Category: Complaining

Taking the Trouble

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Reconstruct

I learned a valuable lesson today. You have to take the trouble to be the trouble. Originally, I wanted to think I had all the answers. I came armed with what I considered reasonable solutions, reasonable requests. Instead I was met with words like “not strict enough” and “doormat” and “fantasy land.” It was hard to believe I was being described in this way, especially after the month I’ve had (or thought I’d been having).

I’m not fierce enough. This isn’t a popularity contest. No one should like their boss. Not one that should be respected anyway. I let people make the same mistakes a billion and one times, and if I include today, a billion and two. How do I say You Can’t Communicate in any other way? “There has to be a penalty for the mistakes” I was told. Okay.
I’m not diligent enough. I don’t watch the clock and add up the minutes. I don’t pay close enough attention to the comings and goings, the called out, come in lates. You can be late a dozen times on my lax watch. “There has to be a penalty for tardiness” I was told. Okay. Okay.
I don’t hold my cards “close enough to the vest” as they- no, as she said. I need to learn phrases like “when it concerns you I’ll let you know.” I need to recognize situations; situations that cost money like when people waste time wondering about something that has nothing to do with the responsibility. I need to re-prioritize people. Reorganize people. Re-everything. Okay, okay, okay!

So, I took a crash course in management. I took criticism on the chin. It made me stronger. It made me think clearer. It made going back to the office to work on the dreaded schedule a whole lot easier. I didn’t try to juggle the birthdays as closely; didn’t try to dodge the anniversaries; didn’t cave in whimsical requests. Like it or lump it I changed things up for the better. Finally. Finally, I’m taking the trouble to be the trouble. I like a challenge. I like confrontation and I like change. So, I changed me. When I handed the whole schedule – all 12 months of it- off to a trusted coworker I felt justified in my reasonings. It was a relief to let it go.

then I went home.

Mums the Word

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Dear You,

I haven’t known how to write this letter. I haven’t known exactly what to say. It wouldn’t really matter because, knowing me, once it was all said and written I wouldn’t have sent it anyway. Excuse the grammar but it’s true. You wouldn’t have gotten whatever it was that I wanted to say, in more ways than one. Instead, I am tempted to be like a politician and say what you want to hear all the while not really saying anything at all. This is how we get along best, am I right? I don’t tell you what I really feel and you don’t spill anything worth a thing either way. Polite as polite can be except with a bite of caustic. That’s us.

You told a story over a meal and I wanted to throw up. What you didn’t say was so telling. What you meant was so obvious it made my stomach roll. I realize I have always been the stronger one. There was never a need to protect me. I acted like nothing could pierce my armor or hurt my pride. My heart was unbreakable and my soul, unreachable. Cold as an Ice Queen in the heart of January. I accept that image. I am comfortable with the chill of uncaring. But, here I am, waiting. I wait for glass half full comments; signs of compliment. They never come. Condescending, accusing, critical, not a single good thing to say. With each utterance I slide away. Closing myself off from wanting to be anywhere near your mouth. If you don’t have anything nice to say…. I played a game in my head. For every criticism it’s one less month here. When I got to three years I gave up knowing I could never stick to my story and stay away for that long. There are too many other things I would miss. Even you. Eventually. I don’t care that I’m not worth worrying about. I don’t care that I’ve never been a cause for real concern. Blame it on the drugs. Blame it on the maladjustment period (or whatever they call it these days). Blame it on the rain. I don’t care.

So, I didn’t say what I really wanted to say. Mums the word.

But I feel better.

You Are My Sunshine

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There comes a time when you have to let down your guard. Relax. You have to give up the devices that keep you from being your true self, such as you really are. Really. There comes a time when I can no longer understand you as you think you are. I cannot pretend. Yes, you with the ego so fragile you have to come across as bragging and boisterous. I really do not understand your lack of humility or modesty. Is it a game?Why do you have to let everyone know you think you are the greatest? Do you need to yell to drown out the doubting voices in your head? Always looking to make sure you were heard, you were noticed. Looking for the compliment, begging for the praise. What a good dog. Please don’t. I’m begging you. Don’t. Your constant jokes. Your constant need to be smart. Pathetic. Please relax. You are loved the way you are. Really.

