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.

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.

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?

Golf Pro's Crisis

Hubby's looking for a job; I'm looking for a job. The entire world is looking for a job. While looking, while working, I'm obsessed with the multitude of Senate and House hearings and subcommittee hearings. I've learned a lot, enough to enrage me. Rage, however, doesn't result in employment potential. Oddly enough, when detailing my professional goals, wreaking vengeance on the architects of our global crisis most likely will result in no calls. Such a pity. I do spiteful so well.

Here in Crazy Land, we thrive on anxiety. Golf Pro, who is overpaid beyond belief, visits the accounting department, demanding to know what the future holds. He has a family, you know. None of the rest of us have any responsibilities. We'd all love to know what the future holds. Hello. There is great uncertainty in life, especially these days.

Now for a little background on Golf Pro. He came to work here about a year after I did. He was useless then and hasn't felt the need to branch out in the 15 or so years he's employed at Crazy Land. He was supposed to be a salesman, but he has yet to make one single sale...ever.

His value to the company, I believe, lies in the fact that his step-father is a minority shareholder in the company. Isn't that fabulous? That's exactly the kind of qualifications needed to get and keep a key position in any company. He's better paid than any of us, short of Mr. Moneybags (don't get me started) and the President. We hate him.

Without exception, we all hate him. He had a brief fling of "pal-ship" with Mr. Moneybags, but it didn't take long for Bags to figure out just how staggeringly lazy and incompetent the Pro is. Loathsome and he came dangerously close to fisticuffs several years ago. I harbor secret fantasies that it came to fruition. Though Pro is considerably younger, he is the Pillsbury Dough Boy and Loathsome could have kicked his pudgy butt in a matter of moments. Let me be absolutely clear here. Even after my five surgeries, three rounds of chemo and seven weeks of radiation in three years, even I could kick is ass. Right now.

Crazy Land. The fun never ends. Anyone have a voodoo doll? Office (and field) staff might be willing to contribute to a fund to get one.

Golf Pro: The Reason I Don't Own Firearms

I just found out how much Golf Pro makes (note that I did not say "earns"). One of the many reasons why it's best that I don't own firearms.

Golf Pro works, on average, 10 hours a week and makes more money than anyone other than Mr. Moneybags.

As Bob Dylan said, though, "It's a hard rain gonna fall" if Crazy Land goes away. What does a 47 year old man do who hasn't ever worked? If you asked Golf Pro to define the word "work," he wouldn't be able to do it. He has absolutely no marketable skills, but he does have attitude in abundance. Golf Pro is an executive and demands that he be treated as such. Well, he's smart enough not to expect it from me.

I'm going to resume deep breathing and imagine myself contemplating the universe from the comfort of a hotel room in Santa Fe. Ahhh. Much better.

Wading Through High Waters

It took a while to slog through my dad's anniversary. Actually, I think I'm still wading through some sadness.

Hubby and I are on speaking terms again. He's been more helpful than usual, so I'm thinking that, at least for the time being, we're on almost the same page. Being on the same page is a bit much to ask, but having him on a quarter of the page I'm on is a huge improvement.

Crazy Land has been chewing up all of my discretionary, write in my blog time. While IT Boy was on his honeymoon, I was the only recourse for Loathsome when his email went berserk. He stalked into my office and asked me if I had a computer. That is so Loathsome. I made him cut to the chase and tell me what was happening. You can't imagine what a huge task it was to just get the basic facts out of him. I was exhausted before I began.

I spent two days working on his computer, then I abandoned all hope. I set his email up on another computer so Loathsome could function while we waited for the return of IT Boy. A week into using that computer, it stopped running the accounting software. Of course, everybody blamed Loathsome for the troubles.

IT Boy got back this past Monday and devoted three days to Loathsome's email. I understand that, as of yesterday afternoon, virtual memory has been restored and it's stopped shutting itself down or freezing up. I had correctly pinpointed the problem and I take some pride in the fact that IT Boy wasn't able to waltz in and fix the problem immediately.

Yesterday I invited my Crazy Land cohorts to join me for a belated birthday celebration/thank you party. Two days after issuing the invitation, I suddenly remembered that I've had several birthday parties when no one showed up. Yes, it was a sad, sad childhood. Nothing like setting yourself up to be hurt and disappointed...again.

