Dignity

Thinking about the occurrences I wrote about in the previous entry. Of someone becoming unhinged and delving into the illegal behavior of phone harrassment. Proving that no one but herself was responsible for her termination.

Is it just me, or would you also try to maintain as much dignity as possible in that situation? I've only been fired once (rather apologetically, after the second time I forgot to go to an infrequent afternoon of art modeling) so most of my experiences with dignity come from relationships.

In the shards of the end, if the breakups were not at my prompting, no matter how upset I was, the guys would rarely see the effects of it. Sure I'd cry during our discussion. Who wouldn't? But afterward, the bulk of my grieving would be done in private.

Maybe I have control issues (maybe? HA.), but I didn't see the point of letting someone know how much he had gotten to me.

For the most part. There was once when, at a friend's suggestion, I did talk to an ex about my feelings. I didn't know what I wanted out of the conversation, but after I told him I missed him, the words took wing, and that seemed to be enough. I didn't want him back. But he was a good, kind fellow, and I knew he wouldn't use my words against me. The words just needed to be out there.

So maybe my opinions on dignity are borne of a fear of losing control, of giving someone the upper edge. And perhaps a concern of how others view me. I don't care. I still think maintaining dignity is important.

Do NOT mess with me

So my co-worker, the one I've been clashing with.

The clash started mid-last week, after a few days of me stewing over some of her behavior towards one of my clients, and getting advice on how to handle it. Finally I broached the subject with her. Most of the people I work with--oddly enough, for social service workers--are heavy on the talking, and light on the listening skills. In that regard, I barely got out what I planned to say before she disagreed with me. It absolutely kills me how defensive people can get, though I suppose if a co-worker talked to me about how my behavior towards someone was inappropriate, I'd get upset, too. But I didn't even get the chance to get out the words "highly inappropriate" anyway. But that was that. She said she'd stay out of it and stop helping people.

Not exactly in her job description: "help people only if I feel like it," but hey. If it kept her from bullying my client, I didn't care.

Then five minutes later, she busted into my office, pissed off and wanting a meeting with me, my client, and the head supervisor. I let her bitch for a little while and said, "fine. Let's set up that meeting." (minus my client, of course.) Confrontational people unnerve me, but for once, I was one thousand percent confident. I knew I had done nothing wrong. I knew the stand I was taking was the right one.

We didn't end up having the meeting. Or, I wasn't part of it, even though she wanted me to be there. My two supervisors talked to her, and supported my coming to her as the "mature thing to do. After all, we're all grownups here."

And then I stayed out of her way for the next few days. I knew she was talking about me, but I just didn't care what my other co-workers heard. I'm not going to feel bad standing up for my client's rights.

I didn't know how bad it really was, until the top boss stuck her head into my office this morning and said, "she's been terminated." I felt slightly bad for her. After all, I thought she was a nice enough lady, just not a good match for the job. But later in the afternoon, the client I had been protecting discovered the now-ex-coworker had been calling other clients, threatening her.

What? WHAT? I want to fucking murder her. I can't even wrap my mind around a 45-year-old woman who thinks it's ok to act like that.

Way to prove us right in thinking you should be fired, psychotic bitchface.

Ask me about my job

I don't really like people who don't ask me about my job. Does that make me a petty, petty bitch?

I know people don't like to hear about battered women, to have to acknowledge that there's a problem in our country with men hitting women. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong or bad about not wanting to think about it. (I don't particularly like thinking about poverty. It's damn depressing.) But.

I sure do like talking about my job. Ask me if I like it, I'll say, "Oh my god. I love domestic violence so much. Um . . . working in the field, that is." I think it's fascinating, exhilarating, and occasionally heartbreaking. It's during the extremes that I like--no, need--to talk about it.

I don't do it much, though. I've learned to keep my mouth shut around Tim, who, try as he might, has a difficult time hearing about the bad stuff. At social gatherings, when I say what I do, people shift nervously, clear their throat, and say, "er, that's great . . ." and find conversation elsewhere. I'm so used to that response that I am unnerved when people actually want to know about it. I stammer and say something flip, usually.

