Re-Thinking My Incompetence, Or Other People Suck Much Worse Than Me

Every time I go to perform my glorified clerical duties at my newish job, I wonder what the hell happened to me.

In January 2002, I began a new job in which I planned a program to bring capital and technical assistance to community groups and early childhood programs around the City. When I was hired for that job, I wondered what the fuck the agency was thinking in bringing on a 25 year old to do this work. Then I remembered that I had three years of experience in that niche field, which was more or less three years more than any other likely candidate, so it made sense. Long story short, I fucked some shit up along the way, but mostly did a very good job developing and implementing the program before I burned out due to challenges to my sanity that were both internal (like money being stolen from my program and used for another, but I'm not still bitter or anything...) and external (like early childhood education is public priority #1,209,988, if that...) to the office.

In the olden days of my rough and tumble child care work, I often felt like an incompetent fool. Not the most incompetent fool around (I encountered enough people who made me wonder how they managed to tie their shoes, let alone do any work), but still a person who had a lot of things to learn. I tried to absorb as much as I could from mentors and colleagues. I also tried to acknowledge to myself that I was good at some stuff, although I semi-failed at that task.

Which brings me to the present day. As I sort through the clusterfuck of a mess of a data collection project, I realize that I may still make mistakes, but damn, compared to my predecessor, I am a model of competence, efficiency, and common sense. I even tell funny jokes (usually to myself, as I tend to work alone) while I fix shit. Go me and my non-profit management skill set! Now, if only that would help me get into an MFA program. (Still no word and hence, no Mars bar eating.)

Periods, and Anger, and Cookies - Oh My!

It's true that my food cravings are worse when I'm on the rag or about to be hanging with Aunt Flo. This is probably why I've wanting pudding so badly for the last four days. Also, I suspect it is why I became utterly enraged at something someone wrote on Friday. Usually, I'd probably be angry about it, but not fixate on the statement to the point where I could not focus on anything else.

While I was sputtering about on Friday, I noticed that I was ravenously hungry. Suddenly, it dawned on me that being really angry seems to make need to eat. It probably explains why I ate non-stop for the last year or so that I worked at my former employer. I was furious all the time. It apparently takes a lot of energy to sustain that level of anger. Who woulda thunk?

Regardless of my level of fury, I ate an enormous quantity of junk this weekend. Breakfast was cookies and a granola bar. While in Pennsylvania with Steph, I had an afternoon lunch tea. Then meatballs at Ikea. Then breakfast for dinner at Cracker Barrel. (For the record, the grits at Cracker Barrel are probably made from the same recipe as the gruel fed to Oliver Twist, but damn if the blackberry cobbler is not the tastiest confection this side of the Mason Dixon line.) When I got home, I had a cookie "midnight snack." All I ate on Sunday morning were cookies and string cheese.

Anyway, I was completely amused on Sunday afternoon on my way back from the gym when I saw the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile parked in front of the Jewish Community Center. I ran to get my camera, but by the time I got back outside, it was pulling away.Still, I think it is pretty funny to see the Weinermobile cruising up the streets of Manhattan. Hot dogs. Yum....

The Week in Preview

Is October almost halfway over already? Sometimes time crawls by on its hands and knees like a dehydrated person seeking rehydration pills from a crabby pharmacist in a horrid chain pharmacy. Other times, it passes me by like all those assholes who refuse to stop their cars at red lights.

Sorry, I got carried away for a moment there. The point is that October is almost over and that means that this upcoming weekend is my brother-in-law's wedding. In terms of how that affects the hilarious stories that I strive to write for CUSS, I am happy to announce that the whole mispucha (the entire gang, i.e. - my whole family) will be trekking out east for the celebration. Yes, everyone - Mom, Dad, Bubbe, Granny, Sister, and Sister's Husband. (And of course cousin Rebecca will be there too, although she only has to take the train down from her school in Westchester County.) There is no doubt in my mind that stories will be generated. I'll build the anticipation by pointing out that Bubbe has been looking forward to meeting my 13 lb. pet rabbit Tycho for five years, and that she used to raise and cook rabbits when she was a girl in the Old Country.

This week I also hope to complete my second draft of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. (I finished the first draft last Wednesday and wound up my pen-and-paper revisions on Friday.) I'm fairly happy with what I've got. The goal is to write something that is fun, amusing, and informatively inspiring, and I think I did a good job with that. Things need to be prettied up, though, before I have to turn it into the publisher on Nov. 1, which will be here before I know it.

