Too Happy
As you know, I spent the past several days alternately enraged and heartbroken. I came to work today with a heavy heart. Money Man and family are in Hawaii this week, spreading a little bitterness and bad humor around the tropical islands. I won't have to see them until next week.
I talked to my friend, The Information Superhighway, first thing this morning, told her about how things went on Friday and how devastated I was. Mid-way through the conversation, Owner walked by the door on his way to the office. He pantomimed something, but I wasn't sure what he meant. I finished up my conversation with the Highway and went into his office.
"I fed the kitties yesterday," he said. My heart melted. "Did you go see them?"
"No."
"You didn't feed your kitties?" He looked like he didn't believe me. I said I didn't know where we stood on that issue.
Where we stand on the issue is that I get to have the kitties. Lying Boy will be having his hours cut back by 75%. I shouldn't worry about Money Man and I only have to interact with him on business matters. Crazy Land feels like a wonderful place to be right now. I'm too happy to even gloat.
Big Trouble In Crazy Land
When I walked through the patio this morning, I saw Money Man looking out of the kitchen door (which is downstairs). I knew. I saw his daughter and The Information Superhighway (I don't think I've mentioned her before, but you know I'll get to it sooner or later). I knew they were standing around having a bitch fest about the cats. I've been very in touch with my anger lately. As I walked through the adjacent building where the cat food is, I thought,
"I should just go in there and say, 'Bitching about the kitties?'"
I thought better of it and calmed myself down until I was walking into the main building (where the bitching was, in fact, taking place). "I know you're talking about the cats," I thought, I need to walk in there and say that. I calmed myself down again.
Let me just cut to the chase here. I didn't know until I got here this morning that one of my co-workers (hmmm....what to call him...I know, "Lying Boy") sent out an email yesterday afternoon, complaining of how he has taken on the burden of martyrdom by withstanding the onslaught of fleas that come into his office in throngs. Obviously, they come from the cats. He's tired of carrying the weight of that mantle. It came to such a point that he had to (at great personal expense) de-flea his own cat and his whole apartment. Even though he loves working with such great folks every day (nudge, nudge), Lying Boy just really can not tolerate it any more. (He is called Lying Boy for events not related to the Kitty Catastrophe.)
I then noticed that I have an email from Owner, telling me we need to talk about the cats. Want to talk about the cats? Well I don't want to talk about it anymore. Ever. I went from zero to full fledged Psycho Bitch in two seconds. Even the Italians can't produce something that accelerates that quickly. I walked into his office and closed the door.
"First of all, I want you to know I'm having some mood issues lately." Understatement is one of my many appealing qualities. "I don't know why I'm having them, but I need to tell you that because I'm furious."
"Sit down," Owner said, "Are you mad at me?"
"No. And we don't need to talk about the cats. I'm going to let them fucking die," (I don't know. Maybe I should start referring to myself as "The Drama Queen"or "Alec Baldwin" maybe.) I took a deep breath and calmly said,
"You have done everything you can. You have spent a ton of money. I understand that and I want you to know that I appreciate everything you've done." This is where the tears started welling up in my eyes. I composed myself again.
"I'm tired of dealing with it and you shouldn't have to. I'm going to stop feeding the cats. They can fucking die and then, when the rats and the fleas continue to proliferate, my beloved co-workers can get back to me on how it is exactly that the fucking pests are still here." There may have been more uses of "fuck" or some permutation of that word. I know it was sprinkled liberally throughout my discussion with him.
Long, long rant here (about 20 minutes worth, in fact). The upshot is that I'm sick to death of this. "We'll just let them die. I'm going to go in there and let them know that. That'll make their fucking day." (I really like to use that word when I'm angry.)
Owner told me to stay where I was. He proceeded to get on his own high horse about the situation. He doesn't know why Lying Boy is here full time. (In case I haven't mentioned it, Lying Boy is Money Man's son. Money Man has a daughter who works here, too, but I haven't picked out a name for her yet. I will, though, and I may think of it before I get to the end of this post.*) Owner said that he went downstairs to Lying Boy's office and sat there for an hour yesterday waiting for a flea to hop on for a late afternoon brunch. None showed up.
Owner re-read Lying Boy's email and decided he didn't like the tone of it. He immediately sent a snotty email to Lying Boy, requesting that, when he has a problem, Lying Boy should come talk to him instead of sending out an email to everyone in the fucking office. (Yes, the "fucking" is mine. Sigh.)
Somewhere in the midst of our mutual rants, I said that it's my belief that nothing will make those assholes (yes, I did, too, use that word) happy short of the cats dying. I was still ready for confrontation with every single one of the Assholes.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes." I not only think so, I know so. Furthermore, after the cats, they will find something else they can inappropriately displace their anger onto. There are many reasons why that will happen. I won't bore you with it right now.
There were more tears running down my face from time to time. I hate it when that happens. I'm pretty sure that, if I'd had a confrontation with my co-workers, I would have been able to stick with the rage. I'm not certain, though. When I'm in my right mind, I might be able to see some tactical advantage to crying, but it's a fundamental part of my stoic personality; I do not let those people see me cry. I don't usually let Owner see me cry, either, though.
Owner convinced me that I shouldn't go to each individual office and have highly charged personal meetings with my friends here in Crazy Land. You know I don't send emails. I also don't talk behind people's backs, like some whiny-ass cowards I see every day. If I have an issue, I will talk with you, face to face. Some may pee their pants, but that's not really my problem, is it? Let them rush over to the local convenience store and get a supply of Depends. Apparently, there's some crack available next door if they think that will help them.
He got up to leave for an appointment and gave me a hug on the way out. I started crying again. Owner suggested I use the side door through another office instead of going out into the foyer where the fucking assholes could see me.
I called my mother to vent, alternately raging and crying. She asked me if I yelled. I didn't yell, but I did use an elevated tone of voice from time to time. Perhaps some of the assholes heard me.
So here we are. I'm in my office, venting to cyberspace. There is, once again, a deathly silence in the building. Though the phones are somewhat busy, no one is relying on me to help answer them, as I sometimes do. It seems likely that people did hear part of my conversation with Owner. Excellent. They should come on over and talk to me.
That, my friends, is the latest Crazy Land catastrophe. I'll be out of the office on Tuesday so I can see if we can detect any cancer cells. One last thing before I go, though. Fuck you, you idiotic, cowardly, bitter, narcissistic fucking assholes. Did I adequately convey my contempt? Probably not.Thanks for the comments, guys. As you can tell, I've been a little busy this morning. See you on Wednesday.
*I don't know why we don't change the name of the company to Money Man and Company.
Things I've Learned By Writing This Blog
I'm not sure I've learned anything writing about myself in my breast cancer blog, but maybe I don't want to know anything more about myself in that regard.