Talking to Myself Again

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I am very used to talking to myself while driving; having full conversations while cooking alone; debating the issues with me and moi in the shower. It’s all been said before – to myself. What I’m not used to is talking to myself when I *think* someone else is supposed to be listening; getting the message, and responding. It’s been happening a lot and I think it’s driving me crazy.

The first time was when I was on the phone with mum. Blah blah blah. We can talk for hours. That’s my fault. I call once a month or less. We have a lot of catching up to do. The last time I was going on and on about something – not important because even I can’t remember what it was – when all of a sudden my mother is asking hello? hello? like I had hung up on her. How long had I been blathering? More importantly, how long had I been talking to myself? How much did she didn’t get? Sighing and ignoring my husband’s bemused look with raised eyebrow, I started from the beginning.

Then there’s the small incident with texting. I was deep in conversation when all of a sudden I noticed my last three texts had gone unanswered. Was I texting to myself? Was I a disconnected dork? Feeling a little put out I shut off my phone and buried it under a bag.

Most recently there was FaceBook. I have to admit I think there is a conspiracy afoot. FB and Google have me good. My problem is I am too rushed to notice if my email is a Facebook message or a real, honest-to-goodness email. Lately, I am assuming the latter and write back these big long, dramatic, here’s everything that has been going on with me emails. I pour out my trials and tribulations leaving no detail untyped. With great satisfaction and a feeling of connectedness I click send on my communication….only to have message delivery failure message pop up because the message I thought I was responding to wasn’t actually an email.

I don’t think there is a moral to the story. I don’t think there is a cure for what ails me. I will always talk to myself in some fashion. Waiting for someone to respond is just part of the game, I guess. In the meantime, I guess I should log onto FaceBook and answer some messages or walls or whatever!

The Bug and the Butt

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I have a bug up my azz. I will admit it. I won’t sugarcoat it. I won’t play nice. If you read my “about me” page you know you have been forewarned, I won’t shirk from the truth as I see it. This truth is about work ethic and being an adult and having a little consideration. Bottom line: the fact that some people do not understand the word “responsibility” is the current bug making a beeline up my behind.

To the people who consistently refuse to go above and beyond: Your work ethic sux. You do the bare minimum of work and then have the gaul to ask, “what’s in it for me?” You watch the clock like it owes you something. Like it would kill you to work two minutes over your eight hour shift. I have a strong desire to put you on a time clock to see just how many hours a week you do work. For real.

To the people who don’t understand the word busy. You spend all day on the computer. You write 100 emails and get mad at me when I can’t answer every single one directed at me. Chill out. Despite the fact I don’t have children, I do consider myself in a family. I have two jobs. I love my friends but I’m a loner by nature. I don’t need your “Are You Dead?” emails to remind me that I haven’t answer the last 50 messages you sent.

I could go on, but I won’t. Obviously I am having some issues with people wanting too much from me right now. No. I take that back. They don’t understand what it means to negotiate life. Someone calls out sick – someone else has to cover the shift. Plans change. I can’t stop cancer from taking the people I love so I’m not going to bitch about their “bad timing” of a relapse. Remission is just another word for wait. Life is one big swirling mess and I just pray to the powers that be that people chill out. Give me a break.

Going the Wrong Way

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Clown car
Clown car

I got a ticket. A fukcing parking ticket. Only my third in my entire life. Only the second one that was actually my fault. Ironically, the two tickets that mattered were for the exact same thing: parking in the wrong direction. Go figure. Leave it to me to park in the wrong direction. I’m irritated. But, before I spit and spew and rant about the this newest ticket, let me take you on a parking ticket detour. Better yet, I’ll give you my whole freakin’ driving history and then maybe my irate manner will make more sense.

