I don't have a job now. I did have a job and now I don't because apparently the people there did not feel I fit into their schtick, their code, their fucking smug little group and so without warning I was asked to resign. How utterly humiliating. Why does the worst shit take place at the warmest, fuzziest schools and agencies?
Alright I cannot write much more about that now because it's too embarrassing. That's over. Who gets told that, that, ugh I cannot even write what they said because you may read it and think oh she must have done something strange and she has an issue yet blames all of these other people. Well, isn't it a mite weird when the Big Cheese basically tells you to blow off and then his First Lieutenant - how the hell does one spell that? - calls up the next day and apologizes? Isn't that kinda wacky?
Or maybe you're thinking why didn't she realize that the place was wacky, and if you are, well, you got me there. I did know it was wacky, I did have that pit-in-the-stomach thing, but I ignored it because it all sounded so good and fitting well with my family obligations and my kids' lives and all. But this guy asked me questions about my family in the interview. What a creep! So I said why are you asking me this? And he went on and on - one of those I love the drawl of my own voice old guys - about how he knew it was inappropriate but he did it anyway and he's a social worker blah blah blah.
Then I spoke to my therapist about how the first people were thoughtful and smart and engaging but the Big Cheese is a repulsive fat old guy - no offense to not-repulsive fat old guys - and we discussed it. She said maybe he was just one icky guy with bad boundaries and the rest of the people seemed kosher, so to speak. Ah! I could blame her. My therapist, that is. Let's call her Eileen because she looks like one of those women in an Eileen Fischer ad, although nowadays all the women are quite thin and younger than they used to be. No more gray hair.
Couldn't we, please, blame someone else for the fact that my professional life is in the toilet? That I hafta call references and be like "hi, they booted me after two minutes?" Is someone going to say it's about them and not me? Well, save it. I have had a hard time at work for years now. The pattern is they really love me, then I have a personal crisis and get really stressed, and then they don't love me. At my last job, I really could not keep up the pace and mourn my brother at the same time. But at this job they found out my son was in the hospital and ten days later it was like "seeya."
No punch line, but maybe a tremendous law suit? Alternatively, I could start applying for other jobs and watch a little daytime t.v. Oh, yeah, I'm doing that already. Goodbye, ego.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
Loaning & Lurching
I have not written in a while. One of my children has been experiencing technical difficulties. I have been in the bizarre position of going to work every day and traipsing the earth, feigning health and humor while one of my children has been ‘having a hard time’. Why so cryptic, you may wonder. Why not lay out the whole monstrosity of the problem? Well it's my prerogative to say whaddevah the hell I want to, but it is not my prerogative to do so in relation to the topic of my children's lives. Because they’re not really mine, goddammit. It’s like that Sweet Honey and The Rock song which is probably quoting the Bible or some version of it, about how your children are not your children but they’re on loan from someone like Mother Nature or Joni Mitchell. It is quite shabby of my progeny to become independent beings whom I must respect in regard to their personal lives. It was simpler when I could rail on about the poop leaking out of a diaper without any concern at all that I might embarrass someone. I could discuss every detail of nursing without worrying - Boopy never minded if I detailed the amount of milk sucked out my left tit, and the subsequent soreness left because of my unremitting love and all-natural maternal instinct. And now they want to be individuals. That’s a kick in the ass.
My children are utterly separate from me. They breathe on their own, they eat, occasionally with utensils, and they seem to have relationships that do not include me! It's humiliating and fundamentally wrong. Who are these people for whom I shop, worry, and listen, as they analyze the tiniest flaws in my character? Is there not some faint whiff of loyalty that requires them to ask my permission for, like, having their own opinions? Especially when their opinions are so immature. What child of mine would ever reject a slice of apple pie, call “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret “ boring and old-fashioned, or reject the all-American blue-jean as uncomfortable? What kind of judgment is that? And I nevvuh, evvuh, gave my permission to be so casual about both burping and farting. Farting? Passing gas? I could hardly admit such a thing existed until I was 27 and about to give birth. And it was not an admission I gave willingly.
There are a number of other liberties "my" children have taken in the past, and at this particular juncture, I am drawing a line, holding up my middle-aged hand, hollering out: no way, you ingrates. I say enough meaningful bonds with other adults - whaddevah happened to the mother-child connection? No more opinions about politics, ethics, etc. If I want to call a person a dumbass, and then smile sweetly when I see her, I feel I have the right to my hypocrisy. Who needs a personal critic? And if I ask my child, my flesh and blood, to please do me a favor and get me something from the kitchen, like a cookie - hypothetically, of course - I expect a little service. That’s right, service. I didn’t pop those people out and fawn over them for years just so they could leave me in the lurch. They may want to pursue the devolution of their dependence on me, but I am holding firm. No. More. Growing. I cannot reveal my methods, but I will keep my readers - you over there, and my dog - posted.