I think this will be an ongoing, sporadic accounting of epiphanies, not in any particular order.
*I'm verbose. Very.
*There are a lot of very kind and thoughtful people out there in the cyberworld. Unfortunately, I don't work with any of them. Or actually live in the same city.
*People who read this blog know me better than anyone else on earth.
*My work life doesn't just make me angry, depress me or make me feel like a failure. It entertains me on a regular basis.
*I have no idea why everyone else doesn't find me as fascinating as I do.
*I no longer hate myself when I write. I no longer consistently hate what I write.
*Anonymity is liberating. Honesty about my life is exhilirating.
*I need a Thesaurus and dictionary more than I used to before I started taking Tamoxifen. Or went through chemotherapy. Or both.
The Watcher
Underneath the new, better me is the Watcher. She hovers just under my consciousness, ever mindful of the fact that a mastectomy, six months of chemo and seven weeks of daily radiation do not in any way guarantee that all the errant cells have been killed. The Watcher is the mad woman in the attic. She's extremely irritable and the closer I get to my three-month blood test, the more easily frustrated the Watcher becomes. I can hear the annoyance in my voice as I talk to someone while I'm struggling to get the batteries out of my wireless tracball. Everything demands more from her than she has to spare.
The Watcher notes every unusual physical experience. What is that itchy spot on my upper left shoulder blade that I keep forgetting to show someone so I can get some reassurance? As if anyone could reassure me. Is that a new mole on my face? I have a new cough. That's particularly troubling to the Watcher. She knows where breast cancer will metastasize and, even though the rational mind remembers we're in the middle of allergy season, the Watcher knows she needs to keep track of how many times I cough every day. My radiation oncologist told me months ago that part of the carcinoma was very close to the chest wall. The Watcher remembers as if it were yesterday.
Friends, co-workers and family know nothing about The Watcher. As far as they're concerned, I'm fine. The minute radiation treatment ended, I was officially fine. My mom thinks I should have a positive outlook. I do. I just wish someone would figure out that worry doesn't end when radiation does. The fact that it doesn't makes me feel like a hypochondriac. I feel silly and embarrassed.
The Watcher knows it's not silly. Just under the level or ordinary consciousness, she reminds me about that one cell.
It's A Bit Murky In Crazy Land
I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. I hate doctors and I'm sick of seeing them. I'm just going to have my teeth cleaned, but it's all the same to me. I've got appointments coming up with my dermatologist (for my annual skin cancer check) and my opthamologist (for my annual macular degeneration check). I don't have firm dates, but I always see these doctors in June or July. I know they'll be calling me soon. I have oncology appointments in June and August. (I love that word "oncology." It sounds so much better than saying cancer.) I don't understand why I can't simply call a temporary halt to any further medical examinations.
Here in Crazy Land, I've already waded deep into the jungle of absurdity. I got a call from one of my local hurt guys while I was having a conversation about the database with The Shunner. Now that's the way to start your morning. No hesitation, no procrastination--just full throttle nutty right off the bat.
The Local Hurt Guy (as opposed to the Hurt Guy With Crappy Law Firm in another state) injured his ankle over a year ago and only recently reported that he's still having pain from it. He went to the nurse's station at our client's site on the day he hurt himself. I reported it to our insurance carrier and they decided to deny the claim. Hurt Guy also went to a local clinic to have them look at this ancient ankle injury, but they sent him back to work with no restrictions. That day. I'm guessing that's at least part of the reason the claim was denied by Carrier.
The clinic people, like all clinics and doctors these days, thoroughly understand the love affair our country has with litigation. It's like a national hobby. Therefore, they passed him off to someone else who could more definitively say whether Hurt Guy has an injury. And so he could sue them if it came to that. The doctor referred him to an orthopedic physician (or surgeon). This is where it all gets a bit murky. Either the original treating physician ordered an MRI or the orthopedic doctor ordered one...or something. Somebody wanted a damn MRI.
I'm guessing that our insurance carrier declined to pay for that, too. When the Hurt Guy called me this morning, he said he'd gotten "a whole buncha" letters from the insurance company and another "whole buncha" letters from the State Workers' Comp Commission. I was a little puzzled as to why he was calling me. But you know, being perplexed is a daily feature of my life here in Crazy Land.
"Well, if you can't understand what (carrier's rep) is telling you about it, ask to speak to someone else. I don't know why they denied the claim or even if they denied the claim." I said that in a much gentler tone than it seems when I see it here on the screen.
"I'm at the (garbled garbled) clinic. (Something something) Julie."
"Well then tell Julie to call them." I said
Then he starts in again on the "buncha papers" thing. Eventually I managed to get him off the phone. Just so you know, the closer I get to blood work day with my oncologist, the more irritable I become. When I hung up the phone, I did not rip it out of the wall and throw it across the room.
That was lucky, because I needed the energy for more aggravation. Hurt Guy decided to drop by the office with some paperwork from the (garbled garbled) clinic. Crazy Employee buzzed me from the front desk, informing me that he was here. She told me that he was scheduled for an MRI and he'd been referred to a podiatrist.
"Wait," she said to me. I hear more garbled, unintelligible (what I believe to be) speech from Hurt Guy. "He's not scheduled for an MRI..."
"I'm coming," I said. I actually hoped that, if I talked with Hurt Guy in person, I could figure out what the hell was going on with him. I know. Ever the optimist. Or the lunatic.
Nope. Didn't work. I still don't know a damn thing about what's going on with him. (I can hear you laughing, so stop it.) I took his papers from him and made some copies to fax to the insurance carrier. He held out his hand for me to shake and it was that limp, barely touching you shake that gives you the willies. You know, if you don't really want to shake my hand, then don't stick yours out there in my direction. I told him thanks for stopping by.
I did not go back to my office, pick up my computer and hurl it across the room. As a matter of fact, I didn't throw anything. Instead, I made the rounds to all the offices in Crazy Land, being disruptive and causing general hilarity (but not about Hurt Guy-- he's not funny at all). I dropped by Owner's office to distract him from whatever he was doing. He wanted to know what the good mood was about. "Anxiety," I told him.
He made me promise to go back to my office and settle down. But he wants me to drop by his office tomorrow and Friday. I'm irresistible when I'm aggravated.Hurt Guy And His Crappy Law Firm Attempt To Contact Crazy Land With Limited Success
It looks to be an exciting day at Crazy Land. Loathsome is here and I should probably just take a break and go find out what's up with him.
I did. Can you even believe it? Then, in the middle of our conversation, I got paged. I remember now why I never talk to Loathsome. I didn't find out anything amusing. Total waste of my time. Don't say I never did anything for you. This was a major sacrifice solely for the sake of your entertainment. No need to thank me.
