First, the farewell

At my company, employee departures are always accompanied by a rumor mill. For some reason no announcement is ever made, and the leaver never really says anything, so eventually it filters down that so-and-so is leaving, so you walk up to so-and-so and say, “So, I hear you’re leaving. Why? Where are you going? What are you doing?” And so on. I’m not really big on the idea of people whispering and wondering about me behind my back, so I took some unprecedented measures. I *gasp* sent out an email to everyone explaining that I would be leaving. My departure just happens to coincide with one of the architects, so I decided to wait until his goodbye party was over, because Lord knows that I didn’t want his party to become our party – I want my own, dammit! Here’s the email –

From: Rebecca
Sent: Fri 5/25/2007 2:40 PM
To: Fellow Office Grunts
Subject: Friday Funny/ Farewell

Hello all,

First, the farewell. Now that we've enjoyed Rl's farewell party, pizza, Pepcid AC and all, I wanted to share with you the news of my own departure. It has truly been a wonderful experience working with you all - I can actually say that you are the best group of people I have worked with by far. I will really miss that je ne sais quoi S has going on, but it was time for me to take the next step in my career, so I have accepted a position with a firm in Redmond. I know you will all have fun at the BBQ and Christmas party that is all planned and ready to go, so think of me when you order that cocktail or burn that bratwurst. I am sure you will be in good hands with my replacement, who will no doubt turn Chocolate Wednesday into Chocolate Monday through Friday, that is until C baulks at the candy bill. And please don't forget to load the dishwasher, wipe up your stains, clean up microwave explosions, and for the love of all things holy and beautiful, put the right paper in them there machines in the copy room - you wouldn't want poor Wynn's head to explode now, would you?

My last day will be June 7, so make your cracks at my ever-present, impossibly high heels while you still can.

And now for the funny...

DILBERTISMS (Or are they frontdeskisms? You tell me. ;) )

I can please only one person per day. Today is not your day and tomorrow isn't looking good either.

I love deadlines. I especially like the whooshing sound they make as they go flying by.

Am I getting smart with you? How would you know?

I'd explain it to you, but your brain would explode.

Someday we'll look back on all this and plow into a parked car.

There are very few personal problems that cannot be solved through a suitable application of high explosives.

Tell me what you need and I'll tell you how to get along without it.

Accept that some days you're the pigeon and some days you're the statue.

Needing someone is like needing a parachute. If she isn't there the first time you need him, chances are you won't be needing her again.

I don't have an attitude problem. You have a perception problem.

My Reality Check bounced.

On the keyboard of life, always keep one finger on the escape key.

I don't suffer from stress. I'm a carrier.

You're slower than a herd of turtles stampeding thru peanut butter.

Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, 'cuz you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.

Everybody is somebody else's weirdo.

If it weren't for the last minute, nothing would get done.

Rebecca

The Dilbertisms I found somewhere on the internet, and I must say, they wryly denote my attitude of late. I am just so happy to be out of there. The admin staff always ends of cleaning up after all the dirty architects, so I had to admonish them to be better, because Wynn and I had teamed up on the battle front, but now it will just be her. My little email went off really well, with most people coming up to me saying how well it was written – one person suggested that I should write a book. I had to laugh because it just proved how short on writing skills these architecture types are – doesn’t take much to impress them. But it was nice to hear, nonetheless. I love these people – and the cracks they make about my shoes. The guy that is leaving, incidentally the only other person with an “R” name – they will soon be “R”less, doesn’t like that I wear heels at all. He thinks I am too tall for heels and they look too painful anyway. I merely scoff in his direction. My boss absolutely adores them – when he gave me my year-end bonus, he said he couldn’t wait to see what shoes I would buy next. So I’ve built up sort of a reputation around here. I personally don’t think they’re that exciting – I don’t have any Kate Spade or Blahniks or Hollywoulds, but I have been amassing quite the collection of Paolo’s, which I adore. I must post about my shoes soon, I think.

So today, everyone wishes me well. I wish me out of here sooner. How difficult it is to push through these tasks for nine more work days.