My children are utterly separate from me. They breathe on their own, they eat, occasionally with utensils, and they seem to have relationships that do not include me! It's humiliating and fundamentally wrong. Who are these people for whom I shop, worry, and listen, as they analyze the tiniest flaws in my character? Is there not some faint whiff of loyalty that requires them to ask my permission for, like, having their own opinions? Especially when their opinions are so immature. What child of mine would ever reject a slice of apple pie, call “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret “ boring and old-fashioned, or reject the all-American blue-jean as uncomfortable? What kind of judgment is that? And I nevvuh, evvuh, gave my permission to be so casual about both burping and farting. Farting? Passing gas? I could hardly admit such a thing existed until I was 27 and about to give birth. And it was not an admission I gave willingly.
There are a number of other liberties "my" children have taken in the past, and at this particular juncture, I am drawing a line, holding up my middle-aged hand, hollering out: no way, you ingrates. I say enough meaningful bonds with other adults - whaddevah happened to the mother-child connection? No more opinions about politics, ethics, etc. If I want to call a person a dumbass, and then smile sweetly when I see her, I feel I have the right to my hypocrisy. Who needs a personal critic? And if I ask my child, my flesh and blood, to please do me a favor and get me something from the kitchen, like a cookie - hypothetically, of course - I expect a little service. That’s right, service. I didn’t pop those people out and fawn over them for years just so they could leave me in the lurch. They may want to pursue the devolution of their dependence on me, but I am holding firm. No. More. Growing. I cannot reveal my methods, but I will keep my readers - you over there, and my dog - posted.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I Am My Diagnosis & Cheery Tips for Patients
As I was driving to my new excellent job today where the people are actually like me, or to be more specific, not so dolled-up or formal or formatory that I wasn't sure whether or not some of them were pods, I noticed that I was rapidly humming along, rather like a sweet little birdie on speed. Listening to the news didn't calm me, as they don't speak quickly enough when I am in that mode. So I turned on The Shins. Of course I had chopped 5 minutes off my commuting time, imagining that I would miraculously get there more quickly today. The clocks would adjust themselves for me, as they do when I am super-duper-cheery. After all, I was speeding through time. This was not a mega-caffeine morning. This was me in a slightly manic mode that I have been loathe to label because it sounds, jeez, so manic. My psychopharm guy referred to "cycling, " and I was all with that, because fast to very very sad to faster is like a sudden whip-around of your head, so that a tiny and fierce neck muscle spasms mid-whip, but the movement continues.
Why mention this now? Because Spotted Elephant wrote a super-brave posting about the joys of having a chronic medical condition. I think it is really fun. My medical condition(s), that is, although the posting is also excellent. My diagnoses make me unique, and without them, I would have no identity. Who would take my pills? The dog might find them unpalatable.
Also, my healthcare practitioners are the best, and I worked my ass off to find them. I help to validate their professional lives, and it's always intriguing to get a Case like me. And of course, 'every time a door closes, a window opens.' (That's because when a psychiatrist closes a door, the claustrophobic patient begs permission to open the window.) I have learned so very much from my medical misfortunes. They are like little gifts, or lessons, as it were. The following is a list, inspired by two men: my first neurologist, who taught me that other people had it worse than me, and that his wife had an important job; and also, Jerry Lewis, whose telethons helped me to realize just how much attention a wheelchair might get me.
LIFE LESSONS FROM A VARIOUSLY DIAGNOSED PERSON
Always trust your doctor, even when he leaves you sitting in a room alone for 40 minutes. He's busy, for crissake!
Never listen to the nurse - she's just a little helper, and she's probably been at that same job for years. So what does she know?
Don't expect a call on the actual week the doctor said she would call you! Holy cow! When she said Thursday, she meant Thursday of any week, any month, any year.
Quit learning the medical jargon: it's unnerving to your physician, and you certainly could not truly understand it.
Just because it burns when you pee, you constantly have to go, and you've had five urinary infections in the past, don't try diagnosing yourself. You must be seen before anything is prescribed. The doctor will see you in two days.
Your diagnoses are an opportunity to grow and learn. You are an example of heroism for all of those around you. When you feel like absolute crap and everyone is sick of hearing about it, remember that suffering builds character. Plus, no one likes a complainer, so quit bitching.