The page was from our office in another state. One of our boys got hurt and we filed a workers' comp claim. He and the insurance company got together and they took care of his bills. Now it seems he's filed a personal injury suit against someone. Hurt Guy got a letter from an attorney. (Hurt Guys' name was misspelled a couple of times in it. What level of legal representation are you getting when they can't even consistently spell your name correctly?) He then gave the letter to his supervisor on site. The supervisor brought it to our office. There is absolutely no indication of exactly who is getting sued.
The woman from our other office said she called our workers' comp carrier, who told her that she should write a letter to Crappy Law Firm, informing them that it was a workers' comp claim and, therefore, all correspondence should be directed to the insurance company. Given the way things have gone so far, I shudder to think what action that information will lead Crappy Law Firm to take. We can only hope that, whatever action is taken, they will finally figure out the correct spelling of Hurt Guy's name. Or maybe they'll just refer to him as Hurt Guy. I wonder if I could get some kind of monetary compensation from them if I called up Crappy Law Firm and made that suggestion. All future clients could be referred to Hurt Guy #2, Hurt Guy #3...wait a minute. That should be Hurt Person so there won't have to be any further distinction between male and female hurt ones. No need to add more complexity to an already confused Crappy Law Firm. I should get extra money for the upgrade.
Anyway, I'm cc'd on all the correspondence, so I should be able to keep up with the Out-of-State Crazy Land situation. I'm all aflutter. What fun.
I spent about 45 minutes this morning with The Shunner, trying to get some more specific information about exactly what he wants in this massive and complex database I'm trying to build for him. The fact that I use the words "massive" and "complex" is just to indicate his level of expectation and my sense of being overwhelmed. It has no bearing on whether you have to be intelligent to build it. Because not necessarily, I think.
Shunner and I have two completely different styles. He's very extroverted and hyperactive. You know me--introverted and overwhelmed by hyperactive. I may have to sit in my office here for the next four days just recovering from that 45 minutes.
I'm clearly having way too much fun now. I guess I should get on with the database development. I knew you'd wish to know, at the very least, any fun news from Crazy Land. Oh yeah. Before I start? I'd like to just get five dollars from each of you as payment for that whole Loathsome interaction.In Case You're Interested
I'm working on an enormous relational database project for work. You know that's one of the few things I actually enjoy doing here, even though it can be exhausting and sometimes baffling. The co-worker I'm doing this for (The Shunner) and I don't necessarily communicate all that effectively. Very, very different personality types. I think I get what he needs. We'll see.
On the up side (yes, there always is one), I finally finally got cable Internet, so maybe I can summon the energy to post something longer in the evening. Lots of thoughts rolling around in my head. Lots of stuff going on to talk about.Stunned and Heartbroken
I'm stunned. My old friends I wrote about recently have found themselves at a terrible crossroads. Old Friend B. will have charges filed against her today in connection with the allegation that she offered one of her students a good grade in exchange for some act of violence against her daughter's boyfriend. I read that moments ago in her local newspaper.
That's all I know. I'm heartbroken and baffled. My husband believes this is a "world class rush to judgment." Sadly, I'm not certain that's the case. I have, indeed, known charges to be filed against people who turn out to be not guilty. No question about that. It seems unlikely to me that someone would be arrested based only on the word of a disgruntled student, though.
Old Friend B. is not a stupid woman. I can't imagine that she would make such an offer. It's ridiculous. There are so many things in jeopardy. I'm afraid she may choose to commit suicide. As a suicide survivor, I'm pretty regularly worried about that whenever something goes profoundly wrong in people's lives. Especially people I know.
So much damage has already been done. I pray that she will find the strength to get through this, no matter what the truth may be.
I don't even know what to say.AT&T: Our Middle Name Is "Customer Service"
Feeling a bit ragged around the edges today. Flashbacks will do that.
I answered a random direct line (that goes to someone's office, but I don't know whose) this morning and it was a recording from our good friends at AT&T. They said a repair person would be here on Friday, between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. to address our telephone problems. The recording said I should stay on the line if that time wasn't convenient.
I stayed on the line. God help me. A woman answered and I recounted the message, as an explanation of why we were having the conversation. She wanted to know the phone number. It's a line that goes directly to someone's office; I have absolutely no idea what that number is and no way for me to find out--at least any time soon. Now if she had an hour or so, I could probably figure it out. They called me. Why should I have to know what the number is?
"Well, what's your name?" she asked.
I told her my name and spelled it for her. I asked her if it wouldn't be more helpful to know the company's name. She reluctantly took it down while I spelled that to her. Address? Can do. Gave that to her, then she asks me what I want!
I said," I'm responding to the repair call so they know that there won't be anyone here after 4:00 on Friday." I thought maybe they wouldn't wish to waste their time coming if no one is going to be here. God help me.
The clueless (and quite lovely, I'm sure) AT&T woman informed me that the number I gave her was a residential number. I pointed out to her that I was having the conversation with her from an office. I reminded her that they called me. She said she'd have to transfer me to the commercial repair folks. She wanted me to hang on and put me on hold.
Now I ask you, why in hell would I want to hold on just so I could go through the whole annoying conversation with some other clueless (but quite lovely, I'm sure) AT&T representative? That's right; there is no reason whatsoever. So I hung up.
If they show up to repair the phones on Friday at 6:30 p.m., I guess someone else in the office will have to explain to them again on Monday that we're only here until 4:00. I'm so glad to have AT&T in charge once again. Their middle name is "Customer Service," you know.
Flashback Rage
Important note: If you are a survivor of child or spousal abuse, please know this post may trigger flashbacks.
Today is my father's birthday. He would be 72, had he not committed suicide 9 years ago (10 in October). I chose to cope by occupying my mind with frivolities. Then I went home for my afternoon rest. I knew today's episode of Dr. Phil would most certainly cause me to have flashbacks and yet I watched, anyway. I've learned to be disciplined about what I see or hear, but sometimes I'm unable to look away. The show was about a woman who has three children. Her parents called Child Protective Services because they were afraid that he would not only kill or injure their daughter, but perhaps their grandchildren.
Despite the fact that her husband has hit her, choked her, held her with a knife to her throat, stepped on her head, among other outrages, despite the fact that her children saw these attacks, she chose to take her children back to live with her husband. In defiance of an order of protection. At least one of her children has been injured by the man and at least one of her children was injured while trying to protect her mom.
Anyone who has read the early archives knows that my father was terrifying. He assaulted my mother on a regular basis until he found other women to assault after he had moved them into our house while my mom and I still lived there. My father assaulted me. (Note that I do not use the words "domestic abuse" or "child abuse." I think those are ridiculous phrases, demeaning to the people who live through them.)
