Time to file.
No not file things in drawers. File for Unemployment Compensation. My employer put in writing that they would not contest my claim, so I can claim away without the threat of having it questioned or inviting a hearing. We all know that no one wants a tell-all hearing where all the ugliness gets trotted out before the eyes and ears of the State. That reputation, however much a house of cards, must be protected. I am free to file with confidence. Yay me.
So I go on line and I file. It is a little more challenging than I thought it would be. And it assumes that the filer has at least a) a computer, and b) a telephone, and c) a drivers license, and d) at least a 6th grade reading/comprehension level. It requires some serious concentration. And several cups of coffee. I am sure half the people give up and go traipsing into the office to file in person where their academic skills and abilities do not become such a bitter reminder of their troubles. Or don't file at all. I think I've answered the poverty question about the neighborhood where I worked.
Moments later, I get a note back from my friends at the Office of the Unwashed Masses. I did not present a drivers license number on my application and have to prove my identity before they will approve my claim. God knows I could be some very well employed top earning citizen who got the bright idea to pad their savings account by bilking the State out of what amounts to lunch money by filing a bogus claim.
I should think the sheer humiliation of it would derail any nefarious ideas about that.
But all I keep thinking is "Of course I did not present one, morons! The site asked for a license from their State only and I live in a neighboring State. An unverifiable State license would have gotten me rejected. And now, it seems I have been anyway. Who's in charge here? I need a word in private, please."
Turns out I am going to get my word, but not necessarily in private.
It seems like the only solution is to get into my car and drive across the bridge and present my foreign license to someone with the authority to look at it competently and say something reassuring like, "Oh of course that's you. Approved!"
I put the address of the Office of the Unwashed Masses into my phone's Google Maps app and press "start."
I am on my way. I am not sure what I've started.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Christ On A Barstool
The weekend is a blast.
I take a long walk in the State Park I've been visiting since Scott dumped me. It has lots of trails through the woods and hills and paths along the creek. I have been taking pictures of the same spots throughout it since November when Scott went AWOL and have come to see it a little differently each time I go. It is very therapeutic to be there. I turn my usual five mile trek into seven just to say I did.
I return home and turn my attention to the yard. I am hosting a family reunion in a few short days and my yard looks like the set of Grey Gardens. I have hedges to trim and lots of mowing to accomplish. Branches to get rid of and weed whacking to do. I hate weed whacking. I may even hate it more than replacing the toilet seat, which is the decades long top dog in that department.
And after I've wasted my arms and sweat off ten pounds, I shower and get fabulous to join Kate and her son at a pub near her house.
Yes, her son. He's 10. And yes, a pub. It's that kind of place.
We walk through the woods near Kate's house with our Boy Scout leading the way and cross the threshold into Oz. Kate's son finds his soccer coach at the bar and takes a stool next to him without hesitation. He waves down the bar tender and orders "the usual" which for him is a rootbeer and an order of bacon. (The kid's palate is a little on the skimpy side.) Kate and I commandeer the big, poofy sofas and kick off our shoes. It's that kind of place.
The surly waitress grimaces as she hands us our menus and is even more disgruntled when we order beers before she can scurry away.
It is a Twin Peaks kind of night, with Kate's son playing video games with a boy he knows only from the bar. (Whaaat?) There is a man at the bar that makes sterling conversation with me every time I belly up for the purpose of reading the taps to choose my next beer. He comments on every one, clearly an expert. His voice is deep and buttery, and he might even be handsome if it weren't for the ponytail that reaches the waistband of his pants and his hard-to-ignore resemblance to Jesus Christ.
"I saw you talking to Jesus," Kate says when I return to the sofa with a new IPA. "He's cute except for that hair. And his legs are skinnier than yours." This is the wavelength Kate and I tend to tune into together. She reads my mind and I read hers. She comments that perhaps he'd find me attractive if I were in some kind of shepherd's robe. All this as she borrows my adapter to plug her iPhone into the bar's Christmas lights for a charge. We both practically pee in our collective pants when the bartender begins to place candles on the bar and one bearing the likeness of Jesus Himself is placed in front of Imposter Jesus. We think the bartender must be thinking the same thing. We think we might need to make friends with her.
Our overstuffed pork roast sandwiches are served by Miss McNasty and another round of beers is ordered just to send her sailing over the edge of reason. The Mavericks come on the jukebox, and Kate's son and his bar friend are running down the street to play basketball.
All is right with the world.
I take a long walk in the State Park I've been visiting since Scott dumped me. It has lots of trails through the woods and hills and paths along the creek. I have been taking pictures of the same spots throughout it since November when Scott went AWOL and have come to see it a little differently each time I go. It is very therapeutic to be there. I turn my usual five mile trek into seven just to say I did.
I return home and turn my attention to the yard. I am hosting a family reunion in a few short days and my yard looks like the set of Grey Gardens. I have hedges to trim and lots of mowing to accomplish. Branches to get rid of and weed whacking to do. I hate weed whacking. I may even hate it more than replacing the toilet seat, which is the decades long top dog in that department.
And after I've wasted my arms and sweat off ten pounds, I shower and get fabulous to join Kate and her son at a pub near her house.
Yes, her son. He's 10. And yes, a pub. It's that kind of place.
We walk through the woods near Kate's house with our Boy Scout leading the way and cross the threshold into Oz. Kate's son finds his soccer coach at the bar and takes a stool next to him without hesitation. He waves down the bar tender and orders "the usual" which for him is a rootbeer and an order of bacon. (The kid's palate is a little on the skimpy side.) Kate and I commandeer the big, poofy sofas and kick off our shoes. It's that kind of place.
The surly waitress grimaces as she hands us our menus and is even more disgruntled when we order beers before she can scurry away.
It is a Twin Peaks kind of night, with Kate's son playing video games with a boy he knows only from the bar. (Whaaat?) There is a man at the bar that makes sterling conversation with me every time I belly up for the purpose of reading the taps to choose my next beer. He comments on every one, clearly an expert. His voice is deep and buttery, and he might even be handsome if it weren't for the ponytail that reaches the waistband of his pants and his hard-to-ignore resemblance to Jesus Christ.
"I saw you talking to Jesus," Kate says when I return to the sofa with a new IPA. "He's cute except for that hair. And his legs are skinnier than yours." This is the wavelength Kate and I tend to tune into together. She reads my mind and I read hers. She comments that perhaps he'd find me attractive if I were in some kind of shepherd's robe. All this as she borrows my adapter to plug her iPhone into the bar's Christmas lights for a charge. We both practically pee in our collective pants when the bartender begins to place candles on the bar and one bearing the likeness of Jesus Himself is placed in front of Imposter Jesus. We think the bartender must be thinking the same thing. We think we might need to make friends with her.
Our overstuffed pork roast sandwiches are served by Miss McNasty and another round of beers is ordered just to send her sailing over the edge of reason. The Mavericks come on the jukebox, and Kate's son and his bar friend are running down the street to play basketball.
All is right with the world.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
The Final Curtain
And at the appointed hour (noon) on the appointed day (the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend) I make my grand exit. I dutifully make my lap around the department. My secretary is not there to make me cry like a two year old. She's home on leave and has missed most of the drama as it has unfolded. She'd have to be carried out win a straight jacket for sure. There are some tears. There are some whispered "Take me with you wherever you go"s, some folks that make themselves unavailable for the awkward goodbye (like when two rival hockey players have to shake hands after a high-stakes game where each of them clobbered the other's face mercilessly), and a few others that fake their well wishes, barely concealing their glee that I am exiting the building for the last time.
They have no idea how much this resembles a prison break for me.
And I have a clandestine secret lunch date with a few colleagues. Cocktail toasts and long held secrets all around. We laugh. We snark. We toast. We grouse. It is a sad departure. Some work friends really do become more than that.
And then I get in my car and join the holiday weekend traffic jam. No road rage on this last ride home as it is my last ride home from the gates of Hell. The Seals and Crofts refrain "We may never pass this way again..." is making laps around my head.
I stop at home, change into a fun outfit befitting of a jail break, feed the two cats I'll be seeing a lot more of, and head back out to join some friends, lots of friends, who have made plans to meet me at my favorite brew pub.
I love it when friends from different camps get to meet each other and finally put the puzzle pieces of funny stories together. "So, it was you took off your bra and threw it into the Christmas tree when you forgot to bring an ornament to the tree trimming party!" and "Oh, I know who you are! You are the guy who put Liza's lost chandelier earring in your navel when you found it!" I also love when good food like candied bacon and home made whiskey pickles collide with fresh micro brewed beer. Sheer decadence. As it should be on such a night following such a day.
By the end of the night, I have plans to take the kids camping with a bunch of people, plans for the next night, and a book club invitation. I have also made a commitment to amp up my walking routine and get myself into the best shape possible while I have endless hours to do so.
I close my eyes on a life-changing day and nod off to enjoy the first full, uninterrupted night of sleep in over three years.
They have no idea how much this resembles a prison break for me.
And I have a clandestine secret lunch date with a few colleagues. Cocktail toasts and long held secrets all around. We laugh. We snark. We toast. We grouse. It is a sad departure. Some work friends really do become more than that.
And then I get in my car and join the holiday weekend traffic jam. No road rage on this last ride home as it is my last ride home from the gates of Hell. The Seals and Crofts refrain "We may never pass this way again..." is making laps around my head.
I stop at home, change into a fun outfit befitting of a jail break, feed the two cats I'll be seeing a lot more of, and head back out to join some friends, lots of friends, who have made plans to meet me at my favorite brew pub.
I love it when friends from different camps get to meet each other and finally put the puzzle pieces of funny stories together. "So, it was you took off your bra and threw it into the Christmas tree when you forgot to bring an ornament to the tree trimming party!" and "Oh, I know who you are! You are the guy who put Liza's lost chandelier earring in your navel when you found it!" I also love when good food like candied bacon and home made whiskey pickles collide with fresh micro brewed beer. Sheer decadence. As it should be on such a night following such a day.
By the end of the night, I have plans to take the kids camping with a bunch of people, plans for the next night, and a book club invitation. I have also made a commitment to amp up my walking routine and get myself into the best shape possible while I have endless hours to do so.
I close my eyes on a life-changing day and nod off to enjoy the first full, uninterrupted night of sleep in over three years.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Paved Paradise, Put Up a Parking Lot
In the meantime, I am finding work is way more enjoyable once the Exit Sign starts flashing.
I am actively looking for new jobs while winding down the old one. My boss is less asshole than usual, training himself to rely on other people for all manner of nonsense I gamely used to endure. We are back to being just friends like we were years ago. When we first started sparring and swearing in regular conversation.