I didn’t get my license until I was 25. Don’t laugh. I didn’t need it. I got around just fine with the help of extremely cute boyfriends, generous girlfriends and the strength of my own two legs. When I got a license (finally) I proceded to be the model driver (according to the DMV). They didn’t know about the time I somehow got my Cutlass Cierra Clown Car stuck on the doorframe of my garage…or the time I crashed into a curb going 15 miles an hour with three sleepy passengers. Or the time I killed a frog. Splat.
My first recordable offense was parking the wrong way. A $35 fine in Morristown, New Jersey. I’ll never forget it. A friend was in town and we were going to see a movie. Cruising down a side street, looking for a parking spot I saw one on the other side. What would you do? I pulled a u-turn and parked. No big deal, right? Wrong. It was a one way street.
My second offense was a warning. A cop caught me pulling another u-turn. Illegally. This time in Chicopee, MA. I was horribly lost and horribly late to meet my rigid, watch-watching, pain in the azz, control freak boyfriend. Through tears and sobs I woefully explained my carelessness and lateness and lostness to the cop. He took pity on me and let me off with a warning. What I could have really used were directions. You know, one of those police escorts with lights? When I finally got myself home aforementioned boyfriend wouldn’t speak to me for nearly a day. Brat.
My third offense was a doozy. Accused of blowing a red light. I won’t get into it, but suffice it to say I crawled through a green-yellow-then red light, only to be pulled over. I fought the ticket and was found not accountable. So there!
My fourth offense (and second ever parking ticket) wasn’t my fault. Same schmuck of a boytoy borrowed my car, got drunk, got a ride home and got me a ticket.

Which brings me to my latest offense. Parking in front of my own house. Going the wrong way. $10. Seeing as how I’ve worn myself out ranting about the other offenses all I have to say about this one is: In the grand scheme of things is that really necessary?

Stalkerish

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Dust sticks to wet paint
Doesn

I was perusing someone’s photos the other day when I got that eerie feeling they were a bit stalkerish. You know, that ‘Wow, that is really intrusive’ feeling. My only problem was I couldn’t pinpoint why I felt that way. I was enjoying the photographs until I got to a certain one that seemed to go overboard, get too close. The next one was more of the same and so I stopped looking – turned away from the discomfort I was feeling. I don’t think I’ll go back.

My experience with the photos got me thinking about home and the levels of intrusiveness I felt there. Early in our vacation Kisa, the boys and I were hiking the island. We stopped to catch our breath at a very popular landmark, and to enjoy the view. Of course there were tourists on every side and their conversations were easily overheard. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to live out here,” one woman exclaimed. “All these people walking through their back yards.” I snickered and Kisa cast a knowing smile. For years he has been hearing my gripes about tourists taking advantage of such an unusual place. They walk across private porches, set up easels in the middle of the only road, have lunch in obvious backyards, let their dogs dump in vegetable gardens. This attititude of I can do anything while I’m on vacation has been long debated. I’m not bringing up anything new. But, it made me wonder – what makes separates fan from fanatic, tourist from terrible?
In the picture above a woman has set up her easel on the dock. Look for the hat by the door of the silver truck. This dock is where 3-5 trucks converge to pick up island supplies, luggage, etc. It’s a more that busy, hectic place. In the bigger picture another woman has set up her easel in the shadowed portion of the road. Not only that but she has chosen a dangerous corner where she isn’t all that visible. She and the woman on the dock are lucky they didn’t get sideswiped!

Got to Admit

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I have got to admit I’m going crazy. Everything around me is making me madly nuts. But, I’ve also got to admit I have no idea why. I’ve seen promos for some new show about a guy who is actually two different people and I’m convinced that’s my problem.

Take this stupid wedding favor I received at the dreaded Hell Has A Name wedding. It’s a blue crystal and silver rose in a clear crystal pot. There is a part of my that despises this knicknackytacky trinket. It’s only 1 1/2″ high so it’s not in my way, yet there is a part of me that doesn’t know what to do with it. But, there is this part of me that has to do something with it all the same. On this side of my brain it needs to have a purpose, a reason for being in my space. Instead, it just sits there looking remotely pretty.