I was terrified of him for years. Maybe I was always terrified of him, but there came a time after I was an adult, when I stood up to my father. Terror is the word I keep using. Terror is the word I mean. My father was a pedophile and used me as bait. My father subjected me to sexual abuse of such an unusual nature that I was well into my thirties before I even recognized that it was abuse. He did not protect me from his brother, who sexually abused me in more typical ways. I could write forever and not be able to catalog the offenses of which my father was guilty.
After my father killed himself, I went through about five years of feeling sorry for him. He had a tough childhood, filled with abuse. He was mentally ill. He was most certainly chronically psychotic for most of my life. I found it difficult to separate out the things he was in control of and the things he had no control over. This is why I view every situation as complex. I grew up with extraordinary complexity. It can be a safe haven, a means of avoiding the frightful truth.
Five years after his death, I began to finally experience my own rage. At first, it was rage that he had chosen to leave this world in such a devastating manner. I was enraged that he chose to shoot himself nine days before my birthday. It was still all about the dying.
These days, I'm still enraged. Now it's about my entire life. It's about the long, long shadow his violence still casts in my life. There was never a time when I was innocent, never a time when I didn't know violence up close and personal. I can't begin to say how angry it makes me and how profoundly sad it makes me for the child I was, the woman I am now.
This is my birthday card to you, dad. Wherever you are, may you understand fully what you did and what harm it caused. Happy birthday.
Old Friend Update
OFL called Hubby today to tell him OFB hasn't been home in 3 days. She's at a female friend's house. Okay.
I asked Hubby if OFL is furious. Hubby says he seems to just be waiting to see what happens. So no, he's not angry.
I'd be furious. I'd be enraged. Wouldn't you?
Fatigue
Fatigue is different than being tired. I'm fatigued. Very.
My mom and I had dinner with Owner and Owner's wife last night.
Saw my psychiatrist earlier in the day. I was late. That stresses me out. These days, if you wish to be on time, you just have to camp out the night before. There is way too much construction going on in this town. It's free-floating construction. Just when I think I've found alternative routes, they randomly move the construction projects so they're in my way, specifically. It may be a conspiracy.
Psychiatrist and I are eliminating more medication. Little by little. That makes me happy.
I'd love to tell you more, but I'm too fatigued. I should be better by tomorrow (she said with her fingers crossed).
Yet Another One Steps Off The Edge Of The World
When Hubby and I first met, he had a roommate-Old Friend Lewis-- who had grown up in the same hometown. They roomed together when both moved here to go to University. OFL began seeing Old Friend Barbara, who had actually dated Hubby shortly before she got involved with OFL. We all socialized together frequently in the town we're living in now and also in Hubby's home town, generally as part of a group of couples Hubby had known since high school. They essentially became my friends, too.
OFB had a hard time getting OFL to commit to marriage; it was a time when men resisted marriage and, since living together had recently become an option culturally, they argued that there really was no difference between the two. Many women came to see it differently. After about 5 years of pressure being applied and threats being issued, OFL and OFB finally married. Hubby was OFL's best man.
They had two children, a boy and a girl, spaced several years apart. OFL got a job at a rock concert promotion company and worked there until he became too expensive (and probably too old for cutting edge image the company likes to project) and they forced him into early retirement. He continues to do freelance work with them, but hasn't been able to expand his customer base. OLB was a stay at home mom until the kids got old enough for her to get a job, when she became a teacher at her daughter's high school.
Ours and theirs looked like marriages that were heading into the home stretch. Other friends married and divorced, some of them several times in an attempt to get it right. Though we ultimately ended up living in different cities, from all appearances, things were going well with the OF family.
We received Christmas family update letters, detailing the years' triumphs. Daughter graduated and went on to college in a different city. (Son is still in high school.) As recently as three years ago, Daughter decided to move back to her family's hometown because she missed them.
Things took a turn for the worse when Daughter started dating a young man who was seriously tattooed and pierced. OFB hated the guy immediately. It's one of those things they warn you about. Sooner or later, you will have children who will drive you crazy in the same ways you drove your parents crazy when you were young. You have to believe that at least some of the attraction to the young man is based on the fact that mom hates him. OFB has been estranged from her daughter for about a year.
OFB heard rumors that the Boyfriend had been abusive to some former girlfriends. Naturally, OFB had some concerns about the safety of her daughter. This is where OFB's behavior became increasingly bizarre and troubling. (OFL does not think Daughter has been or currently is abused. He's in regular contact with them.) I gather Daughter and Boyfriend are now living together.
OFB created a fake online identity on MySpace so that she could surreptitiously monitor what Boyfriend's friends were saying about him. Needless to say, she was found out and that definitely didn't improve her relationship with Daughter.
About the same time, OFB began drinking and engaging in highly sexual chats online with a man who claims to be 21. OFB has not divulged her real age. Of course, he may not have, either. I understand that's one of the advantages to essentially anonymous interactions. I don't get that, because if you're going to meet the person at some point, it's guaranteed that your chat partner will immediately see that you're 53 instead of 21, you actually weigh much more than you've fessed up to, you have no hair...the list goes on and on.
OFL found these sexually charged chat logs. Ironically, he found them because of the spyware OFB had insisted that they get to spy on Daughter when she was still living in her parents' home. He also awakened a couple of times in the middle of the night to overhear OFB having sexual conversations with someone on the phone. Troubling. Very troubling.
According to OFB, she's started drinking and talking while they have sex (a new development). (Which I'd really, really prefer not to know.) She was forced to resign from her job not long ago because she was inappropriately discussing her Daughter with her teenage students. One young man offered to "take (the Boyfriend) out." OFB made some joke of it and moved on. The young man in question didn't do well in her class and OFB eventually gave him a bad grade. He went directly to the principal's office and alleged that she had, in fact, asked him to proceed with the taking out plan.The school presented OFB with two choices. She could contest the allegations, with the certainty that it would all become public at some point. Or she could submit her resignation and everyone would part amicably. She chose option 2.
The past couple of years, while she was teaching full time, she started working on her Master's Degree in Counseling. I do not know what kind of counseling, but even if it's just a matter of helping young students decide what to do with themselves after graduation, I don't think OFB is in any condition to be offering advice. OFL says that she believes she can get some kind of "emergency certification" that would allow her to start her career immediately. That's critical in light of the fact that she is the primary wage earner. Everything depends on her.
Needless to say, this has been quite a heavy burden and her stress level must have been (and still be) crushing. She's probably perimenopausal, with all of the attendant hormonal fluctuations. I think it's a little like going through puberty. The body is changing in ways that seem unpredictable and that includes thought processes and emotional variability. You never know who you're going to wake up with every morning. Could be the "old" you or it could be hormonally insane you.