Remember, regardless of the dehumanizing diagnostic test, it is important so that the doctor can know exactly what's going on. It may turn out to have been completely unnecessary to make you shit all night, for example, or prohibit you from sleeping, but just be a good girl. The doctor has never had the diagnostic test, so he has no idea what the hell he's talking about when he describes it. Nevertheless, you can ask a nurse, and dumb as she is, she will probably, somehow, remember something about the test.
Although people do get genuine bodily ailments, women are known for their, pardon me, hysteria. Should you think you have a psychiatric disorder, you're probably crazy! It's undoubtedly related to your hormones, your cycle, your tendency, like all women, to exaggerate. Just cheer up, honey!
Everything happens for a reason. Like, the reason kids are in wheelchairs in the first place is that people like Jerry Lewis need to exploit them. Furthermore, the reason I wrote this is because of the joy it gives me to have many diagnoses, and to be part of the hysteria.
Why mention this now? Because Spotted Elephant wrote a super-brave posting about the joys of having a chronic medical condition. I think it is really fun. My medical condition(s), that is, although the posting is also excellent. My diagnoses make me unique, and without them, I would have no identity. Who would take my pills? The dog might find them unpalatable.
Also, my healthcare practitioners are the best, and I worked my ass off to find them. I help to validate their professional lives, and it's always intriguing to get a Case like me. And of course, 'every time a door closes, a window opens.' (That's because when a psychiatrist closes a door, the claustrophobic patient begs permission to open the window.) I have learned so very much from my medical misfortunes. They are like little gifts, or lessons, as it were. The following is a list, inspired by two men: my first neurologist, who taught me that other people had it worse than me, and that his wife had an important job; and also, Jerry Lewis, whose telethons helped me to realize just how much attention a wheelchair might get me.
LIFE LESSONS FROM A VARIOUSLY DIAGNOSED PERSON
Always trust your doctor, even when he leaves you sitting in a room alone for 40 minutes. He's busy, for crissake!
Never listen to the nurse - she's just a little helper, and she's probably been at that same job for years. So what does she know?
Don't expect a call on the actual week the doctor said she would call you! Holy cow! When she said Thursday, she meant Thursday of any week, any month, any year.
Quit learning the medical jargon: it's unnerving to your physician, and you certainly could not truly understand it.
Just because it burns when you pee, you constantly have to go, and you've had five urinary infections in the past, don't try diagnosing yourself. You must be seen before anything is prescribed. The doctor will see you in two days.
Your diagnoses are an opportunity to grow and learn. You are an example of heroism for all of those around you. When you feel like absolute crap and everyone is sick of hearing about it, remember that suffering builds character. Plus, no one likes a complainer, so quit bitching.
Remember, regardless of the dehumanizing diagnostic test, it is important so that the doctor can know exactly what's going on. It may turn out to have been completely unnecessary to make you shit all night, for example, or prohibit you from sleeping, but just be a good girl. The doctor has never had the diagnostic test, so he has no idea what the hell he's talking about when he describes it. Nevertheless, you can ask a nurse, and dumb as she is, she will probably, somehow, remember something about the test.
Although people do get genuine bodily ailments, women are known for their, pardon me, hysteria. Should you think you have a psychiatric disorder, you're probably crazy! It's undoubtedly related to your hormones, your cycle, your tendency, like all women, to exaggerate. Just cheer up, honey!
Everything happens for a reason. Like, the reason kids are in wheelchairs in the first place is that people like Jerry Lewis need to exploit them. Furthermore, the reason I wrote this is because of the joy it gives me to have many diagnoses, and to be part of the hysteria.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Whoopi Goldberg and Other Musings
Whoopi Goldberg looking over her glasses from out of the Sunday paper is far superior to looking at the pouchy faces we're ordinarily subjected to with our coffee. That crackly voice and her relaxed attitude have always appealed to me. The nun movie? The comedy shows with Robin Williams and Billy Crystal? And look at her - no make-up, or at least something akin to an actual human face. A humored, wide smile, and happily wild hair. When I opened the New York Times Magazine this morning, there was a Deborah Solomon interview in which the reporter attempts to either prove her superiority or her irritability - it's hard to tell which. Nevertheless, she was woefully outwitted by the ever-clever Whoopi.
