Office Drama, Part 57

I forgot to mention the Office Fiasco. I saw Loathsome wandering around yesterday. He did not look up from the paper he was carrying and mumbled hello when I cheerfully said good morning. That makes me smile.

Today, I was told that Money Man sent a very snotty and inappropriate email to The Owner. Uh oh. Owner will add another bad mark against Money Man in his "List of People Who've Irritated Me That I Will Torture Forever." He's a creative tormenter . With a very, very long memory. Here again, big smile. Money Man apparently felt free to elucidate how much he absolutely hates Loathsome. As if that makes him any different than the rest of us.

I almost hate to be gone on Monday and Tuesday. Heaven only knows what new drama will erupt by the time I get back.

It's the Trip to the Hospital, Stupid

There's nothing like a trip to M.D. Anderson to throw me for an emotional loop. My depression got even worse as the day wore on and there's a good chance it will return (in spades) today. That's just how it goes. I thought I'd get this post in before I take up today's temporary residence in Crazy Land.

There won't be any painful tests. There won't be any bad news. This is just a check in with my plastic surgeon to make sure the New Girl is doing okay and the tummy tuck hasn't killed me (from accidentally ripping out stitches). It's the mere fact that I have to enter that building. Everything comes back to me, even before I get there. Like yesterday. Things got very grim.

I saw Elizabeth Edwards on Larry King last night. It was really nice they made room for her after the wall-to-wall Imus coverage. There is a woman who is most definitely bucking up. More than I ever have. She's chosen not to give any more of her life to this disease. I get it. I've lost almost two years now that will never come back. Choose to live until you die. That's about all any of us (both people with or without serious illness) can do. She has my deepest respect; I am humbled by her courage.

So that's how it is. I'll be away until next Wednesday, by which time I'll probably have returned to the Land of Crazy and be back to my cranky self.

A Semblance of Safety and Ease

In spite of the big brouhaha in my office, I find myself distracted by other, more mournful, things. I've been pondering the way my life has unravelled for me these 53 years. There are at least a couple of issues that keep leading my thoughts back to the past, distant and near. I'm tired and, at some point along the way, I began to get sad when I'm tired. Maybe it's the onslaught of breast cancer treatment. Maybe it's just that the years are wearing me down a bit. I'm also anxious. Whenever I have to go to Houston, I get apprehensive and a little nauseated the week before my appointment. The fact that I recognize it means it's mighty big anxiety; because of my history, anxiety and worry feel normal to me. Other people have to point out to me that my voice or body language betray my state of mind. Finally, I've been editing old entries. Many of them deal with my difficult childhood which led to my troubled youth. Looking back carefully is never easy.

Lately when someone mentions an old movie or an old song, I remember how deeply I tried to crawl into any semblance of safety and ease I could find there. One of my annual rituals was watching "The Wizard of Oz." When I was a little girl, I could block out all of the violence and terror and dread while I accompanied the Cowardly Lion (my favorite character) along the Yellow Brick Road. I could never understand why Dorothy wanted to go back. "There's no place like home" didn't have a positive meaning to me.

There were a whole collection of movies--White Christmas, Abbott and Costello movies, The Thin Man series and television programs--I Love Lucy, The Dick Van Dyke Show. I wasn't particularly discriminating. I had no vision of what sanity looked like and yet I hoped to find it someday. I thought maybe those diversions could be real, that my own life could be sophisticated, carefree and gentle. I thought maybe my life could someday be a place where I could just take a deep breath and settle onto a comfy sofa without the constant stress of threats, two families living under one roof, of violence and uncertainty. How could I have imagined that which I had never really experienced myself? I dreamed as I entered those make-believe worlds.

I read other people's posts and rediscover that my life resembles no one elses I've ever known. On some level, I always keep it a bit of a secret from myself that my childhood never really existed. My parents said many times that I was born an adult. My dad marvelled at the fact that I was able, at two, to answer questions like an adult. (Of course, my dad was never a very good judge of what constituted adult behavior.) My mom, to this day, comments with some puzzlement, that, even though she tried her best, she was unable to help me fit into the role of being a normal child.

It sometimes makes me a little angry that she still can't see that my survival depended on being able to successfully juggle various realities at a very young age. I had to find my way through school days without betraying just how distracting my home life was. It was imperative to perform well and fit in; it was my only escape. At home, disappearing seemed to be safest, but entirely unattainable. It was a very dangerous thing to misunderstand whose priorities came first. My dad was the child; we were there to serve him. Sometimes I'm a little jealous of my mom's reminiscences. I don't have any memories of innocence.