His replacement (whether he knows it or not) is pleased that I've stepped out of her way without too much effort on her part. We know now that she'd started to replace me long before she was in a position to do so. I just spared her the effort of having to make me look bad to get what she wants. She's feathering her own nest with her own little chickadees. I hope they enjoy the ride to the bottom of the ocean. Surely they have no idea they are on the Titanic --- or if they do, they foolishly believe they can take a hard starboard turn and avoid the iceberg. I am one of the first to board and lower the lifeboat. They can fight with each other for a seat on the last one on the way to certain disaster.
I am getting some traction with my resume and networking my tail feathers off. I come in from mornings off interviewing proudly wearing my freshly pressed suit and killer heels. I walk around practically giddy that the current stream of pseudo-corporate bullshit is flowing past my office door and across the threshold of some of my more hateful colleagues. "Too bad, so sad. Looks like someone else will have to get their hands dirty (to match that HAIR!) Dive in. The noxious pool of swill awaits you. Hope you brought a haz-mat suit!"
But in the meager downtime from networking, and lunches with colleagues who want to congratulate me for going over the wall, and interviewing, I am quietly and with great determination wrapping up every last detail of my existence.
Finishing projects.
Writing detailed SOPs for the zillion-and-one things I have done quietly and competently and without drama for years. Even I am amazed at how complicated some of them are. To say nothing of the finesse that is involved. But there is no SOP for that. What would I write? Step 5: Be savvy and negotiate fearlessly here?
Purging redundant or outdated records. Neatening overstuffed files. Labeling and filing everything of import. Stuffing the confidential shredder to the brim with everything else. Leaving trails of breadcrumbs that tell the right story for my successor. Completing evaluations. Assigning post mortem tasks.
There is nothing I will miss about the job or the people I performed it for. In fact I am relishing the idea that the people who will assume the responsibility will soon be finding out how challenging it is, and struggle to manage. It will be very edifying.
And that attitude they had about my walking around smiling and joking all day? The assumption that I did not take my work seriously? Won't they be amazed that I managed to do so much, so well, without a bead of sweat forming on my perfectly made up face, and without ever losing my humor. Ever. Always solution-oriented, always able to keep my sense of levity. The humorless were such a drag.
And all the while I have a song pinging around my head:
"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone."
I am actively looking for new jobs while winding down the old one. My boss is less asshole than usual, training himself to rely on other people for all manner of nonsense I gamely used to endure. We are back to being just friends like we were years ago. When we first started sparring and swearing in regular conversation.
His replacement (whether he knows it or not) is pleased that I've stepped out of her way without too much effort on her part. We know now that she'd started to replace me long before she was in a position to do so. I just spared her the effort of having to make me look bad to get what she wants. She's feathering her own nest with her own little chickadees. I hope they enjoy the ride to the bottom of the ocean. Surely they have no idea they are on the Titanic --- or if they do, they foolishly believe they can take a hard starboard turn and avoid the iceberg. I am one of the first to board and lower the lifeboat. They can fight with each other for a seat on the last one on the way to certain disaster.
I am getting some traction with my resume and networking my tail feathers off. I come in from mornings off interviewing proudly wearing my freshly pressed suit and killer heels. I walk around practically giddy that the current stream of pseudo-corporate bullshit is flowing past my office door and across the threshold of some of my more hateful colleagues. "Too bad, so sad. Looks like someone else will have to get their hands dirty (to match that HAIR!) Dive in. The noxious pool of swill awaits you. Hope you brought a haz-mat suit!"
But in the meager downtime from networking, and lunches with colleagues who want to congratulate me for going over the wall, and interviewing, I am quietly and with great determination wrapping up every last detail of my existence.
Finishing projects.
Writing detailed SOPs for the zillion-and-one things I have done quietly and competently and without drama for years. Even I am amazed at how complicated some of them are. To say nothing of the finesse that is involved. But there is no SOP for that. What would I write? Step 5: Be savvy and negotiate fearlessly here?
Purging redundant or outdated records. Neatening overstuffed files. Labeling and filing everything of import. Stuffing the confidential shredder to the brim with everything else. Leaving trails of breadcrumbs that tell the right story for my successor. Completing evaluations. Assigning post mortem tasks.
There is nothing I will miss about the job or the people I performed it for. In fact I am relishing the idea that the people who will assume the responsibility will soon be finding out how challenging it is, and struggle to manage. It will be very edifying.
And that attitude they had about my walking around smiling and joking all day? The assumption that I did not take my work seriously? Won't they be amazed that I managed to do so much, so well, without a bead of sweat forming on my perfectly made up face, and without ever losing my humor. Ever. Always solution-oriented, always able to keep my sense of levity. The humorless were such a drag.
And all the while I have a song pinging around my head:
"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got till it's gone."
Monday, August 26, 2013
Post Game Wrap Up
Charlotte and I leave the courthouse together, incredulously, making cordial small talk with Lars. It is like the Twilight Zone.
Lars says he hates coming to the courthouse and hearing everyone's atrocious horror stories. I say I am mortified that the judge turned our story into something all the other people in court will go home and talk about around their dinner tables. Charlotte wonders aloud if it is an election year and we can campaign to unset the bastard.
I am growing more and more unsteady on my feet as we walk away from Lars at last. I am happy to reach a bar stool at the local Irish pub. Charlotte and I look at each other in complete disbelief and simultaneously frantically wave for the bartender.
The humiliations.
The financial impact.
The complete smackdown.
It is going to be a hard story to retell to all the people who will ask. My girlfriends. Craig. My boss who'd penned the helpful letter.
That's what beer is for. Drenching the details and hoping when they dry they tell a decent story. I order two. Charlotte dives into her pinot grigio. Her wheels are turning. I can practically hear them.
I try to tell her it was only half as bad as I expected (aside from the losing part, which I did not expect.) and repeat what a former attorney colleague of mine once told me when I was getting divorced. He was a six-time divorcee and knew his way around a marriage dissolution like no other.
"There is nothing fair about Family Court."
Those who have had to climb into the ring and fight know this: You think you can predict what will happen but you can't. If it makes perfect sense to you and all of your friends, the Master will take a completely opposing philosophy. Logic is checked at the door to Judge's chambers and it is Anything Goes the entire time. No one will be at all sure whose interests are being served. It is a courtroom evidently run by the folks from Monty Python and you are on a roller coaster ride in the dark. You can hear yourself screaming inside your own head the moment you cross the threshold. And afterwards you are not completely convinced you haven't just narrowly survived a bad car accident.
An observer sitting safely on the sidelines is nearly always shocked and appalled. It is like watching someone play a video game they've never played before. Bombs and bullets and grenades in every direction and every so often, a random appearance of an alien determined to bite your head off. Only it isn't just a video game. You really could die.
It's a bloody disaster. And Charlotte has had front row seats. I am not sure who is having a more difficult time comprehending. But we know we get to do it all again in three months. God love us and spare us.
Lars says he hates coming to the courthouse and hearing everyone's atrocious horror stories. I say I am mortified that the judge turned our story into something all the other people in court will go home and talk about around their dinner tables. Charlotte wonders aloud if it is an election year and we can campaign to unset the bastard.
I am growing more and more unsteady on my feet as we walk away from Lars at last. I am happy to reach a bar stool at the local Irish pub. Charlotte and I look at each other in complete disbelief and simultaneously frantically wave for the bartender.
The humiliations.
The financial impact.
The complete smackdown.
It is going to be a hard story to retell to all the people who will ask. My girlfriends. Craig. My boss who'd penned the helpful letter.
That's what beer is for. Drenching the details and hoping when they dry they tell a decent story. I order two. Charlotte dives into her pinot grigio. Her wheels are turning. I can practically hear them.
I try to tell her it was only half as bad as I expected (aside from the losing part, which I did not expect.) and repeat what a former attorney colleague of mine once told me when I was getting divorced. He was a six-time divorcee and knew his way around a marriage dissolution like no other.
"There is nothing fair about Family Court."
Those who have had to climb into the ring and fight know this: You think you can predict what will happen but you can't. If it makes perfect sense to you and all of your friends, the Master will take a completely opposing philosophy. Logic is checked at the door to Judge's chambers and it is Anything Goes the entire time. No one will be at all sure whose interests are being served. It is a courtroom evidently run by the folks from Monty Python and you are on a roller coaster ride in the dark. You can hear yourself screaming inside your own head the moment you cross the threshold. And afterwards you are not completely convinced you haven't just narrowly survived a bad car accident.
An observer sitting safely on the sidelines is nearly always shocked and appalled. It is like watching someone play a video game they've never played before. Bombs and bullets and grenades in every direction and every so often, a random appearance of an alien determined to bite your head off. Only it isn't just a video game. You really could die.
It's a bloody disaster. And Charlotte has had front row seats. I am not sure who is having a more difficult time comprehending. But we know we get to do it all again in three months. God love us and spare us.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Grand High Poobah of Upper Butt Crack
His Honor insulted me in open court.
His Honor interrupted me repeatedly.
His Honor was as mean as a junkyard dog.
His Honor must have gotten totally screwed when his ex-wife flew the coop and took their half-man-half-spawn-of-Hell progeny with her. No one is that bitter without a reason. I am sure his wife kneed him in his testicles as she lifted his wallet from his pants pocket.
And somewhere in all this meanness, he determined that I should shell out an additional $266 a month to Lars. Not less. MORE! He threw one pay stub a piece into a pile, divided and scraped the difference into Lars' hands.
I argued to see his tax return. I wanted to see where he is burying his extra money. He claims not to have gotten a raise in 6 years. I think he's being paid on gift cards. Something.
His Honor asked Lars if he earned any additional money. Lars said he did not. His Honor took him at his word and got huffy with me when I asked for proof. Pissy. Mean.
He was so mean that Randee, dressed in her Mama's Goin' to Court outfit I have seen every time we've appeared in the last 6 years, took pity on me. She looked at me and said in a "Work with me here" tone, "Why don't we step outside for a few minutes and talk this over?"
I was desperate to vanish. Humiliation will do that to a girl.
We step outside and Randee and Lars chat privately for a moment while I try to ratchet down the intensity of my flop sweat.
They return to the little check-in table I am leaning on for stability and Lars is the first to speak. "Liza, I don't want any more money from you."
Good to know.
Then he suggests that I withdraw the petition like I had last time.
I am shocked at the kindness and generosity of his gesture.
Randee of course gives us both a big NFW, and suggests instead that we continue the hearing and work it all out in August when I will likely have a new job and we can figure out what really needs to happen. (Maybe with a new judge after someone murders this one in a fit of rage?)
She says to contact her in July about my status. If I am not working, they'll stay the order so I am not responsible to pay Lars from my Unemployment check. (How kind...)
We walk in and Randee presents our decision to the judge. He is reluctant to grant it. He really wants to put the screws to me. But we prevail and set a new date. Dismissed.
Charlotte grabs me by the arm and hauls me out the door to the nearest pub. Mama needs a cocktail.
His Honor interrupted me repeatedly.
His Honor was as mean as a junkyard dog.