Culturally, we tend to not value older women. We're a youth oriented society and losing one's attractiveness can be crushing to some women. It's definitely hard to get used to. OFB is exactly the kind of woman who, having been known for her prettiness, is apt to have a very hard time with this phase of life.
So there are many reasons why things have continued to go downhill. She didn't come home all night several nights ago. And she's started cutting herself. I don't think I ever heard of an adult starting that behavior; I'm familiar with it happening with teenagers. Again, very troubling.
OFB has issued an ultimatum to OFL. He has got to make some substantial changes in the marriage or she'll pursue a divorce in two years. That's when their son will graduate from high school. OFL, of course, has absolutely no idea what changes she has in mind. That could be just a guy thing--with all of the couples we know who've divorced in recent years, the men have always been dumbfounded. They have no idea what they could have been doing that was wrong and, even when told by the wife, still don't know.
The irony here, of course, is that the tables have turned. OFB insisted they marry and now OFB is fairly certain she wishes to un-marry. OFL does not remember the years when he resisted the idea and has told Hubby that he's always planned to spend his life with one woman. He's very shy and uncomfortable around women, which made the whole dating scene precarious for him. He spent his school years in a Jesuit high school and never had much of a chance to develop friendships with women. I think it says something that he cites this reason for his distress regarding potential divorce.
OFL is regularly on the phone with Hubby. He just wants someone to listen. Hubby is quite willing to do so, but I think it makes him a little anxious. I notice that when he's been talking with OFL, his general behavior improves and he makes a special effort to be a good husband. He even talks about how much he likes his job.
It makes me a little uncomfortable that I'm profiting ( how ever briefly) from my old friends' marital problems. I'm genuinely saddened that things have come to this crisis. Saddened for their children, her husband and her. I can not imagine what's going on in her head that is causing such extremely self-destructive behavior.
This is the story I've been meaning to tell you for some time now. Every time Hubby talks with OFL, there's more bad news. I'm certain there will be more posts about our old friends; nothing seems likely to stop this downward spiral. This is where I generally point out that this is a complex problem. It is, though. Just like most everything else in life.
Do What's In Front Of You: Remembrance Of Loss
I started writing a post about lost abilities, but the universe (or the cyber-universe, at least) took it away. As I was writing, it disappeared. I take it as a sign that, though I may examine it briefly, I should not pursue this topic at length. All things have a reason.
Maybe breast cancer has taken far more from me than I ever imagined it could. Today, I realize that's the very definition of spirituality for me. We lose everything, eventually. No matter what. No matter how many vitamins we take, how many trips to the gym, the body will deteriorate and, eventually, die. Intellect will fade and personality will alter. That's how it goes.
I just have to remember that, accept it and, ultimately, I must embrace it. That which I believe myself to be is just an illusion. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. The one I truly am will not be touched by deterioration of any kind.
Chemo clarified the things I am not: not hair, not intellect, not memory, not physical health, not my emotions. These are merely things that I've stepped into, only to leave them behind when the time comes. It's a liberating and mournful clarity.
Today I remember and I see the task stretching out into the distance. Celebrate. I'm here to learn this lesson. Remain open to suffering and dissolution. Greet them as friends. Just like all friends, they can be problematical at times and hard to love.
Along the way, smaller realizations lead me to the greatest one. At every moment, I can choose to search for the lesson that invites me. Seeing the truth is strenuous work and sometimes I'm not up to the challenge. That's why I'm reminded, from time to time, in many ways, that life slips away.
There's a great Zen precept "Do what is in front of you."
That which is in front of me today is a remembrance of loss.
Breast Cancer Blues
I type things and then erase them. Over and over. The bad day began last night. I got weepy earlier in the day and now it appears there's no point in trying to remain upbeat. I had some fun this morning, writing about Crazy Land. Then a friend asked my opinion about Phil Spector. That's currently one of my favorite topics.
I told my mom it would be okay to bring over my book, Living With Breast Cancer. She took it away during the time I was undergoing treatment because every time I started to read parts of the book, I would become terrified of what was going to happen next.
All clear, I thought. Treatment is over, so I thought I might get some useful info about what my radiation oncology nurse called "reclaiming my life." Instead, what I found was confirmation that some of the bothersome things I've been experiencing may be treatment-related. And permanent.
I read that chemotherapy used for breast cancer (and maybe other types) can change the structure of the brain and how it functions. Or doesn't. Antidepressants can exacerbate the bad effects. As can steroids used in treatment and Tamoxifen used post-treatment.
They may affect memory, spatial-visual abilities, verbal (especially written) skills. There may be permanent alterations in concentration and attention span. I've experienced a lot of these. I chalked it up to depression, hormones, and/or age. Any (or all) of those things may actually be part (or all) of the problems. Or not.
It's yet more potential for the possibility that breast cancer has taken away all of the qualities by which I've defined myself. The ability to write well and think sharply would be great losses. They have always been self-defining. I'm not sure I can recognize whether verbal skills have deteriorated. Certainly cognitive functioning has changed and not for the better. I'm kind of stupid now and I have absolutely no memory at all. Maybe permanently.
One of my co-workers has a daughter who's participating in an American Cancer Society event which will culminate in an all-night walk by cancer survivors. Luminarias will light the way. It brings tears to my eyes as I type these words.
I've developed an abrasion underneath the new girl where some scar tissue has formed. There is a patch of irritated skin on the scar that runs across my lower stomach. It's hard for me to tell what's going on, from day to day, with my incision sites. Sometimes things hurt for no apparent reason. Even in places where I'm numb to the touch. I note it and move on. What else can I do?
I've had pain for a couple of days now in those places, so I asked Hubby to look in case something was actually wrong. Obviously, something was. So. Back to the vesty bra and underwear that comes up to my waist.
I'm not sure why this seems overwhelming to me today. I gave it my best shot to buck up and was doing fine, it seemed, for a while. I have extensive experience with bucking up. Not today, I guess.
Puppies and 'Hos in Crazy Land
Have you ever noticed that, when I talk about something going on in my work life, I always have a huge amount of background information to cover first? I guess that's what defines this place as "Crazy Land." Okay, I'm going in now. Hang on.
Just as I was going to start taking my handful of medications that keep me sane, able to breathe and breast cancer free, Crazy Employee made an impromptu appearance. (Yes, of course she knocked.) The latest office outrage is the new crop of puppies we've discovered next door. Crazy wanted to get a better look at them.
One of my office windows overlooks the backyard of a woman whose life is a constant source of speculation here amongst the denizens of Crazy Land. She's had three pregnancies in at least the past ten years. We know there were others because she has a son and daughter who don't live with her, but are old enough to have their own dogs. I'll get to that eventually.