To prove how quickly time flies, on Monday morning I'll be going to the grand opening ribbon cutting of an affordable housing development with a child care center. It seems like just yesterday that I had a job in which I provided a small grant for the child care portion, then stood with my friend Maria in a treeless empty lot on a 110 degree day while politicians spent 10 minutes each talking about how their speeches will be short because it is so hot out during the groundbreaking ceremony. Things have changed so quickly. It's amazing.

One Year Later

One year ago today, at about this time, I packed up the Powerpuff Girl figurines, the pictures of Husband and my sister, and a squishy stress-relief ball shaped like a green paper advertising the Child Care and Adult Food Program, and I left my job at a nonprofit community development financial reinstitution after nearly five years. It took me two years and two previous attempts to quit, but mounting frustration, seething rage, and desperation at working in an agency that took 40 cents of every dollar that I fundraised to cover overhead costs while offering me absolutely zero support took its toll. Every year I received glowing reviews from my direct and indirect bosses about how I continually exceeded expectations and single-handedly oversaw a program to build more child care center for low income kids in New York City, but not once was I ever offered a job promotion or job title that reflected the full amount of work I performed. While my peers and externally partners respected me, I was rewarded with suspicion and wrath from the upper echelons of the agency for not fundraising enough to cover their five-figure bonuses and six-figure salaries. (This is not secret info, by the way: it is all public in the agency's Form 990.)

My bosses liked to tell people that I left to write my book about unusual things to see in do in New York City, and that is partly true. Within 8 months, a small publisher in Nashville bought my book, I published several articles in local newspapers, and began writing a memoir about puberty and other bodily betrayals. Not working for those wretched fucks improved my mood for the first time in years, but I didn't fully escape their tentacles. Since these wonderful accomplishments didn't pay very much and I felt guilty about living off my husband (something I swore from a young age that I would never do), I agreed to consult for a City agency, working closely with my friend who took my old job. Obviously, there has not yet be enough distance for me to get over my experience yet.

Still, today is a day I am celebrating because I took important steps toward a new career. I indulged in a piece of guava bizcocho Dominicano, a traditional yellow cake with frosting so sweet that I actually felt the sugar granules in the neon pink frosting crunching in my teeth. Husband and I then headed out to the Queens County Farm Museum, the last site I plan to visit for my book. (Yay!) We toured a farmhouse that has been on the site since the late 1700s, pet sheep, and wandered around in the seasonal three acre corn maze. The unseasonably warm day of fun was capped off with gyros (pronounced with a hard "g" in Chicago, a soft "g" in New York, and a "y" in Greece).

As we trudged out of the farm, sweaty and full of meat, a family passed us on their way in. Their teenage son was wearing a t-shirt that read, "I (heart) hot moms." Husband and I exchanged glances. "That shirt would not be disturbing if the guy who was wearing it was not 16," Husband remarked.

You can say all that again. Here's to another wacky and weird year of change.

New Month, New Hope?

Maybe it is just me, but September? Really fucking sucked overall. While it began and ended with visits from two close friends, I spilled an enormous number of tears over various trials and tribulations. October seems to have some promise to be better, though.

Oct. 6: One year anniversary of my last day with my wretched former employer
Oct. 13: Steph is visiting
Oct. 18-21: My family will be in NYC to attend Brother-in-Law's wedding
Oct. 19: Two year blogiversary of CUSS!
Oct. 31: Halloween (Although I doubt that I can squeeze into my dirndl this year, I still look forward to the Festival of Candy. Of course, that is exactly why I can't fit into my dirndl anymore.)

If I'm lucky, I can squeeze in a trip to Pittsburgh to see my old friend J. (aka the Sauce). The book is due on Nov. 1, so it depends how the writing is going. I think I'm right on track, if not a bit ahead of schedule, so if she's free, that would be great. Now if the little rain cloud that hovered over me almost all September would dissipate, that would seal the deal.

Enjoy your October.

Meet Me in the Chicken Coop

Have you ever sat in a meeting where it was utterly impossible to pay attention? Most recently, I "participated" in a lunch meeting in a corner bodega that happened to have a small seating area, and I could not stop staring at the cans of gravy stocked on a grocery shelf. They were Franco American brand, which I just discovered isn't even made any more (it's all Campbell's now – sad!). What caught my eye, however, was the size of the cans. They were gallon size cans of turkey gravy. Who the fuck needs a gallon of gravy? I don't particularly like gravy, so I just stared and stared in utter revulsion, thinking about someone coming in to buy a gallon can of gravy.