His Honor must have gotten totally screwed when his ex-wife flew the coop and took their half-man-half-spawn-of-Hell progeny with her. No one is that bitter without a reason. I am sure his wife kneed him in his testicles as she lifted his wallet from his pants pocket.
And somewhere in all this meanness, he determined that I should shell out an additional $266 a month to Lars. Not less. MORE! He threw one pay stub a piece into a pile, divided and scraped the difference into Lars' hands.
I argued to see his tax return. I wanted to see where he is burying his extra money. He claims not to have gotten a raise in 6 years. I think he's being paid on gift cards. Something.
His Honor asked Lars if he earned any additional money. Lars said he did not. His Honor took him at his word and got huffy with me when I asked for proof. Pissy. Mean.
He was so mean that Randee, dressed in her Mama's Goin' to Court outfit I have seen every time we've appeared in the last 6 years, took pity on me. She looked at me and said in a "Work with me here" tone, "Why don't we step outside for a few minutes and talk this over?"
I was desperate to vanish. Humiliation will do that to a girl.
We step outside and Randee and Lars chat privately for a moment while I try to ratchet down the intensity of my flop sweat.
They return to the little check-in table I am leaning on for stability and Lars is the first to speak. "Liza, I don't want any more money from you."
Good to know.
Then he suggests that I withdraw the petition like I had last time.
I am shocked at the kindness and generosity of his gesture.
Randee of course gives us both a big NFW, and suggests instead that we continue the hearing and work it all out in August when I will likely have a new job and we can figure out what really needs to happen. (Maybe with a new judge after someone murders this one in a fit of rage?)
She says to contact her in July about my status. If I am not working, they'll stay the order so I am not responsible to pay Lars from my Unemployment check. (How kind...)
We walk in and Randee presents our decision to the judge. He is reluctant to grant it. He really wants to put the screws to me. But we prevail and set a new date. Dismissed.
Charlotte grabs me by the arm and hauls me out the door to the nearest pub. Mama needs a cocktail.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Prepare for Impact
This time, I prepare way in advance.
Charlotte is booked for moral support. And lunch after. Hopefully celebratory.
I have the perfect Soccer Mom outfit. No one needs to go into court looking shabby, but an Armani suit would probably defy the logic of the hearing.
I have copies of everything my letter from Domestic Relations indicated I should bring: Six months of pay stubs, my tax return, my W2, a letter from my boss indicating my last day of employment and the terms of my departure, copies of benefits that I have and benefits available to me. All copied in triplicate. One for me, one for His Honor and one for Randee, Lars' hired gun.
What I am not prepared for is the judge.
Just like last time, Randee jumped up and started spouting off stipulations. And just like last time, I stand and interrupt her. I ask the judge to let me speak, as I was the one that filed the complaint.
Oh. No. Wrong word. It is a "petition."
And His Honor is on me like a screech owl on a field mouse.
"IT'S NOT A COMPLAINT! IT'S A PETITION."
I am humbled momentarily and repeat my sentence, this time using the right word.
"IF YOU ARE GOING TO COME IN HERE WITHOUT A LAWYER, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET THE TERMS RIGHT."
"You're right," I say. "But I think we are clear about why we're here."
"WE'RE HERE BECAUSE YOU WANT TO TAKE FOOD OUT OF YOUR CHILDREN'S MOUTHS!"
I can hear Charlotte gasp behind me. Or was that me?
Here we are in open court, with all the Deadbeat Dads, and Disappearing Moms and their friends and kids and lawyers, and the judge is accusing me of wanting to deprive my kids. Of...of...of I don't even know what. Just deprive them. In general.
In my head I form the sentence, "It will never come down to food from their mouths, Your Honor. It's more like this skateboard or that skateboard." But I don't think I actually said it. I was stunned silent.
And from there is deteriorated, if that is at all possible.
Charlotte is booked for moral support. And lunch after. Hopefully celebratory.
I have the perfect Soccer Mom outfit. No one needs to go into court looking shabby, but an Armani suit would probably defy the logic of the hearing.
I have copies of everything my letter from Domestic Relations indicated I should bring: Six months of pay stubs, my tax return, my W2, a letter from my boss indicating my last day of employment and the terms of my departure, copies of benefits that I have and benefits available to me. All copied in triplicate. One for me, one for His Honor and one for Randee, Lars' hired gun.
What I am not prepared for is the judge.
Just like last time, Randee jumped up and started spouting off stipulations. And just like last time, I stand and interrupt her. I ask the judge to let me speak, as I was the one that filed the complaint.
Oh. No. Wrong word. It is a "petition."
And His Honor is on me like a screech owl on a field mouse.
"IT'S NOT A COMPLAINT! IT'S A PETITION."
I am humbled momentarily and repeat my sentence, this time using the right word.
"IF YOU ARE GOING TO COME IN HERE WITHOUT A LAWYER, YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET THE TERMS RIGHT."
"You're right," I say. "But I think we are clear about why we're here."
"WE'RE HERE BECAUSE YOU WANT TO TAKE FOOD OUT OF YOUR CHILDREN'S MOUTHS!"
I can hear Charlotte gasp behind me. Or was that me?
Here we are in open court, with all the Deadbeat Dads, and Disappearing Moms and their friends and kids and lawyers, and the judge is accusing me of wanting to deprive my kids. Of...of...of I don't even know what. Just deprive them. In general.
In my head I form the sentence, "It will never come down to food from their mouths, Your Honor. It's more like this skateboard or that skateboard." But I don't think I actually said it. I was stunned silent.
And from there is deteriorated, if that is at all possible.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Send Lawyers, Guns and No Money
I did not involve an attorney this time. (Note: In the future, invest ten very expensive, excruciating minutes with any pompous matrimonial attorney to avoid hours of humiliating, marginalizing public torture in the future. More on THAT later.)
I did not involve an attorney because the decision is based on numbers, and as they say, "Numbers don't lie." (Note: They fib just a little if all of the numbers don't stand up to be counted.)
I did not involve an attorney because I don't have one, to be perfectly frank. I didn't exactly fire the last one, at least not in the machine gun fire of obscenities I'd used on the prior one, who clearly had graduated last in her class from law school.
No, this last lawyer I parted company with in a few steps. Not very graceful steps, I'll admit.
A week or so after Lars and I had gone to court, I got a bill from the law firm who'd run the numbers for me. The calculations the "associate" Steve had prepared, the same calculations performed by my friendly judge, at the bench, in about 3 1/2 minutes in a software program possessed by everyone even remotely involved in the business of dissolving marriages, were evidently worth eight hours of billable time to Steve-O.
Eight. Hours. Eight hours!
I call him. Being single has given me balls of steal. Two sets.
He answers the phone cheerfully enough. That is until I dare question the billed time. Then he Jekyl and Hydes into a Royal Asshole.
"It was a very complicated calculation, Mizzzz Patrick," he says with all the snarky condescension he can muster.
"Eight hours of math, Steve? Did you do it on an abacus?"
Audible huffing. "There was significant research to be performed in your matter," he explains in his most I-have-a-law-degree-and-you-don't tone.
"Steve, unless you went back to law school to get your head around this "matter," there is no way on God's green Earth you spent eight hours doing anything for me."
Amping up the high-and-mighty attitude, he asks, "So YOU want to dispute your bill with ME?"
"No, actually, I'll dispute the bill with your boss." Click.
I redial, getting the name partner on the phone before Steve-arino can put his loafers back on and scramble to her her office.
I dial back my rage and calmly tell her my problem in one breath.
Maybe I was right.
Maybe she was not in a fighting mood.
Maybe she'd heard from one too many clients about Stevie-poo's heavy handed billing practices.
Whatever the case, she told me to pay what I thought was fair. I thanked her and promptly wrote and mailed a check for one our of billed time.
And then proceeded to receive collection letters for the next year. Each of which I returned unpaid, with the same story scrawled across the bottom, explaining the arrangement I'd reached with the partner in charge.
And a few disparaging remarks about Stevie Weavie, just to entertain the Accounting Department.
That's why I have no lawyer.
I did not involve an attorney because the decision is based on numbers, and as they say, "Numbers don't lie." (Note: They fib just a little if all of the numbers don't stand up to be counted.)
I did not involve an attorney because I don't have one, to be perfectly frank. I didn't exactly fire the last one, at least not in the machine gun fire of obscenities I'd used on the prior one, who clearly had graduated last in her class from law school.
No, this last lawyer I parted company with in a few steps. Not very graceful steps, I'll admit.
A week or so after Lars and I had gone to court, I got a bill from the law firm who'd run the numbers for me. The calculations the "associate" Steve had prepared, the same calculations performed by my friendly judge, at the bench, in about 3 1/2 minutes in a software program possessed by everyone even remotely involved in the business of dissolving marriages, were evidently worth eight hours of billable time to Steve-O.
Eight. Hours. Eight hours!
I call him. Being single has given me balls of steal. Two sets.
He answers the phone cheerfully enough. That is until I dare question the billed time. Then he Jekyl and Hydes into a Royal Asshole.
"It was a very complicated calculation, Mizzzz Patrick," he says with all the snarky condescension he can muster.
"Eight hours of math, Steve? Did you do it on an abacus?"
Audible huffing. "There was significant research to be performed in your matter," he explains in his most I-have-a-law-degree-and-you-don't tone.
"Steve, unless you went back to law school to get your head around this "matter," there is no way on God's green Earth you spent eight hours doing anything for me."
Amping up the high-and-mighty attitude, he asks, "So YOU want to dispute your bill with ME?"
"No, actually, I'll dispute the bill with your boss." Click.
I redial, getting the name partner on the phone before Steve-arino can put his loafers back on and scramble to her her office.
I dial back my rage and calmly tell her my problem in one breath.
Maybe I was right.
Maybe she was not in a fighting mood.
Maybe she'd heard from one too many clients about Stevie-poo's heavy handed billing practices.
Whatever the case, she told me to pay what I thought was fair. I thanked her and promptly wrote and mailed a check for one our of billed time.
And then proceeded to receive collection letters for the next year. Each of which I returned unpaid, with the same story scrawled across the bottom, explaining the arrangement I'd reached with the partner in charge.
And a few disparaging remarks about Stevie Weavie, just to entertain the Accounting Department.
That's why I have no lawyer.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Highlight Reels of Games Gone By
I am not taking a lawyer to the hearing. This is not my first rodeo, and I have a hard time walking into court saying I need more money in MY wallet as opposed to Lars' wallet having obviously shelled out $425 an hour plus court appearance fees to anyone. And, provided there is no chaos from my opponent, it is just a numbers game. Tax returns, pay stubs, medical expenses, add, divide, blah, blah, blah.
My first lawyer, who I summarily fired in a full voice tirade of epic proportions, laced generously with as many expletives as I could recall from junior high school, was completely useless in our first court appearance. I recall wishing I could tackle her, tape her lips closed and argue the case myself. It ended in the disastrous arrangement my kids and I have endured for the last six years.