Arsenio Whooo Accompanied by pumping fist

Today was one of those days. I got to work and realized that my cell phone was in the red. Then the red disappeared. The battery was empty. The green light angrily flashed at me. I really am the only person in my entire office with a Blackberry. I stared at my phone, waiting for it to ring before it died. I turn it on quiet to conserve energy. I waited. And waited. And then…then I missed the call. Horror of horrors! I called her back as soon as I could, but to no avail, she was in meetings. Hours went by, and no call back. I realized that I was going to have to go to the second interview with a company I sort of like that I had scheduled earlier in the week.

I looked up the company on the website and half-heartedly filled my head with knowledge, wondering how on top of my game I was going to have to be. But still nothing. So I pulled on my sneakers for a Working Girl look, tossed my sling backs into my bag and headed toward downtown. I love the location of the office. It is right in the heart of the shopping district with views straight into the Westlake Center, and for a girl with a shoe addiction, this is mecca. But as I spoke to them, I just knew I would be looking for a new job within a year if I were to accept a position with them. Though it is difficult to explain the exhilaration I felt when I was shown the desk where I would sit, the one not in the lobby, and the refrigerator stocked with complimentary soda, that I wouldn’t have to stock. That was enough to make me accept any job that would take me away from my current one.

I walked back to my office wondering what next. I grabbed the office portable phone and hid myself in the changing room. She apologized for the phone tag. I considered apologizing for calling her like a stalker, but figured she may not know, but then she said that she was on the phone and could hear the beeps and thought, oh man. And I thought oh man, she knew it was me. Damn. Anyway after that terrible period of runaround of American Idol elimination night proportions, she said, “and they think you’d be a wonderful fit, not just for their needs now but to grow and succeed for the future of the company.” And then I passed out. When I woke up, I was sitting in my supervisor’s office.

“So, it probably won’t come as a surprise –“ I started.

“You’re resigning,” she finished for me, smiling. Relief spread through my tense muscles. “You didn’t have any job satisfaction in your eyes.” She offered in explanation. The understatement of the month, I’ll guaranDAMNtee it. (use of the phrase a gratuitous inclusion for a coworker’s benefit.)

So I walked out of her office breathing easy, though now I have one of my stress stomach aches. Ugh. I am very, very, very excited. I love you all. You are the best possessors of crossed fingers, well wishing, juju bee mojos that a girl could ask for. I GOT THE JOB!!!! Well, probably two jobs, but I am only taking the one. No more answering phones! No more ordering supplies! No more mail distribution! Gone is that horrible stuff. I never ever want to do it again. June 11 will be the wonderful day when I write stuff and design stuff and plan stuff and all for a very wonderful company that has benefits of near Microsoft proportions! I could sing. I’m lighter than air. I’m dancing on the wind.

I have more disturbing Swine news, but for now, let’s focus on the happy fact that I get to edit my sidebar. And I totally need to get rid of those snowflakes. The sun is blasting over Elliott Bay right now even as a sailboat cruises past in the light breeze. Okay so my new job means I won’t have the best view ever anymore or be a ten minute walk from the Pike Place Public Market, but I get to write! and stuff, and I think I’ll be okay. Hurray!!! I'm definitely having a mojito tonight in celebration. Join me?

mojito: the marrying kind

Sometimes I try really hard to find the Swine’s redeeming qualities. I figure there must be a few, after all Audrey does love him and her teacher must to put up with his atrociously disastrous apartment, but at the end of the day, what’s to like? Let’s ponder this topic for a moment, shall we?

Okay, moment over. What have we learned?

1. At one time he had good taste, because he married me, naturally. But then he covered himself in tattoos, piercings, grew out his (trying to grow a chin*) hair, and shaved his end so he looks like a troglodyte biker dude, which doesn’t really suit him, trust me on this. So, that cancels out his good taste quality, as it apparently no longer exists.

2. I add a #2 because back in the 5^th grade when I learned how to make outlines, my teacher told me that you couldn’t have an A without a B or a 1 without a 2, and not so much because I actually think there could possibly be two redeeming qualities in the person whose very existence seems bent on making my life a living hell. So, thinking...thinking...God, I’m drawing a blank, oh except my use of the word “God” just reminded me of one redeeming quality, or at least something that might redeem him in somebody’s eyes,though not very necessarily in my own. He doesn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Yep, that’s it. I however have a terrible habit of saying “God!” never “Jesus!” or “Jesus Christ!” or even “Jesus H. Christ!”, but God! I do say on occasion. And because he hates it so much when people do that, he would say “F*ck!” loudly and obnoxiously to counter my abhorrent use of the word god. I don’t know about you, but that just served to make me not like him very much. Any one still wondering why we got a D-vorce?