Then, there’s the other me. I think back to how the bubbly bride hunkered down beside my table and explained the gift to me. Earnestly looking into my eyes she said it came from her country (and everything) and was veryvery special. While she didn’t elaborate on what made it special she had tears in her eyes. There was no way I was going to doubt her sincerity. I predicted I would love it, promised I would keep it. I did all this sight unseen (it was in a box I didn’t open until I got home). Then, I think back to my own wedding and how I hand cut tags for our ticky-tacky bells, an explanation of “why a bell?” in each one. I glowed at the thought of honoring my father, gleamed at the idea of passing on some history lesson (I was a reference librarian after all). I was proud of the bells and hoped people would cherish them in some way. Mom has them hanging on her baker’s rack in the kitchen, but she has bias. Really, I have got to admit they were just as tacky as the rose I am contemplating now.

So, back to the rose. What to do with this thing? The sweet side of me says why do anything? It’s sitting on a window sill, minding its own business while the sour side of me wants it gone, gone, gone. Truthfully, I’ve got to admit I don’t think this pushme-pullme attitude has anything to do with the rose on my window sill…

Have This Time

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IMG_3586

I am trying really hard to not always write about the negative. It comes out so dramatic and unfailingly stupid. Except, it’s really hard to write about anything else when the sole purpose of the write is the rant. The negative is what got me here in the first place. Back in the day I would crawl around the rooms in my mind and pick out the crap that bugged me the lost. Writing was like opening a window and chucking the worst offenders out. While most of the stuff found a way to crawl back in, some of it was banished forever. If only one out of twenty crapoids disappears for good then mission accomplished I say.
Here’s the reality of my existence: I am dramatic. I am sensitive to the world around me and hypersensitive to how it treats me. When my mother tells me I’m not ready to handle a house (and maybe should get a condo instead) it hurts my feelings. How much of a failure after 40 can I feel? A lot. When people joke that my near-two nephew “didn’t kill me” I get nasty. It’s almost like these people still see me as 16 or something. I tend to shut down and shut out. Okay, so I won’t share the house-hunting antics with those who naysay. So, I won’t mention how my nephew made my heart fall out when he balanced himself on the edge of a 15 foot drop.
So. Those are my negative notions – the things I need to toss out of the attic. Will they find an open window in the basement? How soon will they crawl back into my head? I don’t know. Guess it’s up to me to secure the house. For now, I have. This time.

Sorry for That

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You are an azzhole. Royal sh!tface fukc-up.

There. Got that out of my system. I feel better. Much. To my friends: sorry for that outburst. But, to the person I am swearing about:
I am sorry that you don’t have an original thought in your pee sized brain. I pity you and your need to take MY words and use them for your weak-azz porn site. Obviously you can’t string two sentences together so you have to steal other people’s intellence to pass it off as your own.  Your slutty picture just adds to the offense. You say you have a blog. I say you have a sh!t filled bog. I’m just sorry my words had to end up there.

Fukc you.

Nice Guys Never

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Power Hungry

I think I’ve said it a billion and one times. Today makes a billion and two. I always root for the underdog. That doesn’t mean I like the self-professed Homer/Family Guy; the guy who is proud to be life’s class clown fukc-up. Kisa, when I first met him said “I’m dumb.” But, that didn’t mean he was describing his whole IQ in a nutshell. He meant when it comes to meaningful relationships he’s not Mensa. I like that honesty, that soul-baring GiveMeAbreak mea culpa. I’ve Never Done This Before kind of virginity.