I had sorta forgotten about Whoopi since I hadn't seem any of her recent crappy movies (I think they are all crappy, but I like her in them anyway, especially the one in which she coaches the baseball team). New York Times Magazine readers often complain that Ms. Solomon is uptight or biased in some way. Today she played the straight man, as it were, to perfection. She actually used the phrase "never mind," because Whoopi out-quipped her. How many people can spurn a reporter by saying "I'm not that deep"?
I guess there's been some big hoo-ha recently about Oprah not inviting Whoopi to a big Diva Dinner. I have reported my opinion of Oprah, and it was only reinforced recently when I saw her magazine, O, on the rack. What is that? Is she like O is for Oprah? Orgasm? Oh! It's me again, Oprah! And every single how-to-be-healthy-in-ten-easy-lessons issue has Oprah's sandwashed photo on it. She may be narcissistic, but she is also the center of the O-niverse! In contrast, Whoopi is on the radio, talking about how people oughtta be more considerate of one another. She plays fun music in between, apparently, so she can run to the lavatory if necessary (Deborah dislikes the music). Oprah's all 'O Me O Me' and Whoopi's talking on the radio, and posing in her very regular clothes.
Why should I compare two black celebrities? It just so happens that these two people are very prominent celebrities and one of them is a talented comedian;I am an opinionated woman, passionately involved in sociological issues, and comparing celebrities is practically an advanced seminar in cultural literacy. Also, there's the matter of my ego: how come no one pays as much attention to the people I like? That actor in Crossing Delancey - he was great. "Do you think my job defines me?" he hollered at Amy Irving, who couldn't admit that she had the hots for a Jewish pickle-man. Where did he go? Gotta google that. The Green Party woman - Jill Stein - an intelligent person, not a celebrity, but close - a politician. Why didn't people vote for her? She was intelligent, warm, articulate. Would there ever be a J Magazine? Well, of course not!
What if Whoopi had a magazine? "Ten Reasons to Listen to The Radio," or "There is Nothing About Oprah in Here." If she had a magazine, would I still like her? More importantly, if she were as rich and famous as Oprah - and she's probably pretty rich and famous as is - would she still talk about the natural need to fart when one is on stage for hours? Most important, if I were as rich and famous as either one of them, would I be deep, like Oprah, or shallow like Whoopi? I'm off to call my psychic. I think I'll fart along the way.
I had sorta forgotten about Whoopi since I hadn't seem any of her recent crappy movies (I think they are all crappy, but I like her in them anyway, especially the one in which she coaches the baseball team). New York Times Magazine readers often complain that Ms. Solomon is uptight or biased in some way. Today she played the straight man, as it were, to perfection. She actually used the phrase "never mind," because Whoopi out-quipped her. How many people can spurn a reporter by saying "I'm not that deep"?
I guess there's been some big hoo-ha recently about Oprah not inviting Whoopi to a big Diva Dinner. I have reported my opinion of Oprah, and it was only reinforced recently when I saw her magazine, O, on the rack. What is that? Is she like O is for Oprah? Orgasm? Oh! It's me again, Oprah! And every single how-to-be-healthy-in-ten-easy-lessons issue has Oprah's sandwashed photo on it. She may be narcissistic, but she is also the center of the O-niverse! In contrast, Whoopi is on the radio, talking about how people oughtta be more considerate of one another. She plays fun music in between, apparently, so she can run to the lavatory if necessary (Deborah dislikes the music). Oprah's all 'O Me O Me' and Whoopi's talking on the radio, and posing in her very regular clothes.
Why should I compare two black celebrities? It just so happens that these two people are very prominent celebrities and one of them is a talented comedian;I am an opinionated woman, passionately involved in sociological issues, and comparing celebrities is practically an advanced seminar in cultural literacy. Also, there's the matter of my ego: how come no one pays as much attention to the people I like? That actor in Crossing Delancey - he was great. "Do you think my job defines me?" he hollered at Amy Irving, who couldn't admit that she had the hots for a Jewish pickle-man. Where did he go? Gotta google that. The Green Party woman - Jill Stein - an intelligent person, not a celebrity, but close - a politician. Why didn't people vote for her? She was intelligent, warm, articulate. Would there ever be a J Magazine? Well, of course not!
What if Whoopi had a magazine? "Ten Reasons to Listen to The Radio," or "There is Nothing About Oprah in Here." If she had a magazine, would I still like her? More importantly, if she were as rich and famous as Oprah - and she's probably pretty rich and famous as is - would she still talk about the natural need to fart when one is on stage for hours? Most important, if I were as rich and famous as either one of them, would I be deep, like Oprah, or shallow like Whoopi? I'm off to call my psychic. I think I'll fart along the way.
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