3. As I’m still trying to find these illusive redeeming qualities, I figure that I might as well endeavor to find a third - no matter what. (Did anyone else just pan to the gum commercial with the cute, blonde Brit and her twinkling teeth?) I’m done trying. I give up. Sorry, Swine, you are completely lacking in discernible redeeming qualities, but feel free to have the ones you call friends contact me and set me straight because I would be more than happy to learn something good, positive, upstanding, or redeeming about the person I told I would honor and obey in sickness and health, because I am at a complete loss.

I really want to write “and on another note” because I how great would it be if I had one, so I can move on from the Swine subject - here goes – So, on another note, I worked 60 hours last week, which was why there were no follow-up posts to my “hallelujah, I’m back!” pukes. But I really loved working that 60 hours because I was working with Wynn doing stuff that I truly enjoy, and it was a tremendous week. Hey, what do you know I just thought of a redeeming quality for the Swine – he wants to spend time with his daughter, and it was because of the time he spent with her last week that I was able to throw myself full throttle into work, which I never do on her weeks with me. So thank you, Swine, for the every other week option to be a workaholic. Yum!

And, you know that one sentence in my sidebar with that part where I mention how great my ass looks in those jeans (trust me, they really, really do)? Well, that part right before, I am working really hard on that and something just might come to fruition before the end of the month, so I can use all of the crossed fingers, well wishing, juju bee mojos that you can spare, because the good Lord above knows how much I want and neeeeeed this. Oh, and it must be said that the word mojos reminds me of mojitos, and yum, I love me some mojitos. Love. It was pretty much forever love at first sip. Yep, I could maybe marry a mojito. Uh huh. I could, really, because you can be damn sure that a mojito would never tell you it was okay to move to London and then ha! sue you for full custody citing abandonment as the reason. Now, my dear chickens, that is a redeeming quality if I ever saw one!

* a frank zappa song, no?

Lamentations

I don’t know why I haven’t been writing about this more often. I mean, why keep it all locked in when I have the perfect outlet with which to vent my ever-growing frustration with this forever alliance with the worst thing that ever happened to me? For the past year and a half, the Swine has done seemingly everything in his power to make me feel like and appear to be a horrible mother, an unreasonable person, and a downright bitch. And for what? I still can’t figure out the satisfaction he reaps from this but that he is getting revenge on the woman who could no longer abide his filthy habits (see? another reason why living together before marriage is such a brilliant idea), terrible ideas (oh, now you want to be an architect? since when have you ever looked twice at a building? [it was really just the paycheck]), and lack of pride in appearance (you don’t have to be a GQ model, I wouldn’t have been with him if that was what I was looking for, but the raggy t-shirts and stained shorts that you would have worn to church if not for my interference? Too much to abide. [is it my fault we live in an image-conscious world?]). All right so maybe I can understand why he would hate me just a little – we are so completely different. I wish I could post a picture of him on a Monday morning heading to work and a picture of me – the external dissimilarities are an exact match for our internal variations. I try to understand the twenty-year-old me who met and “fell in love” with that twenty-year-old him, the me that swore I would never think I was too young to get married, that swore I knew what I was getting myself into. That me I don’t like very much, because that me has affected my life in more ways than I ever thought possible. But I like that him much more – much, much, much more – than this him. That him would never have lied and betrayed me like this him did. That him would understand the importance of telling the truth and that you reap what you sow – respect or lack thereof, kindness or lack thereof, honesty, etc.