I never wanted a job to define who I was. But this one does. So when people don't ask about it, I feel like they're not asking about me.

Obsession

I wonder if part of the below problem is the obsession I've developed with this mix tape. It's pulling me away from my life.

It's odd, really. I've always wanted to recreate it on CD, to preserve it. But I didn't seriously decide to do it until a month ago or so. And in the beginning, it seemed an almost insurmountable task. Trying to track down some song titles only identified by artists with whom I am unfamiliar. Finding songs among my own collection, and online. Deciding where to purchase them, or whether I could fly under the radar and download them for free--or from Russia.

It's become my evening task, to work on this CD. Our slow Internet connection has stretched this into a many-days project. I am absorbed in the downloading, the searching, the categorizing, and organizing.

And yet so quickly, I realized last night that there are but two songs left before I am finished. I could have continued working to complete the disc, but I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to. I don't know why. But I wouldn't be surprised if this compilation--previously a matter of life and death (ish) and immediacy--languishes for a while.

It suddenly occurs to me that I'm trying to bring my past into my now. Fitting, because I'm reconnecting with old friends, but at the same time, I'm forging new relationships with them. This CD is just a symbol, a party favor for a specific, smoky, friend-filled moment in my life.

What will it even be like to hear those songs, those memories, blaring in my car, in my home, instead of piping directly in my ear from a rickety Walkman, from a worn-out tape? (There's something so secretive and private about listening to music through headphones.) What will it be like sharing (what I'm now realizing is) an intimate part of myself with people who didn't know me in the moment these songs became connected? Do I even remember who I was in that moment?

Slipping

I feel myself slipping again.

Becoming unmoored.

Untethered to life around me.

I feel like I'm sinking slowly to the bottom of a swimming pool, releasing all my air to sink further. Down there everything is calm and still, and a buffer from the noise above. I can only hear the murky silence of water.

It's quiet, but unnerving. I can't get my mind to focus on anything. It's blurring at the edges. I grasp and I grasp, but my brain is full of smoke and nothing substantial.

Just drifting.

I sometimes attribute it to not using my brain as much as I used to. Specifically, reading. I don't do it as much anymore because I don't have a train commute, or as much time to devote to it. I finally picked up a book a few months ago, and the static in my brain smoothed down. I thought, "I am home." And I never wanted to lay the book back down.

But the books are now also contributing to my sinking, my daze. I emerge from a lunch break spent in story, and I can't fully return to my life. I can't enter and leave the stories the way I used to.

Smashed

This weekend, I couldn't put down Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood. I was enthralled. It was first a love letter to alcohol, then a cautionary tale. (All in all--a memoir.)

I must admit, her first words about alcohol put me in the mind to have one more drink than usual. I remembered the softening, the expansion, the glow of alcohol hitting my brain. The way I throw my head back and laugh deeply, instead of quiet smiling. I thought about how gathering over beers is a good way to end the week, or to bond with new friends.

And then I went out Sunday, to a tavern, to drink two Blue Moons and meet Tim's cast. I wish I could achieve the same relaxed state without alcohol, but I'm not going to lie about it: I also just love Blue Moon, so I'd probably drink it even if it weren't fermented. The next day, I was in agony. Obviously I don't drink frequently enough if two beers--two!--are going to slay me, and mightily. My head ached all day, despite fountain coke, a greasy lunch, and many ibuprophens. (Not to mention that my allergies--to dust! Not alcohol!--are heightened by drinking, so I couldn't breathe in addition to the hangover.)

It made me reflect on a different part of Smashed, where she talks about binging five to six nights a week. I just can't imagine. I've never even been able to get through hair of the dog, for the thought of more alcohol after a night of excess makes me swear off it for days. The craving leaves me--my own refractory period for the next drink. It's worse as I get older, of course; I remember partying to oblivion in college, and feeling no worse for the wear the next day.

I suppose I'm lucky that the joy of excess does not continue to be lure enough to make up for the recovery time. But I can understand the author's love. The way she described her painful shyness and insecurity in high school, that could have been me. I think the things stopping me from going down her path were a healthy (un?) love of maintaining control and a strong group of friends who did not drink. (I would also include parents who would have allowed me a drink with dinner, but it seemed like the author's parents were as permissable, but it didn't make a difference one way or the other.)

