The Yeti Report

I blew past all kinds of speed limits to get to Dr. Yeti's office on time today. And when I got there, I found that my appointment, scheduled for 12:15, was going to have to wait. Because the person who had an appointment at 10:30 was still waiting.

At 1:15, I called the temp agency and spoke to Miss Thang, who placed me at Tontines 'R' Us.

Me: I'm at a dr's appt and it looks like I won't be seen for another hour.
Miss Thang: Oh? Do you realize if you stay longer than you scheduled, that will be your third incident?
Me: My third incident in two months?
Miss Thang, with a decidedly snooty air about her: That's right. And on the third one, the employer really begins to doubt your...interest.
Me: Well. I'll head on back to the office, then.

If anyone ever sounded smug about hanging up the phone, she did.

So I actually saw Dr. Yeti as he walked patients out to the overcrowded and overheated lobby. But no diagnosis. ("Your sinuses are messed up. Next!")

As I high-tailed it back to the office, I thought about the last couple of days and I realized that I have been living in La-La Land. I haven't been working nearly as hard as I should have been.

Geraldine was right to check on me.

We had a come-to-Jesus meeting. I was already there.

My head may be congested, but it is still on my shoulders.

A Madness in My Method

I've been me and worked with myself long enough to know how I roll.

Like the stages of grief to acceptance, I have my own way of doing things. I wish I had Visio on this PC. I'd draw you a picture. It's not a real process unless it has a flowchart.

Anyway, here's how it works:

Step 1. I am handed a new project. I am overjoyed. Here at last is the project for which I was made. My mother labored in a delivery room 54 years ago just for this specific moment.

Step 2. Boldly, I dive into the new project. I feel like I'm in a David Hockney painting because everything is so clear, no shadows, so linear, no toxic heaps on the floor. I swim flawlessly for 25% of the time. Then...

Step 3. I submit my work thus far for approval. Any confidence I had on steps 1 and 2 has by now disintegrated into jitters and the inability to look the project in the eye while I know my superiors are reviewing my work. I imagine them burying their heads in their hands, saying, "I'm not gonna tell her. You tell her. I know she was really counting on this, but for crying out loud, can't she even write a simple Whatever?"

Depending on my mood, the alternative is Ralphie Parker's fantasy in "A Christmas Story" when he hands in his "What I Want for Christmas" essay. The teacher is in such ecstasies that she writes "A+ + + + + +" all around the room.

Either scenario results in my hiding my head and playing Bejeweled 2 obsessively.

Step 4. I finally trank myself down enough to ask the question that seldom fails:

I don't know what to do next but if I did, I would ___________

Usually, it's simple to fill in the blank, even when I'm waiting for feedback.

I realize right now I'm operating in what feels like a vacuum to me and that does nothing to quell my nervousness.

Step 5. Accept that no answer will be immediately forthcoming and get to work. I realize that I may be leading myself down my own primrose path, but eh, it's something to do.

Step 6. Receive feedback. There are three possible scenarios here.

Scenario 1: They love me! They love me and think every word I write, including if, and, and the, is a perfect shrine to Strunk & White. Carry on, carry on!

Scenario 2: They hate me. I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. The document is covered with so many corrections that it looks like it's bleeding. I hang my head in despair and wait for the axe to fall.

Scenario 3: They think it's good but it needs some work. Could I finish up with the task matrices?

This whole business will be repeated until, um, it ends.

My Face as Emoticon

I worked at St. Fatty's Fair the other night. Six and a half hours next to five gallons of boiling hot oil in an industrial size deep fryer.

There were a couple of other people at the pizza stand with me. (Yes, the pizza dough was fried, then sprinkled with sugar or laden with sauce and Parmesan.) There was Dave, a retired UPS guy who seemed more interested in schmoozing than actually doing real work. And there was Dee, a nurse practitioner at a local medical group.

I was assigned / volunteered to take the money, then finish off said pizza with choice of topping. This I did for about two and a half hours. When a customer ordered, over the din, in my best "Yes, chef!" voice, I would shout "I need one with sauce, please!"

I made a point of smiling. Maybe it looked phony, I don't know. But I was pleased with myself. It had to be 100 degrees in the tent, in the 90 degree day, with 80% humidity, and I didn't melt, nor did I melt down.

And I was having fun. I know it's weird, but I was. I liked the carnival atmosphere, I loved seeing the families out for an evening. I was truly enjoying myself.

Three hours into it, after Dee had her dinner break, I went on mine. I had pierogies and realized with some sadness that I will never have pierogies as good as Annushka's. It's been a year since the big break and neither side has contacted the other. That's pretty final to me.

When I came back, there was a lull for about ten minutes, so I sat down and Dave sat opposite me.