Everyone but Golf Pro showed up, though, and I was able to thank everyone for helping me get through three years of breast cancer hell. It was actually better that Golf Pro was MIA. Everyone is even more furious at him than usual.

I'm so happy to have 15 minutes to keep track of what's going on, even if it's on a very minimal basis. I have to try to find a way to work this into my days, which continue to be far too busy. I'm inventive. I'll just put me on my daily schedule.

Loathsome, A Unique Brand of Distraction

This is the second day in a row that I've devoted almost entirely to Loathsome's computer. IT Boy is on his two-week honeymoon, which leaves us without any computer support.

Surprise. I am not IT Ggirl. Error message said not enough virtual memory. I created more virtual memory. I cleaned up the disk and eliminated hundreds of files. Then error message said Microsoft Outlook should be reinstalled because a .dll file is missing. I'm not reinstalling anything, Loathsome. It seems to me that there are systemic problems.

As I tried to understand and work through the many problems, Loathsome required a blow-by-blow explanation of what I was doing and why. Kill me, please. I might as well be speaking Swahili. Loathsome is relentless, as if by telling him, he might be prepared to deal with future problems himself. He's either deluded or he's trying to impress me with his commitment to grasping the workings of Microsoft Windows. Not impressed, as you might imagine.

Up side? Not much time to think about suicide. The baffling thing is that this year is so unbearably sad for me. I've spent at least the last five years being enraged at my father. Even aside from the suicide, I have plenty to be angry about. Most people have trouble understanding how I could have any emotional connection with him at all after he made my life a slow motion, eternal train wreck.

Again, the universe has offered up Loathsome as a distraction. I'm moderately happy to take it.

four days

Log On 60%

Mr. Moneybags called on the intercom to tell me he was going to shut the server down and reset it.

Two minutes later, someone knocked on my door. Guess who? Loathsome.

"What did your computer do this morning?"

"You mean what's it doing now?"

Loathsome looks confused now that I've posed that question. Try again.

"What's the problem with it?"

It was doing things he'd never seen before and wouldn't allow him to log on. I suggested that he wait a few minutes until Bags reset the server and try again.

"No, that's not it. I've already done that three times, " he said.

I tried to explain why he should try one more time. Sometimes Loathsome gets this look on his face that's part confusion, part frustration, part dumb suffering. If he were a horse, I'd shoot him to end his misery. Instead, I proceeded to his office. I restarted and it got stuck. We did this four times and finally I restartedt in safe mode. At least that way Loathsome could look at his email and surf the net for whatever hugely important tasks must be accomplished today.

I went back to my office and finished up some work on my computer, then went to make some copies in the foyer in our suite of offices. While I was copying, I noticed Loathsome's shadow like carrion ready to lunch on dead meat. Dead meat. That would be me.

"Did you get an email from me?"

I had no idea.

"I don't know. Why?"

"It's not working," he said. I was about to go back to his office when Moneybags appeared at the printer right next to the copier I was using. Bags told Loathsome to log on again.

"Huh?" The famous Loathsome response to everyone, generally repeated 3 times before you can move on to the next sentence.

Moneybags said, "Log on again. Log on again."

Loathsome looked at me like I was his life line. "All the way?"

No, I did not tell him to log on 60%, but you know I wanted to.


Nine days.

Reprieve

Owner came into my office yesterday morning and delivered a rambling recitation of the reasons why Crazy Land was being terminated with extreme prejudice. They were perfectly understandable in this rough and tumble economic environment. Unfortunately, at least some of the information upon which the decision was made was purely speculative. Rumors.

Furthermore, Owner's children were now going to face the brutal realities of making one's own way in the world. They still receive economic support even though they are in their mid to late twenties. So they need to get with that program in 24 hours? It seemed unlikely to me.

An emergency shareholders' meeting was called for 10:00 a.m. yesterday. Owner can't merely decide for himself whether to shut down the Land of Crazy. After five hours of discussion, they emerged with a renewed commitment to growing the Land.

So here we are, walking in quicksand just like every other business in the world. Sooner or later, the money hemorrhage will end if things don't improve. Most of the corporate employees were blissfully unaware of the looming joblessness sitting right outside their offices. As for me, I developed some action items and tried to come to terms with the prospect of no health insurance. Cancer patients aren't generally welcomed by insurers or, if they're invited into the fold, it comes with a price tag I certainly can't afford.