I hired a new one. One who was part aggressive beyotch and part know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass. When I had gone to request a temporary reduction in my support order while my company furloughed management for 20% of our time for 10 weeks, she had given me some decent advice, even though the ink had already dried on my beloved divorce decree. She said she'd have a junior associate, Steve, "run the numbers" and she'd provide them for me to take to court. No need to take an attorney. There is nothing a reasonable person would find to argue about. I had taken J. for moral support.
On that day, I'd gone to court and found that there really wouldn't have been much of a difference in what I'd pay Lars by the time all was said and done. Lesson learned. And the judge was lovely. A rare courtroom experience indeed.
Lars had brought his aggressive, loud-mouthed, grating attorney, Randee, and she had jumped up to speak first, setting me temporarily on my heels. I stood and interrupted her, in front of a courtroom full of deadbeat Dads and runaway Moms, and begged His Honors forgiveness.
"Since I am the one to have filed the petition to modify, shouldn't I be the one to speak first, your Honor?" He smiled. He was very pleased. Randee is not from this county. He did not know her like he knew other lawyers who appeared regularly in his courtroom. And he was not impressed with her aggressive lunatic rantings at my expense. He nodded and asked her to have a seat while I made my argument.
I explained the situation completely without interruption. And when he explained the formula and the calculations and how it would have only minimally impacted me, even though for 10 weeks Lars would be bringing home MORE than me, I thanked him and sat down.
At which point Randee, in her over-caffeinated manner, jumped up and began to request that Lars be compensated for all manner of nickel and dime bullshit. Field trip money, Girl Scout dues, Boy Scout patches, a new backpack, a gym uniform.
I recall that I looked at the judge as if to ask, "What the f*** is this nonsense?" and he, reading my mind, told me that once I opened the door by filing a petition to modify the order, they could request modifications of their own. And money grubbing Lars and equally stingy opposing counsel were shamelessly taking me to task. Receipts and bills in a pile. And I had no way of proving I had born my share of expenses that I had not expected compensation for.
But as Randee prattled on and on with no discernible end in sight, I rose once again and addressed the judge. "Your Honor, I'd like to withdraw my petition."
Smiling from ear to ear, and beaming with pride for me, he granted the motion and ended the hearing.
It had been my greatest pleasure that day to walk by Lars and his lawyer and laugh to J. that Randee had been beaten by a civilian.
I was hoping to get as lucky this time.
My first lawyer, who I summarily fired in a full voice tirade of epic proportions, laced generously with as many expletives as I could recall from junior high school, was completely useless in our first court appearance. I recall wishing I could tackle her, tape her lips closed and argue the case myself. It ended in the disastrous arrangement my kids and I have endured for the last six years.
I hired a new one. One who was part aggressive beyotch and part know-it-all-pain-in-the-ass. When I had gone to request a temporary reduction in my support order while my company furloughed management for 20% of our time for 10 weeks, she had given me some decent advice, even though the ink had already dried on my beloved divorce decree. She said she'd have a junior associate, Steve, "run the numbers" and she'd provide them for me to take to court. No need to take an attorney. There is nothing a reasonable person would find to argue about. I had taken J. for moral support.
On that day, I'd gone to court and found that there really wouldn't have been much of a difference in what I'd pay Lars by the time all was said and done. Lesson learned. And the judge was lovely. A rare courtroom experience indeed.
Lars had brought his aggressive, loud-mouthed, grating attorney, Randee, and she had jumped up to speak first, setting me temporarily on my heels. I stood and interrupted her, in front of a courtroom full of deadbeat Dads and runaway Moms, and begged His Honors forgiveness.
"Since I am the one to have filed the petition to modify, shouldn't I be the one to speak first, your Honor?" He smiled. He was very pleased. Randee is not from this county. He did not know her like he knew other lawyers who appeared regularly in his courtroom. And he was not impressed with her aggressive lunatic rantings at my expense. He nodded and asked her to have a seat while I made my argument.
I explained the situation completely without interruption. And when he explained the formula and the calculations and how it would have only minimally impacted me, even though for 10 weeks Lars would be bringing home MORE than me, I thanked him and sat down.
At which point Randee, in her over-caffeinated manner, jumped up and began to request that Lars be compensated for all manner of nickel and dime bullshit. Field trip money, Girl Scout dues, Boy Scout patches, a new backpack, a gym uniform.
I recall that I looked at the judge as if to ask, "What the f*** is this nonsense?" and he, reading my mind, told me that once I opened the door by filing a petition to modify the order, they could request modifications of their own. And money grubbing Lars and equally stingy opposing counsel were shamelessly taking me to task. Receipts and bills in a pile. And I had no way of proving I had born my share of expenses that I had not expected compensation for.
But as Randee prattled on and on with no discernible end in sight, I rose once again and addressed the judge. "Your Honor, I'd like to withdraw my petition."
Smiling from ear to ear, and beaming with pride for me, he granted the motion and ended the hearing.
It had been my greatest pleasure that day to walk by Lars and his lawyer and laugh to J. that Randee had been beaten by a civilian.
I was hoping to get as lucky this time.
Monday, August 19, 2013
All In The Game
A few months ago. I'd gotten a little love note from my friends at the Domestic Relations office at the County seat. My friends who'd decided that a shared custody arrangement was ideal for my children, and a financial agreement to pay Lars the equivalent of a monthly car payment for a fully loaded European sports car and 58% of our shared expenses would be reasonable and fair. Six years ago.
I should not still be bitter. It is all formulaic. But I think the whole idea should be tossed out when both parents each earn well above the national average household income. Every man for himself. Or every dickhead, as the case may be. Why throw our paychecks into a pile and divide by two?
But who am I to question? Just a relatively reasonable citizen who worked hard to achieve a decent career and got scorched by her money grubbing, under-performing Ivy League grad layabout husband in divorce. No, no bitterness here.
Anyway, this letter was a form letter reminding me, and presumably reminding Lars in his copy, of the right to have the case reviewed every three years by a judge. (A generous title, I've found, for a bunch of cranky, old, bitter folks who really just like the loose fitting robes that make love handles seem dignified, and who really don't know much about what constitutes "fair," but do like the idea of judging...)
I have no genuine interest in agitating Lars. It has never been a pleasant experience to have done so, intentionally or by happenstance. But by invitation to do so, I thought it might be a good idea.
Lars and I no longer have some of the outrageous and routine expenses we used to have when the order had been written. No before and after school care. No summer camp. No extended day services at summer camp. No babysitters. No constant replenishing of shoes and wardrobes for kids who seemed to grow an inch a month.
And I had gotten some modest increases to my salary over the years. Lars' employer had flourished, even in the economic downturn; I was hopeful that he'd shared in the gains. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a modest reduction in what I had to pay him. (After taxes BTW. Like paying a crappy, overpriced babysitter two weeks of every month.)
So I'd gone to the courthouse as directed, filed the petition, handed over my $10 to the lady behind the glass and hoped for the best. I walked out with a court date and a copy of a letter that would be going to Lars telling him what I'd done.
And since that time, there had been changes to my job, ups and downs with Craig, prospects for new employment opportunities. A lot of planes yet to land.
And this is one more uncertainty. And it's a doozy.
I should not still be bitter. It is all formulaic. But I think the whole idea should be tossed out when both parents each earn well above the national average household income. Every man for himself. Or every dickhead, as the case may be. Why throw our paychecks into a pile and divide by two?
But who am I to question? Just a relatively reasonable citizen who worked hard to achieve a decent career and got scorched by her money grubbing, under-performing Ivy League grad layabout husband in divorce. No, no bitterness here.
Anyway, this letter was a form letter reminding me, and presumably reminding Lars in his copy, of the right to have the case reviewed every three years by a judge. (A generous title, I've found, for a bunch of cranky, old, bitter folks who really just like the loose fitting robes that make love handles seem dignified, and who really don't know much about what constitutes "fair," but do like the idea of judging...)
I have no genuine interest in agitating Lars. It has never been a pleasant experience to have done so, intentionally or by happenstance. But by invitation to do so, I thought it might be a good idea.
Lars and I no longer have some of the outrageous and routine expenses we used to have when the order had been written. No before and after school care. No summer camp. No extended day services at summer camp. No babysitters. No constant replenishing of shoes and wardrobes for kids who seemed to grow an inch a month.
And I had gotten some modest increases to my salary over the years. Lars' employer had flourished, even in the economic downturn; I was hopeful that he'd shared in the gains. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a modest reduction in what I had to pay him. (After taxes BTW. Like paying a crappy, overpriced babysitter two weeks of every month.)
So I'd gone to the courthouse as directed, filed the petition, handed over my $10 to the lady behind the glass and hoped for the best. I walked out with a court date and a copy of a letter that would be going to Lars telling him what I'd done.
And since that time, there had been changes to my job, ups and downs with Craig, prospects for new employment opportunities. A lot of planes yet to land.
And this is one more uncertainty. And it's a doozy.
Friday, August 16, 2013
I'm Back in Baby's Arms
I text my friend James while I wait for the first valet driver to return without my car. He doesn't drive a stick shift and did not want to squeal and jerk and stall all the way from the lot to the door. Good thing. I might have killed him for that.
James will appreciate my story. He recently got a fabulous new car and in its first week on the road it was totalled. HE didn't total it. It was the unwitting victim of being totalled. A utility truck driver blazed through a construction site in front of him, driving so poorly that he struck all of the big orange and white plastic barrels that were meant to indicate "Don't drive HERE," sending them all flying into the air, where, as luck would have it, they returned to Earth striking James' car. All of them. He couldn't even open his door.
But being James, he did manage to get a photo of the truck, inclusive of an excellent shot of his license plate, to present to the police officer who arrived moments later to extricate James from his precious vehicle.
The car was indeed totaled, but James had been spared the expense of the repairs, thanks to his quick thinking and handy iPhone 5. He'd be thrilled to hear that I'd had equally good fortune.
My frenzied texting conversation is interrupted by a man from the dealership who has appeared at my side. Uh-oh. I am sure he just realized that my car is not in any way, shape or form covered under warranty and has come to lead me back inside by the hair to part with some cash.
No. He came out to chat. He thinks my car is cool. He thinks it is even cooler that it is a stick shift. Cooler even more so because I am a girl. (My Dad told me once that knowing about football, and driving a stick shift, and other such boy-dominated things would pay off one day. I am not sure this is a pay off, but it is a compliment, nonetheless.)
I tell him that I am still mortified that a family of squirrels had chosen my car above all others to make their home. He laughs that off. Tells me I am the third car in just that week with an animal problem. One guy came in to get his tires rotated, and when the car went up on the lift, a baby ground hog came sailing out onto the shop floor and they had to chase it into the woods behind the dealership. And another lady brought in her car because mice had infested her upholstery. Burrowed in and were living in all the seats and headrests. (I almost plotz at the thought. Talk about distracted driving. Can you even imagine tooling along the highway and Stuart Little comes peeking out of the headrest behind your dangly earrings?)