Potlucks

I have made a new friend. She plays opposite Tim in Christmas Carol. She's from New York and is a total foodie. We talk recipes, cookbooks, and restaurants. I will be sublimely happy if the theatre picks her up for summer rep, for then she'll also be here March through July.

She had a potluck last night. Folks from both cast and crew showed up, so it was a nice gathering of not-just-Tim's-classmates. As much as I love to entertain, I realized the value of potlucks. Everyone gets to show off their signature dish, and it's so much less stressful. And it creates a sense of community a lot better than one person making everything.

Contacting old friends

"Thinking about music, I dug out an old tape, dusted off my Walkman, and started listening to the mix tape that changed my life. Well, the person who did."

I wrote that in August, and periodically I think about it again, because the mix tape was just that good.

So while I consider recreating that worn-out tape on a CD, I also consider contacting that friend again. It's been nearly five years since we've last seen each other.

Since reconnecting powerfully and positively with old friends from high school, I am in more the mood to contact her, but I still have reservations.

In the past, it would have been insecurity. Particularly with this girl, whom I adored to a fawnish and embarrassing degree, and I would have wondered why she would want to hear from me. But now I think, "if she really did like me back then, surely she would enjoy me now." I mean, I am so much more a fully formed person and am WAY more interesting.

But now, the thing that gives me pause is the length to which I'd have to go to be in touch. I no longer have her e-mail address. After Googling her, I discovered what is probably her married name on a language translation Web site. I'd have to e-mail the owner of the page and ask her to pass along my contact information to my old friend. What I don't know now is if such an effort would be met with excitement or trepidation.

I would be really excited if an old friend tracked me down online, because it would be quite a task. Out of seven pages of Googled results, and every single one of them me, there is nothing personal there. And most of them point to my old job, on whose Web site at least my work e-mail was published. If someone unsavory sifted through all that and was able to contact me, I'd probably freak out. On the other hand, e-mail? So easy to just delete and ignore.

It's been so long, I wonder if it's worth bothering. But if she's still in Chicago, I'd love to see her again when I move back.

Not funny anymore

Yesterday evening when I came home from work, the two remaining jack-o-lanterns that sat outside our front door were in pieces on the ground, one floor below. Our next-door neighbor said she saw them intact not but half an hour previous.

I am angry that someone would make the effort to walk upstairs to touch our personal things and destroy them. So what if the pumpkins were sagging a little and rotting slowly? (Those baby pumpkins of pre-Halloween were in perfect condition, but that's beside the point.) I am freaked out by someone we don't know being so close to our private space. I am bothered that this happened in the few minutes between Tim leaving the house and me arriving, as though this vandal knew our schedule. I don't know most of my neighbors. I don't want them to know me.

Music

Organizing our million CDs, bought, burned, traded, I didn't realize all the music we had. I made a goal of finding one each weekend to listen to while I clean. Last weekend: Edie Brickell.

This weekend: Manu Chau.

Jewelry

I think I should switch my career to jewelry designing.

Wine

Last night we celebrated our friend Meghan's birthday with pizza and good wine. She brought the wine, some favorites she saves for special occasions. One was a slim bottle of ice wine from Canada. A friend of hers picked it up in Canada, so it wasn't that expensive for him, but it retails for $88 in the States. And it wasn't even a full bottle; it was 200 ml. I calculated that a regular-sized bottle would cost $330. (!!!) Then I calculated that since four of us only got about a third of a glass each, or slightly over one fluid ounce, our sipping experience broke down to $22 a person. (!!!!)

It was a strange experience, drinking something that expensive. I wanted it to be a life-changing moment, but it really wasn't. It tasted a lot like the mead we get from a honey factory in Durango, Colorado, that costs about $8 a bottle. Knowing I could get the same taste on my tongue for $80 less made the expensive wine even less appealing.

And I've always wanted to try ice wine. All in all, a disappointing experience.