He grinned. "I can see you as a school teacher."

I was horrified. "Me? A teacher? I don't even like most children."

"Naw, naw. I mean - " he made a gesture, a flick of the wrist. "I mean cracking that whip. Keeping 'em in line, you know."

I was still horrified. It was delivered without a lot of subtlety, but the translation I got was that I was being wildly overbearing in the worst possible Gordon Ramsay way.

With that arrow hitting the mark, Dave walked away. I sat, stunned, and Dee began taking orders and handling the money. I moved over to put sauce on the pizzas and generously sprinkle them with Parmesan.

"What's the matter," Dee asked. "You want to come back and count the money? You look so sad and disappointed."

Disappointed? Over not counting money? I didn't think so, although I have to admit, I liked the feeling (obviously bogus) of flow that had been with me earlier.

When closing time came, I left. I'm not working the Fair again and I'm just as glad.

Last night, I had a dream that I, full grown, was standing behind my mother where she worked. She looked like she did in the early 1970s. She was typing away - she could type 120 words per minute with her little hands. Her back was toward me.

"Mom," I said. "Mom? Why didn't you teach me how to be normal?"

She didn't look back but I could tell she heard me.

"At least let me learn how to blend in? To do what people expect of me? Why didn't you teach me that?"

Again, she would not turn around although in my dream, I know she heard me. What would have been the beginning of a brawl in real life was given the cold shoulder in my dreams. Maybe it's better that way.

She couldn't be bothered.

And while waking, I know that once you hit, say, 21, the statute of limitations on what our parents do to us should run out, I think it's too late to correct this damage. I've tried a number of times and it comes off as fake or phony. My face outs me, as Graphics Gary told me, too. The face that never lies. The face that shows scorn, sarcasm, disbelief, irony and for far too many years, no love.

In Which the New York Times Prints News That Isn't News

Yesterday, the Times ran a story about people who had been laid off and never managed to get back to the place they were before the layoff.

Guess what? Most people who have been laid off never make it back to where they were.

I know this. I feel this acutely.

Hop in the Wayback Machine.

1989 - I am working for Mighty Citadel and work my way up to a salary of 3x. I've saved money and decide that now is the time to try writing full time.
1990 - Income: $0.
1991 - Income: $0.
1992 - Income: $240. I sold two short stories to Alfred Hitchock and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazines.
1993 - Income: $350. Alfred and Ellery to the rescue again.
1994 - Income: $0. Xman and I moved back to Jersey.
1995 - I go back to Mighty Citadel as a contractor. Income: 2x.
1997 - Evil Empire hires me. Income: 3x.
1999 - Xman and I go our separate ways.
2002 - At Evil Empire, I work second and third shifts and overtime. Income: 4x.
2002 - Evil Empire lays me off.
2003 - Income: $0, not including unemployment.
2004 - I temp at Big Insurance Co and Mighty Citadel. My first gig is for $9 / hr. Eventually I work my way up to 1x.
2004 - I get a job at Fezziwig Co. Income: 2x.
2005 - Laid off by Fezziwig Co. Go back to contracting at Mighty Citadel. I start at $18 / hr and work myself up to 2 1/2 x.
2006 - I get hired by Unnamed Co. Income: 3x.
2008 - I get laid off by Unnamed Co after reaching an income of 3 1/2 x.
2009 - Income: $0.

Now I see, too late no doubt, the cost of this. It's taken some time to realize the impact. Not only did I lose salary, but I decimated my savings not once but three times, wasn't able to build on a pension and wasn't able to contribute to 401Ks in most of that time. Whenever I could, I did.

Will I ever be able to hit 4x again? One hopes but one has one's doubts.

The Times got comments on the story. One commenter said he was now making less than half of his salary but "we learned to live differently. No cable tv, no week long vacations to exotic places." And he continued along in this vein and everything he said was familiar to me.

I'm still working on finding a job, of course. I heard from a temp agency that might have something for me - at 1 1/2 x. On my way up at Mighty Citadel in the 1980s, my starting salary was 1 1/2 x. In 1983.

Of course, I can't give up. But I know I have a lot less energy compared to 1983. Or even 2004. Hope has turned to wistfulness. I know better now.

An Inauspicious Start to the Week

Run, run, run, run awayyyy

It's been a long time since I've had any escape fantasies. For a long time, it was a Holden Caulfield-ish fantasy of being a mute waitress in the Coalville, Utah's sole restaurant.

Next came the t-shirt fantasy. There were some extremely cool t-shirt shops in St. Augustine, FL when I visited there many years ago. I had a fantasy of working in the t-shirt shop along the colonnaded walkway. I would rent a little house or apartment and ride my bike to work every day. My sustenance would consist of one meal a day, bought at a cheap diner, where presumably the waitresses were not mute. My apartment would be bare as a nun's cell and about as active. That was it, all day. Ride bike to work. Work, selling and making t-shirts (I have exhibited exactly zero talent at either), and riding my bike back home again.