Gravy or not, I have a long history of spacing out during boring meetings. At my prior job, the staff was subjected to monthly "all staff meetings" during which we gathered in the conference room and used the high tech speaker phone to dial into a conference call with HQ and the rest of the staff in California. In my first year of employment, the New Yorkers generally paid attention and were respectful, but by the time I left, we had been goofing off for years. Often we just put the phone on mute and either mocked the crap out of people or did our own work silently.

One day when the other worker bees were being productive during a meeting, my little mind started to wander. If I had to eat a food beginning with only one letter for the rest of my life, what letter would I choose? I suspected that "C" was the correct answer, as cookies, cheese, cake, and chocolate all fall under that rubric (and to be healthy, there are carrots), but just to be scientific, I devised a chart with all the letters of the alphabet and began listing essential foods under each letter. By the end of the meeting, I had decided that "C" was indeed my best option.

Ever since that fateful day, I've been confident in my analysis. Yesterday threw me for a loop. I was eating eggs and ruminating upon how much I love them in all forms when it hit me: eggs do not begin with "C." Could I really live an egg free life if the horrible day came and I was forced to only eat "C" foods? Panic set in. I might need to reevaluate everything. Fortunately, Husband kept his cool and thought logically.

"Chicken eggs begin with 'c'," he reminded me.

Crisis averted. Have a happy Monday.

Excel(lent)

It's been six months since I quit my do gooding work at an evil nonprofit organization that squeezed me dry like a grapefruit. I've tried semi-successfully to use that time to write. Generally, I've also used the time to feel guilty about not working. Then I got The Call.

My friend at the City's main child care agency asked me to help them develop a child care facilities strategy. (It was more like, "Please, Suzanne!" she begged. "Please! I really need your help.") I am terrible at saying no to friends, especially ones who plea for my assistance. Plus, it would be a good way to get money so I wouldn't feel guilty about mooching off Husband.

The truth is that it was about the last thing on earth that I wanted to do. I was really fucking burned out on that topic. Of course I said I'd do it, and spent the next few weeks moping and dreading it.

Yesterday was my first day. You know what? I forgot how much I like being useful. Even better, I spent most of the time parked in front of the computer developing a highly exciting Excel spreadsheet. Despite my hatred of math in school, I adore crunching numbers. There is nothing that can be more fun than a day with Excel. If only the rest of the consulting gig will be as fantastic as my first day.

An Open Letter to My Nightly Tormentor

Dear Subconscious,

I worry a lot during the day on an impressive range of topics. When I go to sleep at night, I'd like to have a break from my incessant concerns and hand-wringing; a rest, if you will. Generally, that is the point of sleeping.

I am sure that you are only trying to help me resolve lingering issues by plaguing me with distressing dreams, but please stop. I am not particularly interested in rehashing former unpleasant job situations. I quit 6 months ago so that I would not have dreams like this any longer. It is really not cool waking up in the morning, exhausted from work, only to realize that I have yet to begin my day. Yet this has been going on for over a week now.

I trust that this open letter will shame you into doing the right thing and that you will back off a bit tonight. If not, I will have to speak to your boss about your cruel behavior.

Thanks from your tired friend,
Suzanne

The W-2 Saga Continues

I heard nothing back from the stupid fucks at my former employers about whether they would do anything about my request to fix my W-2 so that it was my actual address, not:

Suite 1800
New York, CA 94111

. I put in a call to the office and had the following surreal conversation:

Idiot: Yes, we filed an amendment to have it fixed.
Me: When can I expect it?
Idiot: When I get it, I'll overnight it to the office.
Me: (In my head: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? DO I FUCKING LIVE AT THE OFFICE? NO, THANK GOD i DO NOT!!!!!) Um, can you please send it directly to me? It is already significantly delayed.

Idiot: Well, I'm afraid it might get lost in the mail.
Me: (Losting patience) How do you think I got it in the first place? You overnighted to the office, where they sent it to my home after my real address was written on the envelope next to the little plastic window. I am suggesting that you overnight it to me, given that it is late and it is Idiot Fuck Company's* fault that it is late. You need to eat that $10 shipping charge.

Idiot: (Hesitating) I guess I could. But really, why do you need the correct form anyway? It's not like the IRS is going to know if you file electronically. You should file electronically.

Seriously. This is what the person in PAYROLL asked me. It seems that she does not know that a copy of my W-2 is sent to me after it is already filed with the IRS, and their records might find it odd when I fill out my forms (electronically or on paper) that I live in a non-existant town in a San Francisco zip code with no street address according to my employer records, but I claim to live in an actual residence in New York, and I only want to pay New York taxes. No, not a big deal at all, especially if I was audited.