We laugh and chat a bit, and then the second, evidently more competent valet driver brings around my baby, pulls out the protective papers on the floors, and hands me my keys.
I hop in, adjust the seats, and pull away waving to the guys as I do.
I peel into traffic in front of the dealership. Mama's got her mojo back. And not a moment too soon. I will need every ounce of pep in my step that I can muster for the battle I face next week.
James will appreciate my story. He recently got a fabulous new car and in its first week on the road it was totalled. HE didn't total it. It was the unwitting victim of being totalled. A utility truck driver blazed through a construction site in front of him, driving so poorly that he struck all of the big orange and white plastic barrels that were meant to indicate "Don't drive HERE," sending them all flying into the air, where, as luck would have it, they returned to Earth striking James' car. All of them. He couldn't even open his door.
But being James, he did manage to get a photo of the truck, inclusive of an excellent shot of his license plate, to present to the police officer who arrived moments later to extricate James from his precious vehicle.
The car was indeed totaled, but James had been spared the expense of the repairs, thanks to his quick thinking and handy iPhone 5. He'd be thrilled to hear that I'd had equally good fortune.
My frenzied texting conversation is interrupted by a man from the dealership who has appeared at my side. Uh-oh. I am sure he just realized that my car is not in any way, shape or form covered under warranty and has come to lead me back inside by the hair to part with some cash.
No. He came out to chat. He thinks my car is cool. He thinks it is even cooler that it is a stick shift. Cooler even more so because I am a girl. (My Dad told me once that knowing about football, and driving a stick shift, and other such boy-dominated things would pay off one day. I am not sure this is a pay off, but it is a compliment, nonetheless.)
I tell him that I am still mortified that a family of squirrels had chosen my car above all others to make their home. He laughs that off. Tells me I am the third car in just that week with an animal problem. One guy came in to get his tires rotated, and when the car went up on the lift, a baby ground hog came sailing out onto the shop floor and they had to chase it into the woods behind the dealership. And another lady brought in her car because mice had infested her upholstery. Burrowed in and were living in all the seats and headrests. (I almost plotz at the thought. Talk about distracted driving. Can you even imagine tooling along the highway and Stuart Little comes peeking out of the headrest behind your dangly earrings?)
We laugh and chat a bit, and then the second, evidently more competent valet driver brings around my baby, pulls out the protective papers on the floors, and hands me my keys.
I hop in, adjust the seats, and pull away waving to the guys as I do.
I peel into traffic in front of the dealership. Mama's got her mojo back. And not a moment too soon. I will need every ounce of pep in my step that I can muster for the battle I face next week.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Car Sense(less)
The magic day has arrived.
My car is done. Squirrels relocated, wiring harness repaired. My baby is as good as new.
I get the call at work and leave early to go get her. How I have missed her so!
I see the technician who did the intake/triage. Don is all smiles. He's hoping I am too, I am sure. He leads me over to the desk where I will part with my deductible of $500 and wait for someone to bring my car around to me.
I am third in line so I thank Don and proceed to log into my banking app on my phone and move exactly $500 into my checking account so I can write a check against it.
I also get my Game Face on, as I know from prior experience that the Nickel and Dime game may be played, and there will be a charge for this bogus replacement, a charge for that unnecessary service. All in the name of upping the ante.
I get to the desk and the clerk gets out my pile o'papers. It is an alarming little stack of documents.
I start. "The deal is that my insurance company is to pay you for the full amount minus my deductible, which is exactly $500. So the bill should be for $500 not a penny more." Read that, "You can write off any charges for dirty rags and squirrel burial before you hand my the bill, lady. I am not playing games."
She looks up at me. Looks up at me so hard that her eyes appear to be rolling back in her head.
And then she shakes her head. I am beginning to seethe and think seriously about diving across the desk for the sole purpose of raking my fingernails down her face, inclusive of the pouty hot pink lips.
She begins to speak, though ill-advised. "Oh, no, no, no, no no!" she trills. I am freeing my hands to begin raking.
She flips over the stack of papers to show me some handwriting on the top page. "Covered under Warranty! Customer Pays Zero!"
I am speechless. Delighted, but speechless. My car is 5 years old. There is no way anything is covered under warranty.
I ask her if she is sure. She says she is, and calls the valet guys to bring my car around, scrawling her name next to the big zero with a line through it.
Slam dunk!
My car is done. Squirrels relocated, wiring harness repaired. My baby is as good as new.
I get the call at work and leave early to go get her. How I have missed her so!
I see the technician who did the intake/triage. Don is all smiles. He's hoping I am too, I am sure. He leads me over to the desk where I will part with my deductible of $500 and wait for someone to bring my car around to me.
I am third in line so I thank Don and proceed to log into my banking app on my phone and move exactly $500 into my checking account so I can write a check against it.
I also get my Game Face on, as I know from prior experience that the Nickel and Dime game may be played, and there will be a charge for this bogus replacement, a charge for that unnecessary service. All in the name of upping the ante.
I get to the desk and the clerk gets out my pile o'papers. It is an alarming little stack of documents.
I start. "The deal is that my insurance company is to pay you for the full amount minus my deductible, which is exactly $500. So the bill should be for $500 not a penny more." Read that, "You can write off any charges for dirty rags and squirrel burial before you hand my the bill, lady. I am not playing games."
She looks up at me. Looks up at me so hard that her eyes appear to be rolling back in her head.
And then she shakes her head. I am beginning to seethe and think seriously about diving across the desk for the sole purpose of raking my fingernails down her face, inclusive of the pouty hot pink lips.
She begins to speak, though ill-advised. "Oh, no, no, no, no no!" she trills. I am freeing my hands to begin raking.
She flips over the stack of papers to show me some handwriting on the top page. "Covered under Warranty! Customer Pays Zero!"
I am speechless. Delighted, but speechless. My car is 5 years old. There is no way anything is covered under warranty.
I ask her if she is sure. She says she is, and calls the valet guys to bring my car around, scrawling her name next to the big zero with a line through it.
Slam dunk!
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
A Reversal of Fortune, Almost
So The Big Cheese sat there, jammed into the chair, the arms forcing her to sit precariously close to the edge and in imminent danger of falling off, her butt cheeks only able to clinch onto a mere inches of seat surface, judging me.
I could almost hear her saying, "You may have gotten by on your looks all along, but the buck stops HERE, Miss Girl With The Hair!"
If she only knew. I am the last person to try to rely on my looks for anything. I find my looks downright unreliable, to be truthful. I am not offensive. I mean, toddlers don't run away screaming in fright when I speak to them, but I do not count my looks among my best assets. I still have to TALK my way out of the myriad traffic tickets I am presented on an annual basis. Flashing my pearly whites and flicking my hair and batting my eyes doesn't generally get the job done. And that is not because I am usually pinched going well over 20 mph over the (suggested) speed limit.
It was as if she was intentionally dismissive of ideas, of achievements, of accomplishments. Didn't want me to get too full of myself. Wanted me on pins and needles. On my heels (in my heels, ironically). Stammering. (I never stammer. That probably enraged her.) The cooler I remained, the more she turned up the heat. And Tons of Fun could turn it on.
So I turned the tables on her at the first opportunity I could wrestle out of her dimply, doughy hands.
"Your job posting references two metrics you use to measure the success of this function. Are these the only metrics you are focused upon?" (They are crude, basic, back-in-the-day metrics of little value in today's environment.)
Blank stare. She has not seen the posting. Has no clue what I am talking about.
I pull out the printed copy, turn it in her direction and proceed to read upside down, (probably sending her into a tailspin since she can then deduce that I have been reading her notes about me upside down.) "They are buried in here somewhere. Yes, here they are." She is forced to read the posting looking down her bulbous nose through the slabs of glass in her heavy duty frames.
The posting is a horror show. Not an ad at all but more a crude brain dump of job description requirements and sentence fragments. A poor reflection of the attitude allegedly embraced by the area's most progressive, high energy, beat-'em-at-their-own-game employer. "Is this representative of what your job postings typically look like to potential employees?" I ask with all feigned, good-natured curiosity.
And with that, the fun begins. I am not getting this job because The Big Cheese will not want to share a zip code with me let alone have to be in the same meetings with me on a daily basis.
So a little forget-me-not poking of the bear doesn't worsen the situation. I am not getting this job. But she will not be getting the best of me, either.
I could almost hear her saying, "You may have gotten by on your looks all along, but the buck stops HERE, Miss Girl With The Hair!"
If she only knew. I am the last person to try to rely on my looks for anything. I find my looks downright unreliable, to be truthful. I am not offensive. I mean, toddlers don't run away screaming in fright when I speak to them, but I do not count my looks among my best assets. I still have to TALK my way out of the myriad traffic tickets I am presented on an annual basis. Flashing my pearly whites and flicking my hair and batting my eyes doesn't generally get the job done. And that is not because I am usually pinched going well over 20 mph over the (suggested) speed limit.
It was as if she was intentionally dismissive of ideas, of achievements, of accomplishments. Didn't want me to get too full of myself. Wanted me on pins and needles. On my heels (in my heels, ironically). Stammering. (I never stammer. That probably enraged her.) The cooler I remained, the more she turned up the heat. And Tons of Fun could turn it on.
So I turned the tables on her at the first opportunity I could wrestle out of her dimply, doughy hands.
"Your job posting references two metrics you use to measure the success of this function. Are these the only metrics you are focused upon?" (They are crude, basic, back-in-the-day metrics of little value in today's environment.)
Blank stare. She has not seen the posting. Has no clue what I am talking about.
I pull out the printed copy, turn it in her direction and proceed to read upside down, (probably sending her into a tailspin since she can then deduce that I have been reading her notes about me upside down.) "They are buried in here somewhere. Yes, here they are." She is forced to read the posting looking down her bulbous nose through the slabs of glass in her heavy duty frames.
The posting is a horror show. Not an ad at all but more a crude brain dump of job description requirements and sentence fragments. A poor reflection of the attitude allegedly embraced by the area's most progressive, high energy, beat-'em-at-their-own-game employer. "Is this representative of what your job postings typically look like to potential employees?" I ask with all feigned, good-natured curiosity.
And with that, the fun begins. I am not getting this job because The Big Cheese will not want to share a zip code with me let alone have to be in the same meetings with me on a daily basis.
So a little forget-me-not poking of the bear doesn't worsen the situation. I am not getting this job. But she will not be getting the best of me, either.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
The Cheese Factor
That isn't to say it is openly hostile. No, she's not diving across the wide expanse of table and pinning my hand to the veneer with a letter opener so I am immobilized while she draws a mustache to match her own on my face.