Every time she's gotten pregnant, the state (we think) has taken the infants away immediately. We never see them, so they're going somewhere. One day she's as big as a house and, the next time we see her, she's baby-less and back to her old skinny self. Compared to this, of course, the puppy thing isn't even a blip on the Outrage Radar screen. Guess what? You guessed it. Pregnant again.
Most of my co-workers believe Lillian is a crack head. Some of them believe she's a prostitute. There's some basis in reality for the latter belief, because she told one of our painters she's "a ho." Scared the shit out of the painter. He was in her backyard at the time, refinishing that side of our privacy fence. We could never get him to go back and finish the job.
Before we go any further, I need to tell you that Lillian actually worked for us for about three months several years ago. (I bet you're not one tiny bit surprised about that, are you?) I could tell you about that and maybe I will, but not today. As Loathsome would say, must maintain focus.
I'm not so sure about the crack head thing. I think it's just as likely that she could be mentally retarded and/or suffering from a serious psychiatric illness. Clearly, Loathsome needs to go have a wardrobe consultation with her so she can lead a more productive (and perhaps celibate) life.
My co-workers think everyone who lives around here is a crack head or cooking crack or selling it. I don't think so. There's not enough traffic around here to warrant that conclusion. Any crack-related activities in this neighborhood are more likely to be occurring at the day rate motel across the street from us. That's probably where most of the good prostitutes are, too. There's something a little low-rent about servicing patrons out of a house that has no electricity and maybe even no running water. I mean, as a customer, wouldn't you at least want to know those amenities were available if you needed them?
I noticed several weeks ago that Lillian was looking like a woman hoping for labor to start soon. I was once again outraged by her poor family planning skills. Yesterday, Crazy Employee pointed out to me that there are now three puppies in Lillian's back yard. She saw them from the window of the bathroom right next door to my office. This is also Lillian's third round of puppies. She's pregnant and she has puppies. She's never managed to do one of those activities well and now she's doing both at the same time.
We know at least one set of puppies came from her son's female dog. Maybe another litter came from the daughter, but we're not sure. Dogs come and go in her backyard. There's one black adult dog who's been there forever. Several other adult dogs have rotated in and out. They all need better care than Lillian is prepared to give. I'm sorely tempted every single day to go liberate the black dog and any others living in that doggy purgatory.
Crazy Employee and I have, indeed, removed puppies, taken them to the vet and sent them on their way to more nurturing environments. I have scaled the chain link fence a couple of times before to make sure Lillian's dog(s) have food and accessible water. It always flips out my co-workers, who are sure I'm going to get shot in the process. They all gather at one of the other windows offering a better vantage point from which to watch me hit the ground, should gun play ensue. It would be just the kind of thing that would happen to me. Local newspaper headline: Breast Cancer Survivor Shot While Scaling Fence To Rescue Puppies From 'Hohouse.
Luckily, Child Protective Services is rescuing the infants. Things would get a lot more complex for me if they didn't. That is definitely a thing I could get shot for attempting. I am going to take the puppies, though. The other litters we've rescued have been afflicted with a number of ailments related to neglect. So I don't want to hear anybody telling me that I should respect her rights as the owner.
One more thing. I wonder if the fleas over there will be content with gorging themselves on puppies and refuse to cross into our patio area? I may need to pose that question to everyone in Crazy Land innumerable times a day until I get my point across. Or until I feel vindicated. Whichever comes first.Luncheon in Crazy Land
I spent the better part of the morning catching up on my friends' blogs, updating links and trying to alphabetize the links. Obsessive. Anal retentive. It's your call. I gave up. I'll have to be obsessive later. It's so tiring, you know.
Everyone in Crazy Land is having group lunch today to celebrate Receptionist getting her Master's degree. We have smart people here. One or two at the very least. I'm one of them, of course. Let's not forget that. Smart, however, does not preclude crazy.
I'm not attending said luncheon because I have to go home and check on the Phil Spector trial. Coming back for the cake, though. Although I shouldn't eat any. Also, I'm missing out on the office interaction, which is really too bad. It's great when you can round up all the nuts, put them in one room and see who comes out alive.
Neither Owner nor Loathsome are going to be there. Loathsome is still banned from the office until further notice. I'd have to forgo Phil if he and Owner were going to be lunching with everyone else. Too good to miss. Also a perfect opportunity to demand money from co-workers for making Owner stop talking about any or all of the following:
*we're all going to be jobless in a month
*he has a tumor somewhere and is going to die pretty soon
*he may have a heart attack (as he eats the worst food in the world--heavy on the cake, please)
*there appears to be some kind of insect in some of the food, usually the cake
*heaping praise on The Useless One, which pisses off absolutely everyone (It's really a way of torturing everyone on the list at once. Owner is clearly a strategic thinker.)
* or picking out one of the people on the current Torture List and just giving them shit the entire lunch
He's backed off the tumor thing since I inconveniently turned up with the real thing. (Although I didn't actually have a tumor, per se.) The heart attack comments have been unabated, though.
No one else in Crazy Land will make him stop spoiling their lunches. Of course, that might be because they all realize that attempting to make him stop will only make it worse and it can only move them up a notch or two on the Torture List. I'm never included in that list, primarily because I refuse to let anyone know what makes me angry. Especially not Owner or Money Man. Never let them know if something rattles your cage. It's just an invitation.
Owner has never put me on the Torture list. Instead, he's saddled me with the world's most dysfunctional employees. Or it could be that I've been at the top of his Torture list for years and he keeps forgetting to mention that's why I've been plagued for years with these particular co-workers.
Owner likes to tell me about why he doesn't like them, though. Sometimes I go to his office and have a seat simply to hear whose name has moved up to the top of the list that week. And why they have that special honor. Loathsome's had a long run. That doesn't mean that Owner doesn't have others on the list. He does. It includes virtually everyone.
Owner enjoys my presence. There's something to be said for being relentlessly pleasant. Aside from the recent shunning, I haven't had a disagreement with anyone for years. Being the only person in the office who refuses to pass along rumors or reasons why someone is unhappy with someone else, I hear everything. People will tell me stuff they won't tell their own mothers.
Knowledge is indeed power, my friends. I think sometimes people forget exactly how much I know, though. It contributes to a false sense of security people have when they're with me.
Post luncheon update. Everyone survived and appeared to be exiting the conference room in high spirits. Of course it could be because everyone had cake. I have to confess I had cake, too. I had it in the privacy of my own office, though.
Living With Cancer: You Don't Know Until You Get There
I just wrote a lengthy post about Ted Koppel's documentary, "Living With Cancer," that was on the Discovery channel last night. (The post went flying out to Internet Purgatory.) The documentary will be aired again tonight at 8:00 Eastern time. If you have a friend or family member who has cancer, this program can be very helpful.