Some days I am just so taken aback by who he has become and what he has grown to stand for and value – that when I ask him the reason he wants his daughter to go to the alternative school far from where either of us live, his answer is “they have a climbing wall.” How do you not explode in the face of such utter immaturity and stupidity all wrapped up in the form of my poor daughter’s father? How can he not value academics and giving his daughter the best chance to succeed in this world of our? How can he deny her the chance to go to one of the top 20 school districts in the country because of a climbing wall and his girlfriend’s son? Why does mediation have to be the first last resort? Why is he so willing to take me to court if I want to pay for her to go to the daycare near my house, the one she went to before that fate encrusted move to London, the one to which she been begging to return since we moved back to Bellevue? Why doesn’t he put her first ever? Why does he just have to spite me to her detriment? I spent good money to sign her up for swimming lessons, which he said he would take her to if I did so, but out of the three weeks he’s had her for them, he’s taken her once. Explain to me how he thinks he is putting her first. “Oops, I forgot.” Never wonder why I hate that man so much. The greatest challenge of my whole life is not letting my daughter in on that truth, but she asks always why she didn’t get to move to London, she asks always why daddy won’t take her to the lessons. And I have to ask God why I must pretend that man is worth her love. But I know that some day Audrey will know the whole story, and he will have to answer to her as to why he denied her the trip to meet her little brother, why he lied to her continually about the trip and why he is not making a point of taking her to something she loves and enjoys. He says he puts her first. I’m still waiting for the evidence.

Audrey says that they always have to go to his girlfriend’s apartment, which is in the same building, because her daddy’s apartment is way too messy. Audrey says that she runs late for school because her daddy can’t find her shoes in the big mess. Audrey says that being with his feels like one hundred days, and she wishes being with me could last one hundred days. Audrey says that she has a smart, clever mommy and a silly, messy daddy.

I say that Mondays are my favorite and most reviled day. I love Mondays like yesterday. Mondays where I smile all through work, then practically trot through town beaming with anticipation as I walk to pick her up. I hold her close to me as she squeezes me so tightly she may never let go. I grasp her hand in mine and shower her with smiles, as we walk to the bus stop. I beam; as I watch her legs grow week to week toward matching my long, rapid stride. I read the book, currently Secret Garden, on the bus as we travel to Bellevue and she snuggles against me looking for words that she knows among the hundreds on the page. We get home, and she helps me decide what to make for dinner before hurrying to grab her footstool so she can help. We eat and discuss our days. She bathes, and we sing “Summertime” after which she heads to Slumberland, though some Mondays Steve gets home before she falls asleep in which case their reunion is a tear-worthy event marked by cuddles and statements of affection so endearing my heart nearly bursts at the sound of them. And while she sleeps, Steve and I sit contentedly on the couch, happy to have her home at last for the next six days, neither of us wanting to think of the horrid Monday to follow, the one where she returns to the dark side to be surrounded by mess and ignorant thinking for another week.

I hate Mondays and I love Mondays. I hate the Swine but I loved Sam. I must have. I must have.

I like the day about me.

I planned my own perfect Mother's Day weekend, because sometimes it becomes necessary to take charge of such things. Drama ensued, because in my life, when does it not? But I don't want to focus on that, because part of me knows that I caused the drama, because a lot of me is unable to cope anymore. I wondered why until I read an article some time ago in the New York Times Magazine about post-traumatic stress syndrome felt by female soldiers who fought in Iraq. The author of the article mentioned that many of the women who enlist in the armed forces have come from hard lives, which means their resiliency reservoir, the one we each come with, is already pretty full, leaving little room for more pain and hard experiences. Of course I haven't been to work, but life hasn't really given me the chance to empty out the reservoir. I'm running on full, which means I overload quite easy with results that aren't that pretty. I look forward to peace. I have faith that I will find it. I will once again be strong, resilient, able to cope. So as I mentioned, I will skip the drama, focus on the positive.

Saturday we played Seattle tourists and went to the waterfront for the Maritime Festival and tugboat races. It was a typical Seattle day - cloudy and cool, but luckily it did not rain. And though at times pangs of wistful longing for South Carolina's warmth and sunshine press themselves upon me unbidden, the waterfront and skyline were enough to keep them at bay this day. Audrey played with a pirate, we took a one-hour harbor tour on the Argosy cruise curtesy of the Port of Seattle, we explored the Odyssey Maritime Museum. And after that, we went to Pike Place Market and bought a whole salmon from the fish throwing guys and some flowers from the stalls. I totally scored three free bunches of lilacs and a hundred people laughed when I was hit on the head by a stuff salmon the fish throwers let one of the myriad spectators try to toss as sideshow entertainment. Walking through the market, which I do several times a week, makes me feel so lucky. Especially when I pass cute tourists with their curtesy maps and eager faces. I love to be asked for directions. I love to pass on my expertise. And though I will never love the lack of sun in Seattle, I will always love that it is Seattle. People come to my city. I just wish less of them would stay.