Let me clarify one thing. Underdog doesn’t mean under-confident, under-powered, under anything. Really.
I think I speak for every woman out there when I say tough is attractive. There’s a reason why the bad boy wins and nice guys finish last. Sometimes. Confidence is kickazz. Awkward is…well…awkward. Daring James Dean trumps goofy Gilligan every single time. Why am I saying this? Well, I’m tired of that guy saying he’ll never find someone. I know why. He knows why. He sells himself short. He takes pride in being a punching bag, the punchline to someone else’s joke. Meek is murder on meeting people. It’s frustrating when the personality has flat lined five minutes into the conversation. The underdog is scrappy, a fighter, a face to be reckoned with – not walked over. I was telling a friend about Kisa and she exclaimed, “but he’s such a nice guy!” Yeah, he’s nice, but not exactly innocent when it comes to trouble.

I came across someone’s Woe Is Me-ness the other day. If I had a remote I would have changed the channel. No, if I had a remote I would have hit the mute button. No, no, no! If I had a remote I would have shut the whole thing off. Here’s a tip, boyfriend: you are smart, you are funny, you are even cute to boot. Stop whining about what wasn’t or what was at one time and wonder what could be. Stop telling me how everything about your life falls short. Do something about it. Do something about you. Really. Be a man for fukc’s sake. Or, if you can’t be a man, be a bad boy.

Culture Crisis

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Fly High

I don’t know how to say this. Well, I don’t know how to say this without coming off as a cultural snob, but there is no refinery in my life right now. I wanted to see two nights of Natalie at the symphony. I was willing to pay someone’s way just to have a second night w-i-t-h someone (and not just sharing a table and maybe a bottle of wine with a complete stranger). Call me generous but my motives were selfish. Call me selfish but I would have paid the way. The whole way. The problem was I couldn’t think of a single person who would sit through orchestral music. No offense, but I’m having a culture crisis.

I need people in my life who want to look at art from the back of the room. The kind of person who not only sits and stares at art, but collects it as well. Cherishes it rather than chucks it. Someone who doesn’t get their wall decore from A.C. Moore. I want to know people who hear a cello live and call it an experience to remember. Music that moves them beyond screaming teenage fantasies. I desire people who would rather savor their food than chew, choke and swallow it. Can close their eyes and say, “cilantro…with a hint of lime” rather than, “there’s something funky with this rice…”

Show me someone who reads poetry, watches documentaries, understands fresh basil, and can handle a song without words. Show me someone who reads biographies, goes to the theater, knows a good Alfredo sauce, and hears the protest in folk music. Show me because I’m tired of Cosmopolitan magazine, Dumb & Dumber, dried oregano, and Hannah Montana.

*Edited to add: When I voiced this angst rather than post it, a friend took me to the theater. Another friend said, “I’ll go with ya!” I guess all I had to do was ask. I don’t know if that would have worked for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, but now I know…It doesn’t hurt to ask!*

Not One Step

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I didn’t run on my last vacation. Not one step. In Vegas I seriously thought about it. The gym was hidden in the spa. Amongst the hair dryers and manicure stations were treadmills and elipticals. I told kisa, “when you gamble, I’ll run.” To make a long story short, he never sat down to a slot machine, never pulled up a chair for a hand of Black Jack, never spun the Roulette wheel, nor threw the die for craps. The only gambling he did was on the Celtics (and won). So. I didn’t run.
At the next hotel I got up early hoping to put in a quick 30 minutes in the gym. It wasn’t nearly as nice as Vegas’s setup but I was eager to try it out all the same. Just off the registration desk was a little gym. One bike. One step machine. One treadmill. Oddly enough, the “business center” was in the same room. Two computers, a fax machine and phone lined one wall. I guess the west coast likes to consolidate their tasks -run while closing the deal? Oh well. I figured I could ignore anyone who came in. Turns out, I didn’t need to. The treadmill was broken. Try as I might I couldn’t get the thing to stay on. Finally, I asked at the front desk, “Is your treadmill broken?” The manager just looked at me, bored, and said “yup” like I was supposed to know that before I got dressed and came over from my room. Stupid.
The third place we stayed looked more than promising for a run. They didn’t boast of their own equipment but shared space with a real, live, local gym. Hotel guests could work out for free at the area’s state of the art fitness facility. When Kisa and I toured the building I needed to put my eyeballs back in my head: olympic sized swimming pool, pilates room, two weight rooms, more cardio equipment than I could count, a yoga studio, racquet ball court, tennis court, you name it, it was there. They too combined their fitness center with a salon – facials, pedicures, manicures, haircuts and color…all in one place.
When Kisa and I finally changed our clothes and went back to the gym I was practically salviating at the chance to run. Until I saw nearly every treadmill in sight was in use. Upon further inspection I realized not only was every working treadmill was in use, but half a dozen were broken and I couldn’t compete with the wait list. I ended up on a bike for 40 minutes.
The final hotel was super nice…except it didn’t have a gym. Period. Not one machine anywhere. No running for me. I would have run outside but Southern CA was boasting of a heatwave like no other. I’m not that stupid.