Leroy Sievers is Ted Koppel's best friend. He is dying of colon cancer that metastasized to several parts of his body. He is in Stage 4. That diagnosis almost inevitably ends in death. Elizabeth Edwards (who participated in the town hall meeting shown after the documentary) has Stage 4 breast cancer. No matter where the cancer travels, it will always be colon cancer or breast cancer. Just in a different location.
I can't imagine suffering through the treatments only to postpone death. We're all going to die, but some of us have medical proof that we're going to die sooner rather than later. There will be an end to Christmas lights, an end to friendships, to all of those daily things we tend to take for granted.
Since about halfway through chemotherapy, I've been almost certain that I would not choose to go through it again. Even if it meant dying. Of course, when I was first diagnosed, I thought I would refuse chemo and radiation. In retrospect that was profoundly naive. So maybe I would do another round of chemo, another round of radiation. I guess that's just one of those things you don't know until you get there.
All of the people at the town hall meeting were either currently being treated or had been treated for cancer. Without exception, everyone could see some positive things about having cancer. It certainly changes your perspective and clarifies priorities. It measures the level of inner strength you possess. I have attained heretofore unknown amounts of suffering. I care less now about how my hair is looking every day than to celebrate having any hair.
Cancer changes everything. It robbed me of all of the things I thought defined me. I'm trying to get some of them back. Some of them were inaccurate measures of who I am and needed to be left behind. Some of them are things that frustrate me, make me angry and cause me great sadness. Nonetheless, I'm still here. That's a lot. I know that I will live every day until I die and I will learn to love whoever replaces the person I used to be. No matter how hard that may be.Crazy Land and Group Therapy
"Our dependency makes slaves out of us, especially if this dependency is a dependency of our self-esteem. If you need encouragement, praise, pats on the back from everybody, then you make everybody your judge."~Fritz Perls (http://www.positivehealth.com...)
I didn't get here early enough this morning to find out what was going on with Loathsome yesterday. I think I know. It involved sitting in Owner's office for 3 hours.
I stopped by Owner's office this morning to say hello and we ended up having a lengthy conversation about his kids, his brother and our young receptionist. Not all together, though. One at a time.
There's general office wide satisfaction that Golden State kicked the Mav's collective butts last night. I kept everyone's enthusiasm up by sending links from the Dallas newspaper sports section. There's nothing meaner than a disappointed Mavs fan. Especially if they're sports writers.
I've been mingling with office mates this morning. I'm already exhausted. They just take so much energy. Maybe it's just me. You know, I like to seem enthused. Sometimes I actually am enthused. Very, very tiring.
An online friend recently expressed some interest in my experiences with psychotherapy. Needless to say, I've kept some therapists in the high income bracket over the years. I was in group therapy for several years, against my will.
When I started therapy, I was young and didn't have much money. The state provided psychotherapy on a sliding fee scale. Turns out, the state wanted the most bang for its buck and virtually everyone, sooner or later, was moved from individual to group therapy. I can not tell you how many new problems that caused.
In my first group, one woman was afraid of me. She was afraid I was going to hit her. Why? Beats me. It might have had something to do with the high level of rage I was working through. Of course, on the other hand, she was afraid of her own (small) children. She was afraid to tell them what to do.
One guy wanted to date me. I was already seriously involved with the man who would eventually come to be known as Hubby. Apparently the therapist thought it would be a good idea if he asked me out while we were in group. I felt blindsided. When I was a young woman, it was not a good idea to make advances unless I had clearly indicated it would be okay. I had not so indicated. Did I mention my high level of rage? It was specifically directed towards men. (Oh just go read the archives if you want to know.) The sad thing is that, after I'd raged at him for about half an hour, in front of everyone, he still wanted to date me.
There was a woman who hated me. We were in therapy together over a long period of time and we had an interesting dynamic. She didn't think she was very attractive and, unfortunately, there were other problems, of course, Mean Girl wasn't well-liked, I guess, by anyone either in group or in the "real" world. I, on the other hand, though filled with free floating hostility, was very popular. In the way that I still am. People find me energetic, interesting, empathic, funny, passionate, intelligent. Especially the nuts. The nuts really think I'm great. Mean Girl is her own story and maybe I should tell it when I have lots more time on my hands. It is, after all, therapy day which means I get to go home early. (Doing a little happy dance in my head.)
Group also included a woman who wanted me to be her girlfriend. That didn't make me hostile because she wasn't a guy. We did not date, but I never yelled at her in group about her feelings.
I met a woman named Ramona with whom I actually had a friendship, of sorts. It was a relationship that stretched over about five years. Ramona needs her own post, too. Suffice it to say that the end of our relationship could have been predicted at the outset.
All of this occurred in the early 70's, during which time therapy was changing in nature from the strictly Freudian standard to a looser, R.D. Laing-Fritz Perls kind of groovy thing. Barriers were being broken. Some barriers should never, ever be broken because there will be unforeseeable, dire consequences if they are. The only relationship you're supposed to have with your therapist is a "therapeutic" one. It should not spill over into your personal lives.
You know how I am, though. Special. Intellectually above it all. Kinda groovy. Very persuasive. I somehow convinced my therapist that we should have a friendship. Therapist was a woman or I never would have even remotely considered it. I won't take all the responsibility, though, because she was the therapist. Here again, Barbara deserves her own post.
Ah the fun I've had, the people I've known. It positively makes my head swim. Crazy Land, in one form or another, as been a staple of my life since I was just a gleam in my parents' eyes. To this day, the last words I want to hear out of anyone's mouth is, "Who wants to work today?"
This has opened up a whole new storyline. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. Group therapy. More to come. (That doesn't mean I'll abandon Loathsome, though.)
I Will Not Play Crazy Land
There are new, potentially fascinating events afoot in Crazy Land today. Unfortunately it is of a delicate nature and I don't think I should go into it. More's the pity. I've gone to some great lengths to be anonymous, but you never really know, do you? So far, I don't think I've gone over the line with my Loathsome, Foot Lady, and Money Man posts. That remains to be seen, I guess.
The news I can share is that Loathsome has actually been allowed to visit the office today. Unfortunately for him, it is being spent in Owner's office with the door closed. He's been in there at least an hour and a half now. Wonder if Owner is reading him 2 months of creative emails. Oh god I hope so! Isn't that sad? I'm so easily amused.
Oh yeah. Another Crazy Land story that I instigated. You know, I had a co-worker who appeared to be shunning me (Oh thank you "The Office" for that word!). Then another co-worker told me he wasn't mad at me; he thought I was mad at him. Oh Jesus. That is so Crazy Land.