Having gotten a reprieve from the proverbial ax, I'm looking for a new Crazy Land in which to settle. Trust me, if it's an insane work environment, I will inevitably find it and be sucked in to a black hole of psychodrama and inefficiency. I've learned from history, but I feel certain that I'm nonetheless doomed to repeat it.

On the up side, new entertainment awaits.

Crazy Land Crumbles, Writer Goes Insane

That's me there on the left, standing in the wilderness, looking up to Heaven. Like everyone else on the planet, my financial plight looks very iffy.

Tomorrow morning, the Crazy Land stockholders are holding a meeting to decide the fate of the company. The good news is that I'll definitely be employed at the end of today. Tomorrow is anybody's guess.

This is where what I learned from breast cancer is shoring me up. Can I control any of this--the state of the world economy, the state of Crazy Land or my own financial future? Well, not particularly. If you can't control it, gotta let it go. I'm letting it go again and again. About every 15 minutes at this point.

In the meantime, I'm going about my business, filing workers' comp claims, updating databases, searching for unbilled expenses. What else can you do? It's difficult to stay motivated when it's entirely possible very little of my work will mean anything in 24 hours (give or take a few). Nonetheless, it's important to take care of my responsibilities until they're not mine anymore.

Loss. As I recently shared with a friend, it's been my big lesson for the past decade. I wish I could learn the truth behind it so life won't continue to slap me in the face with it. All I know is that you have to let go. What am I missing here?

A life of constant instability, conflict, lovelessness and loss--what am I to make of that? I don't even have a therapist to help me work through this. Okay, that's kinda funny. I guess the only thing to do is continue to open my heart to compassion and to pain--not just my own but for everyone who suffers or has or will. Finding humor always helps, so I have to hold on to that understanding, too. Other than that? Beats me.

Oh yeah...a postscript. The great things in my life. I live in a house. I have adequate food and clothing. I'm receiving medical care (at the moment). There are many people in my life who love me and many whom I love. I have an entertaining and brilliant (though not financially productive) husband. My mom is still with me and we're close friends. I have two great dogs. I am not going through chemo, nor am I looking at another surgery (again, fingers crossed). I am not in excessive pain. I can think. I can see. I can communicate. I have a sense of humor, even though it's rather dark and warped. All in all, I'm a very lucky woman.

Prayers, finger crossing, throwing salt over shoulder, saying a mantra...whatever you do, feel free to include me.

All Hell Inevitably Breaks Loose

Just a brief update today. There's even more madness than usual at Crazy Land. Our bank was bought out by Citigroup, thus flipping Owner out. One of our biggest clients is probably going to file for bankruptcy within the next several months. They owe us a huge amount of money. Both Bags and Owner believe that we'll never receive any of it and that will spell the end of Crazy Land. I'm attempting to maintain some shred of serenity.

This is where the gift of breast cancer really helps. The question to ask is, "Can I control anything in this situation?" If the answer is no, then I have to let go of worry and obsession. I had to ask myself that question about 20 times yesterday to regain my sanity. I did yoga when I got home and felt much better. I see a lot of yoga in my future.

On my own personal crazy front, my therapist and I will see each other once a month. As long as I have this job, I can afford that much at least. It's so incredibly predictable that all hell would break loose within days of being, essentially, on my own. On the other hand, as we all know, I can survive anything. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, though, whether that's such a good thing.

Tomorrow is the beginning of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I'll be posting breast cancer information all this month.

Do I Look Like An Accountant?

Do I look like an accountant to you? Okay, that's a rhetorical question since I've never posted a photo anywhere. The answer is, no I do not.

I spent virtually all day yesterday doing Bags' job. We need to cultivate new business and have an opportunity to work 0n a project in New York. The problem is, in order to do that, we have to know the potential costs to factor into billing rates. I did my part of the investigation--I found tax information and instructions on registering as a foreign corporation. I generally handle all of the activities required to get us going in a new state.

I attempted to give the tax rates to Bags, but he had no interest in pursuing it. I tried to give it to him twice. Owner decided I should give it to him. That set off a flurry of copying and highlighting and flagging. I have to tell you, I am incapable of understanding a lot of it, having never filed franchise taxes before. Again, not an accountant.

Meanwhile, the Superhighway decided to retrieve the mail from the post office and I was inundated with bills that have to be entered into the Famous Endless Database. Furthermore, Hemorrhoid Guy and I have been planning to change the purchase order process for one of our clients. That means I need to find out how to establish access privileges so Our Man On The Scene doesn't accidentally delete all of the records for the past year. Once they're gone, they are most definitely gone, unless he calls our IT Boy to recover the records. Do I trust him to do that? Well, no.

