aspiciat

a girl in her city, watching the sunset

Archive for the month “May, 2016”

Overslept. Or: having lunch at 18.30

I slept until 1pm. I ran errands in a hazy shade of summer, withstanding lines at 2 markets, forgetting to get something to cook for dinner. I’m so spaced out and groggy I don’t really even want coffee. I keep coming back to coloring my hair (again), having wine and spending the night reading and writing.
I have wild boar sausage, bone marrow, some chicken, a Portabello mushroom and kale. These will probably feed me ok.
 
Sleeping a lot isn’t my usual jam.
 
This morning, I had a text around 8a, the front of my brother’s car demolished by (he said) “D’oh! a deer”.  
(That caption is pure Brother.)
The last 150 miles of their trip done in the AAA tow truck. He reports they’re all OK, very very tired.
 
I wonder if I’m tired on his behalf.  Sometimes my brother and I carry each other, so maybe I’m worn out today on that account. It’s a weird thing I don’t really relate to many people. He and I still talk in a kind of shorthand (I think of it as a grown-up version of twinspeak), though we haven’t spent much time in each other’s company since the early 90s. Maybe as long ago as 1991. (He shared an apartment with 3 other guys our last year or so of high school.) But, there’s no regrets about not seeing him. We stretch our own ways, and when we’re together, we know the other is the only person who has been around exactly as long. (ok, really, he’s exactly one minute behind me).
He and I got our college/university degrees in things similar-but-different.  Also, I went to a state school and he went private.
He and I both work in tech now, in similar-but-different capacities.
He’s been married 16 yrs; I was married half my life and divorced twice before I was 37.
He and I aren’t best friends. But we’re not jealous of that.  There’s no possession except that which is actually indicated: my brother.
Here’s a hard thing I don’t much talk about:
In my last marriage, I wasn’t allowed to use personal possessives: my, mine, our, ours. I said “the” a lot to avoid ascribing to my 2nd ex-husband possession of anything that wasn’t actually his.
Four and a half years out of that, I’m still twisted up about the word “my.”  It’s not entirely bad, since I don’t habitually linguistically posses shit that’s not mine (such as “my project”), but if there’s any relationship I’m happy to rightfully claim, it’s my twin-hood.
I don’t know if there’s any point to this, really.
There’s nagging thoughts:  a bad car accident of my own; losing my laptop and bus pass.  Having only cheese to eat.
I’m advised “do not worry” about the nearness of rent due; I still field messages stating I demonstrated strength in leaving the job.
I’m not worried so much as the control freak in me wants to know what the ever loving fuck is next.   I’ve stalled on getting rid of everything, selling what I can and fitting the necessities in a backpack.  I’d need a backpack, for starters.
So, tonight, I’ll meditate on gratitude: my brother and his family are just exhausted and kind of sore.
Tonight I’ll weave some words together into a few new essays.  Tonight, I’ll color my hair steel grey.  Tonight, I’ll feast on whatever I can manage to make.
 Tonight
(and every night)
I have nothing to regret.
I have no use for shame.

On Loyalty – Pro Edition

In September or October of 2013, I averred to my Chief that I couldn’t be counted on to work at the same company if I did not work in IT or for him.

It was a significantly political statement.  I knew it, meant it.  It was all somewhat topsy.

And then, the politics went pretty quiet.  But it’s corporate, these things ebb and flow.  In the midst of some such flows, I lost my project management crew mate.  The last six months, projects have been largely me and the Chief.

Then last week it’s all gone pete tong.  Suddenly, Tuesday afternoon the Chief was leaving; was gone.

I found I reported – not to anybody in IT – but to a person who I could not find less appealing in intellect or posture. Someone I  could not have less respect for as a project manager (she had zero experience as such prior to coming aboard to manage the C.O.O’s PMO); a person who knew I was aware of how much she viscerally and actively despised the C.I.O. and those who reported to him.

A person who takes personally things that have never happened to her personally.   Takes them very personally.

I’m ranting a bit.  Fuck it.  This is my blog.  And right now, I report to no one.

Anyway. I digress.
In keeping with my fondness for naval themes, I’ll call her The S.S.PMO.

The S.S.PMO was painfully-obviously uncomfortable in the first meeting she took with me as her report.  She wasn’t at all in charge.  It was a fantastic act.   She looked stoned; stunned-stupid.

She’s not stupid. She’s not that bright, either.  She is a beaten dog.  She can’t dare twitch her ears or the end of her tail without the express permission of her very-endeared C.O.O.

I did not fully understand this until the next morning. I received an eviscerating message from the S.S.PMO as I had not sought her approval for an email I sent to some department somebody relating something she had declared (declared!) was not a priority. Apparently, I mistakenly thought I could send an un-approved-of-email like some – FUCK THIS ALREADY.

As stated in my letter of resignation: I have more than a decade of experience in IT Project Management. I’m fully qualified to write and send email.

Really, I have no desire to professionally survive essentially the same scenario as my second marriage. I do not care to walk on eggshells.  I do not want to second-guess everything I know.  

I know a fair bit.

I know this: that C.O.O. and her Gaslight Crew can get fucked.  That’s it. It’s terribly vulgar, and I mean it, too.  It’s a really good mouthfeel phrase: “Get. Fucked.”

So, yes, you read that correctly: I resigned.  Late Friday evening, I had sobbed and vomited enough in the previous 3 days to realize that I wasn’t OK and it wasn’t about how thick is my skin.  This was not going to work out.

The body remembers, and mine was hell-bent on making it known.  I didn’t care or need to wait around for it to be plainer. Nor for anybody else’s validation.

Understandably, this might seem something like blindly abiding my chief.  It might seem like I left a stable (however moderately-paying) gig because of that loyalty.

It’s not.  

The Chief will always have my respect, admiration, affection; I’m happy for this.  But the politics be damned: I saved myself from the morass for myself.

My love is the Pax Oceana.  My heart belongs to the City of Angels.

My loyalty is to the girl I sleep with every night.  The lady with whom I wake up, the reason I make and eat good food and drink plenty of water.  The best homemaker, to whom I’ve pledged to be the best sugardaddy.

As ferocious as it might be, such loyalty serves me first. It’s no good to anyone else otherwise.

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