There are some preposterous questions designed to tell if my resume is a work of fiction or an accurate reflection of the things I'm proud of having accomplished.
There are several references to my address.
As in "Oh, I know where that is. I have a friend who lives there."
Which I translate to "I have an old, frail aunt who is a miserable shut-in who lives there and I am forced to take my turn visiting her and shopping for her Ensure and her Adult Diapers because I am a spinster with no other discernible reason not to, as I am 100% available everyday of the week including weekends."
And "So this would be an ideal commute for you. Like 15 minutes!"
Yes, I could spit and hit the office window we are sitting by, but this strikes me as odd. Most execs would commute well over an hour for the right position, because the right challenge and an ability to do something meaningful in an organization is a whole lot more attractive than going from the bed to the office in 45 minutes flat. So yes, the short commute is appealing, in a way that pretty candles on a cake are. It is the cake that matters. The fact that a long day is not made longer by an excruciating commute is just a bonus.It's not like I am interviewing for the Grocery Cart Collector position at the super market.
But there are small indicators that tell me I should have worn my glasses.
And what I mean by that references something my friend Toni told me a long time ago when I invited her to interview with some folks in the hopes she'd join me in the firm I'd just joined. Toni is strikingly attractive. Gorgeous hair and skin. Stylish. Killer smile. Blond hair, long lashes, ice blue eyes.
And she walked in in a beige suit and wearing her glasses.
Perhaps I gasped at the time, I don't know, but Toni explained to me that she tones down all the fabulousness on an interview. She realized then, during a period when she had been searching for a job, that some women are very threatened when the potential "new girl" also has the potential to unseat them as "the Pretty One." Toni would rather land the job looking like a rare book collector and show up on Day One looking like Catherine Zeta-Jones.
I had questioned her then. What if you get to the interview and you are surrounded by homely men with brown suits and knit ties and pocked faces whose wives are frigid and who haven't seen a decent leg protruding from a skirt since the Apollo 13 flight?
She'd rolled her eyes. "I am not saying I make myself ugly. I am just saying I don't look like I know I'm pretty. A man will see past the glasses. Hell, a man will see past the suit and be imagining my bra the minute I smile at him instead of wince."
She had a point. I should have listened. The Big Cheese has already imagined me sashaying about the office in heels and a size zero skirt and wants to give me a swirly in the ladies restroom.
There are some preposterous questions designed to tell if my resume is a work of fiction or an accurate reflection of the things I'm proud of having accomplished.
There are several references to my address.
As in "Oh, I know where that is. I have a friend who lives there."
Which I translate to "I have an old, frail aunt who is a miserable shut-in who lives there and I am forced to take my turn visiting her and shopping for her Ensure and her Adult Diapers because I am a spinster with no other discernible reason not to, as I am 100% available everyday of the week including weekends."
And "So this would be an ideal commute for you. Like 15 minutes!"
Yes, I could spit and hit the office window we are sitting by, but this strikes me as odd. Most execs would commute well over an hour for the right position, because the right challenge and an ability to do something meaningful in an organization is a whole lot more attractive than going from the bed to the office in 45 minutes flat. So yes, the short commute is appealing, in a way that pretty candles on a cake are. It is the cake that matters. The fact that a long day is not made longer by an excruciating commute is just a bonus.It's not like I am interviewing for the Grocery Cart Collector position at the super market.
But there are small indicators that tell me I should have worn my glasses.
And what I mean by that references something my friend Toni told me a long time ago when I invited her to interview with some folks in the hopes she'd join me in the firm I'd just joined. Toni is strikingly attractive. Gorgeous hair and skin. Stylish. Killer smile. Blond hair, long lashes, ice blue eyes.
And she walked in in a beige suit and wearing her glasses.
Perhaps I gasped at the time, I don't know, but Toni explained to me that she tones down all the fabulousness on an interview. She realized then, during a period when she had been searching for a job, that some women are very threatened when the potential "new girl" also has the potential to unseat them as "the Pretty One." Toni would rather land the job looking like a rare book collector and show up on Day One looking like Catherine Zeta-Jones.
I had questioned her then. What if you get to the interview and you are surrounded by homely men with brown suits and knit ties and pocked faces whose wives are frigid and who haven't seen a decent leg protruding from a skirt since the Apollo 13 flight?
She'd rolled her eyes. "I am not saying I make myself ugly. I am just saying I don't look like I know I'm pretty. A man will see past the glasses. Hell, a man will see past the suit and be imagining my bra the minute I smile at him instead of wince."
She had a point. I should have listened. The Big Cheese has already imagined me sashaying about the office in heels and a size zero skirt and wants to give me a swirly in the ladies restroom.
Monday, August 12, 2013
The House Always Wins
It is clear from the start that The Big Cheese has three qualities that will be problematic:
1 - She has a very crude, elementary understanding of the function I would be coming there to perform and will not be at all impressed with any of the innovation that I have to offer, since it leapfrogs two decades over her last foray into the function.
2 - She has no interest in what I do. She is laser-focused on brooming it out of her office and into someone else's circle of influence. It is icky.
3 - In spite of 1 & 2, the position reports to her. A necessary evil. And this, my friends, is the kiss of death.
The lethal combination can be summed up thusly: I could excel at this job and would thrive tackling the enormous challenges it presents. I would suit up in full battle dress every day and look like a war hero inside of a month. However, instead of embracing all of the innovation and fearless creativity I would bring to the operation, The Big Cheese and my merry band of idiot direct reports would be breathing into paper bags. They'd resist. They'd complain. I'd be explaining the rationale of every widely accepted recruitment convention known to modern man every day, be asked to cease and desist, resort to the tried and true methods, and we'd all fail again.
Yet, still, I like the challenge.
But there is a fourth problem that might just land my resume in the No Pile. It is the Nerd In Charge Phenomenon. It often happens when the dork who got teased on the playground and got picked last for dodge ball, and had to sit at the Peanut Allergy table in the cafeteria with all the other outcasts, and sat at home knitting on prom night, and sat with the teacher in an otherwise vacant Chem Lab on Senior Skip Day while the rest of us when to an amusement park, finds herself having been promoted into a fairly responsible position, hanging with the Cool Kids in an organization, and finally gets to exact her revenge on the girls whose hair never got compared to hemp when they were teenagers.
The Big Cheese sits across from me (waaaay across from me but not so far away that I can't make some observations) with her Hubble Telescope glasses on her Moon Pie face, her flat, lifeless hair hanging straight to her beefy shoulders and the bangs accentuating the wideness of her melon-shaped head, and absolutely no indication that there is any distinction between her head, neck and shoulders.And wearing what could be most charitably described as a circus tent.
In this situation, I am The Pretty One.
Time to take my beating.
1 - She has a very crude, elementary understanding of the function I would be coming there to perform and will not be at all impressed with any of the innovation that I have to offer, since it leapfrogs two decades over her last foray into the function.
2 - She has no interest in what I do. She is laser-focused on brooming it out of her office and into someone else's circle of influence. It is icky.
3 - In spite of 1 & 2, the position reports to her. A necessary evil. And this, my friends, is the kiss of death.
The lethal combination can be summed up thusly: I could excel at this job and would thrive tackling the enormous challenges it presents. I would suit up in full battle dress every day and look like a war hero inside of a month. However, instead of embracing all of the innovation and fearless creativity I would bring to the operation, The Big Cheese and my merry band of idiot direct reports would be breathing into paper bags. They'd resist. They'd complain. I'd be explaining the rationale of every widely accepted recruitment convention known to modern man every day, be asked to cease and desist, resort to the tried and true methods, and we'd all fail again.
Yet, still, I like the challenge.
But there is a fourth problem that might just land my resume in the No Pile. It is the Nerd In Charge Phenomenon. It often happens when the dork who got teased on the playground and got picked last for dodge ball, and had to sit at the Peanut Allergy table in the cafeteria with all the other outcasts, and sat at home knitting on prom night, and sat with the teacher in an otherwise vacant Chem Lab on Senior Skip Day while the rest of us when to an amusement park, finds herself having been promoted into a fairly responsible position, hanging with the Cool Kids in an organization, and finally gets to exact her revenge on the girls whose hair never got compared to hemp when they were teenagers.
The Big Cheese sits across from me (waaaay across from me but not so far away that I can't make some observations) with her Hubble Telescope glasses on her Moon Pie face, her flat, lifeless hair hanging straight to her beefy shoulders and the bangs accentuating the wideness of her melon-shaped head, and absolutely no indication that there is any distinction between her head, neck and shoulders.And wearing what could be most charitably described as a circus tent.
In this situation, I am The Pretty One.
Time to take my beating.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
The Game, Part Deux
I sit in the lobby, probably mouth-breathing in amazement over the gap between my first impression and my next impression.
I am interviewing for a critical leadership position in a growing company whose pace for growth is being set by Healthcare Reform, which won't be patient with any failures to hire adequate talent in adequate volume. It is a key role. Why are we interviewing using the New Grad Interview Playbook?
And THAT was their A Player? THAT was the The Most Likely To Succeed? THAT was their Top Gun? I wouldn't hire her for a back-of-the-house clerical position, much less trust her to net the Big Fish. Holy cow. If I come here I'm going to have to fire them all and start from scratch.
Maybe that is what The Big Cheese thinks, too. Maybe. I'll have to keep my eyes open for indications of her opinion...and assume nothing in the meantime. Remain neutral. Get the job today. Roll heads tomorrow. No need to line up the firing squad now.
And then The Big Cheese walks into the lobby. Well, waddles in, actually. To be perfectly truthful, it was more of a shuffle, pantyhose sparking beneath the caftan from the chub rub and threatening to set the whole polyester mess ablaze, killing us all with its smoldering, noxious fumes.
I rise and extend my hand to shake hers, smiling into her eyes. Or where her eyes are likely to be, since 2/3 of her jowly face is concealed by very large framed, highly reflective, pint glass eyeglasses. They must weigh a ton. I am imagining they've crushed her septum already. That would account for the Lisa Loopner-ishness of her speaking voice.
The handshake is limp. And clammy, natch. I am mentally rifling through my bag for hand sanitizer.
I follow her (and I swear there was a little trail of smoke) into her office and we sit on opposite sides of an insanely oversized table. She is at least shouting distance away. It is very unfriendly. She hands me a job description and has to fling it me, as if across an air hockey table.
And she begins.
"I'd like to ask you some questions..."
Let's hope so. I didn't come here to have my tea leaves read.
"Tell me about a time when..."
And a dense fog crosses before my eyeballs.
I am interviewing for a critical leadership position in a growing company whose pace for growth is being set by Healthcare Reform, which won't be patient with any failures to hire adequate talent in adequate volume. It is a key role. Why are we interviewing using the New Grad Interview Playbook?