Finally, Owner decided it was imperative to get some specific information regarding a workers' comp accident that occurred two years ago. There have been lots of injured bodies under the bridge since then, so more scrambling about to compile the relevant data.

After that, home to do yoga and cook red snapper for dinner. I've been trying to finish a novel for the past three weeks, but after my day yesterday, I started to fall asleep at around 8:00 as I read.

Last rhetorical question: Do I look like a superwoman? I think you know the answer to that.

Contents of Tote Bag, For Catherine

I'm unable to escape my sadness, just as I'm unable to escape the paint fumes and the roar of a generator being used to power wash the outside walls of Crazy Land. If I felt like working, it would be a waste of time. The printer/copier was broken by the painters. We've been waiting a day and a half for someone to show up and fix it. I could be working on the ever-expanding database, but frankly, I'm simply not in the mood. Furthermore, I'm still off Ritalin and it's having a negative effect on my ability to concentrate.

As an alternative, I offer this: a review of the contents of my tote bag. A while back, my friend Catherine and I listed for each other the items we carry in our purses. Her inventory was spartan. Mine was a bit less so. I fudged a bit, though, choosing to not reveal the pile of (necessary) flotsam and jetsam I carry around in my enormous tote bag. In my defense, I never had a tote bag before the long days at M.D. Anderson.

Catherine, here's what I lug around with me every day. I hope it makes you laugh a little.

*My breakfast and lunch: two granola bars (the healthy kind), a small piece of cheese, an apple, yogurt and V-8 juice (these last two generally dropped off at the downstairs refrigerator).

*An EpiPen, in case I get stung by another wasp and have an anaphylactic event.

*Tissues.

*A hair brush.

*A small emergency sewing kit.

*A small emergency manicure kit with nail clippers, tweezers, two nail files and a tiny pair of scissors.

*Hand cream.

*A little notebook, presumably there in case I lose my all-important bigger notebook I carry in my purse. You never know when, in a crunch, you won't be able to get to the notebook in the purse and be unable to record some critical information.

*Glasses case. Sometimes I have to take my contacts out. Yes, I also carry a contact lens case.

*A Tide-to-go pen. Again, emergencies abound.

*Band-Aids. I dropped those in the tote bag before I developed my severe allergies to all adhesives. (Note the extra critical nature of the EpiPen in case I forget and slap one on my body.)

*A lint brush. I have two fuzzy dogs. A couple of years ago, I decided that maybe it's not such a good thing to be cavalier about carrying hair remnants on my person all the time. I always thought of the hair as reminders of the creatures I love. Turns out no one else sees it that way.

*Antibacterial moist wipes.

*Post It notes. I have no idea why.

*A large bottle of Accetamine. Very necessary after surgery when you've run out of prescription pain medication.

*A couple of small packages of crackers. Another M.D. Anderson necessity. Ditto the chewing gum.

For my upcoming marathon visit to M.D. Anderson, I will probably add a book and my mp3 player. I don't know why I'll take the book; I can never concentrate enough to read. That knowledge won't stop me from taking one, though. I can always listen to music.

Turns out the list was quite revelatory. I'm clearly constantly in crisis mode. That realization doesn't alter the humor of taking my entire house with me wherever I go. Or at least the medicine cabinet. So laugh with me, Catherine. And love to you.

Death by Paint Fumes

We're having the reception areas painted in both suites of offices. This is the second day of the project and they're working on the hallway outside my office. I have my doors closed, but the paint fumes are killing me. My eyes are watering, my throat is sore and my nose is running.

If all the craziness around here doesn't kill me, the paint fumes probably will.

Back Again

But does anyone care?

I'm still recovering from the revision of the revision of the reconstruction. I developed an allergy to all of the adhesives they used to tape me back together. Blisters formed under all of the tapes and when I removed it, the tape took the top of the blisters off. I've now discovered a new type of pain. It was actually more painful than the surgery itself. I'm better now, back at work, but you can still see the marks on my face and chest. Now the wounds themselves are the source of my pain.