Wasted on the Way

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Somewhere along the way I decided I wasn’t going to play the game anymore. Except, somewhere along the way I forgot to tell you. Consider this the open letter of I’m telling you now. I’m wasted enough to stop waiting.

I’m through with the games. We have been lying to each other for a while now. We play ping pong with promises. Bounce one to me and I’ll volley one back. But, really, they’re all lies. I have no intention of calling you. I have no intention of helping you out. The game is at the give up point and I’ve given all that I can. Now I’m just pretending. Now I’m just acting stupid because I can’t tell you how I really feel. Until now. I went from being your biggest fan favorite to feeling like the biggest fallout failure.

You used me to get somewhere else. That’s okay as long as you got where you needed to go. That’s only because I got something out of it, too. But now I’m done. There were too many other people involved and I can’t justify dragging them into this any longer. If there’s any dragging to be done it’ll be done by me – dragging my tail between my legs and admitting I was stupidstupidstupid.

Kisa has heard the rant. Time has heard the rant. I think everyone has heard the rant. The rant has turned me into a raving lunatic. Pass me the bottle. I want to poison myself enough to puke out everything vile, everything I thought I believed in. I need to get wasted to make you go away.

What You Owe Me

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What you owe me is an apology. An apology for being so fukcing insensitive. An apology for thinking we are close enough for that elbow-in-the-ribs-just kidding-hardy-har-har sh!t. Didn’t you notice the silence that followed? The slow, drawn out, dripping with barely contained sarcasm when he replied, “riiiighhht….” Was the tension thick enough or did you move right through it oblivious (as usual)?
This is a public rant so filled with anger you might want to turn your heads. Someone touch a nerve you ask? Not hardly. This wound is so raw, so tired of people poking at it, never giving it time to heal that it has bled dry. Nothing left to give. It gets tiring, always making excuses, pretending to be brazen and beyond it all. Well, not anymore.
DINK. Dual Income No Kids. Also stands for Didn’t I Not Know? Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll break it down for you:
Dual Income – yes because neither one of us is in it for the money we need both incomes to live the life we want. Neither of us has the luxury of being a stay at home anythings. Dual income because we love the work we do. Wouldn’t change a thing even though it means working for nuts and peanuts.

No Kids – Here’s where I gnash teeth and spit nails because you have no clue what you are talking about. Did you ever consider this: Clinically infertile. Barren. Irrevocable damaged goods. WhatE-v-e-r you want to call it. No natural born killers kids. No. Maybe there was a kid and now he’s gone and nothing can replace him? One shot deal. Adoption is a laughable gesture. Who in their right mind wants to hand over a kid to someone who has lost a mind; been to the funny farm? Has a shrink on speed dial? Has tried to commit suicide more than once? Has mental moments on an almost daily basis? Give me a fukcing break.
There comes a time when you know something just wasn’t meant to be. Seriously. You don’t pine away. You don’t cry over spilt sperm. You pick your azz up and carry on. Last but not least, you don’t take too kindly to the nickname dink.
So, back to what you owe me. Dink.