Psychological Waterboarding

Panic off. Instead of relying on rumors, Owner has turned up some reliable sources regarding the financial health of our clients.

That noise you hear is me laughing insanely and beating my head against the wall.

I won't get fooled again. No matter what the annual salary hit I'll take, I've had enough. In the meantime, cackle cackle whack whack.

Poison Pen Letter

Owner is back from his sick bed and maniacally focused on sending the business into the proverbial trash can.

Today, I'm angry. Golf Pro and his father, a stockholder, are planning to suck up one of the clients the Pro has carefully cultivated over the years by neglecting. By the way, this is Pro's only client and one that existed prior to his employment. Pro foolishly believes this one client will provide him with the exorbitant lifestyle he's come to wallow in. In the words of Bob Dylan, it's a hard rain gonna fall.

Mr. Moneybags will no longer command his 6-figure income, nor will he have Crazy Land to purchase his vehicle. Owner is completely incapable of getting a job. Once we shut Crazy Land down, collecting outstanding debt will become vexing. However, Land's debtors will inside on being paid. Where will all the money come from to support Owner's grown children, his massive credit card debt and to support his own lavish lifestyle?

I'm at least realistic about the changes Crazy Land's demise will have on my life. I have not grown accustomed to unrealistic pay rates. (See previous post.) I have breast cancer. Money is not my highest priority.

I'm angry about injustice, I'm angry about stupidity and greed. Relentless impending doom, when it's not yet warranted, irritates me.

By all means, shut it down. Let's all try to find our way. Before the end, though, several people will need to clear their schedules for a final interview with Ggirl. You cannot imagine the fear and trembling that can evoke.

I'm Not Home Yet

12.4.08

I threw away my prosthesis Monday night and moved my wigs off of my dresser. I don't know why it's taken so long, nor do I know why there are still things I can't look at and can't get rid of.

I have several tote bags in my bedroom that I've used in the 3 years I've shuttled back and forth between here and M.D. Anderson. They're filled with insurance forms, bills, magazines, puzzle books...the stuff that accumulates while you wait. Waiting is an art in which I've become well versed.

I can't make myself go through it. I try now and then, but that chemo nausea returns like a ghost to remind me of how bad it's been.

I also carry a small notebook with me that includes, among other things, several pages detailing the physical reactions I had to chemotherapy. I agreed to participate in a study that required I keep track. I can't tear those pages out.

I remind myself that I've been through a lot. I got rid of the prosthesis, I moved my wigs. It's a journey of reconciliation. I'm not home yet.

Rules For Living In Crazy Land

Rule Number One for Living in Crazy Land: Let go of ego and resentment.

Rule Number Two: Remember that everyone here is suffering because of their own inability to let go of ego.

There's no need for anger or fantasies of sabotage. That self-indulgence merely leads me farther down the road into the Crazy Land wilderness where dysfunction flourishes. I don't do dysfunctional. I guess that would be Rule Number Three.

When I'm grounded in reality, I'm always free to offer compassion. And to be entertained.

Jingling Bling

Thanksgiving being (thankfully) over, the Festal Pig has returned to plague Crazy Land with jingly bling.

We have a minimal staff today--Golf Pro (wonder of wonders!), Mr. Moneybags, The Information Superhighway, IT Boy, Moneybags' daughter, Morose Owner and, of course, yours truly, the Festal Pig. Were it not for the constant jingle jingle of my bracelet, Crazy Land would be utterly grim.

Though it gave renewed temporary hope to Owner, virtually all of our citizens have accepted the inevitable demise of Crazy Land. Owner, the Founder and Caretaker of Crazy Land, is determined to see the company crumble. As far as he's concerned, it already has. His pessimism is living proof to the theory of self-fulfilling prophecy. Owner is depressed and gloomy. He's already destitute. The worst has already happened.

On the Pig front, I recently gained starling new information regarding salaries here and it's given me new impetus to seek a new, more fulfilling Crazy Land. Yes, boys and girls, it's out there. I will most assuredly find it and settle into a new, dysfunctional country of ego maniacs and eccentrics.

It turns out that Golf Pro isn't the only one who's raking in the cash. Looks like I'm last in line for the gravy train. If we weren't already halfway under water, I might be tempted to sabotage my victories in developing a more efficient analytical database. Mr. Moneybags would have to revisit the cost of building a new version. Reality can be a cruel and pricey teacher. We're two steps into the quicksand, though, and I'm not sure it's worth the trouble required to commit software vandalism.

I console myself with the knowledge that job offers for the wildly overpaid with similar big bucks will be mighty slim. I know none of these comforting thoughts falls into the holiday spirit mode. I make up for it in jingle, though. If my jingly bling irritates my fellow workers, all the better.

Jingle jingle, you buttwads.

Dream Catcher

I dream of everyone on the planet having enough food to eat, shelter from the elements and hope for the future. I dream of peace among all people.

In Which Hubby Gets A Job

Hubby has a job--an actual get-up-in-the-morning, get-paid-regularly job. I found the job listing online one day when it dawned on me that the Texas Legislature will be convening in January. I remembered that they always need proofreaders. Hubby is one of the best proofreaders I've ever known. He's had a series of eight interviews, most of them running about ninety minutes. Today they called and offered employment. I'll bet you can hear my sigh of relief.

Best yet, it's a job where they value the contribution Hubby can make. It has to make him feel much, much better about himself. Of course, I hope he'll make some contacts or prove himself invaluable to the team, which continues on even when the Legislature folds up its tent and goes home.

Crazy Land takes an enormous toll on me. Owner announces every day (usually more than once a day) that we're closing down any minute. I'm not crazy or stupid, I see the instability of world markets and the long, steady decline of computer-related products. Nonetheless, having Owner essentially beat us over the head with dire predictions leaves us all in a state of almost unbearable anxiety.

There was yet another emergency shareholder meeting yesterday, during which Owner handed out articles proclaiming the end of the computer world as we know it. I have no idea why he would do that. We're not losing money (not yet, anyway). We have projects in the works and new purchase orders. Let's by all means shut the company down right now.

I'm very busy still and it cuts into my own job search time. Owner will be out of the office tomorrow. I expect a quiet day, so I hope to make some progress then.

For right now, though, I can relax a tiny bit, maybe enough for my colon to stop hurting. IBS pain started several weeks ago, due to my high anxiety level. In the grand scheme of things, it's a minor annoyance. The pain is nonexistent compared to the level of hurt I've endured during the past three years. Still. It would be nice to experience pain-free for a while.

Hubby's job starts in two weeks. If I weren't such a solitary creature, I'd throw a party for him.

Owner Meltdown

Even Crazy Land has its moments. I was unaccountably in high spirits today and spread cheer around the office. My mood improved when seafood lunch was provided for all by aforementioned Crazy Land. God knows I deserve it. Well, we probably all do, except for Golf Pro. Golf Pro, of course, was not here. Though Owner would say he's working hard, the rest of us know he's working hard on a beer by now.

It's been a deadly week, with Owner having a mental meltdown all over me. I'm empathic, you know, so all lost souls and lunatics naturally gravitate to me. When they leave, my mind and body have absorbed whatever manifestation of nuttiness they carry with them. Owner was having a panic attack, quit taking tranquilizers two weeks ago, has stopped taking thyroid medication and, on that day, hadn't eaten anything by mid-afternoon. After his endless monologue, he felt much better. Me, not so much.

Mr. Moneybags is looking for another job. He can't take it anymore. What a weenie. I've withstood the onslaught of Crazy Land for around 15 years now (but who's counting).

Let's see, does that make me stupider or stronger?