Well, an escape fantasy came to me this morning. I don't deal with the details of what I leave behind. It's all shrouded in a mist, because the whole purpose of an escape fantasy allows no room for concern over things past.

This fantasy is to go to someplace like Columbus, Ohio or Charlottesville, Virginia where I would roll into town in the Becsmobile, find a charming empty storefront, and poof! There would appear my version of Shakespeare & Co. I would grow my hair and stop dyeing it. In a few years, it would be a shining white braid down my back. I would wear basic comfy clothes, just barely stopping short of being one of the Birkenstock Brigade. My shop would be clean and cozily lit - well enough so that old eyes can see the titles. There might be a fireplace or a faux fireplace. There would be a cat to live in the shop. I would live in a one-bedroom apartment above a florist's shop. (Hey - it's my fantasy. I can be as specific as I want.) I would occasionally have favorite customers over for dinner and when a special author came by on book tours, a reception for him / her.

That's it. And that's where I hang my sanity this morning.

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Disaster! Mayhem!

The blessed Heated Mattress Pad blinked an error code at me this morning. "FF!" it said. "FF!" I actually have a manual for the HMP and it says I need to check the connection (check), unplug the HMP (check) and then visually examine every square inch of the HMP (negatory. Maybe tonight.)

If it's dead for sure, I'll buy a heated throw and put that on the bed only when I am in the bed. I have a feeling one of the kitties (Dylan) was probably stretching (Dylan) with his claws out (Dylan) and snagged one of the wires.

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And furthermore...

My hypochondria has kicked in and I found two skin lesion on my left arm. Time to make an appointment with the dermatologist to find out if I have a rogue mole.

The kitchen clock isn't working. $1.99 from IKEA nine years ago. Hmmm... I sit in the living room every morning and write down the lastest adventures in my oh-so-exciting life and keep an eye on the time by that clock. Dang.

I think Fred's back in the office today, which scares the crap out of me since I've done bugger all in the weeks he's been gone.

There are two convention halls in central Jersey. I decided at the last minute to go to the home show. I completely forgot about Hall A and instead went to Hall B, where the Sugarloaf crafts fair was going on.

Instead, I came home by way of South Bluecollar, which has a real butcher's shop. It was open. When I went in, still in search of fillet mignon, I was astounded when Joe the Butcher told me he was completely out. "I don't know what happened," he said. "It was crazy in here yesterday and everybody wanted fillet." He sold me a New York strip. I had it for dinner last night. Poor baby. It just wasn't the same.

I realized this morning that the last time I had a vacation was...was...November, 2006. I mean real vacation, splashy vacation. I know I must have done something last year, but at the moment, I can't think of what it was. I need to do something, now, even if it's just a week at home cleaning Ma Maisonette so I don't have these frustrating escape fantasies any more.

I know I am not likely to get a real vacation for some time to come. Although lately, a seductive voice has been whispering to me, what about Paris next March? With your tax return money...Paris...Paris...

How can I hate my job when I should be very freaking grateful to have it?

How many clonazepam am I going to have to take to get through this day? Somebody start a pool. I'm saying two.

Gracie Again

She's very sick. She's hiding under the bed in the basement. I can't coax her out.

Earlier in the day, she was yelling in the kitchen for something, anything. I am out of ideas.

Everyone had a little cold earlier in the week. And in the space of the week, Gracie lost every ounce she put back on since her previous trip to the vet.

I gave her medicine for a couple of days. She got stronger and got away from me.

Now she creeps deeper into the back corner of the bed.

I don't know what to do. I do know that I cannot, I truly cannot spend another thousand dollars on a cat who is so delicate.

Considering that I'm getting ready for a bathroom remodel (all going on my Visa, which is now quite hefty, thank you), this sounds callous, that I'm not even going to try to take the cat to the vet again.

I keep thinking of Polly, whose last illness sucked up the last money I had, only to be told by the emergency vet that there was no saving her. Her diabetes was out of control.

I don't know what to do. I truly don't know. I took Butch to the vet today. Butchy's been peeing all over the place, in copious amounts and drinking and eating as if there would be no food or water left in the world if he didn't nail it. Hunky Vet cut me a huge break by not charging me for the ultrasound. Butchy remains a cat of mystery. He's not diabetic. He's not in kidney failure or liver failure or heart failure. $200 to be told my cat is healthy.

$1000 more to save a cat who can't be saved?

I can't do it. I just can't do it. And I hate myself for it.