mean, really care.  If the humidity was high, I devoted untold amounts of time to getting that very annoying little wave out of the top front of my head.  It was very stupid looking, especially since the rest of my hair was fine and, though a little wavy, primarily straight.  It would bother me all day long.  Every time I glanced at myself in a mirror or reflection in a window, I would immediately set to bending my hair into submission.  It never really worked.

When I found out that I was going to have to have chemotherapy, the very first thing I thought was, "no hair.'  It was traumatic.  Everyone kept reassuring me that it would grow back.  That didn't exactly make me feel any better.  Then there were sores inside my mouth that made it excruciating to eat anything, even frozen yogurt.  There were hideous and painful sores on my hands.  My personality virtually disappeared into the constant, all-over pain.  

After my mastectomy, it was hard to feel good about my body.  Harder still with sores, that classic moon face from the steroids, the extra 15 pounds I gained (also from the steroids), and losing absolutely all of the hair on my body.  I started to look at myself only from the neck up.  On most days, it was tough to even do that.  That was okay, though.  I needed all of the energy I could muster just to have the will to go on with the treatments.

By the time I got to radiation, I didn't care so much about the hair.  I stopped wearing my wig, wore a ball cap for a while (a tasteful pink Phoenix Suns cap) and, after a while, just went bare-headed.  I'd gotten some of my hair back by then and I consoled my co-workers (who were a little nervous about how to deal with mostly bald Ggirl) by telling them, "You'll get used to it.  I did."  I said it cheerfully.

I started to lose weight when I began radiation and got back to my old pre-steroid size.  I got a breast prosthesis that didn't surreptitiously migrate up towards my neck when I wasn't looking.  My eyebrows came back.  My hair came back, darker and curly.  

But I just don't care anymore.  If my hair isn't looking good, I go with that.  It is, after all, hair.  It's completely unruly and I'm good with that.  I don't wear makeup.  Like after my dad's suicide, I just don't have the energy for it.  I can come to work, barefaced, or I can stay home with makeup on.  I don't care what I wear.  I have this post-reconstruction vest-like bra that's impossible to wear with most of my clothes.  My breasts aren't yet symmetrical.  I don't care.

One of my co-workers came into my office today and told me she thought my hair is cute today, liked my (turquoise) necklace and heart-shaped earrings.  I looked at her blankly.  Can't you see I don't care anymore?  I know people are trying to be nice when they compliment me.  They tell me I look pretty.  It's a pity compliment, though.  I've got breast cancer, but it did not make me stupid. I say thanks, because that's what one is supposed to do when complimented.  

I don't think I was a shallow person before.  Caring about how I looked was just part of my whole gotta-be-perfect take on the world.  I look at myself in the mirror now and wonder where my pre-breast cancer prettiness went.  Then I remember that I just don't care. 

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I bought three new workout dvds this week.  Two of them were Denise Austin videos and one was a yoga video.  Oh how it makes me long to get back to working out.  Sometimes I even start to believe that, after I leave work, I can go home and at least do some yoga.  On my drive home, I always realize I'm not strong enough yet.

I'm still only working three hours a day, at most.  I go home and have to lie down for about half an hour or so.  That's a new development this week.  Usually I just park my butt on the sofa and rest there, but this week has been taking a toll.  I get that massive fatigue thing that makes my back, arms and legs ache.  

I have been busier this week at work.  I answered the phone for a couple of hours one day, since I was the only person here.  I've also done some proofreading and updating the database I created.  The big energy drain, though, was having to talk with co-workers.  That takes enormous energy.  I've already spent about an hour this morning, listening to a co-worker.  He was funny, but I'm not sure it was humorous enough to justify the energy drain.  

One of my colleagues just called to request a database revision.  It's good to be needed. 

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No more Anna Nicole Smith coverage.

No more coverage of Oscar night fashion. 

Ditto anything about Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears. 

Did I mention Paris Hilton?  Stop it. 

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