Sunday we went to the Mother's Day service at my church and then to brunch in Kirkland, where this young guy my sister's age was totally macking on my aunt. We were all tres, tres confused. It certainly made her day though, and we all had a laugh when he gave her a little wave and he, his mom, dad and sister walked out of the restaurant.

We went to the park, I bought myself a gas grill for Mother's Day, we grilled the salmon we'd bought the day before, and we took loads of pictures.

All in all it was a good weekend. I miss Audrey all ready.

p.s. thanks for the warm welcome back. Damn it's hard to get back in the habit, but it's nice to know I was missed. :) And for the record, I really, really missed y'all too.

Peek a Boo

I've been staring at the blank posting screen for some time now, and I honestly don't know what to say. Where have I been? Steve got really sick after my last post, then Audrey got sick, then my ovarian cyst burst, I didn't even know they were in there, and apparently the ultrasound I'd had a couple of months before didn't show them, so that was fun, childbirth worthy pain. And that experience more than any I've had recently would be very blogworthy. So why haven't I blogged? I've been trying to figure that out. Every morning I wake up and think, Crap, I didn't post again last night. I meant to, really I did. Or at least I think I did.

I started my blog because I love to write. I continued my blog because it was a way for me to deal with the horrible junk I was going through. And while I am not by any means free from the junk, the motivation to record it has dissipated. But why today of all days to return? I think because I no longer want to write for my audience. I don't want to care about the number of comments or returning the favor. I don't want to care about the numbers I had when I blogged regularly. I just want to write without the worry of the other stuff that's bogged me down and impeded my ability to express myself. I sort of miss the old days at my old blog before anyone read me, when I wrote the stupidest stuff because it was really just for me.

I love having readers and I love having comments and I love the blog friends that I've made especially the ones that were there before the big delete and stuck through all of the absences, but I can't make this blog about that anymore. Maybe that is the very essence of a blog, and I break the rules by saying any of that, but guess what? I DON'T FREAKING CARE ANYMORE.

So I'm going to make every effort to get back to blogging, because that means I am writing again, and by golly I've missed it. I'm still reading and enjoying and love to discover new blogs, and honestly there are some whose links I've lost, so if you're one of the blog friends and I haven't said hello in a while, let me know where I can find you. Also I'm horrible about returning emails, so I am wiping the slate clean. Thanks for all of your kind words, I'm sorting and sticking them in folders, but I can't write everyone back, though from today forward I'll endeavor to be better.

Okay I'm done with this windy bag of nonsense that probably contradicts itself. Bear with me I haven't written in a while, and to top it off my computer ate all of my photos from December onward. Why, for the love of God have I not learned to back up my crap?

One Year On

Funny, last Tuesday, I was so proud of myself and totally thinking that maybe I’d get on a roll. I had a really thoughtful, expressive post planned for Wednesday, which I outlined in my brain on Tuesday, and I even knew what I was going to write about Thursday and Friday and with a jam-packed weekend planned, I figured I was golden for at least a couple of posts after that.

Turns out, it was one thing to outline last Wednesday’s post, but it was a whole other thing to write it. I was doing so well that day, especially compared to how I did on Oliver’s birthday, but then on my lunch break, as I walked to Pike Place Market to pick up a sandwich, a screaming, flashing ambulance roared past me, and at that moment, I was transported back to February 20, 2006…