And THAT was their A Player? THAT was the The Most Likely To Succeed? THAT was their Top Gun? I wouldn't hire her for a back-of-the-house clerical position, much less trust her to net the Big Fish. Holy cow. If I come here I'm going to have to fire them all and start from scratch.
Maybe that is what The Big Cheese thinks, too. Maybe. I'll have to keep my eyes open for indications of her opinion...and assume nothing in the meantime. Remain neutral. Get the job today. Roll heads tomorrow. No need to line up the firing squad now.
And then The Big Cheese walks into the lobby. Well, waddles in, actually. To be perfectly truthful, it was more of a shuffle, pantyhose sparking beneath the caftan from the chub rub and threatening to set the whole polyester mess ablaze, killing us all with its smoldering, noxious fumes.
I rise and extend my hand to shake hers, smiling into her eyes. Or where her eyes are likely to be, since 2/3 of her jowly face is concealed by very large framed, highly reflective, pint glass eyeglasses. They must weigh a ton. I am imagining they've crushed her septum already. That would account for the Lisa Loopner-ishness of her speaking voice.
The handshake is limp. And clammy, natch. I am mentally rifling through my bag for hand sanitizer.
I follow her (and I swear there was a little trail of smoke) into her office and we sit on opposite sides of an insanely oversized table. She is at least shouting distance away. It is very unfriendly. She hands me a job description and has to fling it me, as if across an air hockey table.
And she begins.
"I'd like to ask you some questions..."
Let's hope so. I didn't come here to have my tea leaves read.
"Tell me about a time when..."
And a dense fog crosses before my eyeballs.
Let the Games Begin
The first part of the interview is with the gal I spoke to on the phone for the proverbial Phone Screen. As in "only the littlest tidbits of your best self get through and any big chunks of nuttiness will keep the rest of you on the other side of the screen." Thank God I was not having a Let's See If We Have Anything in the Desk to Make a Voodoo Doll of the Boss day when she'd called. No big chunks of Bad Attitude to anchor me to the other side.
She was so promising and delightful when we'd spoken. But apparently the Phone Screen is a two-way street. She'd let through only the most shining and inviting parts of herself squeeze through. The Big Bummer aspects stayed politely on the other side of the screen.
She appeared in the lobby. Another Oh Shit moment.
I think she might be wearing a very bad, cheap wig. Not exactly from the Halloween Store, but a bad nylon likeness of Bonnie Franklin's hair from One Day At A Time.
Her dress was clearly purchased during the Carter Administration. I had the same one in a different color. Wore it to my friend's Mom's viewing. In 9th grade. Mine was maroon. Hers is Marine Blue. She has pleather shoes in the same shade. And the (evidently requisite) nudie panty hose. With a few snags on each calf. And in a delightful suntan shade.
She also has obviously applied her makeup in a very dimly lit room. Perhaps without a mirror. That or she's taken a nap recently and hasn't fixed her face afterwards. She is hard to look at. I make eye contact anyway. I am sure I am turning to stone.
And then she says the taboo words that grate my nerve endings and douse them with rubbing alcohol. "Oh here's your file. I printed everything. I just don't trust computers yet."
I will myself to remain seated and not run screaming from the building. I notice that the computer on her desk (circa early 80s) is not even turned on. I am tempted to lean around to see if it is even plugged in.
She tells me she is certified in some interviewing technique that was sun-downed a decade or more ago and she'd like to ask me some specific targeted questions aimed at seeing if "we have a good match."
Well if I have a good match, lady, I am going to strike it and set that outfit on fire. Just get to it.
The questions are all ones we've heard before. Certainly not designed to unearth leadership strengths or styles or fit for an organization's culture. They were the typical "where do you see yourself in 5 years" (visiting you in the nervous hospital...) and "Tell me about a time when you had to have a crucial conversation with someone.." (How about now? Honey, we need to talk about that hair of yours...)
I nail it. The questions, though completely pointless for the level of position we are here to discuss, are not challenging. I do this for a living, for crying out loud.
And afterwards, she makes all the routine, canned statements and escorts me back out to the hovel they refer to as the lobby.
It is there that I wait for the Big Boss.
And I am not exaggerating about Big.
She was so promising and delightful when we'd spoken. But apparently the Phone Screen is a two-way street. She'd let through only the most shining and inviting parts of herself squeeze through. The Big Bummer aspects stayed politely on the other side of the screen.
She appeared in the lobby. Another Oh Shit moment.
I think she might be wearing a very bad, cheap wig. Not exactly from the Halloween Store, but a bad nylon likeness of Bonnie Franklin's hair from One Day At A Time.
Her dress was clearly purchased during the Carter Administration. I had the same one in a different color. Wore it to my friend's Mom's viewing. In 9th grade. Mine was maroon. Hers is Marine Blue. She has pleather shoes in the same shade. And the (evidently requisite) nudie panty hose. With a few snags on each calf. And in a delightful suntan shade.
She also has obviously applied her makeup in a very dimly lit room. Perhaps without a mirror. That or she's taken a nap recently and hasn't fixed her face afterwards. She is hard to look at. I make eye contact anyway. I am sure I am turning to stone.
And then she says the taboo words that grate my nerve endings and douse them with rubbing alcohol. "Oh here's your file. I printed everything. I just don't trust computers yet."
I will myself to remain seated and not run screaming from the building. I notice that the computer on her desk (circa early 80s) is not even turned on. I am tempted to lean around to see if it is even plugged in.
She tells me she is certified in some interviewing technique that was sun-downed a decade or more ago and she'd like to ask me some specific targeted questions aimed at seeing if "we have a good match."
Well if I have a good match, lady, I am going to strike it and set that outfit on fire. Just get to it.
The questions are all ones we've heard before. Certainly not designed to unearth leadership strengths or styles or fit for an organization's culture. They were the typical "where do you see yourself in 5 years" (visiting you in the nervous hospital...) and "Tell me about a time when you had to have a crucial conversation with someone.." (How about now? Honey, we need to talk about that hair of yours...)
I nail it. The questions, though completely pointless for the level of position we are here to discuss, are not challenging. I do this for a living, for crying out loud.
And afterwards, she makes all the routine, canned statements and escorts me back out to the hovel they refer to as the lobby.
It is there that I wait for the Big Boss.
And I am not exaggerating about Big.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Game Time!
The silver lining in all this drama was that that same week I was invited to interview with a really great company for a really great job.
The phone interview I'd had when I'd had to blow off the call from the school principal about Hil's elevator privileges had apparently liked me as much as I'd liked her and I had landed an interview. Yay me!
Too bad I had to take my inferior Wimp Mobile with its mojo shriveling whammy effects. I'd have to listen to some music on the way that makes me feel like Wonder Woman, the Bionic Woman, Charlie's Angels, Murphy Brown, and that pain in the ass from Moonlighting all rolled into one. Maybe then I'd be able to forget that I have no ability to shame someone off the road with my car on my way from any Point A to any other Point B. And that Alpha Dog feeling is important in an interview situation.
I do my homework. I know my metrics. My befores and afters (as in "before I inherited this broken department we had a 15% vacancy rate and after I established a new team and new procedures, we have a vacancy rate of 8%, which is well below the national average"). I could talk about specific instances where I leveraged technology to make a faster, leaner operation and repurposed the extra employees (Why are we printing and filing all of these files when the system and the vendor warehouse them electronically for two years beyond the timeframe required by law? Please empty those file cabinets into the confidential shredding bins and I'll think of something meaningful for Bitsy and Tonya to do now that they won't be wasting 8 hours a day doing THAT!). I could relate how I identified and analyzed a particular problem and steps I took to rectify it. ("Geez, this question here on our application is discriminatory and prohibited by law. Please strike it, send the revised version to the printer, and confidentially shred every pound of evidence that we've been in violation of Federal Law for the last two years. I'll call Legal and fess up.") Or note a specific conversation in which I'd had to speak to someone directly about their conduct or performance ("Pam, when you were approached by our colleague Bob today as you walked a candidate to the Lab for an interview, and he asked you a simple question, do you think there might have been a better way to handle the so-called intrusion than to have screeched, "What the f***, Bob? Can't you see I'm busy? Send me an e-mail, for Chrissake!")
I am ready for anything.
Except I'm not.
The progressive company I am so anxious to join isn't so progressive when I get inside. Paper, paper everywhere and boxes when the file cabinets won't close from the volume.
And just like you can tell a lot about a man from his shoes, you can tell a lot about a company by its phones. I think Mary Tyler Moore used the one at the reception desk when she worked for Mr. Grant.
I am in a gorgeous perfectly pressed, lint-free suit with perfect hair and jewelry and killer heels. I have entered a polyester farm. And they've obviously purchased the nudie panty hose in bulk.
The place needs a paint job. And new carpet. And this is the human resources department where they are supposed to be rolling out the red carpet. Not looking like they can't afford to hire you.
My car didn't crush my mojo. It was strangled when I sat down in the lobby.
The phone interview I'd had when I'd had to blow off the call from the school principal about Hil's elevator privileges had apparently liked me as much as I'd liked her and I had landed an interview. Yay me!
Too bad I had to take my inferior Wimp Mobile with its mojo shriveling whammy effects. I'd have to listen to some music on the way that makes me feel like Wonder Woman, the Bionic Woman, Charlie's Angels, Murphy Brown, and that pain in the ass from Moonlighting all rolled into one. Maybe then I'd be able to forget that I have no ability to shame someone off the road with my car on my way from any Point A to any other Point B. And that Alpha Dog feeling is important in an interview situation.
I do my homework. I know my metrics. My befores and afters (as in "before I inherited this broken department we had a 15% vacancy rate and after I established a new team and new procedures, we have a vacancy rate of 8%, which is well below the national average"). I could talk about specific instances where I leveraged technology to make a faster, leaner operation and repurposed the extra employees (Why are we printing and filing all of these files when the system and the vendor warehouse them electronically for two years beyond the timeframe required by law? Please empty those file cabinets into the confidential shredding bins and I'll think of something meaningful for Bitsy and Tonya to do now that they won't be wasting 8 hours a day doing THAT!). I could relate how I identified and analyzed a particular problem and steps I took to rectify it. ("Geez, this question here on our application is discriminatory and prohibited by law. Please strike it, send the revised version to the printer, and confidentially shred every pound of evidence that we've been in violation of Federal Law for the last two years. I'll call Legal and fess up.") Or note a specific conversation in which I'd had to speak to someone directly about their conduct or performance ("Pam, when you were approached by our colleague Bob today as you walked a candidate to the Lab for an interview, and he asked you a simple question, do you think there might have been a better way to handle the so-called intrusion than to have screeched, "What the f***, Bob? Can't you see I'm busy? Send me an e-mail, for Chrissake!")
I am ready for anything.
Except I'm not.
The progressive company I am so anxious to join isn't so progressive when I get inside. Paper, paper everywhere and boxes when the file cabinets won't close from the volume.