Well, I'd had enough. I started to write him an email when it suddenly dawned on me that I was adopting one of the most dysfunctional, but regularly used Crazy Land means of avoidance. I put on my Big Girl Panties and went down to his office. Of course, he wasn't there.
As luck would have it, he happened to be on the phone with Crazy Employee when I came upstairs. She told me she was talking to The Shunner (henceforth and forever known by that name). I asked if he was busy; she said he was just giving him a hard time. I said, "Let me talk to him when he gets through."
I started out the conversation noting the third-party communications about all of this. I told him I thought about sending an email, but decided I wanted to talk about it. I advised him that I'm not angry. (I'm not and never was. That doesn't mean I don't think he's crazy, though.) I said I'm not even irritated with him. (True again.)
I said, "You were a big support to me for the past 18 months while I was going through my breast cancer treatment. I'm so grateful for that and I will always remember that. I can't be angry with you. I may disagree with you, but that doesn't mean I'm angry Besides, I tend not to get angry."
Now how can anyone be irate when I'm so disarming? I wasn't trying to be manipulative; I was saying what I truly feel. He commented that he should have come upstairs and talked to me a week ago. (Okay, yeah, I found that a little annoying. If you're upset or you think I am, let's be grownups and talk about it.) I have to admit I can be very pointed and utterly emotionless under those circumstances, but I'm generally willing to at least consider the other person's position. Even if it's batty. It's that dissociative technique of shutting down emotion and dealing with people on a purely intellectual lecture that people find alarming.
Reconstruction Surgery Next Phase
I waited and waited and finally sent an email to Dr. K's scheduler. I just wanted to get the surgery date scheduled so I could attempt to put this out of my mind. It never does me any good to think about this stuff in advance. It's highly anxiety provoking, though not so much as my visits with my oncologist and surgical oncologist. There will be drains. That is one of the big reasons I need to put this out of my mind. Well, that and the pain.
My date is August 29, much sooner than expected. I immediately freaked out. Yes, it's good but no, it's not good at the same time. Let me just say it again: drains. My mother points out to me that I had drains for the mastectomy and they were very bearable. I'm not certain that didn't have more to do with the psychological trauma of having a breast removed than the lower pain level in having plastic inserted into your body. Maybe if I just get my beloved Dr. Ross to do it. Of course, Dr. R. is much better at cutting things off than at recreating them.
I probably won't be writing much more about this until the drop dead date (no Freudian slip here). I will be posting about the upcoming oncologist visit (the end of May) and my trip to see the wonderful Dr. Ross (sometime in June). I'm putting surgery out of my mind now.
Latest Bulletin From Crazy Land
My bookmark utility hasn't been working for a couple of days now, so I haven't been able to check in on anyone; that's tremendously frustrating. Oh. Wait. Cutter told me to email them to myself and I think I actually did that. Must investigate.
Yesterday I just wasn't in the mood. I've been having pain for several days now (that's what the whole "pamper-ggirl" thing was about) and it's made me doubt my ability to judge what the hell I'm writing. I give up. I'm writing anyway. If this is incoherent raving, please disregard and refer to "Loathsome Sends an Email."
The source of the pain is withdrawal from an antidepressant I've been taking for several years now. I knew it was causing some unusual synapse surges (or something like that), but I didn't have a clue that it was also causing colon pain until I talked with my doctor. That's why they always tell you on pharmaceutical commercials to talk to your doctor, I suppose. Actually, when you check the website, the pharmaceutical company does not refer to what I'm having as "withdrawal." I think they just call it "inconvenience" due to stopping.
We've been stepping down the dosage for about a month now, but I clearly need to step it down a bit more because it's not going well. So that's what we're doing. In the meantime, I'm still in pain but having a lot fewer synapse issues. The brain is much happier. The colon will be happier when serotonin levels rise a bit more.
Okay. On the Crazy Land front, Crazy Employee believes getting carpets cleaned and setting up pest inspections (for the rats running out of the field and sewer into the nightmare of Crazy Land) entitles her to a raise. Or at the very least a bonus. Can you hear me laughing?
One of the co-workers who was giving me the silent treatment was only shunning me because he thought I wasn't speaking to him. More hysterical laughter here. Why would I spurn him just because he's crazy? That's absolutely correct--no reason at all. That's what makes it fun to work here.
Everyone is mad at Owner because yesterday he sent out an email rant about the potential for theft by carpet cleaners. That actually did happen here about 15 years ago. The rest of these folks weren't here then. That wasn't really why they were angry anyway. Don't confuse us with the facts.
Bulletin. Crazy Employee just announced over speaker phone that no one is allowed to go into Building B. That's where I keep the kitty food. Crazy and I discussed this yesterday and I made alternative kitty feeding plans. Nonetheless, the announcement was clearly directed at me, since I'm the only one who ever goes over there. Owner followed up with his own announcement that no one was going to, but send everyone an email, anyway. Do not for one moment think that I'm not contemplating my own announcement. I'm in exactly that kind of mood today. Wouldn't that make me crazy, though? Yes. Yes, it would.
Several years ago, I forced several coworkers to start watching televised basketball games. I relentlessly made them listen to my play-by-play reports of March Madness and every single NBA game available on cable. A couple finally gave in and started watching, probably just to shut me up. The hoop-head fever has spread, unfortunately, so I'm greeted every morning with some very upset people because their team was disappointingly sucky in the play-off game the previous night. Today there's rampant disapproval of Golden State for losing to the Mavericks. What the hell was I thinking? By the way, why does everyone hate the Mavs? (Except for their colossal stupidity in letting Steve Nash and Michael Findley go play for other teams.)
I'm sure there's more fodder for fun around here somewhere, but I'd have to venture out of my office to hear it. No. Sorry. Not even for you. I'm going to stay in my office where I can wax hysterical whenever I wish. But thanks for listening. I feel better now. Even if what I just spent the last 20 minutes writing is utter nonsense, written by a woman being temporarily inconvenienced by unpredictable serotonin supplies.
The Unthinkable
Boys and girls, I am getting ready to do the unthinkable. I am going to reproduce an exchange of emails between Owner and Loathsome. I'd sit down if I were you.
Loathsome email:
Owner...not sure you will get this followup OR daily report...not letting me send for some reason. Will call you tomorrow and can rewrite.
Owner response:
Loathsome...received daily report just now. Sent ITBoy there. Will work on computer. Will try to fix. Got rewrite. Send insurance info to Money Man. Will pass along to insurer. May pay. May not pay. Will see. Big money. Hope delay not damaging.
No, I did not make that up. If only Loathsome had managed to work in incorrectly used "myself" and "cognizance," it would be perfect. Must go work on something else right now. Will write more later. Oh what the hell, there's no way I can be funnier than that.