And the nee-nah nee-nah of the siren rings in my ears as Oll-lee oll-lee. Oliver is spread out in a pod surrounded by wires and beeping machines, and I’m watching the crew as they sleep, their head bobbing side to side as the ambulance weaves through the heavy rush hour London traffic. “You’re supposed to be watching my son!” I scream silently even as I feel the overwarmth and movement of the speeding vehicle start to lull me to sleep as well. But I shake myself from it and jump each time the machines squeal for attention, but the female sleeper only picks up the cane next to her and uses it to turn off the alarm from her seated position. My eyes bore holes into her head, and I wonder if those alarms mean anything. Alarms by their very definition are alarming, and I am very definitely alarmed, but they carry on sleeping, and we carry on weaving through London traffic. I tear my eyes from the scene before me and gaze out the window. I watch as curious drivers crane their necks for a glance at the occupants of the ambulance, and I think back to all of the times I’d done that very same thing, and I wished with all my might that I was merely a commuter on her way to a job no matter how dismal rather than working my way to Great Ormand Street Hospital with the hopes that they could do what Northwick Park Hospital could not, figure out what the fuck is wrong with my son and fix him. Even as we sped past cars stuck in traffic, the ride still took over an hour, and I know that it will be a long time before Steve will make it, so I sit alone, sequestered to a cold, harsh waiting room, wearing the same clothes I tossed on the day before when I’d only thought I was heading to the hospital to have my back pain checked out. Never in a million years did I imagine that I would instead be watching my son’s life slipping away before my eyes.

I rode that ambulance all through the day Wednesday, every time I sat at the computer to write, I heard the sirens, I saw the pod, I screamed at the ambulance crew. I couldn’t get past it. So I couldn’t get past the first paragraph of my post, so I couldn’t post, and then I couldn’t write, or at least finish anything, but I will finish my Oscar post dammit. I don’t care how yesterday it is.

Steve and I dealt with this dreadful anniversary so much differently from his birthday. This time it isn’t silent understanding and comforting hugs that takes us through the day. We snap at each other and yell, and I cry. We take our pain out on each other. We’re mad and don’t know what to do with that anger. We had plans, and they got me through the day at work, but by the time he picked me up, he was so grumpy and my head hurt so much that we just growled at each other the rest of the way to Bellevue, cocktails at an upscale restaurant in Seattle no longer on the table. When we’d said what we had to say, I sunk into myself and my headache and stared out the window waiting to get home, waiting for the day to be over, waiting for the final hours of the worst year of my life to tick into oblivion.

It was a good two hours before Steve and I were done storming at each other. We capped off the evening with pizza and beer and American Idol and miserable calm. A February 21 so very different from the one a year before.

In 2006, early that morning, we let them turn off the machines, we held our son when he breathed no more for as long as they let us, we let him go only because they needed to run more tests to find a diagnosis, posthumous though it may be. We went home, where we hadn’t been for 2 days and cried afresh, for everything was as we left it. His bed, still beside our bed, his diapers and wipes still in the basket, his laundry still hanging on the radiator, dried to a crisp. It was all wrong. I mourned that we had washed his laundry, thus losing the precious baby scent. I took a bag and packed the freshly washed clothes and everything he hadn’t a chance to wear. Steve moved the Moses basket into another room, and I gathered the couple of sleepers that hadn’t been washed, his hats, his blanket around me and inhaled deeply and sobbed. I wrote the post for the website. I downloaded various versions of “Baby Mine” and “You Are My Sunshine” because I sang those songs at his hospital bedside and listened to them all on repeat until Steve made me turn them off. I wandered listlessly about, my purpose gone.

One year later. The first year is the hardest, they’ve said to me. After the first year anniversary the pain will subside a little, it will get easier. I think I need another year.

I end with the lyrics of a song by an artist from the London playlists. It is the song that quintessentially sums up this year.

"I Cried For You"
by Katie Melua

You're beautiful so silently
It lies beneath a shade of blue
It struck me so violently
When I looked at you

But others pass, they never pause,
To feel that magic in your hand
To me you're like a wild rose
They never understand why

I cried for you
When the sky cried for you
And when you went
I became a hopeless drifter
But this life was not for you
Though I learned from you,
That beauty need only be a whisper

I'll cross the sea for a different world,
With your treasure, a secret for me to hold

In many years they may forget
This love of ours or that we met,
They may not know
how much you meant to me.

I cried for you
And the sky cried for you,
And when you went
I became a hopeless drifter.
But this life was not for you,
Though I learned from you,
That beauty need only be a whisper

Without you now I see,
How fragile the world can be
And I know you've gone away
But in my heart you'll always stay.

I cried for you
And the sky cried for you,
And when you went
I became a hopeless drifter.
But this life was not for you,
Though I learned from you,
That beauty need only be a whisper
That beauty need only be a whisper