And just like you can tell a lot about a man from his shoes, you can tell a lot about a company by its phones. I think Mary Tyler Moore used the one at the reception desk when she worked for Mr. Grant.
I am in a gorgeous perfectly pressed, lint-free suit with perfect hair and jewelry and killer heels. I have entered a polyester farm. And they've obviously purchased the nudie panty hose in bulk.
The place needs a paint job. And new carpet. And this is the human resources department where they are supposed to be rolling out the red carpet. Not looking like they can't afford to hire you.
My car didn't crush my mojo. It was strangled when I sat down in the lobby.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
The Last Dance
I am conflicted.
Not Sophie's Choice conflicted, but conflicted nonetheless.
There is a part of me that thinks Scott has genuinely poured his heart out and nothing more complicated than that. Accepting the ill fated outcome of his actions. Lamenting his powerlessness to rewrite the end of the story. Making his last, gasping statement before stepping onto the gallows. Famous last words.
And there is the cynical, mistrusting, jaded part of me that thinks maybe he's trying to play me. Manipulate my feelings. Dig deep for what I am really feeling instead of what I will allow to be seen. He knows me like the back of his own hand. He'd know exactly how the impact of the word "forever" would strike me. (Feel free at this point to join me in belting out ""Weeee-eeee are never, ever, ever, getting back together!" a la Taylor Swift. Come on. You know a brain synapse fired right where that song lives in your head.) He may be hoping that the finality of it will find me reacting with a sappy, "Noooo! Not forever! Don't say THAT! I don't want to live without you forever!"
And to be truthful, there is something spooky about the finality of it. It is a daunting notion. Very few things are forever. Dead is forever. Pet stains are forever. Dentures are forever. And there has never been a time in my life when there wasn't Scott's presence or at least the possibility of Scott's presence. "Forever" changes the game. "Forever" turns a firehose on the spark.
But I'd had to consider it - however sadly and woefully - back in the Fall. It was such a lost and lonely bleak feeling.
But then Charlotte and Jack and Pat and Hil and Kate and all of my other wonderful friends helped me get my feet positioned beneath me and find my sea legs. And soon enough I was ambulating more steadily through the days. Then running. Then dancing. And the idea became less and less the kind of thing that made my heart momentarily cease to beat.
And I am remembering Priscilla's beer-soaked words just before last call in the last pub in DC.
And I decide to write back to Scott.
"Scott, forever is a long time. But I don't imagine there will ever be a time when what you did does not come between us. I just have to make sure it does not come between me and whatever life I want to have going forward. You must have had reasons., and now you know my reason for having to walk away. I hope you understand."
Send.
Not Sophie's Choice conflicted, but conflicted nonetheless.
There is a part of me that thinks Scott has genuinely poured his heart out and nothing more complicated than that. Accepting the ill fated outcome of his actions. Lamenting his powerlessness to rewrite the end of the story. Making his last, gasping statement before stepping onto the gallows. Famous last words.
And there is the cynical, mistrusting, jaded part of me that thinks maybe he's trying to play me. Manipulate my feelings. Dig deep for what I am really feeling instead of what I will allow to be seen. He knows me like the back of his own hand. He'd know exactly how the impact of the word "forever" would strike me. (Feel free at this point to join me in belting out ""Weeee-eeee are never, ever, ever, getting back together!" a la Taylor Swift. Come on. You know a brain synapse fired right where that song lives in your head.) He may be hoping that the finality of it will find me reacting with a sappy, "Noooo! Not forever! Don't say THAT! I don't want to live without you forever!"
And to be truthful, there is something spooky about the finality of it. It is a daunting notion. Very few things are forever. Dead is forever. Pet stains are forever. Dentures are forever. And there has never been a time in my life when there wasn't Scott's presence or at least the possibility of Scott's presence. "Forever" changes the game. "Forever" turns a firehose on the spark.
But I'd had to consider it - however sadly and woefully - back in the Fall. It was such a lost and lonely bleak feeling.
But then Charlotte and Jack and Pat and Hil and Kate and all of my other wonderful friends helped me get my feet positioned beneath me and find my sea legs. And soon enough I was ambulating more steadily through the days. Then running. Then dancing. And the idea became less and less the kind of thing that made my heart momentarily cease to beat.
And I am remembering Priscilla's beer-soaked words just before last call in the last pub in DC.
And I decide to write back to Scott.
"Scott, forever is a long time. But I don't imagine there will ever be a time when what you did does not come between us. I just have to make sure it does not come between me and whatever life I want to have going forward. You must have had reasons., and now you know my reason for having to walk away. I hope you understand."
Send.
Monday, August 5, 2013
A Text To End All Texts
So after meekly driving home in my second-class citizen
rental (Kate named it Harvey), I unpacked and started a load of laundry, fed
and scratched the neglected little heads of both cats, cleaned up an
inconveniently placed streak of cat hack and checked my phone.
A message from Scott.
“So was it a blast? Hope so!”
I can practically hear him saying
it. Genuinely happy that I am happy. Points in his favor as a man. Lars and J.
hate-hate-hated the very notion of Girls Weekends. How naive of them. Without
Girls Weekends to keep us happy and sane and grounded in reality I’d have
independently plotted both their murders long before I left either of them.
Smart men know this. A happy wife is rarely a homicidal wife. And a good
girlfriend will talk her friend out of an ill-fated murder attempt inspired by
an episode of Monk long before she’s gotten to the point of buying the leg of
lamb to use as a blunt force instrument.
And actually, my knee-jerk
reaction would be to gush to him. I have had such a great time and have so many
hilarious stories to tell him – tell anyone actually – but I decide against it.
It would be the wrong thing to do. Misleading in a way that will make him think
he’s gotten an inch closer, when I need for him to let go of the few remaining
threads that bind us together, however loosely. I need him to have boundaries –
boundaries waaaay outside of where he probably envisions them.
But I don’t exactly want to have
to say anything that sounds like, “My friends Priscilla and Kate came and
surveyed the landscape and we agree that the little orange flags need to be dug
up and moved way over THERE!”
So I do nothing.
Sometimes I am really good at
that.
And about a week later, I know not why, I get another text from
Scott. An upheaval of sorts. He does not want me to blame myself for the demise
of our relationship, the reasons had nothing to do with me. (I am immediately
and sarcastically replaying the George Costanza “It’s not you, it’s me”
Seinfeld episode in my head). He admits to nothing specific (Thank God) but
says he was afraid to talk to me. (Because I am my mother’s daughter?) And he
realizes that he’s lost me forever. And that he will have to live with it.
And again I do nothing.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Ruby Slipper Whammy
So the car is like the Ruby Slippers, only not a good magic. More a whammy. A neo-maxi-zoom-dweebie whammy. So not good.
I hesitate to merge. My "blow you off the line at the light to get prime bridge position" mojo is wavering. I sit too close to the ground in my pleather bucket seats to powerfully curse anyone out as I squeeze perilously close to them in a high-stakes lane change situation. I shy away from the high-stakes lane changes. I am a meek and pitiful version of my normally roadrageous beyotch self. So unfair. I did not know about the squirrels. And yet, I pay.
And worse, this car is so ordinary, so unremarkable, so plain and unassuming in every way, that I can't find it is parking garages. Gray. One of half a million produced in a year. I have to remember longitude and latitude numbers before I exit the drivers seat and enter the mall or I may never find it again. I fear being found lying in the parking lot, semi-conscious and dehydrated, key fob in my hand, thumb involuntarily and repeatedly pressing the panic button to give an alarm I can follow like a beacon, and babbling random numbers and store names I have committed to memory in an effort to remember where I've left the boring little auto.
And while the repair takes endless weeks to accomplish, I get reassuring phone calls from the insurance company. "Any day now." And "Our adjusters were out there again today..." All of which
make me very nervous.
I finally get a very nice insurance person on the phone and share my morbid concerns with her. I am afraid the insurance company is going to decide I was negligent and irresponsible in some way and make me pay for my childish lack of mature car ownership. Until now, they've said I am only on the hook for the deductible, which is pricey enough.
"Oh, please," she says. "Do you think this is the only kooky story I've heard?"
I don't actually answer. At least not in coherent sentences.
She tells me about a woman who left a soccer tournament with her family and went directly to the airport for a week-long trip to Disney. They returned to find that a couple of raccoons had made their way into the car, dug into the upholstery, burrowed into the gym bag, had babies and were quite content to stay until the child rearing period had come and gone. And God only knows how long that takes. Consult with National Geographic, but I think the car is condemned. The feces alone would have made that a sanitary necessity, even if someone were brave enough to open a passenger door.
I am strangely relieved...but still not convinced. It's not like she runs the company. Something is always afoot with insurance companies. I am sure I am being lulled into a false sense of trust.
I am my mother's daughter after all. Curses!
I hesitate to merge. My "blow you off the line at the light to get prime bridge position" mojo is wavering. I sit too close to the ground in my pleather bucket seats to powerfully curse anyone out as I squeeze perilously close to them in a high-stakes lane change situation. I shy away from the high-stakes lane changes. I am a meek and pitiful version of my normally roadrageous beyotch self. So unfair. I did not know about the squirrels. And yet, I pay.
And worse, this car is so ordinary, so unremarkable, so plain and unassuming in every way, that I can't find it is parking garages. Gray. One of half a million produced in a year. I have to remember longitude and latitude numbers before I exit the drivers seat and enter the mall or I may never find it again. I fear being found lying in the parking lot, semi-conscious and dehydrated, key fob in my hand, thumb involuntarily and repeatedly pressing the panic button to give an alarm I can follow like a beacon, and babbling random numbers and store names I have committed to memory in an effort to remember where I've left the boring little auto.
And while the repair takes endless weeks to accomplish, I get reassuring phone calls from the insurance company. "Any day now." And "Our adjusters were out there again today..." All of which
make me very nervous.
I finally get a very nice insurance person on the phone and share my morbid concerns with her. I am afraid the insurance company is going to decide I was negligent and irresponsible in some way and make me pay for my childish lack of mature car ownership. Until now, they've said I am only on the hook for the deductible, which is pricey enough.
"Oh, please," she says. "Do you think this is the only kooky story I've heard?"
I don't actually answer. At least not in coherent sentences.
She tells me about a woman who left a soccer tournament with her family and went directly to the airport for a week-long trip to Disney. They returned to find that a couple of raccoons had made their way into the car, dug into the upholstery, burrowed into the gym bag, had babies and were quite content to stay until the child rearing period had come and gone. And God only knows how long that takes. Consult with National Geographic, but I think the car is condemned. The feces alone would have made that a sanitary necessity, even if someone were brave enough to open a passenger door.
I am strangely relieved...but still not convinced. It's not like she runs the company. Something is always afoot with insurance companies. I am sure I am being lulled into a false sense of trust.
I am my mother's daughter after all. Curses!
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