I continue to take some pride in the fact that no one can see what I've survived. The only hint is a small hesitation when people talk about their childhoods and ask about my own. I pause while I scramble to find the appropriate response. I don't lie, but I don't tell the truth, either. I've shared parts of my past with therapists and a couple of friends. Their responses lead me to believe the truth may be too much to bear. It may be confusing to people who have always only seen the cheerful adult they know. I don't see much good that can come of either of those possibilities.

I'm still trying to sort it out alone. I struggle to find meaning out of all of that chaos and all of the nightmares to follow, my father's suicide and my own battle with cancer. I can't find any. I may never understand why my path has been so formidable. I discourage the tendency to feel sorry for myself, but I have the courage to look back with sadness. After all, I do have the luxury of a comfy sofa and some time to take a deep breath.

Who You Calling Stupid?

"Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity." ~ William James

This is not funny. It is, however, predictable. Co-worker Loathsome is in charge of a project that involves millions of dollars of equipment. We discovered yesterday that last week (last week!), one of those multi-million dollar tools was broken by several of our employees. Loathsome did not feel impelled to report it to anyone. Not the owner of the company. Not the comptroller (aka Money Man). Not the client. Not even our company's supervisor of the project. "It's been a well-kept secret," he confided.

The only reason anyone here knows about it is that somehow the client finally found out about it and wishes to be reimbursed for this broken equipment. The company has plenty of insurance to cover the loss. Loathsome requested a copy of the insurance policies for a meeting with the client's representatives. When people inquired as to why he needed the copies, Loathsome replied, "We broke some equipment." I was in the office when he made that confession. I screeched, "What!?" and hotfooted it out of there so I wouldn't start yelling at him. Even though I try not to get emotionally involved in company business, there are still some things that never fail to make me crazy. Breaking ridiculously expensive equipment a week into the job is one of those things. As is failing to report it when that happens.

The fact that no one, including Loathsome, reported the accident to anyone is unbelievable. The owner of the company asked him (in a meeting in which I was not present) why he hadn't reported it. "I guess I felt ashamed," he replied. So he hid it. I have no idea what he thought he was going to do. Maybe he thought they could blame it on someone else: "It wasn't us; it was that guy over there from the janitorial firm." Maybe he thought they could say it was broken when they got it, "It looked like that when it got here. We didn't think it was actually broken. We just thought it was innovative design." Maybe like Spicoli in "Fast Times At Ridgmont High," he thought, "Dude. I can fix this. My dad's a tv repairman."

He admitted to the owner of the company that he knew keeping it a secret broke all of the company's rules and that his behavior was woefully unethical. This is proof positive that if, at 40, you have no clear idea about the difference between right and wrong, 20 years later you still won't. Loathsome has been involved in some other questionable activities, but I guess I thought even he wasn't that untrustworthy. Or that stupid.

I still don't have the full story. One of my coworkers is supposed to come over to my side of the building later to tell me the rest of the sorry hijinks. You know, I wasn't happy when Loathsome was strutting around like the proverbial peacock after he acquired the contract, but knowing his ass is in a sling over this isn't very satisfying, either. Sometimes I'd rather I wasn't right. (I know that's hard to believe, because we all know how much I like being right.)

You can not imagine the level of silence in this office today. There are several people who have wanted Loathsome to go for years now. I don't know if I wanted him to be fired for the past 20 years, but I definitely thought he should be held up for ridicule if only because he's pretentious, pompous and duplicitous.

I think it could go either way. If I were a betting woman, I'd say he's staying. Why? Because the owner may decide it's more cruel to keep him than to fire him. My boss is expert in punishing people. And he takes a certain amount of pleasure from it. He's not the kind of guy who easily lets go of a grudge. As a matter of fact, his memory for transgressions rivals mine. I have to admit that I've taken some gratification from his tenacity over the years. Having never been the brunt of it, of course. When the owner and I disagree, we just yell at each other. I don't think we've disagreed in the past 15 years. Works better that way. For everyone.

The last time we disagreed, it was about whether Loathsome should be fired. This time, I officially have no position on that question. Besides, I know the odds are against me. Why get your heart set on something when an alternative exists that might well be better? I'll just be in my office, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Poison Pen Emails

I have a list. (Actually, I have many lists, but we're only talking about one of them here.) The list is comprised of people to whom I need to send vicious emails every day. I'm not a stalker. I am also not a crank, despite what my husband says. I'm just a woman who's been pushed to the brink of insanity by irritating humans I do not know. (One of the other lists includes the folks I do know.) Here's a partial inventory which, as it turns out, has lots of CNN personalities.

Glenn Beck. God I hate that guy. I'd like to send him an email every day asking, "Is it World War III yet, Glenn?" He talks about that a lot and it clearly makes him giddy. I hate that. People who get happy because they think disaster is imminent are despicable. Whenever I even see his image on television, I change the station. That's how much I despise him.