Meanwhile, back in Crazy Land, accounting department still under siege. Bags and Superhighway furious. Owner even more furious. Golf Pro has been assigned new tasks. He's supposed to be writing reports of some kind. Even Superhighway doesn't have the full story on that. Or she's not sharing it. The latter option seems unlikely, though.

I'd planned to have a little thank-you party for Crazy Land staff to celebrate the final surgery. Everyone offered support and caring during my 3-year journey and I'm grateful. However, since hardly anyone is speaking to anyone else, I don't think it would be much fun. Verbal interaction seems limited to rage attacks. No cake for Crazy Land.

Next week, I'll be in Houston again. I have annual tests scheduled, one of which is with the beloved Dr. Ross. Thursday starts at 7:00 with blood work and ends in the evening. I'm mired in my usual anxiety. Nonetheless, it's better than Crazy Land.

When I've regained more of my energy and concentration levels, I'll fill you in on Crazy Land.

Loathsome Says It's Classy

The corporate office cost-saving meeting on Friday has the entire staff up in arms. We're all more than a little peeved that Owner chose not to mention Golf Pro's excessive entertainment expenditures, including $2k for college football season tickets.

Everyone has to give up something. Water coolers, a Bags and Highway fave, are going. Plant care services are being canceled. I'm upset about that because I know many of the plants will let die of neglect. When I come in every day, maybe I'll make the rounds to ensure all of them have been watered. No more matching contributions to our 401(k)s. No more birthday cakes. Owner is lucky a small riot didn't erupt when he issued that pronouncement.

After all of the haranguing, the high level of tension, the lay offs and one of our offices being shut down, we have now discovered that we've been making a substantial profit all along. We've even been making a profit at the Houston office. Bags has no interest in letting Owner know that. He rightly suspects that Owner would be even more infuriated than he is now.

On a lighter note, just as I was getting ready to leave on Friday, Loathsome buzzed me on the intercom.

"I brought you and Superhighway some basil from my garden."

"Oh, thank you for thinking of me, but you should let Superhighway have mine because I grew some basil this summer, too," I told him.

"But this is from my garden I put it in a little baggy."

Oh. Well, now that you put it that way, then absolutely bring that basil right on over to my office. It's bound to be superior to anything I could ever hope to grow. I gave up.

"Okay. Well, you need to bring it now because I'm getting ready to leave in exactly two minutes." I can always hope, you know. I was thinking maybe I could sprint out the door before he had a chance to hoist himself out of his chair.

It was a false hope, of course. In a couple of seconds, there he was, with two baggies filled with basil. I took one of them and thanked him ever so much. I stuffed it into my tote bag.

"Wait. Smell it," I glanced over at him and he had his nose buried in the other baggy. "This is such a classy smell."

I dug the bag out, dutifully opened it and sniffed, smiled and nodded in agreement. That is exactly the word I would have chosen. Classy. I don't know if it's classy because he grew it or if all basil is inherently classy. My former daughter-in-law used basil as perfume, though, so maybe I'm not sophisticated enough to make a judgment call here.

Finally, Superhighway told me to expect Repo Man to come by and work on his resume with me. So far, I haven't heard from him and she said he didn't mention it today. I may dodge that bullet, after all.

Thursday, I'll be in Houston for pre-op, then surgery on Monday. Compared to the way things have been going in Crazy Land, surgery seems like the lesser of two evils. I'm positively looking forward to it.

Trying Times

These are trying times. Every day is a test of whether the truths that awakened in me during treatment have been deeply assimilated. I need to embody strength, forgiveness and compassion. I must remember that all of the qualities by which I'm defined are ultimately meaningless. My treatment mantra: I am not my hair, I am not how I look, I am not my intellect, I am not my body.

How am I faring? Intermittently calm, but mostly very stressed. However, I have at least noticed anxiety when it's occurred. I've always had enormous difficulty in recognizing anxiety. During all of my formative years, anxiety was a relentless companion. Of course I never recognized it. Today, I can see it, if even just a little.

Sometimes I'm angry. I'm still mourning the loss of two of my daily friends from Crazy Land.

Fewer people means more encounters with Loathsome. And Golf Pro. And Bags.

Friday morning, we're having a cost-saving initiative meeting, called by Owner. Everyone is supposed to come up with five ideas to cut costs. Owner promises the meeting won't last more than an hour. In Crazy Land time, that will be somewhere around 3 hours, minimum.

I have to share the Loathsome Lexapro anecdote. Unfortunately, once again, I'm too tired for that.