Furthermore, Glenn did an interview with Danny Bonaduce a while back. Okay, first of all, anyone who would talk to Danny Bonaduce is a vulture. The guy makes his living being self-destructive. I mean, that's it; that's all he has to offer. If he weren't so annoying, he would be heart breaking. Furthermore, Glenn was trying to act like he used to be a big, bad rebel himself. Right. He probably chewed gum in church or something. Scary. Did I mention that I loathe this guy?

Jerry Falwell. See above (minus the Danny Bonaduce thing). Self-righteous, arrogant, willfully ignorant. I've seen the real face of Jerry Falwell and I assure you it is not the love of Jesus that shines through. I got really clear on that when he had the nerve to say that America deserved 9/11 because we're so sinful. Email every day that says, "The TeleTubbies are gay. How many kids do you think are, at this very moment, turning gay because of them? Or maybe it's you. You actually make me ashamed to be straight. Dickhead."

Let's just lump some of them together. It'll save time in the long run. George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld. You know what I'm saying. I'm not sure one email would be enough to cover the many reasons I think they're detestable. They'd all have to get three or four a day.

Dick Morris. Slime. Political slime...it doesn't get much worse than that. He has the audacity to get on tv and regularly act indignant and self-righteous about the total dearth of morals and intelligence in both the Republican and Democratic parties. He actually thinks he's better than Bill Clinton, even though he was regularly trying to impress hookers with his White House connections. Let me just say that again. Hookers.

Bill O'Reilly. That goes without saying, right?

Don Imus. Even before the racial comments. That fucking hat drives me nuts. "You're inside, asshole. Take off your hat. Were you raised in a barn?"

Nancy Grace. "Dear Nancy, could you possibly be more dramatic? Calm down. Let people finish their sentences. And for God's sake, stop playing that annoying music while people are trying to answer one of your questions."

Oh dear. I grow weary thinking about how worked up I get about these people. I started off this post (about 45 minutes ago) talking about my upcoming visits to Houston to be tested, prodded and generally mistreated in order to find out whether I have more cancer. I deleted all of that. Hatred is so much better than anxiety. It's energizing, unlike worry which leaves you with that jittery, empty feeling.

No point in beating a dead horse. The list is too long to enumerate them all here. You're welcome to disagree with me. Or to think I need to get a life. Whatever. You can decide for yourself to whom you'd like to send daily hate emails. I'm just saying that, when life regularly kicks you in the ass, the least you can do is send somebody emails.

The month of not seeing any doctors is officially over. It was over a couple of weeks ago, actually, but it was just my psychiatrist I saw. She doesn't necessarily count; I liked the illusion of extending the doctor-less time a bit longer.

Next Tuesday, I'll have to be in Houston to see my plastic surgeon. I'm not sure why he wants to see me (other than that I'm his Greatest Flap Work), but after we get through this appointment I get to schedule another one six months from now. At the six month appointment, medical events will actually occur. I'm thinking liposuction, adjusting symmetry of new girl and old girl. Maybe some other things, but he's keeping it all a surprise. Sometimes that's best.

I have an appointment with my oncologist in May. We'll do blood work and make sure there aren't any indicators that might require chemo, radiation or surgery. I hate that. I mean, I'm all for knowing that I'm fine, but until we get there, I'm a little anxious and worried.

In June, I'll be in Houston once again to see my surgical oncologist. Remember? He's the one I'm in love with. I thought maybe his place in my heart would be taken by my plastic surgeon after the reconstruction surgery, but no, he's still my heart's desire.

My Dr. Ross is a busy, busy man. He's remarkably intelligent and a gifted surgeon. He literally works all the time. The Energizer Bunny has to hook up to him to keep going. He always recognizes me and remembers my name, even if we just pass each other in one of those endless hallways leading from one torture zone to another. He recognizes me even with all of my clothes on. His emotional needs are met by his work and, most days, he even eats there. I ask you, what more could you ask for from a man? He wouldn't even make my house untidy. I love him. I want to marry him. I'd want to have his babies, but that ship sailed a long time ago. And they're a little demanding for my tastes. Unlike Dr. Ross, who demands nothing.

When I asked myself last night why I've been anxious the past few days, it suddenly dawned on me. There's a whole lot of Houston coming up in my schedule.

Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure

When I was at the vet's office last week, picking up one of the feral cats, I noticed she has a "Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure" hung on a bulletin board. Here's a short review from stupid.com

There she stands -- ratty bathrobe, checked pajama bottoms, headband, wild hair, and a fanatical look on her face. And she's surrounded by six cats that own her heart and soul.

The Crazy Cat Lady stands 5-1/4" tall and can be posed however you like.

Yes, you may be tempted to laugh at the Crazy Cat Lady. But, be warned, one day that Cat Lady may be yourself.

It looks a little bit like me. Oh no. What have I become.